146 On the trail of vanishing birds 



pose. Herby, his yachting cap jaunty instead of dejected, hummed 

 gay and wordless tunes, peering ahead cheerfully from his station 

 in the bows. McPhee said nothing, but tended strictly to business. 

 When the sloop struggled to the top of an especially big wave, 

 he had to fight with the helm to keep her steady. She tended 

 to yaw at such times, and again, the boom would lift as if wanting 

 to jibe. Once, at a moment like this, the boom leaped suddenly 

 and lifted away from the mast, the mainsail billowing forward 

 in the wind and dragging overboard. The boom went completely 

 over, hanging there at a crazy angle and straining heavily against 

 the boiling water and the wild rush of the vessel. It was all the 

 three of us could do to haul it back aboard, McPhee very nearly 

 losing his hold and going into the sea himself. 



Calculating a strong westerly drift, McPhee now proposed that 

 we try and sail her toward a recognizable landmark. As once again 

 we approached Andros, we faced a new danger the long reef 

 that runs along the eastern perimeter of that island. Unless we 

 came on the reef at a point where there was a known channel, we 

 would certainly pile up against the sharp coral rocks and our ad- 

 venture would be over in a matter of minutes. For my part, I had 

 no idea where we were, by this time, but McPhee, with admirable 

 composure under the circumstances and more than a little sea 

 sense, seemed to have his bearings. About ten o'clock he asked 

 Herby to shinny up the mast and look for High Cay, a great rocky 

 cliff on a small island that forms a part of the Andros reef south- 

 east of Fresh Creek. Herby clambered aloft, his bare feet using 

 the hoops as steps, and, swaying there, thirty feet above us, one 

 arm hugging the masthead and his free hand grasping the main 

 halyards, he gazed long at the horizon. With a shout of "no Ian', 

 nuthin' but watah!" he slid back to the deck. From time to time 

 he went aloft again and, handing over the tiller, McPhee took his 

 turn. Finally, at close to 11 A.M., McPhee yelled from aloft, "High 

 Cay, off to starboard!" It was like being born again. 



Soon we could see the gray looming face of our landmark from 

 the deck, and shortly after that, as if floating, dim and misty but 

 unmistakable along the rim of the sea, the tops of tall pine trees 

 on the main island itself. The reef was now in view as well, black 



