Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. See more of Captain Benson’s articles here. This article was originally published January 23, 1977.

Tugboats in some respects are like people. Some have long lives, some short ones. Some during the course of their lifetime change greatly in appearance. And some seem to be more accident prone than others.

All tugboats, especially in the old days, had their share of mishaps, which were caused by any number of things. River traffic was greater then, and there were fewer buoys, beacons and other navigational aids. It was a time of no radar, which today permits the pilot to “see” where he is in the fog, blinding snow or rain storm. In addition, of course, there were and are always those mishaps caused by human error or folly.

The debacles that befell the tugboat “Hercules” of the old Cornell Steamboat Company are perhaps typical. Some of the incidents were not without a touch of humor. Others have a bit of pathos.

The “Hercules” — a good name for a tug — was a member of the Cornell fleet during its heyday. She was built in 1876 and remained in active service until 1931. "Herk," as they often called her, was smaller than the large tugboats that used to pull the big flotillas of barges, but also larger that the helper tugs that regularly assisted every big tow. As a result, she was used for a lot of special tasks: towing dredges, expressing special barges or lighters, pulling steamboats from winter lay up to a shipyard, etc.

"Herk" also had a reputation as an ice breaker and was used often for this purpose - particularly in the spring. To help her in the ice, she had extra stout oak planking and steel straps all around her bow.

One day in the summer of 1917, the "Hercules" was running light to Rondout. Her pilot was off watch, asleep in his bunk, and the captain was dog tired. Since it was a clear summer’s day, the captain decided to grab a nap and let the deckhand steer.

After he went below for his nap, a heavy thunder shower came up off Esopus Meadows lighthouse. The decky altered course, and — thinking he was on the proper heading — kept her hooked up.

A few minutes later, "Herk" came to a slow stop and raised partly out of the water. When she listed, the captain woke up and ran to the pilot house. But the heavy rain was coming down in sheets. He couldn’t see a thing. All he knew for sure was that his tug was aground and the tide was falling.

When the rain stopped a few hours later, the problem was obvious. The deckhand had turned too much towards the northwest, going aground directly off the old Schleede’s brickyard at Ulster Park. The “Hercules” had plowed right over the Esopus Meadows, coming to rest with her bow on the north bank and her stern on the south bank, straddling the cut channel between the Meadows and the brickyard.

The tide was ebbing and, unsupported as she was in the middle, her crew was afraid the Herk would either break her back or roll over on her side. But as the water fell, she listed only a trifle and sat there— just as she had run aground. “Herk" must have been made of good stuff to stand that ordeal.

The next high tide, Cornell sent down the tugs “Harry", “G. C. Adams” and “Wm. S. Earl” and pulled her off, none the worse for the experience. The deckhand who put her there lived in Port Ewen. For years afterward, he took a lot of ribbing for trying to put his tug up in his own backyard.

Two years later — in 1919 — the “Hercules" had another mishap. For this one, her pilot was fired.

At that time, "Herk" was expressing a coal boat from New York to Cornwall. She was off
Jones Point at about 1:30 in the morning, when the pilot, who used to so some fishing, said to the deckhand, “Steer her a little while. I’m going down to the galley and knit on my fish nets.”

While the pilot knitted, the decky dozed off at the wheel, and the “Hercules” hit a rock near Fort Montgomery. It put a sizable hole in her hull, she sank in 45 feet of water.
The salvage company later located her by her hawser, which was still attached to the coal boat, and floated her like a big buoy. “Herk” was raised and repaired, and she ran for another 12 years.

After the accident, the president of the Cornell Steamboat Company is said to have called the pilot into his office to ask him how it happened. The pilot was truthful, telling him where he was and what he'd been doing, whereupon Cornell’s president is supposed to have said: “Well,”(calling the pilot by name),"now you can go home for the rest of your life and knit nets to your heart’s content." And he never worked on a Cornell tugboat again.

In 1924, the “Hercules" had another near accident— but this one ended on a happier note. The tug was running light in the upper river on her way to Albany. It was the era before three crews manned each boat, and the captain was off for the weekend. Peter Tucker, the pilot, was in charge and standing a double watch.

At the time, it was early morning and breakfast was ready. The cook claimed he had a Hudson River pilot’s license and came up to the pilot house saying, "Now Pete, go down and enjoy your bacon and eggs. I'll steer for you.”

Pete said, “‘Are you sure you know the channel?", to which the cook replied, "Yes, yes I know all about it."  So pilot Tucker went down to the galley to have his oatmeal, bacon and eggs.
At that point, "Herk” was off the Stuyvesant upper lighthouse. A little while later, she was at the junction of the Hudson and Schodack Creek. Given a choice, the poor cook thought he was to go up the shallow Schodack, instead of west and up the Hudson.

Ned Bishop, the chief engineer, came out of the galley just in time to see where they were heading. Yelling to pilot Tucker, he said, “Pete, where is this guy going?"

The pilot looked out of the galley, and there they were, headed up Schodack Creek. Pete started to run up the forward stairway to the pilot house, hollering to Ned Bishop as he ran, "Full speed astern!" The chief reversed the throttle just in time. The "Hercules" slid up on the bank and right off again. If he hadn’t been so quick, "Herk" would probably be there yet.

Going into the pilot house, Pete said to the cook, “I thought you knew the river." The cook (rather sheepishly) replied, "Well, that’s the way I always went.”  The pilot retorted, "What’s the use?  Go down and start dinner. Now!”

And so ended another incident of the many in the long life of the "Hercules."

As important to the Hudson River’s transportation infrastructure as the express steamers that plied from major towns and cities to New York were the local steamboats- called yachts- which connected many otherwise unreachable riverside villages with these major localities. They were the buses- the “jitneys”- of a bygone era. These local routes were the lifeblood of the villages, which were isolated from the centers of commerce like Newburgh, Poughkeepsie, Rondout, Hudson and Albany, and too small to merit a landing by the larger steamers.
           
The yachts provided a means by which residents of the outlying points might reach a nearby large town, for business or pleasure, in the days before there were convenient railroad connections or improved roads. The little steamers also carried all kinds of local freight, in particular the farm produce necessary to feed those who lived in town, as well as the local newspapers which were so important in those days before radio and television.
           
The yachts were small propeller steamboats carrying a modest number of passengers. They were varied in their design- some were single-decked while larger vessels might have an upper deck- ideal for a moonlight sail on a summer evening. Typically they were from 50 to 100 feet in length, and were propelled by small steam engines. The operating crew might consist of a captain, engineer and a deckhand or two, depending on size. Some of the larger yachts might also carry a fireman.
           
Rondout was the base of operations for the yachts that operated up the river to Glasco and Malden, down river to Poughkeepsie, and along the Rondout Creek on which one could venture as far as Eddyville with way landings at South Rondout and Wilbur. At Rondout, vessels like Augustus S. Phillips, Charles A. Schultz, Charles T. Coutant, Edwin B. Gardner, Eltinge Anderson, Ettie Wright, Glenerie (later Elihu Bunker), Henry A. Haber, Hudson Taylor, John McCausland, Lewis D. Black, Lotto, Morris Block (later Kingston), Thomas Miller, Jr. and others maintained the local services over the years, providing for the transportation needs of many residents and businesses along the creek and in the small riverside villages. In addition, smaller vessels named Annex and Minnie ran from Eddyville up the D. & H. Canal as far as Creek Locks.
           
The upriver towns of Coeymans, Coxsackie, New Baltimore and other points were way landings on a web of routes between Hudson and Albany and on to Troy. The steamers of the Albany and Troy line were particularly busy. Similar routes were maintained out of Newburgh and other down river locations. From Newburgh, one could travel to Peekskill on the little Carrie A. Ward or to Wappingers Falls aboard Messenger. A trip from Wappingers Falls to Newburgh was a challenge if Captain Terwilliger’s steamer was not running. The traveler had to make his way to New Hamburgh by stage or carriage, then by train to Fishkill Landing, then on to Newburgh by ferry- all of course depending on the vagaries of travel in those far-off days.
           
The yachts maintained a fixed schedule during the months when the river was free of ice. During their off hours they might be chartered for an excursion by a local organization like a volunteer firemen’s association. A popular Sunday afternoon destination of the Rondout Creek boats was Henry A. Haber’s recreational park near Eddyville. This gentleman’s entrepreneurial nature was evident to the pleasure seekers- Haber yachts carried them to the Haber park and back.
           
It was not always a world of easy-going transportation, but accidents were rare. Fog, high winds, floating ice or some other hazard occasionally made a trip exciting. On the morning of April 8, 1901, the Rondout-to-Glasco yacht John McCausland collided with her running mate Glenerie at the mouth of the Rondout Creek. McCausland, outward bound for Glasco, was not badly damaged, but Glenerie, headed for home to Rondout, was not so fortunate. She began to fill with water, and Cornell tugs, quick on the scene, succeeded in moving the partly sunken yacht to a nearby sand bar. Even today, the eddies that occur at the mouth of the creek at certain stages of the tide can be dangerous for small craft, and it was claimed that the stern of the Glenerie- perhaps encountering her own Charybdis- swung into the path of the other vessel as they approached one another. It was clearly a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The following day, Glenerie was raised and taken to Hiltebrant’s yard for repairs. The little yacht was back in service on the 20th- twelve days after the accident. Nobody aboard either steamer was injured.
           
​With the construction of paved roads and the introduction of the bus and the motor car for transportation from the 1910s, the era of “jitneys on the river” came to a close. One by one, the yachts were dismantled or otherwise left the routes over which they had been so much a part of life along the Hudson. No longer would the daily routine at the riverside villages be punctuated by the whistles of the yachts as they made their frequent landings. Progress caused life to be easier in a way, but some of the joy of travel on the river disappeared with the yachts. 

The hybrid sailing ship/sidewheeler steamer  Savannah’s 1819 Atlantic crossing, the first with a steam powered engine, signaled the start of the transition from sail to steam. The May 22 date for National Maritime Day commemorates the day Savannah set sail from Savannah, Georgia to England. The Savannah transported both passengers and cargo. More information about the SS Savannah is here: ​

John Bunker writes: “When we entered the war, the Merchant Marine, although still privately owned, came under government control. The men who sailed the ships were civilians, but they also were under government control and subject to disciplinary action by the U.S. Coast Guard and, when overseas, by local U.S. military authorities. Compared with soldiers and sailors, merchant seaman had much more freedom of movement. After completing a voyage, they could usually leave a ship but had to join another vessel within a reasonable period of time or be drafted into the U.S. Armed Forces. There was no uniform required for merchant seamen. Some officers wore uniforms; many did not. During the war, merchant ships were operated by some forty steamship companies, and the War Shipping Administration assigned new ships to them as they were completed. A total of 733 U.S.-flag merchant ships were lost during World War II. More than 6,000 merchant seamen died as the result of enemy action.”p12

During World War II the U.S. Merchant Marines moved war personnel and material under conditions shown above.

​The American Merchant Mariner’s memorial in Battery Park, New York City reads: "This memorial serves as a marker for America’s merchant mariners resting in the unmarked ocean depths." Poignantly the sailor in the water is covered twice a day at high tide.  Installed in 1991 by sculptor Marisol Escobar designed based on a photo of the sinking of the SS Muskogee by German U-boat 123 on March 22nd, 1942. The photo was taken by the U-boat captain. The American crew all died at sea.

Merchant mariners who served in World War II were denied veterans recognition and benefits including the GI Bill. This despite having suffered a per capita casualty rate greater then those of the U.S. Armed Forces. In 1988 a federal court order granted veteran status to merchant mariners who participated in World War II.

On May 31, 1993, the Hudson River Maritime Museum received a brass plaque reading: “The United States Merchant Marine. This plaque is dedicated in memory of those who served in the U.S. Merchant Marine during W.W. II and in particular to those who did not survive “The Battle of the Atlantic”. Their dedication, deeds and sacrifices while transporting war material to the war shared their sacrifices and final victory, we, their surviving shipmates dedicate this memorial with the promise that they shall not be forgotten. Died 6,834. Wounded 11,000. Ship Sunk 833. P.O.W. 604. Died in Prisoner of War Camps 61. American Merchant Marine Veterans – May 31, 1993.”

United States Merchant Marine TrainingModern day training of merchant marines is held at seven academies, two of which U.S. Merchant Marine Academy and SUNY Maritime College, are in New York State.

The U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, Kings Point, NY (USMMA) is one of the five United States service academies. When the academy was dedicated on 30 September 1943, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, noted "the Academy serves the Merchant Marine as West Point serves the Army and Annapolis the Navy."

​USMMA graduates earn:

• a Bachelor of Science degree;
• an unlimited US Coast Guard License as a Merchant Marine Officer, either 3rd Mate or 3rd Assistant Engineer
• a Commission as an ensign in the U.S. Navy Reserve Strategic Sealift Officer Program (see: Navy Reserve Merchant Marine Insignia), or if accepted, as an ensign in the U.S. Navy, U.S. Coast Guard, or National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or as a 2nd lieutenant in the U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Army, or U.S. Air Force. Graduates who choose military service must serve at least five years in the active duty force of their respective service.

USMMA graduates fulfill their service obligations on their own, providing annual proof of employment in a wide variety of MARAD approved occupations. Either as active duty officers in any branch of the military or uniformed services, including the Public Health Service and the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration or entering the civilian work force in the maritime industry.
​
State-supported maritime colleges:
There are six state-supported maritime colleges. These graduates earn appropriate licenses from the U.S. Coast Guard and/or U.S. Merchant Marine. They have the opportunity to participate in a commissioning program, but do not receive an immediate commission as an Officer within a service.

• California State University Maritime Academy 
• Great Lakes Maritime Academy 
• Maine Maritime Academy 
• Massachusetts Maritime Academy 
• State University of New York Maritime College 
• Texas A&M Maritime Academy 

It was very warm -- a sort of sultry, sticky day, which makes you feel as if you had washed yourself in molasses and water, and had found that the chambermaid had forgotten to give you a towel. The very rust on the hinges of the Park gate has melted and run down into the sockets, making them creak with a sort of ferruginous lubricity, as you feebly push them open. The hands on the City Hall clock droop, and look as if they would knock off work if they only had sufficient energy to get up a strike. The omnibus horses creep languidly along, and yet can't stand still when they are pulled up to take in or let out passengers -- the flies are so persevering, so bitter, so hungry.

​Let us go over to Hoboken, and get a mouthful of fresh air, a drink of cool water from the Sybil's spring, a good roll on the green grass of the Elysian Fields. Down we drop, through the hot, dusty, perspiring, choking streets -- pass the rancid "family groceries," which infect all this part of the city, and are nuisances of the first water -- and, after stumbling our way through a basket store, "piled mountains high," we at length find ourselves fairly on board the ferry boat, and panting with the freshness of the sea breeze, which even here in the slip, steals deliciously up from the bay, which, even here in the slip, steals deliciously up from the bay, tripping with white over the night-capped and lace-filled waves. Ding-dong!  Now we are off!  Hurry out to this further end of the boat, where you see everybody is crowding and rushing. Why?  Why?  Why, because you will be in Hoboken fully three seconds sooner than those unfortunate devils at the other end. Isn't that an object?  Certainly. Push, therefore, elbow, tramp, and scramble!  If you have corns, so, most likely, has your neighbor. At any rate, you can but try. No matter if your hat gets smashed, or one of the tails is torn off your coat. You get ahead. That's the idea -- that's the only thing worth living for. What's the use of going to Hoboken, unless you can get there sooner than anyone else?  Hoboken wouldn't be Hoboken, if somebody else should arrive before you.

Now -- jump! -- climb over the chain, and jump ashore. You are not more than ten feet from the wharf. You may not be able to make it -- but then again, you may; and it is at least worth the trial. Should you succeed, you will gain almost another whole second! and, if you fail, why, it is only a ducking -- doubtless they will fish you out. Certainly they don't allow people to get drowned. The Common Council, base as it is, would never permit that!
           
Well! here we are at last, safe on the sands of a foreign shore. New Jersey extends her dry and arid bosom to receive us. What a long, disagreeable walk from the ferry, before you get anywhere. What an ugly expense of gullies and mud, by lumber yards and vacant lots, before we begin to enjoy the beauties of this lovely and charming Hoboken!  One would almost think that these disagreeable objects were placed there on purpose to enhance the beauties to which they lead.
           
​At last we are in the shady walk -- cool and sequestered, notwithstanding that it is full of people. The venerable trees -- the very same beneath whose branches passed Hamilton and Burr to their fatal rendezvous -- the same that have listened to the whispering love-tales of so many generations of the young Dutch burghers and their frauleins -- cast a deep and almost solemn shade along this walk. We have passed so quickly from the city and its hubbub, that the charm of this delicious contrast is absolutely magical.

What a motley crowd! Old and young, men women and children, those ever-recurring elements of life and movement. Well-dressed and badly-dressed, and scarcely dressed at all -- Germans, French, Italians, Americans, with here and there a mincing Londoner, with his cockney gait and trim whiskers. This walk in Hoboken is one of the most absolutely democratic places in the world -- the boulevards of social equality, where every rank, state, condition, existing in our country -- except, of course, the tip-top exclusives -- meet mingle, push and elbow their way along with sparse courtesy or civility.
           
Now, we are on the smooth graveled walk -- the beautiful magnificent water terrace, whose rival does not exist in all the world. Here, for a mile and a half, the walk lies directly upon the river, winding in and out with its yielding outline, and around the base of precipitous rocky cliffs, crowned with lofty trees. From the Bay, and afar off through the Narrows, the fresh sea breeze comes rushing up from the Atlantic, strengthened and made more joyous, more elastic by its race of three thousand miles -- as youth grows stronger by activity. Before us, fading into a greyish distance, lies the city, low and murky, like a huge monster -- its domes and spires seeming but the scales and protuberances upon his body. One fancies that he can still hear the faint murmur of his perpetual roar. No -- 'tis but the voice of the pleasant waves, dashing themselves to pieces in silver spray, against the rocky shore. The retreating tide calls in whispers, its army of waves to flow to their home in the sea.
           
Take care -- don't tumble off these high and unbalustraded steps, -- or will you choose rather to go through the turn-stile at the foot of the bluff?  It is very lean, madam -- which you are not -- and we doubt if you can manage your way through. We thought so!  Allow me to help you over the steps. They are placed here, we verily believe, as a practical illustration of life -- up one side of the hill, and down the other -- for there is no material, physical, or topographical reason, that we can discover, for their existence.
           
​Here is a family group, seated on the little wooden bench, placed under this jutting rock. The mother's attention is painfully divided equally between the two large boys, the toddling little girl of six, who laughs and claps her hand with glee at discovering that she can't throw a pebble into the water, like her brothers -- and the baby, who spreads out his hands and legs to their utmost stretch, like the sails of a little boat which tries to catch as much of the breeze as it can, and who crows like a little chanticleer, in the very exuberance of his baby existence. Two half nibbled cakes, neglected in the happiness of breathing this pure, keen air -- which, by the way, will give them a tremendous appetite, by-and-by -- are lying among the pebbles, and ever the baby has forgotten to suck its fat little thumb.

The Sybil's Cave, with its cool fountain bubbling and sparkling forever in the subterranean darkness, now tempts us to another pause. The little refreshment shop under the trees looks like an ice-cream plaster stuck against the rocks. Nobody wants "refreshments," my dear girl, while the pure cool water of the Sybil's fountain can be had for nothing. What?  Yes they do. The insane idea that to buy something away from home -- to eat or drink -- is at work even here. A little man, with thin bandy legs, whose bouncing wife and children are a practical illustration of the one-sided effects of matrimony, has bought "something to take" for the whole family. Pop goes the weasel!  What is it?  Sarsaparilla -- pooh!
           
​Now let us go on round this sharp curve, (what a splendid spot for a railroad accident!) and then along the widened terrace path, until it loses itself in a green and spacious lawn, lovingly rising to meet the stooping branches of the trees. This is the entrance to the far-famed Elysian Fields. Along the banks of the winding gravel paths, children are playing, with their floating locks streaming in the wind -- while prone on the green grass recline weary people, escaped from the week's ceaseless toil, and subsiding joyfully into an hour of rest -- to them the highest happiness. The centre of the lawn has been marked out into a magnificent ball ground, and two parties of rollicking, joyous young men are engaged in that excellent and health-imparting sport, base ball. They are without hats, coats or waistcoats, and their well-knit forms, and elastic movements, as they bound after the bounding ball, ....

Yonder in the corner by that thick clump of trees, is the merry go-round, with its cargo of half-laughing, half-shrieking juvenile humanity, swinging up and down like a vessel riding at anchor. Happy, thoughtless voyagers!  Although your baby bark moves up and down, and round and round, yet you fell the exhilarating motion, and you think you advance. After all, perhaps it would be a blessed thing if your bright and happy lives could stop here. Never again will you bee so happy as now; and often, in the hard and bitter journey of life, you will look back to these infantile hours, wondering if the evening of life shall be as peaceful as its morning.
           
​But the sun has swung down behind the Weehawken Heights, and the trees cast their long shadows over lawn and river, pointing with waving fingers our way home. The heart is calmer, the head clearer, the blood cooler, for this delicious respite. We thank thee, oh grand Hoboken, for thy shade, and fresh foliage, and tender grass, and the murmuring of the glad and breezy waters -- and especially for having furnished us with a subject for this chapter.

Editor's Note: This article was originally written by Anthony P. Musso and published in the November 1, 2017 issue of the Poughkeepsie (NY) Journal. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here.  ​

HYDE PARK - On the east bank of the Hudson River along River Point Road in Hyde Park is a long, wood-frame structure that once served as a boathouse for John Aspinwall Roosevelt, uncle of former U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt. The parcel of land the building sits on was once part of an estate named Rosedale, which was owned by the late president's grandfather, Isaac.
     
Beginning in the mid- to late-18th century, wealthy families from New York City started to acquire large tracts of land to establish estates, many in Hyde Park. Names such as Bard, Roosevelt, Rogers, Langdon, Astor, Vanderbilt and Mills were among the most prominent.
     
A popular pastime for many of them became ice-yacht racing along the Hudson River. While it proved to be an exciting spectator sport for residents in the area, the activity was quickly dubbed a “rich man’s hobby.”
     
​Following the death of Isaac Roosevelt in 1863, his son John inherited Rosedale and had the boathouse erected to house his vessel, named Icicle. A champion ice yacht racer, Roosevelt's boat — at 68 feet, 10 inches long and boasting a sail spread of 1,070 square feet — was the largest ice boat in the world at the time. 

“Icicle is now owned by the New York State Museum and is currently on loan to the [Hudson River] Maritime Museum in Kingston,” said Jeffrey Urbin, education specialist at the FDR Presidential Library and Museum. The boathouse featured six casement windows, a paneled wooden door and a board and batten-hinged door. The lower portion of its northern end was constructed of stone. The design of the boathouse was crafted specifically to store Roosevelt's ice yacht fleet while the space available above was occupied by sails.
 
The building’s double-pitched roof provided additional space in the loft, in his younger years, FDR stored his 28-foot ice yacht, named Hawk, in the structure; the boat was a Christmas gift from his mother, Sara, in 1901.

In 1861, at 21 years old, John Roosevelt founded and became the commodore of the Poughkeepsie Ice Yacht Club and, in 1885, he founded and held the same position with the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club. Both organizations still exist today.

The area the boathouse occupies became known as Roosevelt Point and, during the latter part of the 19th and early 20th centuries, was used as the starting point for many world-class races held along the river. With a smaller version of the original Icicle — this one spanning 50 feet with a 750-square-foot sail area — John Roosevelt won the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America in 1888, '89, ‘92 and ‘99. 

An additional structure that no longer exists at the site but once sat just south of the boathouse was known as the Roosevelt Point Cottage. Built in the 1850s as a tenant dwelling on the estate, records indicate that, from 1877 through 1886, it was occupied by Rosedale's gardener, Robert Gibson,
     
The cottage maintained a front room that featured a stove, in which ice yacht enthusiasts could find warmth while waiting for a favorable wind to take their vessels on the river.
     
“Ice yachting went into decline after 1912 as other pursuits, such as the automobile and airplane, captured the fascination of the public,” said John Sperr, of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club. “World events were also a factor in the demise of ice yachting on the Hudson, as the onset of World War II found it necessary to keep the river open in winter so the large munitions and war material produced in Troy, Watervliet and Schenectady could be readily put into service.”
     
​The land the boathouse occupies was separated from Rosedale during the 1950s, when single-family homes were built on the former estate. Today, along with Isaac Roosevelt's house (located closer to Route 9), the boathouse remains vacant but an original remnant of the thriving 19th-century estate. 

                                                                    GRAND REPUBLIC
             
The “Grand Republic" was built for the New York and Rockaway Beach route and general excursion business, making not only regular trips to sea but also up the Hudson River and Long Island Sound. The “Grand Republic” was the largest steamboat ever constructed for excursion purposes exclusively at the port of New York, having a capacity for 4,000 passengers. The “Grand Republic” ran in line with the steamboat “Columbia” on the Rockaway Beach route until 1886.
               
The “Columbia” was then purchased by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company and left New York on March 15, 1888, for her new home quarters to run between Baltimore and Bay Ridge on the Chesapeake Bay. In 1891 the “General Slocum” came out and ran in line with the “Grand Republic” until destroyed by fire on June 15, 1904, with a loss of one thousand and thirty lives.
               
The “Grand Republic” continued running on the Rockaway Beach route for several years. She was finally purchased by the McAllister Steamboat Co. of New York. She was then used almost exclusively for an excursion boat. Many political organizations used her for their picnics every summer on Long Island Sound and the Hudson River.
               
The “Grand Republic” and several other excursion boats were moored in winter quarters at the pier at the foot of West 156th Street, New York, caught fire and was totally destroyed with two other smaller excursion boats, the “Nassau” and the “Highlander” on April 26, 1924. The origin of the fire was undetermined. Some say it followed a small gasoline explosion and others thought it started from a cigarette or cigar dropped on the newly pained decks by some of the workmen who had been repainting and renovating the excursion steamers for the summer.
               
There was a strong north wind blowing and an attempt was made to cut off the “Nassau” and tow her to midstream, but it failed. Flames mounted high from the “Nassau” and spread to the “Highlander”, then to the “Grand Republic” and to minor crafts.
               
​The “Grand Republic” came near being destroyed by fire on July 7, 1910. She left Rockaway Beach at 1:15 p.m. for the Battery. The captain said there were only 20 passengers aboard. Coming up through the Narrows off Fort Lafayette a fire broke out in the galley and it ate its way into the box of the starboard paddle, sweeping thence up to the top rising above the hurricane deck. The wooden box of the paddle wheel was burned away. The boat was landed at 85th street, Bay Ridge. Firemen chopped holes to get at the fire, which after an hour’s work they succeeded in extinguishing it. The “Grand Republic” was taken to Edgewater, N.J., for repairs and was put on her old route again in 1910.
Hull built of wood by John Englis & Son at Greenpoint, N.Y., 1878. Engine rebuilt by the Quintard Iron Works, N.Y.

Dimensions: Length of keel, 287’6”; over all, 300’; width of hull 41’6”; over guards, 72’; depth of hold, 13’. Gross tonnage, 1760. Net tonnage, 1308.

Vertical beam engine from the steamship “Morro Castle”, which had originally been built for the Lake Erie steamboat “City of Buffalo”. Diameter of cylinder was 76 inches by 12 foot stroke. Two iron boilers in the hold.

Wheels were 36 feet in diameter, 32 buckets h wheel, 10’6” in length by 24 in width.

The story I’m about to relate happened 45 years ago almost to the day. The incident dates back to Dec. 4, 1926 - which would make yesterday its anniversary for those who might remember.
           
In any event, when steamboating was at its peak on the Hudson River, every city and almost every village along the majestic river had a steamboat landing and was served by one or more steamboats.
           
The bigger cities and villages had direct service to New York, while the smaller villages were served by smaller connecting steamboats.

Newburgh Albany Line
And the Central Hudson Line, which operated primarily between Rondout, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh - with way landings - to New York, also operated a line between Newburgh and Albany.
           
Originally, there were two steamboats in this service, one each day in each direction, carrying freight and passengers between some 20 different landings. In its latter and declining days, the service was down to one lone steamboat - the “Jacob H. Tremper” - carrying freight only.
           
This, then, was the background for the following incident which was told to me by Jack Dearstyne Sr., the “Tremper’s” last captain.
           
It was Dec. 4, 1926 and a heavy snow storm had already set in when Capt. Dearstyne got orders at Albany to start for Newburgh where he was to lay up for the winter. As the “Tremper” made its way down the river, thick snow pelted its deck, hitting harder and harder with each mile navigated.

Two Passed By
Off Coxsackie, the crew of the “Tremper” could barely discern the outlines of the “Osceola” and the “G.C. Adams” of the Cornell Steamboat Company.  But the men of the “Tremper” knew they were indeed passing both boats as they headed slowly up river with a large tow.
           
As the “Tremper” passed Four Mile Point, four miles above Athens, the chief Engineer and the captain stood together in the pilot house…and both strained to see through the snow just as everybody else aboard was attempting to do. They all figured that if they could make Rondout, they would tie up for the night.
           
Suddenly the chief observed, “That looked like the junction buoy.” And they all agreed that it was. Said Captain Dearstyne to the pilot, “Better pull to the west,” and the maneuver was promptly executed by the pilot.
           
​But it had not been the buoy that had been spotted. Instead, the “buoy” turned out to be a large log floating in the river. And before they could back down, the “Tremper” slid up on west flat, just north of the light. Unfortunately for the boat, the time of the accident was near the end of the flood tide.

None Heard Whistle
They backed and backed and backed again - blowing the whistle - thinking and hoping that one of the tug boats they had recently passed might hear them. But neither did. From Captain Jack came this lament; “I guess this is the end of the old ‘Tremper’.”
           
But, then, just as they were about to give up all hope, they heard the muffled sound of another steamboat whistle through the swirling snow. And out of the whiteness of the storm came William H. Burlingham with the steamer “Catskill,” the freight boat of the old Catskill Evening Line.
           
It seemed that Captain Burlingham had been tied up at Stockport because of the storm. Coming to the rescue, the “Catskill” came up astern, put a hawser on the “Tremper” and pulled again and again.
           
With each pull by the “Catskill,” the “Tremper” also helped by working her engine back hard and, in the process, the “Catskill” parted several hawsers.
           
No amount of pulling seemed to help and, finally, Captain Jack yelled over to Captain Will on the “Catskill,” “I guess it’s no use. The tide is falling and her old deck planks and butts are opening up. It’s the last of the ‘Tremper.’”

A Final Try
 But Captain Will came right back with a “Let’s try once more.” Not willing to admit defeat, he had a further philosophic thought. “Both of us are getting old and so is the ‘Tremper.’ We can’t let her go without one more try.”
           
So try they did - and off she came!
           
The “Tremper” then continued on to Rondout and lay in for the night. The next day she followed the Rondout-New York boat, the “Poughkeepsie,” down the river as far as Milton, where the new ice was not so thick as it had been above. She then continued on to Newburgh where she layed up for the winter of 1926-27, and lived on to run for two more years.
           
​Captain Dearstyne was captain of the tugboat “Lion” in 1931 and I was his deckhand. And I remember him telling me then: “Always treat Will Burlingham as a gentleman as that is what he always was and always will be.”

Editor's Note: The following essay is by author and steamboat scholar Richard V. Elliott (1934-2014). His two volume history of Hudson River Steamboats "The Boats of Summer" is coming soon from Schiffer Publishing. For more information about "Mary Powell" visit the Hudson River Maritime Museum's online exhibit here: 

​In all of the history of illustrious Hudson River steamboats none it seems has ever surpassed the Mary Powell as the most loved of all. Throughout her long fifty-six years of service, she was the subject of stories, songs and poems. When she made her last voyage in 1918, people all along the shores of the Hudson went down to the waterfront to see her glide by for the last time. Old timers who recall the event say that no steamer has ever gone out in greater glory. Every steamer, tug, ferry and factory along the Hudson gave her a thrilling salute. Many of the women waved a fond farewell with their handkerchiefs and not a few of both the men and women were glassy-eyed holding back their tears. Others less inhibited, wept openly, for after over half a century on the River, she was a childhood pal to many generations of Valley people. The Mary Powell's personality was bound to be especially missed. It was not surprising to her contemporaries that one of her hundreds of thousands of admirers decided to write a special memorial or obituary on the occasion of her passing.

Fletcher Dubois spoke for a great many people in his poem of tribute to the Mary Powell, written in part as follows:
"Among the Hudson's wonderous fleet
No Vessel ever won such fame,
And carried through the passing years
Such widely known and honored name.
For many a year you filled the hearts
Of thousands here, both old and young,
And by thousands more your fame was known
Thru songs the poets' lore has sung …
Good-bye old boat, your work is done,
And now we shed the parting tear
And pay a tribute here in prose
to you, who friends hold dear."

​If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!

I was awfully glad when a friend proposed a trip to Saratoga.  I had been awfully jolly in New York, but New York had gone out of town, leaving nothing but its streets and its tram-cars behind it.  In London we have such a perpetual flow of visitors — over one hundred thousand daily — that a fellow doesn't so much miss the "big crowd" as here, consequently when Saratoga was decided upon I felt extremely pleased indeed.  I had heard much of the palatial river steamers, and expected much.  I was down at Pier 41 at an early hour, and found the whole place occupied by one boat.  Such a boat! white as the driven snow, and larger than many an English village.  The people kept going into her until I imagined some game was up, and that they were stepping out at the other side.  No such thing; there was room for all ay, and more.  It was something immense to see the men getting into line for the ticket-office, with as much precision as if they were on parade.  No hurry, no crush, the regular "first come, first served" business, not as with us, when the biggest man comes to the front, and muscular Christianity tops over everything.  And the luggage! mountains of it, from enormous nickel-bound boxes, fit to carry Cleopatra's Needle, to dainty hand-bags, such as Queen Victoria's take with them when rushing at sixty miles an hour "Upon Her Majesty's Service.'

Near the gangway stood a handsome, gentlemanlike man, whose semi-naval uniform looked as though cut by Smallpage, of Regent Street.  This, I was informed, was Captain Roe, one of the most courteous and best-respected captains of the sea-like rivers of America.  I was instructed by my friend to take a state-room — at home I would have asked for a berth — and, paving paid my money, became intrusted with the key of a charming little bedroom, better fitted up than that of my club, and boasting an electric bell.  ...

A gong sounded for dinner, and, following a strong lead, as we do at whist, I found myself in a large, brilliantly-lighted apartment, set with several tables.  The menu was extensive enough to meet the requirements of the most exacting appetite, while the viands bore witness to skillful cookery.  After dinner I went for a stroll, yea, a veritable stroll — always striking against the bride and bridegroom — in a saloon picked out in white and gold, the chandeliers burning gas, and the motion being so imperceptible that the glass drops did not even waggle — on a carpet fit for Buckingham Palace, and in a grove of sumptuous furniture; then for'ard, where many gentlemen in straw hats were engaged in discussing the chances of General Grant for something or other, I know not what; then aft, where many ladies sat in picturesque traveling attitudes, gazing at the soft outlines of the shore on either hand, some alone and some doing the next best thing to flirting.
           
​What a sleep I had!  No more motion than if I was at the club.  No noise, no confounded fume of train-oil and its rancid confrères.  I slept like a humming-bird, and next morning found myself at Albany.  This place is on a hill, surmounted by a white marble building, and Capitol, which, when competed, will be an awfully imposing affair.  I took the train for Saratoga —  a drawing-room car — and such a boudoirette on wheels! —  I felt as if I was in a club-window all the time.

Saratoga is awfully jolly.  It is the best thing I have seen, with its main street as wide as the Boulevard Malesherbe or Haussman, and lined for a mile and a half with magnificent elms, which shade hotels as big as some European towns.  It is always thronged with carriages just like Rotten Row in the season, and lots of people on horseback.  The piazzas of the hotels are crowded with stunningly pretty girls, dressed, all over the place.  Overhead is an Italian sky, blue as sapphire, and a golden tropical light falls around, picking out the shadows in dazzling contrast.  "I guess," as the Americans say, I'll drive my stakes pretty deep here.

Editor's Note: This article was by Raymond A. Ruge and originally published in the February 10, 1945 issue of "The Saturday Evening Post".  The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here.  ​

Once a rich man's game, iceboating today is a sport for anyone who has seventy-five dollars, a craving for speed—and plenty of ice.

ICE on the Shrewsbury! After half a dozen mild winters, the freeze-up of 1940 had clamped a ten-  inch layer of glassy ice over the shallow, brackish river. As if by magic, iceboats appeared from barns, garages, cellars and woodsheds, for this is real ice-boating country, where the sport's traditions run back nearly 100 years. And now the Eastern Ice Yachting Association had voted to hold its annual championship regatta on the famous New Jersey course. 

Two week ends of hard racing had all but completed the program. The pick of the fleets of twelve member clubs had fought for five class championships—an iceboat's class is based on sail area alone—from the tiny Class E Skeeters, with their pocket-handkerchief sails of only seventy-five square feet, to the big, powerful Class A racers, prides of the Shrewsbury, spreading 350 feet of creamy canvas. Between these came the champions of Class D, Class C and Class B, at 125, 175 and 200 square feet. There was just one race to go, the Open Championship, in which all these class champions fight it out without handicap to pick the year's undisputed king of the Eastern ice ways.
​
Since early morning, the northwest gale had roared, driving the furred and helmeted skippers to shelter round the clubhouse stove. At the rear of the long room steamed a huge chowder bowl, brimful of tangy, salty brew, concocted from good home-grown Jersey clams by the master hand of the old salt who now pridefully dispensed it. For chowder's "on the house" at Red Bank when the ice is right.

Around the crackling stove, half a dozen younger skippers were tangled in argument with the veterans.

"Why, I can remember the Rocket—eight hunderd an' fifty foot of sail, she had! And you call those little things iceboats!"

"Okay, okay! Just wait till this race gets started—if it ever does!" 

Down the long side of the room was a workbench, where a pair of grimy characters filed away at long v-edged runners held in special blocks at just the proper angle. After filing the blades, they dressed them with light emery cloth and oil until they shone like polished silver.

"There. That ought to hold 'em," grunted one of the workers, as he straightened up and tossed aside his black oily gloves. "Only dirty job in this sport, but you can't get far without doing it, and you sure can't hire anybody to do it for you. How's for some chowder?"

"I'm your man," said his companion. "By the way, who's got a five-sixteenths drill?"

​"Look in my box—that green one under the bench," volunteered one of the men around the stove. 'Clearly, here was a gang who knew and respected one another. They swapped ideas, tools and equipment like sailors swapping telephone numbers after a six months' cruise—apparently with perfect confidence that all favors would be returned in kind whenever possible. The iceboaters are like that. Most of them build their own boats. They have a mutual love for a fast, hard sport—one which automatically weeds out all but the regular guys by the sheer discomfort and disappointments that are part of the game. 

Outside, halyards slapped a tattoo against shivering spars, taut rigging whistled and moaned, and canvas covers whipped viciously, as the fleet stood by, five champions waiting eagerly for the first lull that would permit starting of the Open. Finally, it came.
"Start at 3:15!" flashed the committee. Chowder was forgotten, the stove abandoned, as flying suits were pulled on and helmets buckled down. Shouldering runners, which are always removed at nightfall to prevent rusting, and toting sail bags, the crews lunged out into the gale. Canvas covers were stripped from gleaming mahogany and spruce. Lead weights were strapped to runner planks, runners and rigging given a last check-over before sails were hoisted for the jolting, grinding punishment to come.

"Course shortened to ten miles! Leave all marks to starboard! Skippers and crews ready! Spectators keep back!"
​
And there were plenty of spectators, for this was the race that Red Bank had been waiting for. The Class A yachts of time-honored stern-steering design had been undisputed speed kings of the ice for a quarter of a century. Then in the early 1930's, in Wisconsin, where iceboating flourishes under the sponsorship of the Northwestern Ice Yachting Association, a few daring pioneers tried a boat that reversed the usual arrangement, and steered from a single runner up front, something like Sister Susie's tricycle. They gave it a boxlike fuselage for a hull, so the pilot could sit upright and see where he was going—surely desirable at seventy miles an hour. He also was seated down inside the hull, so he could stay aboard without having to be an acrobat as well as a sailor. The traditional jib-and-mainsail rig gave way to the simpler cat, with its single sail. And, surprisingly, the new reverse-English jobs began trimming the pants off the older-style boats. By 1940, several had been brought East, and here they were at Red Bank, daring to tackle the old-style boats of nearly five times their sail area. Even the boldest of the young folks had to admit that the little eighteen-foot Western-built Skeeter, with its one-man crew, looked like a toy out there beside the thirty-five-foot Class A entry boast-ing both a skipper and a sheet tender.

The roar of the cannon sent them away. As the boats leaped away down-river, the big A left the others far behind. Turning the lower mark, she started across the lower river on the outer leg of the triangular course and was nearly a quarter mile ahead.

The old-timers chuckled. "See what we told you? Those little mahogany cracker boxes can't stay with a real ice-boat. Look where they are already!"

Up the river now, they crisscrossed as they tacked their way into the teeth of the gale toward the home stake. Three of the five starters were already far behind, but the little boat was moving up! This was going to be a race, after all. As the mighty Goliath of the river roared up and around the mark to start the second lap, right on her heels, not 100 yards behind, was that pesky little cracker box, the smallest boat in the race. Down the river again, lost in the flying snow. Across the outer leg and back up that wicked zigzag leg to windward. This time the Skeeter was even closer—a hornet chasing an eagle.

 At the end of the third lap, they were even. One to go, and it was anybody's race. Downstream they went, down and across the outer leg, the eagle still ahead, but the hornet right on her tail. The last leg would tell the story. Up they came tacking, turning, fighting for every inch. Then the tiny Skeeter slipped past the big boat not a quarter mile from the finish, and went on to win by fifteen seconds.
​
The victory emphasized the fact that iceboating had switched from a rich man's game, with an outlay of $2500 or more for a top-flight racer, to a sport for the average man. The Skeeter that won the 1940 Open cost $350, complete—about as much as a single set of runners for the big yacht she had so neatly trimmed. Annual maintenance on a Skeeter runs in the neighborhood of a ten-dollar bill. By building their own boats, many fans cut the initial cost be-low the $200 mark. For transportation, a car-top carrier or a small two-wheeled trailer does the trick. 

Iceboating had found a level where al-most anyone who wanted to could enjoy it. New clubs sprang up wherever there was ice enough to sail the boats. Be-tween 1931 and 1941, the number of ice-boats in active use was just about quadrupled. Allowing the usual quota of one owner—the skipper—and at least two or three enthusiastic pals per boat, the number of iceboaters was multiplied by twelve to sixteen. More accurate figures are impossible to get. Although organized iceboating was discontinued for the duration, after the regattas of 1942, informal sailing is today going on as usual.

Whenever the conversation gets around to iceboating, there are certain questions that always turn up. The first one, of course, goes: "Well, all kidding aside, how fast do they really go?" And right off the bat we run into the mystery of "faster than the wind." Actually, ice-boats do sail faster than the wind—a whole lot faster, in fact—but only when they're sailing across the wind, not running along with it. An iceboat moves so easily on her polished metal runners that a half-ton boat, once under way, can be pushed along by any ten-year-old, and there's practically no increase in ice friction as the speed increases. At the same time, the sharp V edges of the runners completely eliminate sideslip, so that every ounce of power developed by the sail goes into forward motion. As a result, when the boat is sailed directly across the wind stream, so the wind tries to push her sideways, her runners say "Nothing doing," and she has to slip ahead out of this squeeze play like a watermelon seed popping out from between your fingers.

Furthermore, the forward movement of the boat immediately brings into action a second air flow, equal to the speed of the boat, and coming from dead ahead. Her sails don't feel it, but they don't feel the same breeze as a person standing still, either. What they get and what actually drives the boat is a combination of the true wind and the air current caused by the boat's motion. This combined breeze is known as the "apparent wind," and because iceboats move so easily, they soon build up their apparent wind to a velocity far higher than that of the real wind. They can keep on working the squeeze play and the wind build-up until they get up to about four times the original wind speed. Then the apparent wind is coming from so nearly dead ahead that they can't build it up any more. But four times the speed of the wind is enough for anybody.

​Now you can begin to understand how Long Branch's famous Commodore Price broke every speed record on the books by sailing the Clarel 140 miles an hour one winter day in 1908. He didn't have a hurricane—just a typical winter westerly, with puffs hitting forty or forty-five, and he got the old girl going at just the right angle. Debutante III, of Oshkosh, claims 119 in a race on Gull Lake, Michigan. Flying Dutchman, of the same club, is credited with 124. Both these records are to the credit of the famous skipper, John Buckstaff, of Oshkosh. 

Iceboats, however, don't always go tearing around four times as fast as the wind. Most of the time their speed is closer to twice the wind speed, and because they have to tack to get to wind-ward, they cover a greater distance than the measured course in every race. The real test of a boat's ability is what she can do around a course from a standing start. A comparison of old records with new will show what streamlining and modern rigs have done for speed. In 1892, the famous Jack Frost-720 square feet—set a record by sailing a twenty-mile race on the Hudson River at an average speed of 38.3 miles per hour. Actual distance: 31.4 miles; time: 49 minutes, 30 seconds. Almost a half century later, Charette II, carrying 125 square feet of sail, covered a ten-mile course in 11 minutes, 33 seconds at an average speed of 51.9 miles an hour to win the Eastern Open Championship for 1941.

Having been convinced that iceboats really do make time, our questioner in-variably follows up with this one: "At speeds like that, how do you ever stop the darned things?" Stopping is actually a cinch, provided the skipper hasn't made that basic error known to the trade as "running out of ice." Iceboats will stop in a surprisingly short distance, if they are headed straight into the wind.

"Isn't it dangerous?" In the hands of a fool or a show-off, yes. But properly handled—and it's easy—iceboats are a lot safer than automobiles. For one thing, there's no lurking ditch, nor is there a line of fence posts and a stream of opposing traffic. There's plenty of room; collisions are practically unheard of. Furthermore, with her sharp runners, an iceboat can be steered within a fraction of an inch of where her skipper wants to send her, with one exception. The older type of boat, with stern rudder, some-times will take matters into her own hands, kick up her heels and do a whirling dervish, spinning around two or three times as if trying to shake off both skipper and crew. And sometimes she succeeds.

In 1931, Starke Meyer, of Milwaukee, did some experimenting with models he hoped would lick the spin problem. He decided to reverse the traditional design and give the bow steerer a try. In the next few seasons he built several, all named Paula. The bow steerer turned out to be tremendously fast. Even more encouraging, she proved to be spin-proof. Paula's offspring can be numbered in the thousands. Most numerous are the ubiquitous Skeeters.

In fairness, however, it should be pointed out that, while the bow steerer won't spin and toss you off, she's a dangerous lady in a capsize. She lifts her crew high in the air as she rears, and if she goes over, they may be tossed out from a height of eight or ten feet or, even worse, have the whole works fall with them, in case the mast breaks. A few bad spills of this type occurred when bow steerers were younger and not so well understood. In recent years, skippers have learned always to carry the main sheet—the rope that controls the sail—so that it can be slipped a bit if the boat tries to hike more than a few inches. They have found that the boat makes better speed if she is kept down on the ice than when one runner is reaching for the sky, the way you see them in the newsreels. Since there is no profit and there is real danger in carrying a hike too far, capsizes these days are rare indeed. When they do occur, you may be sure that they are the result of just plain bad driving.

We can just about ignore the old question, "Isn't it terribly cold?" 'Sure it's cold. But everybody gets outdoors in the winter nowadays, and all you have to do is dress for it. For coldest days, ice-boaters smear their faces with camphor ice, petroleum jelly or cold cream, and their lips with pomade—don't laugh, brother; a split lip is no joke—as do skiers, fliers, mountain climbers and lots of other outdoor sportsmen.
​
And so we get to the key questions: "Isn't it expensive?" and "How do I get started?" The Skeeter, professionally built at $350, home-built for $75 to $200, has pretty well settled the financial matter, for a good Skeeter is just as fast as anything else, and a lot less trouble. In the old days, when speed was more or less proportional to size, enormous yachts were built, at costs running into the thousands. Largest of all was the Icicle, owned by President Roosevelt's uncle, Commodore John E. Roosevelt, of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club at Hyde Park. Originally built in 1869, she was enlarged and remodeled until she reached the amazing length of sixty-nine feet and lugged a thousand-square-foot spread of canvas. 

She has been carefully preserved, and now rests in the Roosevelt museum at Hyde Park. By 1890, she was being consistently beaten by much smaller but more efficient craft, and the big boats gradually dropped into the discard.

The largest yacht still sailing is the Debutante III, owned by Douglas and Camp van Dyke, of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Carrying 618 square feet of sail in a towering rig that completely dwarfs every other boat in sight, she has seen both the Hearst and the Stuart cups, iceboating's premier trophies, lifted from her by smaller boats. The Hearst Cup now rests at Madison, jealously guarded by the 350-square-footer Fritz, owned by Fritz Jungbluth and sailed by Carl Bernard. The Stuart Cup is in Detroit, won and held by Rex Jacobs' fine 350-square-footer Ferdinand, under the able handling of George Hendrie. And even these super-racers have now and again been beaten by little bow steerers carrying 175 square feet or less, which means that a $350 Skeeter will put you right up there with the best of them.

Of real importance is the ease with which these little boats can be transported. In the East, for example, the Skeeter crowd has actually stretched the season from a former average of two months to the present one of nearer four. Opening the season on the earliest ice, up in the hills around Kent, Connecticut, they move down into Southern New York to Orange and Greenwood lakes, or into Northern Jersey to Lakes Hopatcong and Musconetcong. If it's a really hard winter, like that of 1940, the lakes will be snowed under. But there's bound to be ice on the Shrewsbury. So south-ward they go, for a Skeeter can be knocked down ready for the road in half an hour. As the winter wears along, the trek is reversed, until the last days of March find them back in Connecticut, winding up the season in glorious spring sunshine. In Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine, most of the large lakes sport a few boats, and there are several clubs of considerable size. If you're a Midwesterner, Lake St. Clair, at Detroit, Gull Lake, near Kalamazoo, Fox Lake, northwest of Chicago, Lakes Geneva, Mendota, Pewaukee and Winnebago in Wisconsin, or White Bear and Minnetonka in Minnesota, are the hot spots. There are lots of others, and it's a safe bet you live within an hour's drive of iceboating if you're in those latitudes.

And don't think it's all racing. Not by a long shot. Many an enthusiastic ice-boater never races. He probably likes to use tools, and he likes to get outdoors in the wintertime with a group of con-genial spirits. He gets a tremendous kick out of iceboating, even though race day finds him serving on the committee instead of clipping buoys.

The best way to get started is to go where the boats are and get talking to the people who sail them. You'll find them more than friendly, glad to give you a ride, and ready to welcome you heartily if you really get the bug and decide to acquire a boat. Even if you are a fine craftsman and are pretty sure you know just what you want to build, it is far wiser to buy your first iceboat, preferably secondhand. You'll learn a lot about what makes a good one good after you've sailed, rigged and played with one for a couple of seasons. Then is the time to build that superboat for yourself. And many's the fellow who's done it. Fritz, the boat we met a few lines back, winner in 1934 of the Hearst Cup, Stuart Cup, Northwestern Class A and Free-for-All Championships; Elizabeth R., owned and sailed by Rube White, of Red Bank, holder of the North American Class A Pennant; Scout, last winner-1922—of the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America, sailed by Capt. Frank Drake, of New Hamburg, who still sails every winter, though shading seventy; my own, Charette II, four times Eastern Class C Champion and twice winner of the Eastern Open—all are home-built boats.
​
Iceboating flourished in Northeastern Europe for many years. Stockholm, Riga and Berlin boasted many clubs and active fleets of yachts. Just before the war, the nations around the Baltic Sea banded together into the Europiiischen Eissegel Union, and sailed annual inter-national championships in several sail-area classes. It may well be that the next winter Olympics will see the inauguration of truly international ice yachting. Steps toward this end were under way when war broke out. Once it's over, you can look for more and faster iceboating wherever Jack Frost hangs his hat.