“Capsize this one? Lord, Maurice, I’ve tried it a dozen times and I’m damned if I could,” and he went rolling on like nothing I ever saw, unless it was the rest of us who were then manœuvring for the start. We passed the Parker again before we got to the line, and old Peter Hines, who was hanging to her main-rigging, had to yell us his good wishes. “Drive her, Maurice-boy, and whatever you do don’t let the man that took your vessel from you beat you home,” meaning Sam Hollis of course. Maurice waved his hand, but said nothing. He was looking serious enough, however.
Tommie Clancy was the boy who wasn’t worrying particularly. He saluted Peter as if he were 245 going out on a holiday excursion. “Ain’t she a dog, Peter? Watch her.”
“That’s what she is––and drive her, Tommie––drive her.”
“Oh, we’ll drive her, Peter,” called back Tommie, and began:
“Oh, I love old Ocean’s smile,
I love old Ocean’s frowning––
I love old Ocean all the while,
My prayer’s for death by drowning.”
“Let you alone, Tommie, and you’ll get your prayer some day,” was Peter’s last hail as we straightened out for the swoop across the line.
Clancy was to the wheel then with the skipper. Both were lashed and we had life-lines around deck. To the wheel of every vessel in the fleet were two men lashed, and they all had life-lines around deck.