Dateline: Ocean Springs America
By now you've probably seen it on the news, but in case you've been in self
imposed isolation or on life support, the mighty Schatzie and her fearless
crew of race hardened sailing fanatics made their season racing (and
sailing) debut in the Gulfport to Biloxi regatta (locally known as the Race
for the Case) on June 11. Repairs and fine tuning continued up until
literally the last minute, with several of the ships systems untested until
the starters horn, but as the old song reminds us it's actually the amount
of salt inside the boat that counts ('the mate was a mighty sailing man, the
skipper brave and sure.....').
The wind had been taunting us for weeks, blowing firm and steady from the
south. The Schatzie sat forlornly on her trailer with repairs nigh done and
algae growing on her venerable hull. We just needed someone to set an
impossible goal to get the refit into high gear. As fate would have it, I
met my old sailing nemesis Ed (Special Ed from the Christmas catamaran
regatta) a coupla of weeks prior to the race and he offered to let me crew
for him again (that knucklehead's memory must be shot) in the upcoming regatta, since I had no boat of my own. I reminded Ed that not only did I have a very fine boat of my own to sail, but that our last voyage had tested the limits of my good nature and I was not sure I could restrain myself from
choking him if fate should ever put us on the same boat again. He said he'd
see me at the regatta, if he could find crew, and I said Rockin' A Tweety
you will and drove at a high rate of speed straight to the drydock
(otherwise known as my backyard) to assess Schatzie's state of preparedness, or lack thereof.
The news was not all bad, it seems before running out of momentum I had completed the major portion of the extensive repairs necessary to make her
seaworthy again (last outing was a doozy, and then there was that hurricane...) I had merely to button down a few detials, smear on a little paint, pump out about a thousand gallons of water, replace a few of the more frayed halyards and sheets, rewire the radio, charge the battery, and a few more minor details, then, of course, take her on a shakedown cruise to test everything because no idiot would start an offshore regatta without testing everything first. What the hell, we had almost two weeks, why start immediately?
Sunday, one week until the regatta. Dylan and I do a quick walkaround and
jot a rough list of materials and supplies, then head over to West Marine
(the local sail shop in Gulfport) for a little provisioning. We talk them
in to redeeming a four-year-old gift card (we had no money and were refusing to leave at closing time) and afterwards decide to drop by the Gulfport Yacht club (the sponsoring club for this regatta) to size up the
competition. As luck would have it, their sailmaster was there and he
gladly took my entry fee and magnanimously issued me a temporary password to their website so I could converse with the other sailors about start times, tactics, etc. Things got a little ugly before we left as we told him and his entourage that our boat was unbeaten in the last two years, and tried to leave them an adress to send the trophy to save their club the embarrasment of being thrashed by rank outsiders. That got tongues wagging and fingers pointing so we beat a hasty retreat but not before stopping off in the bar to charge a six pack of Corona to the sailmasters' tab.
Monday started our cleaning and repairs, which went so well we took Tuesday and Wednesday off. I made good use of the spare time to start a little inspired emailing rivalry on the Gulfport Yacht Club website (teach them to give me a password) which they should thank me for because I'm certain there were folks who entered the regatta just to beat 'that loudmouth sumbitch from Ocean Springs.' I finally stopped the messaging because some wimp in the chatroom couldn't stop whining about someone charging thirty bucks worth of beer on his tab and I just can't stand to listen to a grown man cry.
We finished the repairs (sort of) Saturday at four a.m., and that afternoon we trailered over to Gulfport to set up the boat and take her out for a
short sail. As luck would have it a gale blew in about the time we arrived,
and we spent our time helping other racers tie their boats up in a driving
rain. One particular skipper sailing a thirty-eight foot Benetau
(translation big, fast, expensive boat) who shall remain nameless came steaming in under full sail and if not for the intervention of us and a few others would've dinged his boat on the slip. We were running back and forth trying to keep him from scratching his fancy paint job while he hollered at us like hired help. As he unloaded Dylan suggested he drop the jib a little sooner to be more under control in the harbor and he asked Dylan if he'd ever sailed anything bigger than a dinghy. Quick intervention by another sailor kept Dylan and I from pushing him off the dock, and we later found out he was a local plastic surgeon (translation: social retard).
The race was scheduled to start at one on Sunday, but with so many variables we knew we needed to be there early. The skipper's meeting was scheduled for 11:30, and we wanted to be set up and have the shakedown done by then. We had planned to skip church even though we were scheduled to usher at the 0830 service, me thinking erroneously I had cleared this with Sandy (evidently 'do whatever the hell you want' doesn't mean what I thought it did) so we showed up early for church and briefed the preacher on our quandary. Understanding soul and outdoorsman that he is, he told everyone to come in, sit down, read the announcements from the program, and we passed the plate in record time and were on the road for 0900.
The boat setup was a little lengthy, as this was the first time to raise the
mast this year, but we got everything secured and the boat in the water by
1110. We went to the skippers meeting and learned there would be a
staggered start using PHRF (look it up) ratings to handicap the faster
boats. The Schatzie was scheduled to start fifth out of eighteen.
We slipped the lines at about 1200, and motored out of the harbor haughtily,
partly to conceal rusty sailing skills and partly from not wanting others to
see us if our rig cratered in any way. We motored about two miles out to
the start line where we hove to and raised the sails and made last minute
(literally) adjustments to our boat and held our breath for a couple of
experimental tacks and jibes. Schatzie seemed eager for battle, and at our
appointed start time we went screaming (literally) across the line headed
for Biloxi. Our last words to the race committee boat were 'Tell the others
to get a good look at our transom, that's the only view they'll get of the
Schatzie today!'
The race is set up in three legs. The first is straight east for 13 miles.
The course then follows the Biloxi channel north 2 miles to Casino Row (the casinos book this as a spectator event) then back east along the channel for another 2.5 miles. We knew we needed to be close hauled for the majority of the race to be competitive, and the wind gods cooperated (for the most part) for the first leg. We overtook three of the earlier starters within the first few miles and were gaining on the fourth before the wind decreased and left us ghosting along with the big rigs gaining like freight trains. We were passed by several boats before our turn north into the channel, where our lack of a spinnaker (I can't remember everything) would put us at a significant disadvantage on the downwind run. We started the north leg half a mile ahead of a group of five boats who thankfully seemed to be more interested in not letting each other pass then in catching the little beater limping up the channel wing-on-wing. We spent most of our time looking astern, trying to guage our diminishing lead versus our time to round the last mark to turn upwind again and hopefully sprint to the finish ahead of this gaggle of pretenders. The lead boat almost had us as we made our turn east, but we were able to shake him by taking to the shallows on the inside of the course, while he had to make a wider turn to stay afloat. He did get close enough for us to recognize our old friend the plastic surgeon behind the which started some yelling and fist shaking between the two boats, him guaranteeing us a sound thrashing and us mooning him and his crew.
Knowing our enemy strengthened our resolve as we minded the flutter of every telltale and searched the horizon for freshening wind, but the Idol began a steadily chipping away at our lead, her big new sails making the best of the light winds. Doctor Skipper leered hungrily from narrow eyes as the distance closed to less than a boatlength (ours not his). Just as we were
maneuvering close to try and block his wind (and to unleash the water
balloons we had prepared for just such an occasion) the wind gusted and
shifted slightly, giving Schatzie just the ammo she needed to blow this punk
away. We finished three boatlengths (his not ours) ahead of a forlorn
doctor who wore an expression like he'd just tasted shit for the first time.
The crowd at the pier cheered as we hove to to drop sail, and as the Benetau passed astern Dylan took a couple of snapshots of the beautiful boat with the disgruntled skipper. 'Getting a picture of a real boat?' he called to us from the bridge. 'Just want to remember what losing looks like' Dylan
hollered back. I swear I thought that physician was gonna lose his mind.
The final standings showed us thirteenth out of eighteen official entries,
but we knew who the real sailors were that day. We didn't stick around for
the awards ceremony (those things are always rigged anyway) but I'm sure we probably earned a trophy for something. We're looking around for another race, thinking we're gonna remember our spinnaker next time. The bastards'll never catch us.....How's your wind blowing lately?
Cap'n Nate
