A Narrow Shave
Suddenly, Hayes was awakened by a slight jar upon the yacht's hull.
He looked up, sleepily, at the patch of greyish light filtering
through the starboard scuttle. Already dawn was breaking.
"Swell of a passing steamer, I guess," he said to himself, as he
replaced his head on the pillow.
Another slight shock roused him before he had fallen asleep again.
"It must be the dinghy bumping alongside," he declared. "I suppose I
ought to drop a bucket over her stern. That'll keep her clear."
Still drowsy, the Sea Scout rolled out of his bunk, and made his way
through the sliding-door into the cabin. Although the yacht was
moving slightly, the floor was sloping decidedly to port. Hayes
thought that this was rather unusual, but in his semi-torpid state
the fact did not trouble him.
Treading softly with his bare feet, so as to avoid disturbing the
slumbering occupants of the cabin, Hayes went on deck with the
laudable intention of preventing the dinghy grinding against the
yacht's side. But, when he gained the open air, he could only stand
stock still and rub his eyes in sheer amazement.
The _Spindrift_ was not in the spot where she had been anchored the
previous night. She was not even in the harbour; she was outside of
it and about half a mile from the entrance. Hayes could make out both
Dartmouth and Kingswear Castles in the growing light. She was
aground, listing slightly to port, with some jagged rocks showing
just above the water within a dozen yards of her starboard side.
Hayes was now fully awake. His first step was to rouse his
companions.
"Below there!" he shouted. "We're adrift!"
"Shut up, you noisy blighter," replied Desmond sleepily. "It's not
time to turn out. Go to your bunk and stop skylarking."
Mr. Graham, too, stirred himself and added to the protest, only to
fall fast asleep again in a valiant endeavour to fulfil his promise
of "sleeping the clock round".
"G-r-r-r-r!" gurgled Findlay. "Chuck it, you idiot."
But Hayes was not to be "choked off". Descending the cabin steps he
gripped the Patrol Leader by the shoulder.
"I'm not joking, Desmond," he said earnestly. "We are adrift. We're
aground right outside the harbour." Desmond rolled out of his cot.
"Right-o," he replied, glancing at the dog-tired Scoutmaster. "Hike
Jock out of it. Don't bother to disturb Mr. Graham."
Findlay was turned out without ceremony, and the three lads hurriedly
threw on their clothes. By the time they went on deck, the tide had
fallen considerably, leaving the yacht still heeling slightly to
port.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the Patrol Leader, sounding with a boat-hook.
"We've done it this time. We're properly in the soup. There's three
feet of water to starboard, and I can't touch bottom on the other
side. If she rolls right over she'll be done for. Bring the dinghy
alongside, Hayes. Jock, bear a hand with the kedge. We'll have to lay
it out and get a strain on the warp by the throat halliards. It's our
only chance."
The Sea Scouts worked like Trojans. The kedge was carried off to the
rocks and a strain taken up on the mast by means of a tackle. So
great was the tension that the port shrouds were as taut as
fiddle-strings, while those on the starboard side were quite limp.
But it was impossible to get the yacht on an even keel. All that
could be done was done--and that was to prevent the _Spindrift_
toppling over the ledge into deep water.
"Now," continued the Patrol Leader, "no jumping about. Keep on the
starboard side as much as possible. Bring the dinghy aft: we may want
her in a hurry."
"I suppose we can just breathe," remarked Findlay jocularly. "That
wouldn't disturb the balance, would it?"
The others laughed. The mental tension was broken.
"You can breathe as hard as you jolly well like, Jock," replied the
Patrol Leader. "But you won't develop anything like the horse-power
that my heart did just now. It was thumping against my ribs like a
sledge hammer."
For some minutes the lads remained silent, watching the falling tide.
Fortunately there was not a breath of wind and the sea was calm, save
for the ripples as the ebb poured through the narrow entrance to the
harbour.
"What beats me," remarked Desmond, knitting his brows, "is how we got
here. I suppose the anchor tripped. It's a wonder we didn't foul any
of the other yachts and vessels in the harbour."
"I suppose the chain didn't part?" suggested Jock. "We can see,"
replied the Patrol Leader. "Jump into the dinghy. There's still
enough water for her." The three Sea Scouts boarded the little
cockleshell and paddled towards the bow of the _Spindrift_. By this
time the yacht was well out of water, resting in a shallow groove in
a flat-topped, weed-covered shelf of rock. Only six inches of
slippery rock separated the keel from a sheer drop into twelve or
fifteen feet of water, and, should the supporting tackle give, there
was nothing to prevent the yacht falling with a terrific crash into
the depths.
"I say," exclaimed Findlay, pointing to the _Spindrift's_ bows. "Who
anchored the yacht last night?"
"You did," replied Desmond and Hayes simultaneously.
"Then a pretty mess I made of it," admitted Findlay frankly. "Look at
it!"
There was the anchor, which was supposed to have been well down into
the mud on the bed of the harbour, one of its flukes hung up on the
yacht's bobstay, while a bight of fifteen fathoms of chain trailed
uselessly across the rocks.
Back to the yacht the lads went, exercising the greatest caution in
getting on board. The sight of the yacht viewed from bows-on had not
allayed their fears, but rather the reverse. Almost high and dry she
looked immense, and it seemed impossible that the two-inch warp could
preserve the balance of the dangerously listing craft.
"We'd better wake Mr. Graham, after all, I think," said Desmond. "He
can do nothing--nor can we--but if the yacht did fall over he'd be
drowned like a blind kitten in a bucket."
The Patrol Leader went below and touched Mr. Graham's shoulder.
"Hello, up and dressed!" exclaimed the Scoutmaster. "What's the time?
Why, it's only half-past six! And the yacht's listing. What's
happened?"
Briefly, Desmond explained. Mr. Graham did not even wait for the
report to be concluded. Grabbing his clothes he went on deck, the
Patrol Leader following cautiously and eagerly. He didn't fancy being
below. It was a jolly sight safer on deck, he decided.
"Well, she's all right if that tackle holds," said Mr Graham. "You
could not have done much more. It's merely a question of waiting till
the tide rises. Low water isn't till seven o'clock. With luck we'll
be afloat by eleven."
"No grub till then," added Findlay.
"We can run round in the dinghy," continued the Scoutmaster. "That
will give the yacht a better chance than if we remained on board."
"How about sending for Bedford and Coles, sir?" suggested Findlay. He
knew that, according to arrangements, Hayes and he would have to
return to Wootton, and, although loath to miss the rest of the run
round in the _Spindrift_, he wished to see that his chums had a "look
in".
"Not much use doing that until we know we've a yacht for them to sail
back in," rejoined the Scoutmaster, glancing gloomily at the
precarious state of affairs. "All aboard the dinghy--don't jump about
too much."
The dinghy was manned. The Sea Scouts pushed off and rowed slowly
towards the channel. As it was, the keel grated on the rocks as she
drew clear.
Then the dangerous position of the _Spindrift_ could be fully
realized. She was high and dry, with the exception of her keel. Her
mast was at an angle of about 15 degrees from the perpendicular.
There was a risk of two accidents happening: either the mast-head
tackle might part and let the yacht over, or else her keel might slip
off the ledge, with the result that she would strike the sharp edge
of the rocky shelf and be stove in. Either might happen should a
strong wind spring up.
For a couple of hours the crew paddled about in the dinghy, until it
was dead low water. They had to keep an eye on the yacht, not that
they could prevent disaster, but with the object of salving anything
that floated should she sink.
It was a weird sight, for at low tide the keel of the _Spindrift_ was
five feet above the water-level, while a plummet from her starboard
side would sink in ten feet of water.
"I'm afraid it was my fault, sir," said Findlay.
"Don't let that worry you, Jock," replied Mr. Graham. "You are not
the first person who thought he'd let the anchor go properly. There's
always that risk on a dark night."
"I'll take good care in future to see that the fluke hasn't caught up
on the bobstay," said Findlay with grim resolution.
At last the pangs of hunger drove the crew ashore. The tide was now
rising, and every minute lessened the danger of disaster to the
yacht; but it was an unwise proceeding to attempt strenuous work on
empty stomachs.
After a hearty "breakfast-and-dinner-combined", the crew re-embarked
in the dinghy and rowed towards the mouth of the harbour, taking
advantage of the strong counter-eddy to the main flood.
To everyone's delight the _Spindrift_ was still in the same position
as when they last saw her, but the water was now within a foot of her
load-line.
"It's quite safe to get aboard," said Mr. Graham. "Directly she feels
lively we can ease off the throat-halliards, recover our kedge and
lay it out in the stream. Let's hope there's no steamer coming in or
out, or her wash will give the yacht a nasty hammering on the rocks."
All hands set to work with a will. The yacht was pumped dry, although
she did not appear to have more water in the bilges than usual. Then
the kedge, with thirty fathoms of grass line, was dropped in deep
water.
The loud bray of a syren, echoing along the wooded hills on the
Kingswear side of the harbour, warned the Sea Scouts that what they
didn't want to happen was taking place. Already the bows of a large
collier were visible as she rounded the precipitous bluff of St.
Petrox.
"Driving for all she's worth," exclaimed Desmond. "Look at her
bow-wave. Do you think she'll slow down for us, sir?"
"Hope so," replied the Scoutmaster laconically, and standing on the
cabin-top he semaphored to the oncoming vessel to ease down.
The collier showed not the faintest sign of so doing. She passed at
full speed, a couple of men on the bridge grinning at the plight of
the yacht as she did so.
"Look out!" shouted Mr. Graham. "Mind you aren't jerked overboard."
The Sea Scouts took the warning promptly. It was lucky for them that
they did. A huge wave was approaching, but, as generally happens when
a vessel is steaming hard in a narrow channel, the water on either
side was sucked away like the undertow of a receding breaker.
The _Spindrift_, already practically water-borne, lifted heavily as
the swirling stream struck her side. The next moment she was swept
from her precarious position into deep water.
So far so good. But there still remained a great risk of disaster.
Would the rapidly-approaching wash hurl the yacht back again upon the
granite-like ledge?
Quick to act, the Scoutmaster rushed for'ard and began hauling in the
kedge-warp. Desmond, grasping the situation, scrambled for'ard also,
maintaining his balance like a cat. Together they hauled their
hardest, then:
"Belay!" exclaimed Mr. Graham.
The Patrol Leader took a turn round the bitts. It was impossible to
haul in any more of the rope before the swell struck the yacht.
The _Spindrift_ dipped her bows well under as the curling mass of
water poured over the fore-deck, drenching Mr. Graham and his
companion to the skin. Back she staggered until the warp tautened
like a violin-string. Then, aided by the undertow, she plunged
forward again, this time well clear of danger.
It had been a narrow shave. Findlay and Hayes, who had been hanging
on to the cockpit coaming, afterwards told Mr. Graham that the
yacht's transom was within a couple of yards of the rocks. Had she
struck, the terrific shock would have broken her back and she would
have sunk like a stone.
"Thank goodness!" ejaculated Mr. Graham. "That was a close thing. I'd
like to meet the fellow in charge of that collier. I won't call him a
Master. A sailorman wouldn't do a thing like that. I say, lads,
where's our dinghy?"