The Mystery on Cobbett's Island
answered, smiling, “but when you’re in a sailboat, the quickest way to get from one place to another isn’t always by going in a straight line.”
“What do you mean?” asked Diana, wide-eyed. “Can’t you just steer the boat like an automobile and let the wind push you along?”
“I wish it were that simple,” Peter replied, “especially when I’m trying to beat Cap across the finish line.” He explained that the boat isn’t pushed along by the wind blowing against the sails, but that the wind flowing over the sails on the leeward side gives a lift, or suction action, that makes the boat go ahead.
“Sounds like the same principle as an airplane,” Mart said.
“You’re right,” Peter answered. “As a matter of fact, it was through aviation experiments that they first discovered how the wind works. Men had been sailing boats for ages without really knowing how they operated.”
“Leonardo da Vinci came pretty close to finding out way back around the year 1500,” added Mart. “What a brain!”
“Now I see why you have to figure out where the wind’s coming from, then zigzag back and forth to get where you’re going,” said Trixie.
“So we’re actually going to Jenson’s Point, even though it looks as though we were headed straight for England,” Diana added with a giggle.
“Right you are,” Peter answered. “We’ll come about in a few minutes and tack in another direction, or zigzag, as Trixie said just a moment ago.”
By now they were close in to the Greenpoint shore, where the spire was plainly visible. “Now we head for Black Cat, don’t we?” Peter asked Trixie.
“We head for where Black Cat is supposed to be,” she said. “Everything seems pretty elusive out here.”
“Are those the bunker boats?” asked Mart, pointing to several large vessels tied up to docks on the Greenpoint shore.
“Yes, they’re in port either to unload or for repairs,” Peter explained. “They go out to sea for the menhaden unless the fishing happens to be good right here in the bay. Then you hear the men singing their work chants as they haul the nets. When they have a good load, they come back, unload, and pay off the men according to the weight of the haul.”
“That’s probably what Ed meant in the letter about it not mattering how long he was gone, I guess,” mused Trixie. “He didn’t want to come home until they had a full load.”
She was suddenly interrupted by Peter. “Get ready to change course! When I holler ‘Ready about—hard alee,’ everybody duck, or you’ll get clobbered by the boom.... Ready about. Hard alee!” he yelled, putting the tiller sharply over. All three crouched down as the boom came across, bringing the sail over to the other side of the boat. Then they all took turns handling the mainsheet and the jib sheets, Peter showing them how to keep the sails filled by pulling in or letting out the lines.
Trixie, when she had a free moment, spread out the copy of Ed’s chart again and studied it intently. Presently she said, “According to this, we’ve passed over Black Cat Rock and should be heading south toward a black buoy, but I don’t see one anywhere.” She shaded her eyes and looked around in all directions.
“There’s a black can a little farther on around the point,” Peter said. “That may be the one he means.” After several tacks, they came up close to Jenson’s Point. Mart caught sight of a blue heron just offshore in the reeds, waiting patiently for a fish to show up. Even though the boat came up close to land, it was so quiet that the bird was not disturbed. The Bob-Whites were curious about some tall poles along the shore. They had little platforms on top, and on most of the platforms there was a rough pile of branches.
“Those are osprey nests,” Peter explained as a widewinged grayish bird rose from one of the poles and screamed down at the boat sailing past. “Some people call them fish hawks. They come up from Florida or the West Indies in the middle of March and stay until September. The telephone company put up those platforms for them so they won’t build their nests on the telephone poles and interfere with the wires.”
“Or maybe listen in on our fascinating conversations,” said Mart, laughing.
“One eavesdropping session on one of your conversations would cure them for sure,” Trixie teased. “No bird, unless it’s a wise old owl, could understand your language.”
“Speaking of big words and
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