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 jib-topsail and getting ready to dowse the spinnaker, for now the stakeboat looms mighty near and the great struggle of the day is at hand.
