The Point was a long sandy spit, which sloped gradually away into deep water.  If the vessel could weather it, she might get away to the north, but she had gone too far into the bay, and the fishermen saw that she must choose between going ashore on the rocks of the bay and hitting the Point.  In the latter event the vessel might hold for a while before the seas finally smashed her.

The brig rose sometimes on the cross seas until we could see her copper.  Then she would seem to strike savagely at the driving mist as her masts lashed forward; then she would lurch to leeward, and lie for a few horrible seconds as though she never would rise again.  It could not last.  My young friend said: 

“Let’s get the coble down to the water’s edge.”

The volleys of wind and the thunder of water had frightened the horses, and they stood trembling and cowed.  The men had to let the boat slide down the grassy channel, which was, as it were, bevelled in the low bulge of the Point.

They had not long to wait.  The brig suddenly came round, as though her helm had been put hard up.

“Rudder’s gone,” said one of the fishermen.

Sea after sea struck the vessel astern, and threatened to swamp her, but she managed always to shake herself.  She came on like a cork that is rushed down a gutter by a shower, only giving a roll and going yard-arm under as cross-seas hit her.

At last she stopped.

“Touched,” said one of the men.

But she rose again and lumbered yet a few yards forward.  Then she beat herself heavily, and the next sea doubled clean over her.

“We can’t do nothin’, chaps.  The coble winnot get two yards till she’s over.”

This came from the oldest fisherman.

“Oh! for Christ’s sake, let’s shove off,” said my young student, clasping his hands.  He was pale, and his eyes shone, as they always did when he was excited.

“It’s very well to say shove off, my bonny man, but look at it!  We brought the boat for fear there might be a chance, but there’s no chance at all.”

“I think we might just have a try,” said a large, grave man.  “Will three o’ you come, and I’ll steer her myself?”

“I’ll be one,” said a stiff little man, known as “Catfish.”

“Let me go,” said the young rabbit-catcher.

“I can pull as well as ever a one of you,” he pleaded, when the large man looked doubtful.  I wanted to go, but it was decided that a fisherman would pull better than I. So we got the boat hurled through the smother of foam, and presently we heard the “Crack, crack,” as the vanguard of the real water began to strike at her.

My youngster was pulling with his hat off, and I saw him now and then, as the boat swooped upward, and hung almost perpendicularly on the striped side of a travelling wave.  I believe I prayed.  An old man, whose son was rowing the stern oar (cobles only need three oars, two on one side, and a long one astern) said, “Lord, have mercy on you, my bonny Harry.”  Then he sobbed once, and his face became fixed, like a mask of carven stone.