Almost everyone in Polkebo turned out to see the Kestrel start, for with one exception (and he, it was to be hoped, was far away) the inhabitants of the hamlet were on excellent terms with the Aberstour Sea Scouts. There was also much speculation on the part of the professional seafaring folk as to how the amateur-altered ex-Service launch, manned chiefly by lads in their teens, would be handled.
Although there was a steady leading wind the houses and trees blanketed most of it; so without difficulty canvas was set, sheets overrun, and all preparation made before the rising tide floated the yacht off.
“She’ll do it now, lads,” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “Head-sheet to wind’ard, then! Cast off for’ard!”
The Kestrel held only by the stern-warp, swung slowly on her heel. She was afloat all right.
“Let go aft!” ordered the Scoutmaster. “Trim your fore and jib sheets.”
Almost imperceptibly the Kestrel, steady as a rock, gathered way. The crowd ashore cheered. The Sea Scouts responded lustily. The gap between the yacht and the quay widened. The water began to ripple under the yacht’s forefoot. She heeled to the strengthening breeze.
“Take her, Brandon,” said Mr. Grant, relinquishing the tiller. “She’ll do.”
Against the still flowing tide the Kestrel made steady progress. She was “as stiff as a house,” and showed a decided tendency to carry weather-helm—a qualification that all craft under sail must possess if they are to be accounted seaworthy.
In less than half an hour the Kestrel hove-to within fifty yards of the Merlin, on which Scoutmaster Pendennis and his crew of hefty Cornish Sea Scouts were awaiting their approach.
“Sorry there are no moorings for you!” hailed Mr. Pendennis. “Let go your anchor. Tide’s slackening. She’ll ride head to wind all right.”