The Way of the Sea
1 The Way of the Sea Cheney Duvall stared up at the great clouds of soaring sail, though her eyes watered from the sun and salt sting. The Brynn Annalea had found a tail of the northeast trade winds, strong and hot, to wend her fast down Baja and push her easily over the Tropic of Cancer. Her sharp prow knifed the water, the jib with the lucky shark’s fin mounted on it splashing in the wave crests. She was a beautiful thing, fast, sharp-hulled, streamlined, proud. And dangerous. Cheney shouted up at Shiloh, and he was shouting back down at her. Neither of them could possibly hear the other, but both of them kept on. “You idiot! Come down from there this instant! You are going to fall and die!” Cheney shrieked. He made an impatient gesture—Get below, you dumb girl!— which made Cheney’s heart almost stop, for he had let go with one arm to make jabbing “get below” motions to her. Twelve seamen were perched along the bucking, straining yard, feet kicked back against the footrope, bellies pressed against the yard, hands gathering up the heavy canvas. Cheney watched, horrified, as they struggled to roll the great main royal sail around the yard. Finally it was wound as neatly as thread on a spool, and the sailors, with strong and agile movements, passed lengths of rope around sail and yard and made it fast with hitches. One by one they started edging back along the yard, making for the weather shrouds to scamper down.
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