“I’m sorry to say she’s not. We thought the premium was too high for the risk involved. And also, that if she was lost, we probably would be too.”

“Is she pretty old?”

“Yes. Over twenty years. I guess we got stung when we bought her.”

“You didn’t have her surveyed?”

“Well—yes. That is, not by a professional, but a friend of mine who’s real savvy about boats.”

Ingram nodded but refrained from any comment. Under the circumstances, it was too much like kicking a man when he was down to elaborate on the foolishness of buying a twenty-year-old yacht without a professional survey, especially since this was a little on the self-evident side at the moment. “You don’t know what caused her to open up that way? Have any bad weather?”

Warriner shook his head. “Not recently. That is, except for a few squalls, which never lasted very long. It was just age and general unsoundness.”

Ingram was struck by a sudden thought. “You say you were bound from California to Papeete—aren’t you pretty far east? Seems to me you’d have crossed the Line nearly a thousand miles west of here.”

“We were taking it by stages. Down the Mexican coast to La Paz, and then by way of Clipperton Island.” Warriner made an attempt at a smile. “Look, I’m sorry I got dumped on you this way. But I can pull my weight, and it will shorten the watches. And I’ll keep out of your hair as much as possible; it’s not much fun having a third party around.”

“Forget it,” Ingram said, feeling uncomfortable for some reason. It was the first time he’d ever heard of a shipwreck victim apologizing for his existence, and he tried again to put his finger on exactly what there was about this boy that he couldn’t quite like. There didn’t seem to be any answer. “Hell, we’re just happy we came along when we did.”

Warriner made no reply. Ingram picked up the glasses, braced himself against the mizzen boom, and searched out the other yacht. She was near enough now to make out details on deck, but he couldn’t tell whether she was any lower in the water than she had been. She wasn’t down by the head or stern, but there was no doubt she had water in her, and plenty of it, from the drunken way she lurched on the swell, taking too long to come back each time she rolled. She had a short, rather high deckhouse with windows rather than portholes located near amidships, and in silhouette was vaguely reminiscent of a motor-sailer rather than a conventional sailing yacht. Dumpy-looking, he decided, and probably cranky as hell and slow. Big auxiliary, no doubt, lots of greenhouse for cocktail parties, and probably built for somebody who never used the sails except when he ran out of gas. Still, Warriner probably had upwards of $30,000 invested in her, and it was a sad way for a boat to end. “She’s still on an even keel,” he said, without lowering the glasses. “You sure we couldn’t gain on it, by pumping and bailing together—at least enough to start locating the leaks and calking ‘em?”

Warriner shook his head. “It’s hopeless. It’s been pouring in since around midnight.