Tales from the CDCR: 2) The First Race . . . .

[Charles Brennan]

October 1977, Biscayne Bay

Nearly a year after first purchasing Urchin, I was finally able to sign up for my first Columbus Day Cruising Regatta.
Sign-up back in the '70's, was a far cry from today's instant on-line PayPal signups.
You picked up an entry form from whatever chandlery or marine store you most frequented, usually located close to the cash register.
Took it home, filled it out, added a check and mailed it in.
A week before the race, you drove down to the Coral Reef Yacht Club to pick up your racing packet; the only time all year, mere plebeians were allowed entrance to the club. 

The race packet was a clear plastic folder that contained:
A class pennant to differentiate the different classes. (A strip of colored sail fabric.)
A CDCR flag to show that you were a participant and not just a hanger-on.
A cast metal Medallion.
A scratch sheet of several pages, showing who had signed up and what class they had been assigned.
A map of Biscayne Bay showing markers that denoted racing marks and included a table of various courses, with corresponding signal flags denoting the course.
A large number to display to the race committee as you crossed the finish line.
Advertising materials from the various sponsors of the race.

I was so excited, I read all the contents several times over, since I knew how very much I was completely clueless about. 
A dozen pages into the scratch sheet there I was!! Assigned Rating Class 11!
KEWL! 
What's an Assigned Rating? 
Finally figured out it was a handicapping system and apparently, I was the smallest boat in the entire fleet and had been gifted with rather a large handicap: 315 seconds for every mile.
The first race class was at 9AM and it continued every 10 minutes (5 min prep, 5 min start) until they finally got around to my class at 11:45AM
You know: Right when the winds die off. 

To keep the race competitive, the courses were chosen only that morning, to keep people from "practicing" and denoted by a course flag flown from the race committee boat.
In addition to the class flags, were preparatory flags and start flags and a few other flags, whose purpose I never fully discerned.   
Had absolutely no clue as to what I was supposed to do, or where I was supposed to go,  but I figured it was much like NASCAR: Just follow the guy at the front of the line.
I did this by keying off the streamers whose color matched mine and following those boats and after rounding two markers, finally knew which course we were supposed to be racing on! 
It was difficult to do, as the boats in my class got progressively further and further away from me and required sighting with my binoculars. 
With unabated enthusiasm, we sailed back and forth across the Bay all afternoon, until finally reaching the race committee boat and proudly displaying our 3 digit race number, as we crossed the finish line at the far south end of the Bay.
Judging by the colors of the class streamers, we were smack in the midst of the two or three classes that had started behind us.
Hmmmm . . . . . might need to get a little better at this racing stuff. 

Now all we've got to do is hang out for around 18 hours or so and race back north, on Sunday! 
Everyone else was headed for Elliott Key, so that seemed like a good idea, as well.
A motor would have been nice, but the motor I had purchased with a tax refund (remember when you could get a tax refund?) had been stolen a month earlier and hadn't been replaced, yet.
So me and my buddy, Jim decided we would join the mob all heading that way.
Got out a chart, figured out a compass heading and then set out like a True Marlin-spike Seaman, although I could have just as easily, simply followed all the empty beer cans floating in the water.

The Main Halyard however, had other ideas.
The jib sheets dragging back and forth on jibes all day, had dislodged the main halyard loops from the cleat.
The main sail suddenly dropped to the deck and the loose end of the halyard went briefly skyward until it too, joined the mainsail, now festooned all over the cockpit.
OK, this was a Problem, because:
A) We needed the main sail to get to Elliott Key.
B) We needed the main sail for the race tomorrow.
There were no nearby sandbars where we could beach the boat and possibly drop the mast.
With all the boat traffic, it was very nearly worth your life, to attempt to re-rig from the water; besides, there was no good way to reach the end of the mast from the water, it was too high.

But, Hey!
We're young, physically fit, construction workers with tower raising experience! We're not afraid of heights! 
Figured I would just shimmy up the mast with the wayward halyard end in hand, rethread it through the block and then slide back down!
The wet salt spray all over the mast (and me!), quickly put a stop to that attempt.
Plan B: Utilize the jib halyard, rig a foot-sling and have my buddy Jim, use the jib winch to hoist me up to where I could reach the block.
Sounded good, in Theory.
The reality of hoisting 195 pounds, 25 feet in the air in a pitching, rolling, yawing, boat was in a word: Hellish.   
The moment arm of my weight caused the hull to sway violently from side to side.
In an attempt to counter the (scary!)    heeling, I was throwing my body from side to side on either side of the mast, while Jim was throwing HIS body from side to side of the cockpit and could only crank on the winch when he happened to end up on that side.
Which was briefly and only intermittently.
Nightmarish as it was, we did succeed in getting the block threaded (on the very second try; the first time, I threaded the line backwards) and back down on deck.
We both lay there in the cockpit, winded, bruised and exhausted, and decided not to wait until supper, to tap into the Rum and Coke we had brought with us.

With significant alcohol fortification, our enthusiasm returned and we set sail for Elliott Key.
Being among the last to arrive at an anchorage, vastly simplifies your anchoring choices: That one.
The sole empty space, where the winds funnel through the space between Sands Key and Elliott Key all night long, swinging the hull side-to-side and the waves that are hitting the sand bar in front of you, kick up and slap your hull, silly.   
Ah, well.
At least it was time for Supper.
Now, you have to understand, my buddy, Jim, was quite the Foody; subscribed to gourmet magazines and the like and ALWAYS had an opinion on what was wrong, with whatever you had just served.
"Well, at least it wasn't burned, but I think I would have added some Coriander . . . . "
(This was back before it got renamed to Cilantro, and became Famous.)
Since I had provided the boat, he decided he would provide all the food.
Since my usual fare from my bachelor camping days tended towards: Sardines, Vienna Sausage, crackers and canned chili, I was grateful for his largess.
I lounged in the cockpit, while he went below, temporarily closed the hatch (wind interfered with the propane stove operation) and prepared what he assured me, was going to be a major feast.
Sounded good to me; lunch had been barbecue potato chips (being in the midst of a race) and I was hungry after my exertions.

Several late comers were cruising in and out around the anchorage; some of them among the more serious racers in the fleet, with several guys all in matching tee-shirts hanging along the rail, busily munching on hot dogs.
One of them cried out: "Hey! That boat over there, is handing out free hot dogs to everybody!! Ya oughta go over and get some!"
Right about then, is when Jim opened the hatch and asked:
"Do you want the sauteed mushrooms added to the Beef Bourguignon, or served on the side?"
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(Incredible, what that guy could do with two stove burners.)
And as that amazing aroma wafted out of the cabin and drifted across the water in the fading sunlight, I thought I heard the sound of hot dogs plopping into the water.
I smiled and reached for my plate and a cup of the unused Burgundy, from the dish preparation.

There was a significant amount of high-volume partying all over the south Bay, that we could hear, but it wasn't enough to keep us from sleeping like the dead.
The next morning, we got up, checked that we were in the same spot as last night and then Jim decided to start breakfast.
We had plenty of time to make breakfast, rig the boat and sail back to the starting line, since our class started so late.
Not so, for the more serious racing classes who had to leave early, to make the earlier race starts.
Among them, were our hot dog buddies from the night before.
This morning, they all had matching pop-tarts, to match their matching tee-shirts.
And with impeccable timing, Jim opened the hatch and asked:
"You want your eggs fried, or scrambled?"
And as the aroma of fresh-cooked toast and bacon wafted across the water I saw, rather than heard, pop-tarts splashing into the drink.
We watched, as a half-eaten one, floated past the stern.
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Jim remarked that maybe next year, he would also make cinnamon pecan rolls for breakfast, instead of just herb-buttered toast.
Told him he was an over-achiever.
We might have been the smallest boat in the fleet, but I'll wager we were the best-fed!

Breakfast over, we rigged the boat for a busy day's racing and tied SEVERAL knots to secure the unused part of the main halyard, instead of merely hanging the loops over the horn of a cleat.
(Another hard-learned lesson in Seamanship.)
It was a little easier navigating the race course start, as numerous boats had failed to arrive at the start, possibly due to hangovers.
It also was much easier to figure out where our class was and where it was going, in the diminished fleet.
Happy to be participating in the spectacle, and racing with all our hearts in the hopes of beating well, SOMEBODY, we raced so intently, that we even forgot the barbecue potato chips.
Finally reached the end and crossed the finish line, to sail back to Crandon Marina, now racing the looming sunset.
Because of the fear of having to hastily rig for the road, in the dark? 
Nope.
It was the fear of the hordes of mosquitos that invade every night, right at sunset.
And we ALMOST made it. 
Tired, dehydrated, hungry, and itching, we drove home, while busily making plans for NEXT Year!! 

Charles Brennan

[Captain Kidd]

Charles, your tales are so REAL! I can relate.

[Charles Brennan]

Dale, Thanks for your kind words.
The tales are that Real, because the memories are (still) that Vivid!   

Thanks,
Charles Brennan

[Captain Kidd]

Dale, Thanks for your kind words.
The tales are that Real, because the memories are (still) that Vivid!   

Thanks,
Charles Brennan

They are real because they are vivid; they're also real because they are true to life! I'd guess most, if not all, of us have experienced things of the same nature (though I've never tried to climb my mast - LOL). Truth be told, such escapades are quite the norm for me. In fact, even after nearly 26 years of sailing, I refer to myself as an experienced novice - emphasis on novice.