THE LATEST GREAT YACHT RACE.
(By our own Nautical Special.)
Dear Sir,—The captain went on board the gallant Naughty Lass with his Wind Lass. A Wind Lass is short for "Winn'd Lass," i.e. a Lass he has won. I think her name is "Poll." The Captain says he is always true to her, and nothing will ever induce him to leave his dear Wind Lass ashore when he's afloat. Noble sentiment, but unpractical. The fact is (as whispered) the Wind Lass is jealous of the Naughty Lass, and won't let the Captain go alone. When the other Captain went on board the rival of the gallant Naughty Lass, the Anne Nemone, and "the crafty ones," as they call the sailors "in the know," were ready to bet any money on the Anne Nemone. Both cutters "cut" (hence the name) well away from each other at the start, and a fresh breeze coming up (the stale one had been got rid of) there was a lot of fore-reaching, until the Captain, who is an old hand at this sort of thing, sent round steward with brandy. "All hands for grog!" was then the order of the day, and we just managed to clear Muddle Point, leaving the home-marked (or "home-made," I forget which is the technical term, but I suppose the latter, as she was built on the neighbouring premises) boat well to windward. After a free reach in this weather down to Boot Shore—where the vessel heeled over a bit, but nothing to speak of, as it was soon remedied by a cobble that was close at hand—the Naughty Lass lifted her head-sails, and away we went for Incog Bay, where nobody knew us, or we should have been received with three times three.
At this moment the Anne Nemone, racing close to us, let out a right good "gybe," which was in execrable taste, I admit, but which ought not to have called for any retort from the captain's Wind Lass, who gave it her hot and strong, and threatened to haul her over the coal-scuttlers. Fortunately we were away again, and there was no time for opposite gybes. (I spell "gybes" in the old English nautical fashion, but, as I ascertain, it is precisely the same as "jibes.") Sailors' language is a bit odd; they don't mean anything, I know—it's only professional; still, as reporting the matter to ears polite, I scarcely like to set down in full all I heard. At 1 P.M. all hands were piped for luncheon, and we had spinnakers cooked in their skins (they are a sort of bean), with a rare nautical dish called "Booms and Bacon." Fine! I did enjoy it! But then I'm an old hand at this sort of thing,—luncheon on board, I mean; for there's scarcely a board, be it sea board or other board, or, in fact, any boarding establishment, that I don't know. But "yeo ho! my boys! and avast!" for are we not still racing? We are!!
We passed The Bottle at 2.30 P.M. What had become of the Anne Nemone I don't know, and probably we should never have seen her again had not our captain, who was trying to sight the port after passing The Bottle, stood on the wrong tack, which ran into his boot and hurt him awfully. He was carried below, and we gathered round him as he turned to the Naughty Lass and murmured—but Polly objected that there was nothing to murmur about or to grumble at, and that the sooner he stumbled on deck the better it would be for the race. So up rose our brave captain, took a stiff draught of weather bilge (which is the best preventive of sea-sickness), and calling for his first mate, Mr. Jack Yard Topsail, told him to "stand away," which I could quite understand, for Jack Yard Topsail is a regular salt, full of tar, rum, 'baccy, and everything that can make life sweet to him, but not to his immediate neighbours. So "stand away" and not "stand by" it was, and when we got to Squeams Bay the sailors took a short hitch (it is necessary occasionally—but I cannot say more—lady-readers being present), and we went streaking away like a side of bacon on a fine day.
"Are we winning?" asks Polly, the Wind Lass. "You look winning!" I reply, politely. "By how much?" she inquires, just tucking up her skirts, and showing a trim ankle. The Captain, with his glass to his eye, and looking down, answers, "The fifth of a long leg!" I never saw a woman so angry! "I haven't!" she exclaimed; and there would have been a row, and we should never have won, as we did splendidly, had not the "First Officer" (just as they name the supernumeraries in a play) come up and reminded Pretty Polly that she wasn't the only mate the Captain had on board. "Where's the other?" she cried, in a fury. "Below!" answered the First Officer, and down went Polly, not to re-appear again until all was over, and our victorious binnacle was waving proudly from the fore-top-gallant. At the finish we went clean into harbour, without a speck on our forecastle, or a stain on our character. I wire you the account of this great race, and am (Rule Britannia!)
Yours,
"Every Other Inch a Sailor!"
P.S.—I am informed that after I left the vessel—in fact it was next day—a Burgee was run up at the mast head. I suppose some sort of court-martial was held first, and that the Burgee (poor wretch!) was caught red-handed. Still, in these days, this sort of proceeding does sound rather tyrannical. High-masted justice, eh? Well, sea-dogs will be sea-dogs. I don't exactly know what a Burgee is, but I fancy he is something between a Buccaneer and a Bargee; a sort of river-and-sea pirate. But I fear it is a landsman!! Burgee, masculine (and probably husband) of Burgess!! If so, there will be a row!
Yours as Before the Mast.
