SAILING CRAFT 125 



half-tide rock. The yellow-oilskinned crew 

 tail on and heave. Yo — ho! Yo — hay! 'Hitch 

 it I Quick, for your lives, hang on, all ! ' A 

 mountainous wall of black water suddenly 

 leaps up and crashes through the windward 

 rigging. The watch goes down to a man, some 

 hanging on to the rope as if suspended in the 

 middle of a waterfall, for the deck is nearly 

 perpendicular, while others wash off altogether 

 and fetch up with a dazing, underwater thud 

 against the lee side. Inch by inch the men haul 

 in, waist-deep most of the time and often com- 

 pletely under. Yo — ho! Yo — hay! harrhh, 

 and they all hold breath till they can get their 

 heads out again. Yo — ho ! Yo — hay ! ' In 

 with her!' Heigh — o—oh! 'Turn that!' 

 ' All fast ! ' 



' 'Way aloft and roll her up quick ! ' The 

 tossing crests are blown into spindrift against 

 the weather yardarm, while a pelting hailstorm 

 stings the wet, cold hands and faces. The men 

 tear at the sail with their numb fingers till their 

 nails are bleeding. They hit it, pull it, clutch 

 at it for support. Certain death would follow 

 a fall from aloft ; for the whole deck is hidden 

 under a surging, seething mass of water. You 

 would swear the water 's boiling if it wasn't icy 

 cold. The skipper 's at the wheel, watching his 



