in a few months.

Again, there are many men who learn to sail a boat; that is, become possessed of so much knowledge as will permit of their working a vessel from place to place, but yet never succeed in mastering the nicer or more difficult points of seamanship. These are the parrots of the profession—men who simply repeat what they see other men do. The skillful seaman is the man who thinks, who studies his profession, and who learns from his own experience what he cannot from the practice of others.

It is often said that experience is the great teacher. To be sure it is; but even experience cannot teach one who will not learn. The most intense and varied experience is of no use to one who casts it aside without first fitting it into place in his life's record by turning it over and over in his mind. Spasmodic storage of experience is of no use whatever; it must be sorted, checked up, ticketed and stored away in its proper place in the next bin to that which it joins in the sequence of events. Unless this is done it will not be forthcoming when needed.

Properly arranged and stored, experience is the mother of what is called "presence of mind," the most necessary mental part for a seaman to possess. Without it he will be a menace to his own safety and a threat of danger to others. Presence of mind is simply applied forethought. You do in an emergency without apparent reflection the right thing, and save your boat, your life, or somebody else's life. People who see the act, exclaim, "What wonderful presence of mind!" but would be more correct, if they exclaimed, "What perfect presence of plan!" You have simply executed at a moment's notice a plan of action that has been stored away in your mind, perhaps for years.

When a boy, I frequently amused myself when skating by thinking out what I would do if a person fell through the ice. I pictured all possible situations and methods of rescue. One day the accident happened; a boy in skating across the head of a pond broke through the thin ice formed where the river entered the lake. From the hundred skaters present a yell of terror went up, and, as was the case when the immortal Mr. Pickwick met with a similar accident at Dingley Dell, everybody called for help, and nobody offered it. Though at some distance, my attention was drawn to the mishap by these cries. Instantly I responded. There was no mental preparation, no reflection; the proper plan flashed into my acting mind. I executed it, and the boy was saved.

Now, if I had not had that plan stored in my mind, I should have been just as much at sea as the rest were. I should probably have joined them in shouting for a plank or rope, or, like Mr. Tupman, have cried fire, or performed some other senseless act, such as people do when brought suddenly face to face with a dangerous emergency.

One day when running down wind I said to the young fellow at the wheel, who was anxious to learn the seaman's trade, "What would you do if one of us fell overboard?" "I don't know," he answered. "Haven't you ever thought, planned out, what you would do in such an emergency?" No, he hadn't. "Well," I said, "you think it out; put the boat in different positions and under different sail, and plan out what you would do if such an accident happened." A day or two after, while the same lad was at the wheel, we lost the dingey. Without calling me from below or hesitating, he wore round and recovered the boat, executing the manoeuvre in so clever a manner as to call praise from all the old hands. When, shortly after, I relieved him at the wheel, he said, "I thought that out the other day after you spoke about what to do if a man falls overboard."

Again, I was on the bridge of a steamer chatting with the mate. "What do you do to pass away the long night watches?" I asked him. "Well," he answered, "I spend hours thinking and planning out what I would do if certain things happened. I put the ship into every possible danger—fire, collision, shifting cargo, broken shaft, and unexpected land. I then plan how best to meet the emergency created. I place other ships in every position—green to port, red to starboard, lights dead ahead, lights on the beam, lights everywhere—then plan to work my ship clear of them. I have some run into me, am sinking, lower boats, save my own crew and rescue others. I pick up lame ducks, pass hawsers, make fast and tow them in. Everything that could possibly happen I have happen, and plan the ways and means of meeting them over and over again. That is how I while away my eight hours in the scuppers."

There was a seaman who had prepared himself for an emergency; a commander who had ready for instant use a plan, so, let occasion demand it, he could stand forth the man of the hour.

Let me advise you who would learn the seaman's art to copy that mate. Spend your idle hours thinking and planning. Never go into a difficult channel without first picturing what dangers may confront you, and how you can overcome them. Never pass through a fleet or come to anchor among vessels without planning beforehand your mode of action. Never turn in at night without first looking about you and outlining in your mind your position in regard to shore and craft, and forming a plan for getting away if anything should happen to oblige you to make sail. After a little practice this thinking ahead will become second nature, and your brain will plan and act with the regularity and cheerfulness of a good clock.

The backbone of active seamanship is confidence—confidence in yourself, confidence in your craft, confidence in your crew. The first and most necessary of these is confidence in yourself. Without it the place for you is on shore, or in a subordinate position. No man should attempt to command who has shaken confidence in his own skill and judgment. I mean by confidence the true article, not the false, which is more commonly called conceit.

Confidence is inspired by action and confirmed by success. You attempt a feat such as you have never attempted before and are successful, therefore you are sure that the skill or knowledge you used in performing it is reliable, and that you are possessed of a mastery over it sufficient to enable you to repeat the act. In plain English, you are sure you can do it again.

Let us suppose it is a feat of navigation. By yourself you have never taken a yacht out of sight of land, but, having the opportunity, decide to attempt to run from one point to another across an open stretch of sea. You take the chart, find the magnetic course and distance, allow for leeway and current, and having thus found your compass course put the ship on it, and away you go. Land soon drops down astern, and you begin to feel a bit shaky. Suppose you have made a mistake in laying off the course; not allowed enough for leeway, too much for current. Suppose you should miss the distant cape. This and a dozen other things begin to haunt your mind. You go below, out with the chart, pass over your figures, remeasure the distance, get the same result for compass course—we will say N. E. by E.½E. You go back on deck confident that your course and distance are correct, and then begin to worry about the compass. You are sure it was correct yesterday, because you took several bearings and found it so, and it was also correct two weeks before, on your last cruise. Then you reason that it is very unlikely that it would go waltzing off into an excessive error just because it happened to have been taken out of sight of land for the first time, and so give it back your confidence and steer away N. E. by E.½E.

Your crew now begin to worry, never having been out of sight of land before. They look at you as though they suspected you of