you can hoist me to the top of the mast?”
“Sure.” The other looked up at the spar swinging its dizzy arc across the sky. “Better you than me.”
“Why not me?” the woman asked. “I’m the lightest.”
Ingram shook his head. “It’s not easy. If you lost the mast it’d beat you to jelly before we could get you down.”
He didn’t like the prospect himself, with Orpheus rolling her rails under and two people he didn’t know on the other end of the line, but there was no help for it. He loosed the halyard fall from the pin on the forward side of the mast. “Keep a turn around the pin,” he said. “And take it slow. When I get up to the spreaders I’ll tell you when to stop and when to heave.”
He climbed atop the boom, stepped into the sling, took a turn around the mast with the free end of the line, and made it fast to the shackle. “Okay. Hoist away.” The halyard came taut, with his weight suspended in the sling, and he began to move upward in short jerks, two or three feet at a time, with his legs locked around it while he pulled upward with his arms. The first twenty feet were not too bad, but as he continued to mount his arc increased, both in distance and in velocity, with the resultant snap at the end more abrupt and punishing. He reached the spreaders, the horizontal members extending out at right angles to the mast. This was the dangerous part. He had to cast off his safety belt momentarily in order to pass it around the mast above them.
“Hold it a minute,” he called out. With both legs and one arm locked around the mast, he worked at the knot with his free hand. It came loose. If he lost his grip now he’d swing out and then back against the mast with enough force to break his skull. The mast swung down to starboard, snapped abruptly at the end, and came back. His arms and legs were slick with sweat, almost frictionless against the varnished surface. He changed arms, caught the dangling piece of line with his right hand, passed it up over the spreader and around the mast. Gripping the mast with his right arm again, he made the end of the line fast once more to the shackle with his left hand, working solely by feel.
“Up easy,” he called out. “Slow. About two feet.”
He came up, got one leg across the spreader, and then the other. “Okay, hoist away.” He went on up. Three feet from the masthead light and the blocks at the top of the mast, he called out, “That’ll do. Make it fast.” He hoped they knew how.
This was no place for a queasy stomach, he thought. It was like riding a bucking horse making forty feet at a bound. While he was groping for the binoculars he looked down at the deck sixty feet below. Most of the time he was out over the water; he crossed the deck only through the vertical sector of his swing from one side to the other. The centrifugal force at the end of the roll when the mast stopped abruptly and started back felt as if it were going to tear him loose and hurl him outward like a projectile from a catapult.
He brought the binoculars up with both arms wrapped about the mast, and swept them along the line of the horizon off to port. At first he was afraid he’d waited too long. Then his pulse leaped. There she was, a minute sliver of white poised just over the rim of the world.
“If you’re made fast down there,” he called out, “one of you give me the heading.”
“We can’t see her from down here,” the man yelled back.
“No. I mean our heading. How are we lying?”
The woman went aft and peered into the binnacle. “Two-nine-oh,” she shouted up at him.
He looked down at the deck, estimating the angle on the bow. Call it four points, he thought. Forty-five from two-ninety left two-forty-five. Saracen’s bearing had remained practically unchanged from the first. Warriner was apparently headed for the Marquesas.
If he had thought to fool them by changing course after he was over the horizon, the chances were he would have already
“Sure.” The other looked up at the spar swinging its dizzy arc across the sky. “Better you than me.”
“Why not me?” the woman asked. “I’m the lightest.”
Ingram shook his head. “It’s not easy. If you lost the mast it’d beat you to jelly before we could get you down.”
He didn’t like the prospect himself, with Orpheus rolling her rails under and two people he didn’t know on the other end of the line, but there was no help for it. He loosed the halyard fall from the pin on the forward side of the mast. “Keep a turn around the pin,” he said. “And take it slow. When I get up to the spreaders I’ll tell you when to stop and when to heave.”
He climbed atop the boom, stepped into the sling, took a turn around the mast with the free end of the line, and made it fast to the shackle. “Okay. Hoist away.” The halyard came taut, with his weight suspended in the sling, and he began to move upward in short jerks, two or three feet at a time, with his legs locked around it while he pulled upward with his arms. The first twenty feet were not too bad, but as he continued to mount his arc increased, both in distance and in velocity, with the resultant snap at the end more abrupt and punishing. He reached the spreaders, the horizontal members extending out at right angles to the mast. This was the dangerous part. He had to cast off his safety belt momentarily in order to pass it around the mast above them.
“Hold it a minute,” he called out. With both legs and one arm locked around the mast, he worked at the knot with his free hand. It came loose. If he lost his grip now he’d swing out and then back against the mast with enough force to break his skull. The mast swung down to starboard, snapped abruptly at the end, and came back. His arms and legs were slick with sweat, almost frictionless against the varnished surface. He changed arms, caught the dangling piece of line with his right hand, passed it up over the spreader and around the mast. Gripping the mast with his right arm again, he made the end of the line fast once more to the shackle with his left hand, working solely by feel.
“Up easy,” he called out. “Slow. About two feet.”
He came up, got one leg across the spreader, and then the other. “Okay, hoist away.” He went on up. Three feet from the masthead light and the blocks at the top of the mast, he called out, “That’ll do. Make it fast.” He hoped they knew how.
This was no place for a queasy stomach, he thought. It was like riding a bucking horse making forty feet at a bound. While he was groping for the binoculars he looked down at the deck sixty feet below. Most of the time he was out over the water; he crossed the deck only through the vertical sector of his swing from one side to the other. The centrifugal force at the end of the roll when the mast stopped abruptly and started back felt as if it were going to tear him loose and hurl him outward like a projectile from a catapult.
He brought the binoculars up with both arms wrapped about the mast, and swept them along the line of the horizon off to port. At first he was afraid he’d waited too long. Then his pulse leaped. There she was, a minute sliver of white poised just over the rim of the world.
“If you’re made fast down there,” he called out, “one of you give me the heading.”
“We can’t see her from down here,” the man yelled back.
“No. I mean our heading. How are we lying?”
The woman went aft and peered into the binnacle. “Two-nine-oh,” she shouted up at him.
He looked down at the deck, estimating the angle on the bow. Call it four points, he thought. Forty-five from two-ninety left two-forty-five. Saracen’s bearing had remained practically unchanged from the first. Warriner was apparently headed for the Marquesas.
If he had thought to fool them by changing course after he was over the horizon, the chances were he would have already
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