Sandy squinted to where Jerry had pointed, and made out a dim white shape through the darkness, surely no more than a few hundred yards behind them!
“They’re closing in!” Jerry said. “I’d better rig this thing as fast as I can!”
He took the sail bag from Sandy, and crawled forward over the cabin. Sandy anxiously handled the tiller, hoping that he was keeping the course. Overhead, a few dim stars made points of light, and he leaned back to line up the masthead with one of them. In his right hand, the mainsheet felt light—too light—and he worried that he had so little control over it. What if they were to jibe now, as they had on the first day’s sail? What if the sails were not properly trimmed? And how could he be sure they were? How long would it take Jones to catch up with them? Taking his eyes for a minute from the star and the masthead, he saw Jerry kneeling on deck, doing something with the sail. Then he looked back to the masthead, and fixed all his attention on keeping the boat on a steady course.
Suddenly, Jerry was back in the cockpit with him, and the sail bag, still full, was dropped on the deck at his feet.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Sandy, was that the only heavy bag there was?” Jerry asked.
“That’s right. The only other bag was so light it must have been the jib. What’s the matter?”
Jerry shook his head slowly. “We’re in real trouble now,” he answered. “That’s not a spinnaker at all. It’s a spare genoa!”
“But—but I saw the bag marked spinnaker the other day!” Sandy spluttered. “Why would Uncle Russ put a spare genoa in a bag marked for a spinnaker?”
“He wouldn’t,” Jerry answered. “And what’s more, he didn’t. I was able to make out the letters on the bag, and they said ‘genoa.’ Brace yourself for a shock, buddy. I know we had a spinnaker aboard. And I know we didn’t have two jennies!”