Walter did not risk his spinnaker—any extra sail was perilous in that gale—but first Fagner and then Tyler flung their great balloon jibs out with the daring of veterans. It was a beautiful sight, that two-mile run; every inch of the race was in full view of the group on shore, although it took glasses to distinguish the yachts as they huddled together near the North Buoy.
Up to within a quarter of a mile of the North Buoy the yachts had maintained their distances, Sago-ye-wat-ha first, Fagner a hundred yards astern and Tyler a few feet in the rear. The Pluma and the Aurora had swamped and were towed ashore by ready motor-boats.
But within a quarter of a mile of the North Buoy the wind suddenly slackened. Then the spinnakers told. In the swift changes that occur in yacht races of this sort the positions seemed instantly to change. Again the three boats massed at the buoy, but this time the Cohlosa came about first, followed by the Moodiks. The Sago-ye-wat-ha was last.
Anyone can sail before the wind. The test of seamanship is in the cleverness of the tacking, and that test was now on. Tyler shot off to the east and, as everyone knew, Fagner did the opposite. Fagner’s theory seemed to be that if you get an advantage of a slant of the wind it is better to have the other fellow in some other part of the Lake. Walter followed Tyler, but broke his tack early; so the three boats were soon in widely scattered portions of the Lake. As they crossed and recrossed each other’s paths it was impossible to tell which was in the lead. The long beat down the Lake was therefore tremendously exciting to the partisans on shore, each group seeing its own the victor.
Characteristic of winds in this hilly country the breeze, still moderately stiff but no longer the fierce gale of the beginning, shifted to the southeast. Each skipper was thoroughly aware of the change, of course, but none, perhaps, were so mindful of the advantages of changing the original plans as Walter. In the middle of the Lake he suddenly let out his reefs and came about. He was now pointing almost directly to the cove at Electric Park just above Alley’s Inn; and into this cove he slid until he was lost to the group on the high ground at the starting point. Fagner and Tyler were beating down to the starting buoy from the east, but it was soon obvious that each would have to take one more tack, although they “pointed” courageously; but as they put about reluctantly for one more try, the Sago-ye-wat-ha nosed along the shore and shot past Alley’s Inn, crossed the starting line and swung out for a long tack to Willow Grove. Walter had been pointing straight into the southeast wind, seemingly an impossible feat. According to all the rules his mainsail and jib should have been flapping uselessly, but, instead, they had been comfortably filled. A back-current from the western hills had carried him forward.
It was three minutes before Fagner crossed the line and a minute more before Tyler finished the first leg. By that time Walter had rounded the Willow Grove buoy and was scudding up the Lake with the southeaster back of him. It was then that he flung out his spinnaker.
To the surprise of everyone he did not aim directly for the North Buoy, but crowded far to the east. In an uncanny way he had guessed that the freakish wind would soon shift to the east and then to the northeast. And so it did. He crossed the Lake with the wind still at his back and came about the North Buoy in time to get the new shift to northeast. His spinnaker was still ballooning beautifully as he came down to finish the second leg, while Fagner and Tyler were beating up in long tacks.
The wind had blown him up the Lake and obligingly had turned around to blow him down again. And while he had gone north in a straight line his competitors for the cup had been compelled to zigzag across the Lake, five times his distance.
Luck had been with Walter, of course, but at the same time he had been knowing enough to take advantage of his special knowledge of the ways of the wind. In his present position nothing short of a calm could have taken the race from him, and the northeaster that began to blow—it was the old storm, which had by this time veered to an opposite quarter—gave no signs of letting up.
The end came rapidly. When Walter crossed the finish line a winner of the first of the three races for the cup, the Moodiks and the Cohlosa had not yet reached the North Buoy on the final leg.