When in 1871, Mr. Kimball was made Chief of the Revenue Marine9 Bureau of the Treasury10 Department, the life-saving service had slender existence, save on paper. He found the station-houses sadly neglected and dilapidated, the apparatus11 rusty12 or broken, and many of the salaried keepers disabled by age or incompetent13 and neglectful of their duties. The outlook would have discouraged a man less resolute14 and determined15 than the new chief, but he had conceived the splendid idea of guarding the entire coast of the nation with a chain of fortresses16 garrisoned17 by disciplined conquerors18 of the sea, and he set about the accomplishment19 of his self-imposed task with patience, sagacity and skill.
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He reorganized the service and prepared a code of regulations for its control, in which the duties of every member were carefully defined. Politics, the bane of the service in former years, was rigidly20 eliminated. Lazy, careless and incompetent employees were promptly21 dismissed, and their places filled with capable and faithful surfmen. The station-houses were repaired and increased, and equipped with the best life-saving devices human skill and ingenuity22 had thus far brought forth23. Last and most important of all, a thorough and effective system of inspection24 and patrol was inaugurated, and so successful did it prove that during the first year's operation of the new system every person imperilled by shipwreck25 was saved. The service has been wisely extended from year to year, until now it has 270 stations, three-fourths of which are along the Atlantic coast, while others are on the lakes; a board of life-saving appliances; telephone lines for prompt operations and a splendid corps27 of assistant superintendents28, experts, inspectors29, [Pg 234]station-keepers and mariners30. The yearly cost of the service at the present time is slightly less than $1,800,000, a sum ridiculously small when the saving of life and property is taken into consideration.
Life at a life-saving station is never an idle one. The routine followed at the Avalon, New Jersey31 station, as I have observed it, in essential details, is the same as that practiced at all of the stations of the service. Four days of every week are devoted to drill. On Tuesdays the keeper orders out the surfboat and drills the crew in riding breakers and landing through heavy surf. On Wednesday he gives the men practical instruction in the working of the international signal code. On Thursday the Lyle gun is ordered out, and one of the crew, taking up a position some distance down the shore near a post stuck in the sand, personates a seaman32 on a stranded33 vessel34. The other members of the crew plant the gun and fire a line which the watcher pulls in and rigs to the post. Then the men at the other end of the line dispatch the [Pg 235]breeches-buoy35 and gallantly36 effect the rescue of their comrade. On Friday the recovery drill is carefully gone through. One of the crew assumes the role of a half-drowned sailor, and his comrades resuscitate38 him by rolling him on the sand and producing artificial breathing, according to the rules laid down for the purpose. Saturday is general cleaning day. The discipline of the crew is never relaxed and none of its members can go out of sight of the station save by special permission or when off duty.
The night hours at a life-saving station afford a much more thrilling story than the one I have just been relating. Each crew is divided into three night watches. The first watch goes on duty at sundown and patrols the beach until eight o'clock, at which hour the second watch relieves it and patrols until midnight, when the third watch sallies out and does duty until four o'clock in the morning. Then the first watch again goes on patrol and keeps watch until sunrise. During the day a surfman is constantly on the lookout39 in the[Pg 236] watch-tower of the station. If the weather be clear, this precaution suffices, but if it is cloudy and storms threaten, the beach patrols are continued through the day. Each watch consists of two men, who, upon leaving the station, separate and follow their beats to the right and left until they meet the patrolmen from the neighboring stations on either side, with whom they exchange checks—this to show the keeper they have covered their respective beats. On the Atlantic seaboard, stations are now within an average distance of five miles of each other, but often the beats of the surfmen are six and seven miles long. It is a part of the surfman's duties to keep a constant watch of the sea and to note the vessels40 by the lights displayed, and, if they approach too close to the shore or outlying sandbars, give them timely warning. For this purpose he always carries a Coston signal, which, when exploded by percussion41, emits a red flame that flashes far out over the water and warns the unwary ship of its peril. Last year more than two hundred vessels, warned[Pg 237] in this way, at once changed course and ran out of danger. If the surfman observes a vessel that is stationary42, he must determine whether she is at anchor or in distress43, and if the latter proves to be the case, he displays his Coston signal, to assure the shipwrecked that aid is close at hand, and then hastens to the station to give the alarm to the keeper.
The work of the patrolmen involves frequent danger and almost constant hardship. Imagine, if you can, and that is impossible, the lot of a surfman on the Jersey coast during one of the great storms sure to occur once or twice in every winter. A fearful night has followed a stormy and lowering day. Inky darkness shrouds45 sea and land, and the wind, blowing at the rate of fifty miles an hour, pipes and roars defiance47 to the patrolmen as they struggle along their lonely beats. The driving snow freezes on their cheeks and chins; wet sand is flung into their faces and cuts with the keenness of a razor, while great masses of icy foam48 beat fiercely on the head and face and body at every dozen[Pg 238] steps. Huge waves break at the foot of the sand dunes49 along which they painfully labor5, and drench50 them again and again, often felling them to the ground. Every twenty or thirty yards they pause, and, baring their faces to the pelting51 snow and foam, search the ocean for lights. In this way hours pass before the prescribed beat is traversed, and the surfmen, wet, half-frozen, bruised52 and exhausted53, seek for a brief season the warmth and shelter of the station-house. Sometimes weakness overcomes them and they are unable to reach this refuge.
When the patrolman descries54 a vessel among the breakers, he displays his Coston signal, to give assurance that aid is at hand, and then hurries to the station and arouses his comrades. From the report of the patrolman the keeper makes quick decision as to the best methods to be employed in effecting a rescue. If the surfboat is to be used, the doors of the boat-room are instantly thrown open and the boat-carriage drawn55 out and hauled by the crew to a point opposite the[Pg 239] wreck. Then the boat is launched and the surfmen depart upon their errand of mercy. The surfboat is usually of cedar56, with white oak frame, without keel, and provided with air cases, which render it insubmergible. Comparatively light, it can be hauled long distances, and is the only boat that has been found suitable for launching from flat beaches through the shoaling waters of the Atlantic and Gulf57 coasts. Handled by expert oarsmen, its action is often marvelous, and, although easily capsized, there are few recorded instances of its having been upset with fatal results while passing through the surf. Often repeated attempts have to be made before a wreck can be reached, and even then the greatest care must be exercised to avoid collision with the plunging58 hull59 or injury from floating wreckage60 and falling spars. When the benumbed and exhausted crew and passengers, who have usually sought refuge in the rigging from the overwhelming seas, have been taken off, the difficult return to shore yet remains61. Sometimes the boat is run in behind a roller,[Pg 240] and by quick and clever work kept out of the way of the following one, and the shore is gained in safety. At other times the boat is backed in, the oars46 being used now and then to keep it upon its course, and again, when the sea is unusually high, a drag is employed to check the force of the incoming breakers and prevent the boat from being capsized. In the manner described, boat and crew make repeated trips through the breakers until all have been taken off the stranded vessel, and the work of rescue is at last completed.
When the condition of the sea prevents the use of the surfboat the mortar62 cart, equipped with a small bronze, smooth-bore gun, named for the inventor, Captain Lyle, of the army, is ordered out. Its destination reached, the gun is placed in position and loaded by members of the crew trained to the work, while others adjust the shot-line box, arrange the hauling lines and hawser63, connect the breeches-buoy, prepare the tackles for hauling, and with pick and spade dig a trench64 for[Pg 241] the sand-anchor. With these preparations completed, comes the firing of the gun. The shot speeds over the wreck and into the sea beyond, while the crew of the imperilled vessel seize and make fast the line attached. The surfmen next attach to the short-line the whip (an endless line), the tail-block and tallyboard, and these are in turn hauled in by the sailors. And then by means of the whip, the surfmen dispatch the hawser and a second tallyboard, which directs how and where the end of the hawser shall be fastened to the wreck. When the tackle connecting the sand anchor and the shore end of the hawser is straight and taut65, it is lifted several feet in the air and further tightened66 by the erection of a wooden crotch, which does duty as a temporary pier67, while the wreck answers for another. Finally the breeches-buoy is drawn back and forth on the hawser, and the shipwrecked brought safely to shore. On this occasion there have been no delays, but at other times there are numerous obstacles to be overcome. The ropes may snarl68 or tangle[Pg 242] or be snapped asunder69 by the rolling of the vessel, and again, the imperilled crew may perform their share of the work in a bungling70 manner, or unexpected accidents befall, which tax to the utmost the patience, resources and courage of the surfmen. In many cases people held suspended in the breakers or ensnarled in the floating cordage and debris71 of the vessel, have only been rescued by the most daring exploits of the surfmen, who, at the greatest risk of life and limb, have worked their way through the surf, released the helpless victims of the wreck, and brought them to shore.
The breeches-buoy, to which reference has been made, is a circular life-preserver of cork72, to which short canvas breeches are attached, and will hold two persons. But when a large number of people are to be rescued, the life-car, invented by Joseph Francis and connected with the hawser by a simple device to prevent it from drifting, is used. This is a water-tight, covered boat of galvanized sheet iron and will carry five or six adults at a[Pg 243] time. At its first trial more than two hundred persons were rescued from the wreck of the Ayrshire on the New Jersey coast, when no other means could have availed. Silks, jewels and other valuables have often been saved by its use and from one vessel the car took ashore73 a large sum of gold bullion74 belonging to the United States, together with the mails. On the lake and Pacific coasts, where the shores are steep and the water deep, the self-righting and self-bailing lifeboat is in general use. This, the best lifeboat yet devised, is the result of more than a century of study and experiment, following the first model designed in 1780 by an English coachman, Lionel Lukin. It possesses great stability, is rarely upset, and when this happens instantly rights itself, while when full of water it empties itself in from fifteen to twenty seconds.
The work of the life-savers seldom ends with the rescue. After all have been brought ashore from a wreck, the benumbed and helpless sufferers are quickly conveyed to the [Pg 244]station-house, transferred for the moment into a hospital, where an abundance of dry clothing is instantly applied75; the prostrated76 ones put to bed; lint77, plasters and bandages supplied to the bruised and wounded, and stimulants78 from the medicine chest, never absent from any station, given to those who need them. At the same time the mess-cook prepares and serves out hot coffee alike to rescued and rescuers. When this has been partaken of, the keeper assigns a portion of the crew to look after the needs of the strangers and the others retire to rest until called to relieve the patrol.
After what has been written one would expect to find rich material for true stories of peril, adventure and heroism79; and for romances in real life among the records of the life-saving service—stories that never fail to stir the blood and quicken the pulse of those to whom they are told. And such is the case. The annals of the service are replete80 with splendid deeds of daring, and each month's record adds to the roll of honor. Often the[Pg 245] surfmen know they are going forth to almost certain death,' and yet never a moment do they falter81. A year or so ago a crew that rescued four sailors from a stranded vessel under the most trying conditions, before launching their boat, left their slender effects in the charge of a comrade for the benefit of their families—not one of them believing that they would return alive! And when the life-savers went off through the violent sea to rescue those on board the German ship Elizabeth, stranded on the Virginia coast, in January, 1887, all but two of the crew perished, together with the entire ship's company. The brave fellows' doom82 was sealed from the first, but this did not swerve83 them from their duty.
One of the saddest chapters in the annals of the service deals with the death of the keeper and two of the surfmen of the Peaked Hill Bar Station, on the Massachusetts coast. In the waning84 hours of a stormy November night, fifteen years ago, the sloop85 Trumbull was descried86 by the patrol on the inner bar, and a few moments later the lifeboat,[Pg 246] manned by Keeper Atkins and Surfmen Mayo, Taylor, Kelly, Young and Fisher, was on the way to the rescue. The crew, save two who, refusing assistance, remained on board the vessel, were speedily brought to land. The gale87 was now increasing and the sea running mountain high, but Keeper Atkins and his crew again essayed the rescue of the two men, who still remained on the Trumbull. It was very dark, and the lifeboat in approaching the ship was struck by a swinging boom and capsized. After clinging for a time to the upturned boat, the surfmen released their hold and attempted to swim to shore. Surfmen Kelly, Young and Fisher reached the beach barely alive, and were picked up and tenderly cared for by a comrade, but Keeper Atkins and Surfmen Mayo and Taylor, although strong swimmers, were finally overcome and vanished in the storm and darkness. The sea gave up their bodies many hours later, and there were few dry eyes among the hundreds who followed to[Pg 247] their graves three heroes as dauntless as ever were sung in song or story.
One of the most gallant37 rescues performed within the scope of the service stands to the credit of the Dam Neck Mills crew, on the coast of Virginia. The schooner88 Jennie Hall, bound from Trinidad to Baltimore, sailing in a dense89 fog, struck bottom a few miles south of Cape90 Henry. A tempest was blowing, and a deluge91 of sleet92 blinded and benumbed the crew as they clung to the mizzenmast, on which they had taken refuge. The captain had been swept away while attempting to cross the deck, and it seemed certain that the almost helpless sailors must soon follow him. Blind desperation alone gave them strength to endure until the morning. Then, in the dawning of the day, through the lifting curtain of mist, they saw the life-savers preparing to attempt their rescue. The sea was still too high to warrant the launching of the lifeboat. What must be done was to get a hawser to the schooner, and then, by means[Pg 248] of the breeches-buoy, haul off the wrecked44 men.
The gun was, therefore, placed in position, and the shot-line coiled properly, so as to follow without fouling93. The ship was about three hundred yards off shore. The shot was fired, and the line carried just over the rigging at the necessary spot. All would have gone well had not the block of the whip-line become fouled94. The men on the mast were too exhausted to extricate95 it, so the whip-line was hauled to shore, and the shot-line cut away. Another shot was fired. This time it landed out of the reach of the wrecked men, now almost insensible from cold and exhaustion96. Still another shot was fired, this time fairly in the hands of the unfortunates. The whip-line was painfully drawn to the mast and properly made fast. Then the hawser was drawn slowly from shore, and also properly fixed97 around the mast. Just as the breeches-buoy was being sent out to make the rescue at last, just as safety and warmth and life were within their grasp, two of the six[Pg 249] fell to the deck, struck like lead, and were washed overboard, never more to be seen. The breeches-buoy had now reached the mast. Two of the men managed to get in, and were hauled ashore, unconscious, very nearly dead. Again the buoy went on its errand of mercy, and the mate was brought to safety. There was still one man left on the mast. The buoy was sent back for him. But he made no sign of life.
Somebody must go out for him. A surfman by the name of O'Neal put himself in the buoy and was hauled to the wreck. He found that the man, now unconscious, had so firmly lashed98 himself to the crosstrees that it was not in his power to extricate him without help. So he returned to the shore for an assistant. An ex-surfman, Drinkwater by name, volunteered to go back with him. The sea having gone down a trifle, the keeper decided99 to place them on board the wreck by the lifeboat. A crew was called, and the rescuers rowed out through a still tremendous sea to the Jennie Hall. The two men [Pg 250]skilfully got aboard, and climbed the mast, the lifeboat in the meanwhile, after nearly a fatal accident, returning to the beach. Even with help, O'Neal had great difficulty in getting the remaining sailor out of the rigging. But it was finally done, and the well-nigh frozen man sent ashore. Then the two life-savers returned in the buoy.
The records of the live-saving crews of the Great Lakes also abound101 with thrilling and heroic incidents. These vast inland seas, with 2,500 miles of American coast-line, are subject to sudden and violent gales102, in which anchored vessels are swept fore7 and aft, often causing their total destruction, while others seeking shelter in harbors are driven helplessly upon jutting103 piers104 or the still more dangerous beach; and frequently just before winter suspends navigation on the lakes, a single life-saving crew is employed upon several wrecks105 at a time. Again, the lifeboats often go under sail and oar26 many miles from their station to aid vessels in distress. When the steamer Bestchey was wrecked near [Pg 251]Grindstone City, seven miles from the Point aux Barques station, on Lake Huron, a few years ago, the crew hurried to the rescue, and found several hundred people watching the breaking up of the wreck, but powerless to aid the passengers and crew, who, for ten hours, had been face to face with suffering and death. When the lifeboat had been launched and the ship's side gained, two of the surfmen leaped into the water, and by the aid of ropes, after a desperate struggle gained the steamer's deck and directed the difficult and dangerous task of transferring those on board to the boat. Eleven women and a small boy were lowered over the bulwarks106, and the boat, shoving off, gained the pier in safety. Four trips were made within an hour, and all on board, more than forty persons, brought ashore. A few months later the Point aux Barques crew responded to signals of distress displayed by a vessel three miles away, and in the fearful storm that was raging, their boat was capsized. The men tried to cling to it, but the cold overcame them, and one after another[Pg 252] perished until six were gone. Only the keeper, bruised and insensible, was washed ashore, and he was so badly injured that he was forced to resign his position. Thus in one day, the service lost all the members of one of its most skilful100 and gallant crews. During the same year the men at the Point aux Barques Station had been the means of saving more than a hundred lives.
Still the life of the surfmen has its merry, as well as its serious moods. Each station is provided with a small but well selected library, and the men find it a constant source of instruction and delight. Then there is always in every crew one or two who can play a violin, flute107 or accordion108, and often when the weather is fine and the wind off shore, the surfmen gather in the messroom and listen to the music of their companions or sing songs and spin yarns109, the latter couched in a quaint110 and awkward vernacular111, yet full of life and spirit, and redolent of the sea and the waves. Often on clear, moonlit nights there are "surprise parties" at the station, made up of the[Pg 253] wives, sisters' and sweethearts of the crew, who always bring with them a generous store of household dainties for those they love, sure to prove a welcome addition to the surfmen's plain, but substantial fare. On such occasions the boat-room is quickly cleared for the dance, and joy and merriment hold unfettered sway. And, yet, never is the patrol relaxed, nor do the surfmen forget the stern call to duty that may come to them at any moment. "When I see a man clinging to a wreck," said a sturdy surf man, not long ago, "I see nothing else in the world, nor think of family and friends until I have saved him." And it is but simple truth to say that this heroic spirit animates112 every member of the life-saving service.
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1
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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garrisoned
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| 卫戍部队守备( garrison的过去式和过去分词 )； 派部队驻防 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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superintendents
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| 警长( superintendent的名词复数 )； （大楼的）管理人； 监管人； （美国）警察局长 | |
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inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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resuscitate
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| v.使复活，使苏醒 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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percussion
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| n.打击乐器；冲突，撞击；震动，音响 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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48
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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49
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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50
drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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51
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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52
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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53
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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descries
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| v.被看到的，被发现的，被注意到的( descried的现在分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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57
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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58
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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59
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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60
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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62
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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hawser
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| n.大缆；大索 | |
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64
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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67
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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68
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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71
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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72
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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bullion
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| n.金条，银条 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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77
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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78
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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85
sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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86
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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87
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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90
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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fouling
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| n.（水管、枪筒等中的）污垢v.使污秽( foul的现在分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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fouled
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| v.使污秽( foul的过去式和过去分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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95
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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96
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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100
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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101
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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102
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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103
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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104
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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105
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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106
bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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107
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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108
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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109
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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110
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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111
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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112
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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