"That is what it is, unless it's sucking us in." Corkey has heard of mirages in shipwreck.
"It's land!" he says, a moment later, as he sees a tamarack scrub.
It is, in reality, a long, narrow spit of sand that pushes out above Colpoy's Bay. Beyond that point is the black and open Georgian Bay for thirty miles.
The boat will ride by, and at least three hundred yards outside. Unless Corkey can get inside, what will become of him?
If he turn away from the wind he will capsize.
On comes the point. It is the abyss of death beyond.
"We never will get it!" cries the man.
The boy's face is all contortions. He is trying to say something.
"Bail, you moke!" commands the man. But his eyes look imploringly on the peninsula of sand.
The black face grows hideous. The eyes are white and protrude. The point is off the stern of the yawl.