eight o'clock in the morning
Whether or not it would come up to my expectations was a question of conjecture , but I was not in a mood to trouble conjecturing . The swift little boat fought the tide rip in the Narrows like a lonely explorer defending his life against a horde of surging savages ; and , gradually , she nosed her way through , past Prospect Point , then , inclining to the north shore , but heading forward all the time , past the lighthouse which stands sentinel on the rock at Point Atkinson ; and away up the coast , leaving the city , with its dizzying and light-blotting sky-scrapers far and still farther behind , until nothing of that busy terminal remained to the observer but a distant haze . The _ Edgar Allan Poe _ threaded her way rapidly and confidently among the rocks and fertile little islands , up , up northward , ever northward , amid lessening signs of life and habitation ; through the beautiful Strait of Georgia . From eight o'clock in the morning till three o'clock in the afternoon we sailed on , amid a prodigality of scenic beauty , -- sea , mountains and islands ; islands , mountains and sea , -- enjoying every mile of that beautiful trip . We conversed seldom , although there was much to discuss and our time was short . At last , we sped past a great looming rock , which stood almost sheer out of the sea , then we ran into a glorious bay , where the sea danced and glanced in a fairy ecstasy . `` Golden Crescent Bay , '' broke in Mr. Horsfal .