Victory at any cost
The need for speed can shut out almost everything else
Nothing gives the owner of a long-keeled old wooden boat quite the smug satisfaction as overhauling a big Bavaria. No matter that the chances are that the BB’s skipper is trolling along with eased sheets, enjoying a light lunch on the cockpit table while the autopilot takes the strain, whereas his or her counterpart has eyes glued to the tell tales, hand on the sheet winch, senses peeled for the faintest of cat’s-paws. “Ha!” they’ll exclaim, as they creep past. “See, the old girl’s no slouch. Modern rubbish. Pah!”
To get the best out of any boat you have to race her. I’m a great one for sailing as efficiently as possible, cruising or racing. Winning a prize is nice, but when a tidal gate lies between you and getting the kids home before bedtime (or closing time at the Crown & Anchor), concentrating on those tell tales becomes rather important.
If we think about it, sailing efficiently and racing are synonymous. We can all remember times we’d dearly loved to have yanked whoever was on the wheel off it, hissing under our breath “for goodness sake stop pinching; trim the jib; watch the blinking tell tales” etc. I once spent the best part of a week on passage to Madeira cursing whoever was weaving us all over the Atlantic. I had booked a flight home and was hoping to have a couple of days exploring the island. Fat chance; a few hours then whoosh and away, barely enough time to check into a double room at a posh hotel, to which the crew were invited, and who – fed, showered and forgiven – proceeded to drain the contents of the mini bar.
It is not a good sign on a racing boat when the rail meat – the poor so and sos hanging over the side – start mumbling about the afterguard. It is the subtlest torture seeing your efforts hoisting the No 3 going to pot because the guy on the wheel won’t keep a steady course. Up front, you watch the tell tales flick each time he loses concentration, every one a stab in the stomach.
Which is why on a dull day last September you would have seen Sally’s skipper crouched to leeward, eyes only for the woollie bits on the big Ratsey genoa, as she edged towards the turning point at the corner of Isle Martin, halfway through the annual Cup race for the Loch Broom Sailing club.
So slow was the race that my crew – why are they always labelled “long suffering”? – got so bored she swore never to set sail in Sally with me again. Which was harsh; was I not doing my damnedest to get us past the finish and into a gin and tonic as fast as I could? “Can’t we just for goodness sake just switch on the bloody engine?” her body language screamed. Well, no. With two 35-footers within hailing range, and the smell of victory in my nostrils, now was not the time to throw in the towel, or fire up the little Japanese fellow in the bilges.
The year before, 83-year-old Sally and I had blown the race by over standing the island, coming in third on a day that was her weather: bow down, full main and yankee, pulling like pack horses. If heavy was her weather, Sally was proving that light was too, her near-5 tonnes keeping her moving through the lulls. A clean bottom, newly sanded and antifouled, helped, but above all a fixation on two strands of wool on the big Ratsey.
A mile to go and one of the 35-footers was still in sight, rounding the final headland before the run to the finish; the other was probably dousing sails. Would Sally make it? The last half miles had been excruciatingly slow as the breeze softened.
Others that day reported seeing minke whales, a pod of dolphins, a sea eagle and – yes it’s true – a tuna jumping. They probably had lunch too. I just saw, well, tell tales, for four hours or so, a log that ranged from 2.5 kts to a heady 4 kts; and I ate a banana.