  “What can we do now?” Sandy asked. “Just what we’re doing,” Jerry answered mournfully. “Just sail the best we can and hope that he won’t close in on us before we come across some other boat.” “Maybe Jones won’t find our spinnaker,” Sandy suggested. “If he thinks he’s on his own boat, he knows he hasn’t got a spinnaker below, and maybe he won’t see any reason to go poking around in our sail locker.” “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Jerry said. “We can make a mistake like this—and make it twice—because neither of us is really familiar with your boat. But a good sailor like Jones knows his own boat the way he knows his own living room. He isn’t going to be fooled the same way we were!” “Still,” Sandy reasoned, “that’s no guarantee he’s going to go to our sail locker, is it?” “It’s almost a sure bet,” Jerry replied. “He’s probably got Turk looking around now to see what kind of extra canvas we might have on board, and when he finds that spinnaker, we can kiss our chances goodbye!” “Well, he hasn’t found it yet,” Sandy said stubbornly. “And until he does, there must be something we can do to get more speed out of this boat!” Stirring out of his gloom, Jerry trimmed the mainsheet and then the jib. Then suddenly he brightened. “Say! I remember reading about one trick that might help us. It’s called wing-and-winging. What you do is rig the jib on the opposite side from the mainsail when you’ve got the wind at your back. It’s supposed to act almost like a spinnaker.” “Well, let’s do it!” Sandy said. “What do you want me to do?” “You just hold the course, like before,” Jerry explained. “I’ll go forward and re-rig. When I tell you to, you uncleat the jenny sheet, and I’ll swing the sail around on the other side and brace it out. I’ll use the boat hook for a whisker pole to hold it in place. Maybe this’ll turn the trick!” He clambered forward, and once more Sandy was left alone with the tiller, the star and the masthead. For a few minutes he thought only of holding the course, until he heard Jerry’s voice, “Now!” Leaning forward, Sandy uncleated the sheet which held the genoa jib in trim, where it had flown almost useless before the mainsail. He watched eagerly as Jerry hauled the sail around to the windward side, lashed the boat hook to the clew and swung the big triangle outboard. Almost instantly, the jenny started to fill, and Sandy felt the little sloop start forward. Jerry quickly leaped into the cockpit and secured the sheet, trimming the billowing sail. “It’s working!” he panted. “This may just turn the trick!” They listened in satisfaction to the increased sound of the waves slipping past the sloop’s sides and muttering in the wake. They could actually feel the difference in the motion of the boat. “Jones has probably had his jib winged out all this time,” Jerry said. “That’s why he’s been closing in on us so fast. Maybe this will keep the distance the way it is until we can get ashore or get help!” “I sure hope so!” Sandy agreed. “Just hope he doesn’t find that spinnaker! As long as we’re both flying the same sail area, and as long as we’re both heading downwind, there’s not much he can do to catch us. Running before the wind this way, equal boats with equal canvas flown in the same way will come out just about the same. It’s on a reach, or beating against the wind that expert sail handling really makes the difference. And I’m sure glad we’re not on some other point of sail, because Jones would outsail us every time!” With that thought to cheer them, the boys sailed in silence. Above them, clouds occasionally blotted out the stars of the dark moonless night, and it was hard to set a course by any one of them. At the helm, Jerry steered as much by the feel of the wind on his back as by the stars he could see. Behind them always, never drawing any nearer, but never falling astern, was the white blur of Jones’s canvas. It was as if the two boats were tied together with a fixed length of cable or a rigid bar that would not allow the gap between them to change. The race went slowly. It was like a chase in some fantastic dream, Sandy thought, a dream where he was running in slow motion, trying with every ounce of strength to make his legs go faster. But there was a difference, for here there was no exertion, no strain, except on the nerves. Here all was, to a casual glance, peaceful and pleasant. If any boat were to pass, all its passengers would see would be two pretty sloops, out for a night-time sail. Suppose another boat did come? How would they know? Then Sandy remembered the flare pistol. He had put it on the seat when they had come aboard! Maybe the bulky brass gun would come in handy again! He searched the night for some sign of a boat’s running lights, but saw only the same black sea and sky on all sides. Still, perhaps nearer shore.... The nightmarish quality of the race increased as each moment wore on. It seemed to Sandy that he was doomed to sail on forever, like the legendary Flying Dutchman, never getting to shore, never getting within hailing distance of another boat. He strained his eyes against the darkness ahead, and then turned to look astern at the following shape of Jones’s boat, stubbornly staying with them at the same fixed distance. He almost wished that Jones would in some way catch up, just to break the tension. Maybe in a fight, there would be a chance! At least, they wouldn’t just be sitting and waiting. As he watched, something on the pursuing sloop seemed to change. A shimmer of white sails, then nothing. “Jerry!” Sandy whispered, gripping his friend’s arm. “Look back there! I thought I saw something change in his sails. I couldn’t tell for sure, but doesn’t it seem to you that the shape is different now?” Jerry squinted back at Jones’s boat. “I think you’re right,” he said. “It looks as if he’s changed his sail trim some way. I wonder what he’s got up his sleeve this time?” “Do you think he’s found our spinnaker?” Sandy asked. As if in answer, the white shape behind them altered once more. A new piece was added to it—a long, flapping shape. As they watched, fascinated and fearful, but unable to do a thing, the long white triangle billowed out, changed into a full, taut shape and lifted high above the deck of Jones’s boat. “So that’s a spinnaker,” Sandy said. “It sure is,” Jerry answered grimly. “Take a good look at it, because it may turn out to be the last one we’ll ever see!” |
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