when I started to get up sail overwhelmed me with all sorts of
jocular advice. They even offered extravagant bets to one another
that I would surely catch Demetrios, and two of them, styling
themselves the committee of judges, gravely asked permission to
come along with me to see how I did it.
But I was in no hurry. I waited to give Charley all the time I
could, and I pretended dissatisfaction with the stretch of the sail
and slightly shifted the small tackle by which the huge sprit
forces up the peak. It was not until I was sure that Charley had
reached Dan Maloney’s and was on the little mare’s back, that I
cast off from the wharf and gave the big sail to the wind. A stout
puff filled it and suddenly pressed the lee gunwale down till a
couple of buckets of water came inboard. A little thing like this
will happen to the best small-boat sailors, and yet, though I
instantly let go the sheet and righted, I was cheered
sarcastically, as though I had been guilty of a very awkward
blunder.
When Demetrios saw only one person in the fish patrol boat, and
that one a boy, he proceeded to play with me. Making a short tack
out, with me not thirty feet behind, he returned, with his sheet a
little free, to Steamboat Wharf. And there he made short tacks,
and turned and twisted and ducked around, to the great delight of
his sympathetic audience. I was right behind him all the time, and
I dared to do whatever he did, even when he squared away before the
wind and jibed his big sail over – a most dangerous trick with such
a sail in such a wind.
He depended upon the brisk sea breeze and the strong ebb-tide,
which together kicked up a nasty sea, to bring me to grief. But I
was on my mettle, and never in all my life did I sail a boat better
than on that day. I was keyed up to concert pitch, my brain was
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
62
working smoothly and quickly, my hands never fumbled once, and it
seemed that I almost divined the thousand little things which a
small-boat sailor must be taking into consideration every second.
It was Demetrios who came to grief instead. Something went wrong
with his centre-board, so that it jammed in the case and would not
go all the way down. In a moment’s breathing space, which he had
gained from me by a clever trick, I saw him working impatiently
with the centre-board, trying to force it down. I gave him little
time, and he was compelled quickly to return to the tiller and
sheet.
The centre-board made him anxious. He gave over playing with me,
and started on the long beat to Vallejo. To my joy, on the first
long tack across, I found that I could eat into the wind just a
little bit closer than he. Here was where another man in the boat
would have been of value to him; for, with me but a few feet
astern, he did not dare let go the tiller and run amidships to try
to force down the centre-board.
Unable to hang on as close in the eye of the wind as formerly, he
proceeded to slack his sheet a trifle and to ease off a bit, in
order to outfoot me. This I permitted him to do till I had worked
to windward, when I bore down upon him. As I drew close, he
feinted at coming about. This led me to shoot into the wind to
forestall him. But it was only a feint, cleverly executed, and he
held back to his course while I hurried to make up lost ground.
He was undeniably smarter than I when it came to manoeuvring. Time
after time I all but had him, and each time he tricked me and
escaped. Besides, the wind was freshening, constantly, and each of
us had his hands full to avoid capsizing. As for my boat, it could
not have been kept afloat but for the extra ballast. I sat cocked
over the weather gunwale, tiller in one hand and sheet in the
other; and the sheet, with a single turn around a pin, I was very
often forced to let go in the severer puffs. This allowed the sail
to spill the wind, which was equivalent to taking off so much
driving power, and of course I lost ground. My consolation was
that Demetrios was as often compelled to do the same thing.
The strong ebb-tide, racing down the Straits in the teeth of the
wind, caused an unusually heavy and spiteful sea, which dashed
aboard continually. I was dripping wet, and even the sail was wet
half-way up the after leech. Once I did succeed in outmanoeuvring
Demetrios, so that my bow bumped into him amidships. Here was
where I should have had another man. Before I could run forward
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
63
and leap aboard, he shoved the boats apart with an oar, laughing
mockingly in my face as he did so.
We were now at the mouth of the Straits, in a bad stretch of water.
Here the Vallejo Straits and the Carquinez Straits rushed directly
at each other. Through the first flowed all the water of Napa
River and the great tide-lands; through the second flowed all the
water of Suisun Bay and the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers. And
where such immense bodies of water, flowing swiftly, clashed
together, a terrible tide-rip was produced. To make it worse, the
wind howled up San Pablo Bay for fifteen miles and drove in a
tremendous sea upon the tide-rip.
Conflicting currents tore about in all directions, colliding,
forming whirlpools, sucks, and boils, and shooting up spitefully
into hollow waves which fell aboard as often from leeward as from
windward. And through it all, confused, driven into a madness of
motion, thundered the great smoking seas from San Pablo Bay.
I was as wildly excited as the water. The boat was behaving
splendidly, leaping and lurching through the welter like a race-
horse. I could hardly contain myself with the joy of it. The huge
sail, the howling wind, the driving seas, the plunging boat – I, a
pygmy, a mere speck in the midst of it, was mastering the elemental
strife, flying through it and over it, triumphant and victorious.
And just then, as I roared along like a conquering hero, the boat
received a frightful smash and came instantly to a dead stop. I
was flung forward and into the bottom. As I sprang up I caught a
fleeting glimpse of a greenish, barnacle-covered object, and knew
it at once for what it was, that terror of navigation, a sunken
pile. No man may guard against such a thing. Water-logged and
floating just beneath the surface, it was impossible to sight it in
the troubled water in time to escape.
The whole bow of the boat must have been crushed in, for in a few
seconds the boat was half full. Then a couple of seas filled it,
and it sank straight down, dragged to bottom by the heavy ballast.
So quickly did it all happen that I was entangled in the sail and
drawn under. When I fought my way to the surface, suffocating, my
lungs almost bursting, I could see nothing of the oars. They must
have been swept away by the chaotic currents. I saw Demetrios
Contos looking back from his boat, and heard the vindictive and
mocking tones of his voice as he shouted exultantly. He held
steadily on his course, leaving me to perish.
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
64
There was nothing to do but to swim for it, which, in that wild
confusion, was at the best a matter of but a few moments. Holding
my breath and working with my hands, I managed to get off my heavy
sea-boots and my jacket. Yet there was very little breath I could
catch to hold, and I swiftly discovered that it was not so much a
matter of swimming as of breathing.
I was beaten and buffeted, smashed under by the great San Pablo
whitecaps, and strangled by the hollow tide-rip waves which flung
themselves into my eyes, nose, and mouth. Then the strange sucks
would grip my legs and drag me under, to spout me up in some fierce
boiling, where, even as I tried to catch my breath, a great
whitecap would crash down upon my head.
It was impossible to survive any length of time. I was breathing
more water than air, and drowning all the time. My senses began to
leave me, my head to whirl around. I struggled on, spasmodically,
instinctively, and was barely half conscious when I felt myself
caught by the shoulders and hauled over the gunwale of a boat.