“But every tack we made we brought the North Head close 
     
     aboard.” 
     
    
   
   
    
     I was glad to complete the passage of the Cape and finally glide 
     
     into the much calmer water at the entrance to Murray Harbour. 
     
    
   
   
    
     IV 
     
    
   
   
    
     At Murray Harbour I proceeded to shave and tidy up as by this 
     
     time I had indeed started to look like a Red Indian and even Bozo 
     
     was getting a sun-tan. After a short walk I arrived at the home of my 
     
     friend and fellow teacher at P.W.C., Edith Hugh, for whose ability 
     
     and character I had a great respect and even affection. 
     
    
   
   
    
     We, that is Edith and I and her father, the other members of 
     
     the family and the hired help, all sat down to a huge meal at a huge 
     
     table in a really huge house. Mr. Hugh told me that he and his wife 
     
     were moving shortly into a little new bungalow nearby and turning 
     
     the big house (to me a veritable “castle”) over to his married son. I 
     
     noticed that the meal was no sooner over than, “All right, boys, back 
     
     to the fields; there’s work to be done”, was the order of the day. 
     
     “This is the House that Jack built”, I mused, and had no trouble 
     
     concluding that “jack” came from being on the job. I thanked Edith 
     
     for her warm hospitality and walked the mile or so back to the canoe. 
     
     There I set the little sail and again pointed out to sea. Once Outside the 
     
     Harbour I turned north and, aided by the sail, moved swiftly up the 
     
     mile or more of Poverty Beach Sand—bar. “Swiftly” here meant four 
     
     or five miles an hour, “miles” incidentally being preferable to 
     
     “knots” as I tended to measure distance along the shore line rather 
     
     than over the water. All the while I was one or two hundred yards 
     
     from the flat shore or low bank and this was my usual position where 
     
     the shore line was relatively straight (tho’ the north shore later turned 
     
     out to be an exception to the general rule). 
     
    
   
   
    
     Passing by the mouth of the Harbour or “run” at Graham’s 
     
     Creek 1 went ashore at the next high cliff on a little beach. At the 
     
     farmhouse set back a ways from this cliff (Texas Pt.) the inevitable 
     
     and unvariable highland welcome awaited. The numerous children 
     
     and the mother greeted me in a most friendly fashion, and the father, 
     
     who arrived later, turned out to be one John Dan MacKenzie. At this 
     
     stage I began to develop a deep respect for the original “John Dan”; 
     
     he must have been quite a boy. 
     
    
   
   
    
     12