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anigoFor your reading pleasure, I've found this link in case there are terms you don't "get". There's also a boat diagram at the bottom.
Yesterday started out with one word - adrenaline.
We hit the boat. The forecast was up to gusts of 40 knots. We've had the mast come down in 45 knots. The energy on the boat was palpable. Down below to get dressed, the comment went out that we felt like soldiers getting ready for battle. Gloves, wet gear, boots... Laughing and joking and dark humour. Water bottles were filled and passed out to be tucked in safe places to help rehydrate when necessary. Anything that might be needed later on a personal level was made ready near by, but out of the way to grab easily in anticipation of a rough sail without easy access to gear bags below.
We headed out to the start line, everybody in full wet weather gear, everybody handling the anticipation differently. Lorraine at the back of the boat was nervous and quiet. She had 3 children and a husband on 2 different (and smaller) boats. I couldn't stop jumping. Literally. So much energy that I just kept bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. Somebody is calling the weather office every so often to see if there is any change in forecast. I took stock of the sails. (Part of my job is to send up sails when they're called for. Taking a minute before the race to see which sails are where saves a lot of time when a sail change happens.) Three spinnakers, the heaviest of which was an ounce and a half. A good spinnaker, but not a 40 knot spinnaker. Hmm.... (Insert foreshadowing music?)
It's rough. And foggy. Thom calls for the mainsail to go up. Finally, something to do to focus energy on. The main goes up. It fills with wind and there's a considerable heel. The AP goes up on the committee boat. This flag tells the sailors that the start of the race is going to be delayed. They're having a hard time getting the other end of the start line set.
Starts in sailboat racing are not like starts in car racing, you don't line up at the starting line and wait for somebody to tell you to go. It's kind of difficult to hold your boat still and then scoot off in the instant the gun goes. Instead, you (usually) get a five minute warning, and at the end of those five minutes, you're allowed to cross the starting line. The object is to cross the line just moments after the gun goes. Of course, that's everybody's objective. In those five minutes before the gun goes boats are prowling around and practicing running up to the start line and back. It kind of looks like sharks that sense blood in the water but haven't started the feeding frenzy yet.
Finally, the pin end of the line is set. Because it's so foggy, the line isn't very long. The people in the committee boat have to be able to see the whole length of the start line to see if anybody's over early. The AP goes down. Our jib goes up. Our boat is fully powered now. The five minute sequence has started. There are 26 long, sleek, expensive boats nipping at each others heels. Every crew is doing the same thing. Somebody yells out the time every few moments as it ticks by. Four minutes! People are calling out right of way. Tacks. Gybes. Sail tension. Two minutes, thirty... Which is the favoured side of the line? Foredeck yells to helmsman - do you see that boat on starboard? One minute... Let's go for the line. Everyone's going for the line. It's mayhem. There's not enough room. We duck to avoid a collision. We're on a direct course straight into the committee boat. We're pushed down. The gun goes. The race has started. We're not going to make the line. We gybe away and come back around. It's a bad start for us. But it's bad for a lot of boats. Many are over early... what's this? It's a general recall. So many were over early that the committee boat couldn't see them all. We're all called back. We'll get to try again.
The wind has shifted. The pin end of the line needs to be reset. Our jib comes down and the waiting goes on. The fog is thicker now and the wind has dropped a bit. We wait. And wait. Sailing around. The wind's dropped more. The fog's increased again. An hour goes by. On the committee boat there are flags getting ready. And the flags say.....
The race is abandoned. No more racing today.
It's too foggy to set a start line. It's all done. With that, Chester Race Week is over.
And we've placed second. We were tied for first, but in the event of a tie first goes to the boat with the next best finish. We've got a 1st, a 6th and an 7th, the other boat has a 1st, a 5th and an 8th.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
We head back to the mooring. It's so anti-climactical it's not even funny. The wind has died down again to almost nothing. Where's the 40 knots? Where's the fame and glory? Truthfully, the chances are good we would have dropped out of second place after running this race, but there is general agreement that we would have rather fallen to 7th place and run a good hard race than take second and not been given the chance.
All the sails are dropped and put away. Lines are coiled. The boat is unusually quiet. We raft up to 4 or 5 other boats. The rum gets poured. It stays quiet for a while, but it's not long before the music comes out and the rum has its desired effect.
And what comes after that I'll save for the next post, because I'm hungry and haven't had breakfast yet, and I've temporarily run out of the energy to continue telling the story....
Yesterday started out with one word - adrenaline.
We hit the boat. The forecast was up to gusts of 40 knots. We've had the mast come down in 45 knots. The energy on the boat was palpable. Down below to get dressed, the comment went out that we felt like soldiers getting ready for battle. Gloves, wet gear, boots... Laughing and joking and dark humour. Water bottles were filled and passed out to be tucked in safe places to help rehydrate when necessary. Anything that might be needed later on a personal level was made ready near by, but out of the way to grab easily in anticipation of a rough sail without easy access to gear bags below.
We headed out to the start line, everybody in full wet weather gear, everybody handling the anticipation differently. Lorraine at the back of the boat was nervous and quiet. She had 3 children and a husband on 2 different (and smaller) boats. I couldn't stop jumping. Literally. So much energy that I just kept bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. Somebody is calling the weather office every so often to see if there is any change in forecast. I took stock of the sails. (Part of my job is to send up sails when they're called for. Taking a minute before the race to see which sails are where saves a lot of time when a sail change happens.) Three spinnakers, the heaviest of which was an ounce and a half. A good spinnaker, but not a 40 knot spinnaker. Hmm.... (Insert foreshadowing music?)
It's rough. And foggy. Thom calls for the mainsail to go up. Finally, something to do to focus energy on. The main goes up. It fills with wind and there's a considerable heel. The AP goes up on the committee boat. This flag tells the sailors that the start of the race is going to be delayed. They're having a hard time getting the other end of the start line set.
Starts in sailboat racing are not like starts in car racing, you don't line up at the starting line and wait for somebody to tell you to go. It's kind of difficult to hold your boat still and then scoot off in the instant the gun goes. Instead, you (usually) get a five minute warning, and at the end of those five minutes, you're allowed to cross the starting line. The object is to cross the line just moments after the gun goes. Of course, that's everybody's objective. In those five minutes before the gun goes boats are prowling around and practicing running up to the start line and back. It kind of looks like sharks that sense blood in the water but haven't started the feeding frenzy yet.
Finally, the pin end of the line is set. Because it's so foggy, the line isn't very long. The people in the committee boat have to be able to see the whole length of the start line to see if anybody's over early. The AP goes down. Our jib goes up. Our boat is fully powered now. The five minute sequence has started. There are 26 long, sleek, expensive boats nipping at each others heels. Every crew is doing the same thing. Somebody yells out the time every few moments as it ticks by. Four minutes! People are calling out right of way. Tacks. Gybes. Sail tension. Two minutes, thirty... Which is the favoured side of the line? Foredeck yells to helmsman - do you see that boat on starboard? One minute... Let's go for the line. Everyone's going for the line. It's mayhem. There's not enough room. We duck to avoid a collision. We're on a direct course straight into the committee boat. We're pushed down. The gun goes. The race has started. We're not going to make the line. We gybe away and come back around. It's a bad start for us. But it's bad for a lot of boats. Many are over early... what's this? It's a general recall. So many were over early that the committee boat couldn't see them all. We're all called back. We'll get to try again.
The wind has shifted. The pin end of the line needs to be reset. Our jib comes down and the waiting goes on. The fog is thicker now and the wind has dropped a bit. We wait. And wait. Sailing around. The wind's dropped more. The fog's increased again. An hour goes by. On the committee boat there are flags getting ready. And the flags say.....
The race is abandoned. No more racing today.
It's too foggy to set a start line. It's all done. With that, Chester Race Week is over.
And we've placed second. We were tied for first, but in the event of a tie first goes to the boat with the next best finish. We've got a 1st, a 6th and an 7th, the other boat has a 1st, a 5th and an 8th.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
We head back to the mooring. It's so anti-climactical it's not even funny. The wind has died down again to almost nothing. Where's the 40 knots? Where's the fame and glory? Truthfully, the chances are good we would have dropped out of second place after running this race, but there is general agreement that we would have rather fallen to 7th place and run a good hard race than take second and not been given the chance.
All the sails are dropped and put away. Lines are coiled. The boat is unusually quiet. We raft up to 4 or 5 other boats. The rum gets poured. It stays quiet for a while, but it's not long before the music comes out and the rum has its desired effect.
And what comes after that I'll save for the next post, because I'm hungry and haven't had breakfast yet, and I've temporarily run out of the energy to continue telling the story....