VI.

A DOWN-TO-DATE YACHT RACE, IN WHICH MAY BE FOUND SOME NOTEWORTHY EXAMPLES OF THE SEA-JOCKEY’S ART.

Sailing as a visitor on a racing yacht is delightfully exciting. Let me transcribe from my log-book the yarn of the contest between the _Ghost_ and the _Phantom_, two modern 51-footers. Stowed away between the lines may be found a wrinkle or two of value to the novice. So here goes:

The bell on the _Phantom_ was striking eight as the gig rounded her graceful stern and brought up at the starboard gangway. The cutter had been completely “skinned” for the fray, as she was to compete for a valuable prize offered by the club. Everything had been taken ashore that the racing rules permitted, including books, cabin fittings, the cooking stove, deck scrubbers, buckets and brooms, mops, and other impedimenta comprised in the equipment of a properly fitted yacht. The cabin was bare—“cleared for action,” as the owner observed.

[Illustration:

“Phantom.” ]

“All you will get to eat to-day won’t trouble your digestive organs,” he continued. “The steward has made a box of corned beef sandwiches, and that will be our plain and simple fare, with a toothful of grog to wash the grub down, and a pipe to settle everything. Today all hands fare alike, forward and aft, for we shall have no time to waste in devouring luxurious kickshaws. We must win that cup.”

From the critical view of an expert yachtsman, everything was in ship-shape fashion for the race. There wasn’t an ounce of superfluous weight aboard. The very crew seemed to be characteristic of the vital elements of the vessel, namely, strength and lightness. Their muscular agility was displayed to advantage a few moments later, when, manning the throat and peak halyards, they spread the superb mainsail to woo the wind, which, at this time, wasn’t particularly strong. I noticed that the skipper did not “sweat up” the halyards too taut, but prudently reserved that process for a few minutes before weighing anchor, allowing the soft, warm breeze to expend its influence on the sail and stretch it evenly and gently before the final pull was given.

The skipper sent the mate aloft to pass a preventer lashing round the gaff and masthead, so as to be prepared for the unfortunate contingency of the parting of the throat halyards. This is a precaution seldom taken, but Captain Marlin’s custom is to take no risks, and to be ready for every possible mishap. Judging from the appearance of the sky at that time, it did not seem probable that the halyards were to be subjected to any heavy strain; but the weather cannot be relied upon, and the carrying away of the throat halyards has lost many a race which a preventer might have saved.

The club-topsail was handled next, in seamanlike style. It is a difficult sail to set properly at any time, and, when spread or dowsed in a fine sailing breeze, has made many a lubber use strong language. This particular piece of duck was mast-headed cleverly and silently, as is always the case in a yacht commanded by an able skipper and manned by a competent crew.

Speculations are indulged in as to the outlook. Yachts about to compete in other classes are criticised, and many sage observations, made by the sailors concerning wind and weather, find their way aft to the quarter-deck, where the owner and his amateur tars are smoking their pipes and discussing and prognosticating the coming events of the day. The parting drag is given to the halyards, the head-sails are made ready, and the anchor is hove short.

It is half an hour before the time announced for the start, and we know that the Chairman of the Race Committee is no trifler and that the preparatory gun will be fired sharp at the hour appointed. The outlook is promising. A fine sou’wester blows, ruffling the blue waters of the bay and making the small craft dance to the merry music of wind and wave. There is a goodly fleet at anchor and a large throng of visitors is seen on the veranda of the club-house, on the green lawn that almost kisses the water’s edge, and on the float, which is nearly surrounded by steam and naphtha launches, gigs, dinghies and other tenders. From a look aloft at the fleecy clouds and straggling mares’ tails that sail along in the cerulean sky, the breeze shows every sign of freshening as the day grows older; and the inevitable weather prophets, one or two of whom can be found in every yacht’s crew, talk sagely of single reefs and coming squalls.

Our yacht is a down-to-date 51-footer, fitted with all modern appliances for the winning of cups, including a fin-keel that would scrape the bottom at a depth of more than ten feet, and frightens many a flounder from his feeding grounds. Witch-like she looks, as she tugs at her anchor eager to be off. Everything alow and aloft is taut and trim. Her standing rigging is set up as tight as bars of steel. Not a wrinkle shows in her well-cut mainsail, set just as it ought to be, with no abnormal strains visible in throat, peak or after leech, and not a symptom of bagginess in the whole symmetry of the sail. Above this the huge club-topsail is spread, stretching ambitiously skyward, and this, too, is a choice example of the sailmaker’s skill. The head-sails are ready for hoisting. The big jibtopsail is set in stops ready for breaking out as we cross the line, for the first leg of the triangular course is a reach with the wind abeam, and we shall have to carry on sail like a China clipper to get to the first mark before our antagonist, the _Ghost_, whose best sailing point is reaching or running.

Our boat, the _Phantom_, though built from the same design as the _Ghost_ and carrying the same amount of sail, is the better at beating to windward. Once get her sheets trimmed in close-hauled to a breeze, and she will look up as high as any yacht afloat, and, what is more, you can rely on the saucy jade to fetch and weather any mark she points for.

The _Ghost_, though phenomenally fast with the wind free, is not quite so good at windward work as we are, judging from her behavior in four former races, when we have given her a good dusting with the breeze dead in her teeth. But once get the _Ghost_ a-going with the wind anywhere from abeam to right aft, and the way she slides through the sea is exasperating to her opponents on the _Phantom_, who have often had to contemplate with annoyed admiration the shapely contour of the beauty’s counter.

Who can satisfactorily account for the difference in the speed of the two boats? They are like shoes made from the same last, of the same material and finish. Why is it that one boat beats to windward better than the other, and that the other reaches and runs faster than her rival? Nobody has yet offered a satisfactory explanation of this peculiar state of affairs, which yachtsmen know to exist in all classes of one design.

But here we are, aboard the _Phantom_ thirty minutes before gunfire. Our sportsmanlike owner and our seamanlike skipper are well qualified for the coming strife. They know the course like their A, B, C. They are acquainted with every tide-rip and current likely to be encountered. The sailing directions are explicit. The crew, amateur and professional, are old hands at the business, and if the _Phantom_ doesn’t win the cup and the side bet from the _Ghost_, why, all hands will be down in the dumps at the end of the race.

But there is no mention of that dastard word, defeat. Owner and captain and crew have an abiding confidence in the yacht and in each other, and all hands are imbued with enthusiasm and zeal. This is apparent in every animated glance, in each cheery “Aye, aye, sir,” in response to orders, and in every active movement of body and limb.

All hands have been through the mill before and are accustomed to pull together. The skipper knows the “hang” of the boat; he fully understands how to trim sail to the best advantage—just how much sheet to give to induce the highest rate of speed. The boat herself is balanced like a druggist’s scales, and is responsive as a sentient being to the slightest touch of the helm. The gear is of the best.

[Illustration:

“GHOST.” ]

“Now, Captain Marlin,” says the owner, “we’ll get up the anchor and take a short trial spin across the bay, just to limber things before starting.”

“Break the anchor out, boys,” says the skipper, “and stand by to hoist the head-sails.”

In a few minutes the anchor is on deck and the foresail and jib are hoisted to the fast-increasing breeze. Away we go on the starboard tack, heeling over till the water boils up in the lee scuppers and an occasional spray comes inboard on the weather bow.

As we pass through the fleet at anchor many admiring eyes examine us critically from quarter-deck and bridge; and many binoculars are leveled in our direction as we swiftly glide toward the open bay, where we shall feel the true force of the breeze and see whether the club-topsail will be too much for her with sheets flattened in.

Captain Marlin is at the helm, with the owner beside him. Both view the sails with expert glances, quick to discover imperfections in fit or trim. The mainsail retains its shape admirably, because it has been beautifully stretched by a sailor and not “monkeyed with” by a countryman from an inland village. The jib is pulling magnificently, and the foresail is attending strictly to business.

As soon as we reach the bay, away from the shelter of the protecting headland, we get the full strength of the wind, which, indeed, pipes high. A squall strikes us, and we careen under its influence till the lee rail—a mere batten—is almost awash. The skipper luffs a little until the fore leech of the mainsail quivers, but this seems to deaden the _Phantom’s_ way very little. She is off, with a gleaming white bone in her teeth and showing a great burst of speed.

[Illustration:

A STERN CHASE. ]

“Ready about!”

“Helm’s a-lee.”

The boat swings into the wind like a top, and before you can say Jack Robinson she is filled and away on the other tack. But only a yachtsman can appreciate the smart handling of the craft. The setting up of the topmast-backstay while the vessel is in stays is work for men who are actually alive and haven’t a lazy bone in their bodies. The same remark applies to trimming the head-sheets. Of course there are “belaying marks” showing where they are to be made fast, but smartness must prevail first, last, and all the time in these days of rapid-spinning boats.

And so back we fly through the squadron, most of them now under way. We luff up in the wind’s eye for a minute or so and get another pull on the jib halyards, sweating them up quite hard. We see the jibtopsail clear for breaking out from the stops; and while we dodge about with head-sheets hauled to windward, waiting for the preparatory gun, we see the _Ghost_ making for us and realize that if we are to secure the advantage of the windward berth and first away we must keep our weather eyes skinned.

And mighty pretty our sleek-looking rival appears, with the sun shining on her creamy sails just new from the loft, but bearing the impress of artistic design and splendid fit. The only difference between _Ghost_ and _Phantom_ is that the first-named is painted black, while _Phantom_ is resplendent in a snow-white garb. Captain Spike, the _Ghost’s_ skipper, a bronzed, bearded man of massive build, is steering, and as he passes under our stern we wave our hands or doff our caps in courteous salute. For although both ships are manned by sturdy fighters, yet we heartily respect each other, as gallant and honorable foes are wont to do in the domain of yachtdom.

“Bang!” goes the preparatory gun, which conveys the information that our class will start in five minutes. Our owner had timed his watch by the chronometer on the club boat early that morning, and both timepieces agree to a fraction of a second. It is to be a flying start, and the two rival skippers, Spike and Marlin, are equally famous for getting away with the gun, and both are past masters in the art of sea-jockeying for a commanding position on the line. It is most interesting to watch the manœuvres of the two captains. The yachts circle round and round each other like two kittens at play, while the owners, with watches in hand, call out the time.

“One minute gone” says our owner. “One minute gone,” repeats the alert skipper; “hard-a-lee!” About she goes once more. “Two minutes gone,” is soon heard, followed by another tack. “Three gone!” Then an anxious pause. “Four gone!” says our owner. We are at this time some considerable distance from the line, but fast approaching it, although our foresail-sheet is hauled to windward. To leeward, and a dozen lengths astern, is the _Ghost_.

“Four minutes fifty seconds,” says our owner.

“Let draw the foresail; break out the jibtopsail,” are the skipper’s next commands, and for the ten seconds that follow we are all on tenterhooks. If we cross the imaginary line between the committee’s steamer and the mark-boat before the signal is given we shall have to go back and cross the line again. It is indeed an anxious moment.

“Fifty-five seconds, fifty-six, fifty-seven——”

“Will they never fire?” think I.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine——”

“The gun!”

“Hurrah, hurrah! you gauged her beautifully,” says the owner to the skipper, on whose mahoganized mug there grows a gratified grin.

“_Ghost_ is ten seconds after the gun,” observed the owner, “but I guess she’ll pick that up and more too, on this leg, alone.”

The _Phantom_ is now hissing along with the wind on the port beam, the main boom well eased off, the jibtopsail doing gigantic work, and the other sails contributing their share toward impelling the fairy-like fabric onward to the next goal, six nautical miles away. Not a quiver or a wrinkle in all the vast expanse of muslin extended to the breeze. The yacht’s sharp cutwater cleaves the blue sea, making little or no disturbance, but the fleecy foam travels aft with the speed of a mill-race and leaves a glittering wake astern. All the crew have come abaft the mast, and are up to windward as far as they can get. The yacht heels over in the puffs at times until the lee rail is under, and the water occasionally threatens to bubble up to the skylights, but never gets there. It is indeed glorious racing. Nobody has the slightest idea of shortening canvas. What she can’t carry she must drag.

The skipper keeps his eyes on the sails and on the compass. He never dreams of looking astern to see how his friend Captain Spike, of the _Ghost_, is coming along. No yacht-racing skipper ever does look astern while he is steering. It would be a breach of an old tradition unpardonable in a professional. Our owner, however, watches our opponent quite carefully, and confides to me in a whisper that he fears she will overhaul us and pass us to windward before we reach the mark at the end of the first leg. “It is in the beat back from the second mark that we shall have him at our mercy. We are considerably faster to windward in a blow like this, and if it pipes any harder he will have to take in his club-topsail, and then he is our meat, sure,” he added.

But there is no sign of shortening canvas on the _Ghost_. Captain Spike will hang on to the great sail until the topmast goes over the side rather than be beaten at “cracking on” by Captain Marlin. As a matter of fact, _Ghost_ stands up to her work very well indeed, heeling over to the pressure of the puissant breeze only a mere trifle more than _Phantom_.

Other boats are competing in the regatta—a number of crack schooners and some of the new-fangled knockabouts—all of which carry single reefs in their mainsails and small jibs. It is evident, too, that even with this moderate sail they have as much as they can stagger under. We, however, have too much to do in the way of paying attention to our own craft and our immediate opponent to particularly regard the doings of the rest of the fleet.

One thing that strikes me exceedingly is the splendid way that _Phantom_ steers. One of the old-time racing boats would have been yawing about in rampant style in a breeze as potent as is now blowing. The helmsman would have all he could do to keep her on her course, the prevailing tendency of the ancient type being to gripe to windward most damnably. Yacht architects have made great progress since then, and the modern craft are balanced so exquisitely that they show little or no proneness to gripe, even with the wind abeam or on the quarter. _Phantom_ carries her rudder nearly amidships, only taking a spoke or two of weather helm. Captain Marlin steers her with one hand, and keeps as cool as a cucumber.

Meanwhile _Ghost_ crawls up on us, inch by inch and foot by foot, her aim being to pass us to windward and to blanket us. This we will never permit without a hard fight.

We are now half way to the first mark, the wind continuing true and strong—an ideal breeze for racing. The sea is not steep enough as yet to do us any harm when we trim in our sheets for the final beat; but before this shall come to pass we have a leg to sail with the wind dead aft, and even now the men are making sure that the spinnaker gear is all in readiness for setting that enormous sail immediately after rounding the first mark. We are going to do our prettiest to get the better of _Ghost_ at the turn, and the yacht that gets the spinnaker boom down first and the sail broken out most quickly has a big advantage.

I can’t help remembering how a mishap to her spinnaker caused _Valkyrie II._ to lose her last race with _Vigilant_, and I express a silent but fervent hope that nothing untoward may occur to stop the smart setting of our own good sail.

But now the sly and swift _Ghost_ is crawling up, pointing her bowsprit for our weather quarter, with the intent, if possible, of establishing an overlap and a consequent blanket. This leads to a luffing match which is mighty interesting while it lasts. The more we luff the faster we fly, and at last we get so far ahead that we are able to bear away on our course again and still maintain the lead.

Now, what do you think is the next artful move of the skipper of the _Ghost_? That fellow is as cunning as a wagonload of monkeys. Seeing that he cannot pass us to windward, he eases his sheets a little, and, with a great spurt of speed which fairly took our breath away, walks through our lee like lubricated lightning and tries to luff up across our bows and so get the weather gauge.

But it isn’t Captain Merlin’s watch below exactly. That ancient and tarry one has his eyes wide open and his wits all about him. He also luffs in time to establish an overlap, and so he balks the blanketing dodge of Captain Spike, who is thus hoist with his own petard. This skirmish shows the advantage of getting the lead at the start. Had _Ghost_ crossed the line first we could never have caught her, but as it is we are able to prevent her from passing us. And to the undying fame of our sterling skipper, by the exercise of all the devices known to the sea-jockey, we actually round the mark first!

As we whirl round the raft from whose flagstaff the club burgee is noisily flapping, the main boom is eased off handsomely by the owner and myself, while the rest of the boys busy themselves with the spinnaker. As the boom is lowered, the sail neatly done up in stops is smartly hoisted to the topmast head. The after guy is hauled aft, the outhaul is manned, and with three tugs on the sheet the big sail bellies to the blast and pulls nobly.

Now a more powerful puff than ever smites the _Phantom_. Its force makes the spinnaker boom up-end and the spinnaker itself puff out like a balloon. But both spar and duck are of the best and no misfortune befalls them. The balloon jibtopsail now takes the place of No. 2, so that if the wind shifts we shall be ready for it. When this is done all hands lie aft so as to lift her bow as much as possible, while not burying her counter, and, standing up so as to catch every breath of wind that is going to waste, are regaled on beer and sandwiches, which the steward passes round. He, like the willing and zealous fellow that he is, has been pulling and hauling with the rest of the crowd, and is puffing like a porpoise after the unusual exertion.

In planning the day’s campaign it has been settled that we shall steer a direct course from the first to the second mark. We know that we have no chance to run before the wind so fast as the _Ghost_, which is now only twenty seconds astern of us, and is bound to pass us in spite of everything. Thus, we waste no time in jockeying.

And glide past us she does, silently and slowly like the ghost that she is, her spinnaker and main booms forming the base of a lofty pyramid of canvas, arched out to the swelling breeze. The lapping waves break in milky foam under her counter, the spray sparkling like diamonds in the golden sunshine. Her crew look proud and exultant at their victory.

But the demon of despair affects us not. We know what our stanch and noble craft will do when we haul on a wind for the final homeward thresh. So we light our pipes, and grin and bear our temporary defeat like the stoics of old. Meanwhile, we recollect that we shall have to gybe round the next mark and realize that this will be quite a ticklish job in so stiff a breeze. To luff round a stakeboat is easy as eating, but to swing over a main boom as long as ours from one quarter to the other with the huge club-topsail aloft requires coolness, skill and judgment. Besides, we want to make as clever and close a turn as possible, so as not to be swept too far to leeward before flattening in sheets and starting on our long windward beat.

All has been provided for, however. We see all hands on the _Ghost_ taking in the balloon jibtopsail and getting ready to dowse the spinnaker, for now the stakeboat looms mighty near and the great struggle of the day is at hand.

“Take in the jibtopsail!” cries our skipper, and this is an easy task, for the enormous sail is almost becalmed. It is soon spilled, stopped up and bundled below. Foresail and jib are neatly set and their sheets trimmed down to the marks.

“See the spinnaker gear clear for taking in,” is the next command. And this being done, there is silence for the next minute or two. All hands gather round the mast. One hand stands by to let go the outhaul, another the halyards, while all get ready to grapple with and spill and smother the bellying duck and bring it into subjection to the deck.

We are almost on top of the mark when the skipper sings out: “In spinnaker!”

As the outhaul is slacked, the men, grabbing the foot of the sail, lug it in, and, spilling the wind out of the flapping canvas, wrestle with it and victoriously overcome it, until it lies an inert mass at their feet. The boom is then topped up and all hands lie aft to tend the mainsheet, which is stretched along the deck to rally in quickly. The jib and foresail are set already and trimmed down to the marks. A couple of men stand by ready to “come up” the topmast-backstay and get it set up on the other side before an undue strain comes on the spar.

“Now, boys, haul in the mainsheet,” says the skipper as he shifts the helm so as to bring the wind on the other quarter. Hand over hand the men drag in the boom, pulling as if for dear life. The wind pipes so breezily that the skipper has as much as he can do to gybe the boat so as to make a close turn round the mark and carry away nothing.

The boom comes over with a whirl and a rush, and is checked by a turn round the cleat. The yacht flies up in the wind, but is met with the helm and the head-sails, and there we are, close-hauled on the port tack, with three strakes of the lee deck under water and a devil of a strain on the topmast. The yacht, as she comes to the wind, takes a header into a big green sea and floods the deck. This is her first fault of the day, and we cheerfully forgive her, not minding the wetting, and making up our minds for a hard tussle home against wind and sea.

Now that we have fairly settled down to windward work, we have time to look after our opponent. We see that she, too, has rounded without parting a rope-yarn. She is ahead of us, and a wee bit to windward. We notice that she is being “nipped,” the luff of her mainsail shaking all the time. She isn’t quite so stiff as we are, and her immense club-topsail will bury her if her skipper will only give it a chance. He is afraid to take it in, for he knows that before he could get his “thimble-header” set we should work out half a mile on his weather, so he sails her close, and prays that the wind may lull.

Captain Marlin, on the contrary, gives it to _Phantom_ hammer and tongs, letting her go clean through the water with the sails ramping full. The decks to leeward are wet, but little does that concern us, for we know that when we go about on the other tack we shall be able to cross our rival’s bows, unless she also goes about. And so it comes to pass. The next “board” assures us that the race is ours, unless we get crippled. We plant ourselves on the weather of the _Ghost_ and stick to her, tack and tack. We keep her jammed under our lee, in chancery, as it were; and there she remains until we cross the line, a winner by 2m. 42s.

We come to anchor, furl the sails, send in a certificate that we have complied with all the sailing rules of the match, and hoist another winning flag to join our already long string. Then the steward is sent ashore, and he quickly returns with a fine feed for the crew, which is vastly enjoyed by them, after drinking a “horn” apiece to the further success of the _Phantom_ and her owner.