“Not now, Jerry,” Sandy cut him off. “Let’s just change course while I work out the details. If we don’t do this now, I might lose my nerve!”
“I’ll do it,” Jerry agreed, shaking his head doubtfully from side to side. “But what worries me isn’t that you might lose your nerve. I’m afraid that you’ve already lost your mind!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The End of the Race
It was still pitch-dark on the Pacific, miles off Cliffport, but Sandy saw a dim, gray smear of light in the east that told him dawn was not too far off. Dawn—and the shots it would bring from Jones and Turk!
If his plan didn’t work now, it would never work, he knew. This was to be really a one-shot try! But better to try, he felt, than to tack aimlessly back and forth, waiting for Jones to close in.
Almost mechanically, Sandy helped Jerry put the sloop about on her new course before the wind. Once again the genoa jib was held out wing-and-wing with the boat hook, and once again the mainsheet exercised only a light pull in his hand. With everything set, Sandy and Jerry turned their attention to the sloop behind them.
The pursuing white sails shone dimly through the darkness as Jones followed them in their course. His spinnaker, released from its duty as a genoa, was once more flying full and round before him, taking advantage of every puff of wind at his back. It was a foregone conclusion that he would catch them now, unless they were even faster than before in putting about on some new tack.
Jerry could not stand the suspense a moment longer. “Sandy, what are you going to do?” he cried. “Whatever it is, if we don’t do it now, we’re goners!”
“Not yet,” Sandy muttered. “He’s got to get closer!”
“If he gets any closer, he’s going to start shooting,” Jerry replied. “What do we do then?”