When the time comes for hurry, out is drawn from under the deck the double-bladed paddle, such as we are all familiar with from the writings of Captain Ross and Captain Parry, Dr. Kane, and all the explorers who have visited the Eskimos of the eastern regions. This is about six feet long and has at each end a broad, oval blade, far more serviceable than the narrow oar-blades of the eastern kayak paddles. The man grasps this by the middle and dips each blade alternately, regulating the force of his strokes so that the canoe goes straight through the water without veering to right or left. With the double paddle the kayak can be made to fairly fly through the water.
A reindeer caught swimming in a lake (the deer often take to the water in summer to escape the plague of gnats and gadflies) has little chance of escaping. The swift kayak soon overtakes him. The hunter has already pulled from its loop on the forward deck one of his pair of light lances and has it lying loose on deck, the butt resting on the loop in easy reach. As he ranges alongside his victim he catches it up—a quick downward thrust, and the deer floats a lifeless carcass.
It requires no small skill to manage one of these little craft without upsetting, but the boys begin to learn at an early age, so that balancing grows to be a second nature, and the kayak man is as much a part of his boat as a good rider is of his horse. Getting into a kayak, even, is an art in itself. I once watched a couple of young fellows launching their boats in the lagoon close to our station. A place was selected where the bank was steep, but not high, say about a foot above the water, while the water was just about deep enough to float the kayaks. Then the boats were carefully laid in the water alongside of the bank—it would not do to shove them in over the gravel or allow them to scrape on the bottom, they are so delicate—and held in place by sticking down the blade of the paddle into the gravelly bottom on the outer side of the canoe. Balancing himself by holding on to the handle of the paddle with his left hand, each man cautiously lifted his left foot, and wiping it perfectly clean of sand and gravel with his disengaged right hand, carefully stepped into the canoe. The right foot was then raised with equal care, wiped, and inserted into the hole.
Still balancing himself with the paddle, each man adjusted his clothing, carefully sat down, thrusting his legs under the forward deck, and settled himself in position. A gentle shove-off from the shore, a stroke or two of the paddles, and they were off.
The Eskimos are always very careful to avoid getting any sand into either kind of boat, for it works down among the timbers where it can not be cleaned out, and, gradually getting between the skin and the framework, soon cuts through the former.
