A THICK, wet night on the southwest coast of Lake Michigan a dozen years ago; a wind that sweeps over the pitching lake and on over the dim white beach with a rush that whirls the sand up and away. Trees are bending up there on the bluff. The sand and the rain are in the air--or do we feel the spray from yonder line of breakers, a hundred yards away? And deep in a mudhole on the lonely road that skirts the bluff--the four horses, fetlock-deep in the sticky clay, straining forward like heroes, the members of the student crew in their oilskins throwing their weight on the wheels of the truck--is the Evanston surf-boat.…
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