“Cut ’em away––cut ’em to hell!” he sang out, and we all had to smile, he spoke so excitedly. But it was no use. The Lucy was out of the race, and going by her, we didn’t look at Mr. Duncan nor 262 Wesley Marrs––we knew they were both taking it hard––but watched the Withrow.
Over on the other tack we went, first the Withrow, then the Johnnie. We were nearing the finish line, and we were pretty well worked up––the awful squalls were swooping down and burying us. We could hear Hollis’s voice and see his crew go up when he warned his men at the wheel to ease up on her when the squalls hit. On our vessel the skipper never waved an arm nor opened his mouth to Clancy at the wheel. And of his own accord you may be sure that Clancy wasn’t easing up. Not Tommie Clancy––no, sir––he just drove her––let her have it full––lashed her like, with his teeth and eyes flashing through the sea that was swashing over him. And the Johnnie fairly sizzled through the water.
There were several times in the race when we thought the going was as bad as could be, but now we were all sure that this was the worst of all. There was some excuse for Mr. Duncan when he called out:
“My God, Tommie, but if she makes one of those low dives again, will she ever come up?”
“I dunno,” said Clancy to that. “But don’t you worry, Mr. Duncan, if any vessel out of Gloucester’ll come up, this one’ll come up.”
He was standing with the water, the clear water, 263 not the swash, well up to his waist then, and we could hear him:
“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.”