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Autumn Series Race 2. Friday 7th October
Wind 3-8 knots, South Easterly.
The morning starts well. Our new Race Sec, Mike has been up all night, plotting, planning and practising his writing - as demonstrated by a big shiny new whiteboard, neatly inscribed with wind, tide and courses at the briefing. Dead impressive, especially the spelling!
But there's hardly any wind and I've forgotten to ask Hamish to remind me to bring the big jib. So it's his fault that we only have a tiny scrap on our forestay today. But we race anyway, starting on an Al Bander Port Poles transit, struggling upwind and up tide to West Pole. Rapscallion rounds first and we follow, setting our spinnaker for a run down to Pumphouse Port mark. Around this (still behind the Rapper - but only by a couple of metres) we tack quickly for clean air and claw our way upwind again heading on a long leg to Shoal Spar. The wind is light, fluctuating and we try to tack on the shifts, heading closer to the reef. Rapscallion stays a long single tack and only tacks on estimating the layline. The tide is flowing against us and we crawl up to the mark, but find we've eaten a good chunk out of Rapscallion, rounding to Port several minutes ahead and setting our spinnaker for the run down to West Pole.
All this 'close racing' with Rapscallion is a bit unnerving really. We're not used to it at all, so while the crew chirrup about how great it is to have another boat close race us on the water, I curse and fret under the severe pressure of the day.And the total lack of any pressure in our very, very small headsail.
We have fresh crew: Neil Whichelow, our new Image-man at Vision. A rookie, but proving to be a useful one, quickly mastering the few tasks we nervously allow him! But with a can of 'Pocari Sweat' (Yes, it's a vile isotonic drink) in his hand at arms length, Neil squints past it and lines up Rapscallion against the lettering on the can. "She's getting smaller", he says,"so we're definately gaining on him". Impressive tactics. Now if the drink can could just give us range and bearing...
Hamish waves the race instruction sheet around. "All marks now to Starboard", he says. So I, about 10 minutes later, quite forgetting his words, sail around the mark to Port. We drop the spinnaker and head upwind to Shoal Spar again. Nobody says a thing. Two or three minutes into our beat we pass Rapscallion still heading downwind, time ourselves and confidently reckon we're a good 8 minutes up on him. Possibly more. And then we watch as he goes around the mark to Starboard.
"What the hell's he doing", I mutter. Hamish digs out the race sheet... "Bloody Hell, couldn't you have told us?". "I did". Maybe so, but it's still Hamish's fault. Stands to reason as he forgot to bring the big jib.
Skipper indecision and lack of racing rules knowledge sees me initiate a 360, then another to make 720 just to be safe, and we then continue upwind, eating chunks out of Mike. Short tacks on the fingers of wind to the mark, around it to Starboard (got it right this time) and we set the spinnaker for a run to Pumphouse Port, running angles and gybing twice to round (Starboard again - funny that) and head for the finish transit at West Pole. Rapscallion has trailed far into the distance and we finish 22 mninutes ahead of her at 14:03:15.
At the club Mike comes in shaking his head. "DSQ:, says the rules. "DSQ", says Mike, and every single other cruiser fleet member. "DSQ", says the barman. So there we are, disqualified.
I find at the debrief that I have no other option, as Fleet Captain, but to award the 'Duffers' Prize' to myself this time. Well, actually to Hamish, for forgetting the jib and steering us the wrong way around the course. Honest. It's true. It wasn't me!
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