CHAPTER FOUR

The Man with the Gun

“Just keep her sailing on this downwind course,” Jerry said. “Head for that lighthouse the way you were before, and keep an occasional eye on the hawk. As long as the wind isn’t dead astern, we shouldn’t have any more jibing troubles. As soon as we get out into open water, we’ll find an easier point of sail. We can’t do that until we’re clear of the channel, though. When we are, we’ll reach for a while, and then I’ll show you how to beat.”

“What’s reaching?” Sandy asked. “And what’s beating? And how do you know when we’re out of the channel into open water? And how do you even know for sure that we’re in the channel now? And how....”

“Whoa! Wait a minute! Let’s take one question at a time. A reach is when you’re sailing with the wind coming more from the side than from in front or from behind the boat. Beating is when the wind is more in front than on the side, and you have to sail into it. Beating is more like work than fun, but a reach is the fastest and easiest kind of a course to sail. That’s why I want to reach as soon as we’re out in open water where we can pick our direction without having to worry about channel markers.”

“How come reaching is the fastest kind of course to sail?” Sandy asked. “I would have guessed that sailing downwind with the wind pushing the boat ahead of it would be the fastest.”

“It sure seems as if it ought to work that way,” Jerry said with a grin. “But you’ll find that sailboat logic isn’t always so simple or easy. When you’re running free in front of the wind, you can only go as fast as the wind is blowing. When you’re reaching, you can actually sail a lot faster than the wind.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand that,” Sandy said. “How does it work?”

Jerry paused and thought for a minute. “You remember what Quiz said about the sailboat working like an airplane? Well, he made it sound pretty tough to understand, what with all his formulas and proportions, but actually he was right. A sail is a lot like an airplane wing, except that it’s standing up on end instead of sticking out to one side. Well, you know that the propellers on a plane make wind, and that the plane flies straight into that wind. You see, the wind that comes across the wing makes a vacuum on top of the wing surface, and the plane is drawn up into the vacuum. You get a lot more lift that way than if the propellers were under the wing and blowing straight up on the bottom of it.”

“I see that,” Sandy said. “And a propeller blowing under a wing would be pretty much the same as a wind blowing at the back of a sail. Right?”

“Right!” Jerry said, looking pleased with his teaching ability. “Now you have the idea. When you have a sail, like a wing standing up, the air that passes over the sail makes a vacuum in front and pulls the boat forward into it. Actually, the vacuum pulls us forward and to one side, the same as the wind from the propeller makes the plane go forward and up. We use the rudder and the keel to keep us going more straight than sideways.”

Sandy shook his head as if to clear away cobwebs. “I think that I understand now, but it’s still a little hazy in my mind. Maybe I’ll do better if you don’t tell me about the theory, and I just see the way it works.”

“Could be,” Jerry said. “There are lots of old-time fishermen and other fine sailors who have absolutely no idea of how their boats work, and who wouldn’t know a law of physics or a principle of aerodynamics if it sat on their mastheads and yelled at them like a sea gull! They just do what comes naturally, and they know the way to handle a boat without worrying about what makes it run.”

Still heading on their downwind course, they passed several small islands and rocks, some marked with lights and towers, some with bells or floating buoys. They seemed to slide by gracefully as the little sloop left the mainland farther behind in its wake.

“Before we get out of the channel,” Jerry said, “I want to show you some of the channel markers and tell you about how to read them. They’re the road signs of the harbors, and if you know what they mean and what to do about them, you’ll never get in any trouble when it comes to finding your way in and out of a port.”

He pointed to a nearby marker that was shaped like a pointed rocket nose cone floating in the water. It was painted a bright red, and on its side in white was painted a large number 4.

“That’s called a nun buoy,” Jerry told Sandy. “Now look over there. Do you see that black buoy shaped just like an oversized tin can? That’s called a can buoy. The cans and the nuns mark the limits of the channel, and they tell you to steer between them. The rule is, when you’re leaving a harbor, to keep the red nun buoys on your port side. That’s the left side. When you’re entering a harbor, keep the red nun buoys on your starboard side. The best way to remember it is by the three R’s of offshore navigating: ‘Red Right Returning.’”

Sandy nodded. “I understand that all right,” he said. “But what are the numbers for?”

“The numbers are to tell you how far from the harbor you are,” Jerry said. “Red nun buoys are always even-numbered, and black cans are always odd-numbered. They run in regular sequence, and they start from the farthest buoy out from the shore. For example, we just sailed past red nun buoy number 4. That means that the next can we see will be marked number 3, and it will be followed by a number 2 nun and a number 1 can. After we pass the number 1 can, we’ll be completely out of the channel, and we’ll have open water to sail in.”

“Do they have the same kind of markers everywhere,” Sandy asked, “or do you have to learn them specially for each port that you sail in?”

“You’ll find the same marks in almost every place in the world,” Jerry said. “But you won’t have to worry about the world for a long while. The important thing is that the marking and buoyage system is the same exact standard for every port in the United States and Canada.”

“What’s that striped can I see floating over there?” Sandy asked, pointing.

Jerry looked at the buoy. “That’s a special marker,” he answered. “All of the striped buoys have some special meaning, and it’s usually marked on the charts. They’re mostly used to mark a junction of two channels, or a middle ground, or an obstruction of some kind. You can sail to either side of them, but you shouldn’t go too close. At least that’s the rule for the horizontally striped ones. The markers with vertical stripes show the middle of the channel, and you’re supposed to pass them as close as you can, on either side.”

Another few minutes of sailing brought them past the last red buoy, and they were clear of the marked channel. From here on they were free to sail as they wanted, in any direction they chose to try.

For the next hour they practiced reaching. With the wind blowing steadily from the starboard side, the trim sloop leaned far to the port until the waves were creaming almost up to the level of the deck. Jerry explained that this leaning position, called “heeling,” was the natural and proper way for a sailboat to sit in the water. The only way that a boat could sail level, he pointed out, was before the wind. With the boat heeling sharply and the sails and the rigging pulled tight in the brisk breeze, Sandy really began to feel the sense of speed on the water, and understood what Jerry had told him about speed being relative.

After they had practiced on a few long reaches, Jerry showed Sandy how to beat or point, which is the art of sailing more or less straight into the wind.

“Of course you can’t ever sail straight into the wind,” Jerry said. “The best you can do is come close. If you head right into it, the sails will just flap around the way that they did when we were pointing into the wind at the mooring. You’ve got to sail a little to one side.”

“Suppose you don’t want to go to one side?” Sandy asked. “If the wind is blowing straight from the place you want to get to, what do you do about it?”

“You have to compromise,” Jerry replied. “You’ll never get there by aiming the boat in that direction. What you have to do is sail for a point to one side of it for a while, then come about and sail for a point on the other side of it for a while. It’s a kind of long zigzag course. You call it tacking. Each leg of the zigzag is called a tack.”

Sailing into the wind, they tacked first on one side, then on the other. Each time they came about onto a new tack, the mainsail was shifted to the other side of the boat, and the boat heeled in the same direction as the sail. The jib came about by itself, just by loosening one sheet and taking up on the other one. Soon Sandy was used to the continual shifting and resetting of the sails, and to the boom passing back and forth overhead.

Suddenly Sandy pointed and clapped Jerry on the shoulder with excitement. “Look!” he cried. “There’s a whole fleet of boats coming this way! They look just like ours! And they’re racing!”

Jerry looked up in surprise. “They sure are racing! And they are just like this one! I guess I was wrong when I said they didn’t race this kind of boat. This must be a local class, built to specifications for local race rules. Boy, look at them go! I was wrong about not racing them, but I sure was right when I said that she looked fast!”

The fleet of sloops swept past, heeling sharply to one side, with the crews perched on the high sides as live ballast, and the water foaming white along the low decks which were washed over completely every moment or so. The helmsmen on the nearest of the boats grinned at them and waved an invitation to come along and join the regatta, but neither Jerry nor Sandy felt quite up to sailing a race just yet.

As they watched their white-sailed sisters fly down the bay, Sandy felt for the first time the excitement that could come from handling a boat really well. He turned to his own trim craft with renewed determination to learn everything that Jerry could teach him, and maybe, in due time, a whole lot more than that.

The next few hours were spent in happily exploring Cliffport Bay and trying the sloop on a variety of tacks and courses to learn what she would do. Eventually, the sun standing high above the mast, they realized almost at the same time that it was definitely time for lunch.

Jerry took the helm and the sheet while Sandy went below to see what the boat’s food locker could supply. In a few minutes, he poked his head out of the cabin hatch and shook it sadly at Jerry. “It looks as if Uncle Russ didn’t think of everything, after all. There’s plenty of food all right, but there’s not a thing on board to drink. The water jugs are here, but they’re bone-dry, and I’m not exactly up to eating peanut butter sandwiches without something to wash them down!”

“Me either!” said Jerry, shuddering a little at the thought. “Of course, we could settle on some of the juice from the canned fruits I saw in there, but we haven’t taken on any ice for our ice chest, and that’s all going to be pretty warm. In any case, we ought to have some water on board. I think we’d better look for a likely place near shore where we can drop anchor. Then we can take the dinghy in to one of the beach houses and fill up our jugs.”

“Good idea,” Sandy agreed. “And that way we can eat while we’re at anchor, and not have to worry about sailing and eating at the same time.”

Several small islands not too far away had houses on them, and the boys decided to set a course for the nearest one. As they drew near, they saw a sunny white house sitting on the crest of a small rise about a hundred yards back from the water. Below the house, a well-protected and pleasant-looking cove offered a good place for an anchorage. A floating dock was secured to a high stone pier, from which a path could be seen leading up to the house. It looked like an almost perfect summer place, set in broad green lawns, with several old shade trees near the house and with a general atmosphere of well-being radiating from everything.

They glided straight into the little cove, then suddenly put the rudder over hard and brought the sloop sharply up into the wind. The sails flapped loosely, and the boat lost some of its headway, then glided slowly to a stop.

On the bow, Sandy stood ready with the anchor, waiting for Jerry to tell him when to lower it. As the boat began to move a little astern, backing in the headwind, Jerry told Sandy to let the anchor down slowly.

“You never drop an anchor, or throw it over the side. After all, you want the anchor to tip over, and to drive a hook into the bottom. It won’t do that if it’s just dropped.”

When Sandy felt the anchor touch the bottom, he pulled back gently on the anchor line until he felt the hook take hold. Then, leading the line through the fair lead at the bow, he tied it securely to a cleat on the deck.

Loosening the halyards, they dropped first the jib and then the mainsail, rolled them neatly, and secured them with strips of sailcloth, called stops. Jerry pointed out that it was not necessary to remove the slides and snaps. That way, he explained, it would only be a matter of minutes to get under way when they wanted to. With the last stop tied and the boom and the rudder lashed to keep them from swinging, the sloop was all shipshape at anchor, rocking gently on the swell about fifty yards from the end of the floating dock.

“Let’s row the dinghy in to the dock and see if we can find somebody on shore,” Jerry suggested. “Of course, with no boats in here, there might not be anyone on the island right now, but I think that I saw a well up by the house, and I’m sure that no one would mind if we helped ourselves to a little water.”

But Jerry was wrong on both counts. There was somebody on the island, and he looked far from hospitable. In fact, the tall man who came striding down the path to the float where the boys already had the dinghy headed was carrying a rifle—and, what was more, he looked perfectly ready to use it at any minute!

“Turn back!” he shouted, as he reached the edge of the stone pier. “Turn back, I tell you, or I’ll shoot that dinghy full of holes and sink it right out from under you!” He raised the rifle deliberately to his shoulder and sighted down its length at the boys.

“Wait a minute!” Sandy shouted back. “You’re making a mistake! We just need to get some water to drink! We don’t mean any harm!”

The man lowered his rifle, but looked no friendlier than before. “I don’t care what you want,” he called, “but you can just sail off and get it some other place! This is my island and my cove. They’re both private property, and you’re trespassing here! Now turn that dinghy around and get back to your sailboat and go!”

This speech finished, he raised his rifle to the firing position once more and aimed it at the dinghy.

“All right, mister!” Jerry yelled back at him. “We’ll get going! But when we get back to the mainland, you can bet that we’re going to report you to the Coast Guard for your failure to give assistance! I’m not sure what they can do about it, but they sure ought to know that there’s a character like you around here! Maybe they’ll mark it on the charts, so that sailors in trouble won’t waste their time coming in here for help!”

As the boys started to turn the dinghy about, they heard a shout from the man on the pier. “Wait a minute!” he called. “There’s no need to get so upset. I’m sorry—but I guess I made a mistake after all. Row on in to the float and I’ll get you some water.”

Not at all sure that they were doing the wisest thing, but not wanting to anger the strange rifleman by not doing what he had suggested, they decided to risk coming to shore. After all, Sandy reasoned, he hadn’t actually threatened to shoot _them_—just the dinghy—and he couldn’t do much more harm from close up than from where they were. Besides, both boys were curious about the man and his island. They rowed to the floating dock and made the dinghy fast to a cleat.

“I’m sorry, boys,” the man with the rifle said pleasantly. “It’s just that I’ve been bothered in the past by kids landing here for picnics and swimming parties when I’m not here. They leave the beach a mess, and one gang actually broke into the house once, and stole some things. That’s why I don’t like kids coming around. I thought you were more of the same, but I figured you were all right when you said that you’d report to the Coast Guard. Those other kids stay as far away from the Coast Guard and the Harbor Police as they can.”

He smiled apologetically, but as Sandy started to climb up from the dinghy to the floating dock, his expression hardened once more.

“I said that I’d get you some water,” he said, “but I didn’t invite you to come ashore and help yourselves to it. You just stay right where you are in that dinghy, and hand me up your water jars. I’ll fill them up for you, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

More than a little puzzled, Jerry and Sandy handed up their two soft plastic gallon jugs. Their “host” took them under one arm, leaving the other hand free for his rifle which he carried with a finger lying alongside of the trigger. Without a word, the island’s owner walked off.

“I wonder what’s the matter with him,” Jerry said.

“I don’t know,” Sandy replied, “but whatever it is, we’d better do what he says, or something pretty bad might be the matter with us!”

Halfway up the path to the house, the tall man stopped, turned back, and looked hard at the boys before continuing on up the hill.

“Mind you do just what I said!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “You just stay in that dinghy, and don’t get any fancy ideas about exploring around. If I find you ashore, I’m still as ready as ever to use this gun!”