It
was a sight for sailormen to see. To all appearances, a runaway
yacht was careering madly over the bight, and now and again
yielding a little bit to control in a desperate effort to make
Benicia.
The owner forgot his seasickness long enough to look anxious. The
speck of a boat grew larger and larger, till we could see Big Alec
and his partner, with a turn of the sturgeon line around a cleat,
resting from their labor to laugh at us. Charley pulled his
sou'wester over his eyes, and I followed his example, though I
could not guess the idea he evidently had in mind and intended to
carry into execution.
We came foaming down abreast of the skiff, so close that we could
hear above the wind the voices of Big Alec and his mate as they
shouted at us with all the scorn that professional watermen feel
for amateurs, especially when amateurs are making fools of
themselves.
We thundered on past the fishermen, and nothing had happened.
Charley grinned at the disappointment he saw in my face, and then
shouted:
"Stand by the main-sheet to jibe!"
He put the wheel hard over, and the yacht whirled around
obediently.
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