The Race had got hold of the cockleshell, and a piece of board would never make it let go.

Oars might, but there were no oars.
She danced wildly, saw him give up that attempt and paddle boldly out, instead, into the middle of the coiling waters, saw him turn the cockleshell's blunt nose straight for the Pass, and stand watchfully amidships with his board poised to keep her to a true course if that might be.
The passage of the Race is no easy matter even with oars and strong men's hands upon them.

A cockleshell and a board were but feeble things, and the girl knew it, and, dancing wildly all the time because she could not stand still, looked each second to see the tiny craft flung aside and cracked on the jagged rocks.
But, with a great raking pull here, and a mighty sweep there, kneeling now, and now standing with one foot braced against the side for leverage, the boy managed in some marvellous way to keep his cockleshell in midstream.
The girl watched them go rocking down the dark way, and then sped off across the headland towards Havre Gosselin.

She got there just in time to see a boat with two strong rowers plunging out into the Race past Pierre au Norman, and knew that the boy was safe, and then she slipped and tumbled down the zigzag to meet them when they came in.

The boy would want his clothes, and she wanted to see her boat.