Word: ketch
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Going ashore from a friend's ketch, the Blue Moon, for a visit in friendly Maine (one of the two States which wanted him for President), Alfred Mossman London slipped, cracked two ribs. He got himself strapped up, continued his cruise...
Guest on the Vitalis radio program in Manhattan night of last week's hurricane was globe-circling Sailor Dwight Long (TIME, Sept. 19). Few minutes before his turn at the microphone came he learned that his 32-foot ketch Idle Hour had slipped her mooring and was being whipped out into Long Island Sound. Dwight Long did his radio stint, then ventured to the WJZ audience an anxious SOS: ". . . All I own in the world is aboard the Idle Hour. . . ." Next day they found her, mistress of 35,000 miles of angry oceans, a splintery pile on Long Island...
...beckoning September day four years ago, sandy-haired, 21-year-old Dwight Long, restless son of a Seattle builder, chucked his junior studies at the University of Washington and pointed his snug, white, 32-foot ketch Idle Hour out of Puget Sound. Before him lay the glamorous uncertainty of the western horizon; behind, Foulweather Bluff and the fouler prospects of graduating into a depression. One afternoon last week, with 35,000 miles in her wake and her bows scoured with the spray of more than seven seas. Idle Hour breezed in from the blue Atlantic and hove to off Manhattan...
...scan the horizon long without yearning. Lyle Tara yearned to sail the 3,000-odd miles to Cocos Island, off the Costa Rican coast, where legend says pirates of the Spanish Main used to bury Inca gold. Into the pattern of his dream fitted the snug white 52-foot ketch Tira, which most of the time rode baresticked at her mooring because her owner, well-to-do Lew Foote, a busy Santa Cruz merchant, had little time for long cruises...
Last summer Robert Paine Scripps suffered a throat hemorrhage shortly after he arrived in Honolulu aboard his trim ketch Novia Del Mar. Mr. Scripps, frail in his youth but strong in later years, confided to friends that he feared he would some day bleed to death. Last week that grave fear became a fearful fact. Stricken with another hemorrhage while his yacht rolled in Magdalena Bay, Lower California, Robert Scripps died...