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Autumn Series Race 3. Friday 17th November
Wind 15 - 20 knots North Westerly.
This is set to be a long inshore - a 20-mile race, which should give us enough time to draw ahead, provided the Gods favour us. Though it seems they don't because it's blowing a fair bit, and raining intermittently. It's grey and whitecapped ugly out there. Mike sets the course - a triangle with Earth Station mark and South Pole involved. The Club have laid a mark for Earth Station (the 8-tonne fixed beacon having dissappeared some while ago). There are only four of us today - 'Rapscallion', 'Touch & Go', 'Helmwind', and us.
We tighten the shrouds and prepare for nasty weather, setting off for our 11:15 transit start and find, for once, that our start is not too shabby after all. Heading up to East Bouy we draw ahead just a little, round the mark and set to superior crew concentration, launching our spinnaker and working out the best angle down to the laid mark at Earth Station.
About a third of the way down we spot the mark - about a mile north of where it should be! "That can't be it, get the binoculars" I grumble. It's right inshore, a blob of bright orange against the edge of the ever-encroaching land reclamation. But there's no other bright orange mark. Nothing. "The Club's dropped it in the wrong place", we agree, and head slightly towards it. Hamish squints through the binoculars. "The bloody thing's on a boat, moving north" he yells. Now what?
Rapscallion, trailing us, reaches over after dropping her kite. We drop ours and head back upwind to see what the hell is going on. Two fisherman, claiming ownership of that particular area of water have plucked our large orange mark from anchor and are in the process of delivering it back to the Club. F-ing idiots. Everyone yells at them and they drop it back into the water. I call for abandonment, but Mike shouts for a restart at 11:50 on a transit to our newly placed race mark, and all four boats agree. What a lousy start to a race. I'm concerned that we are now 'out of sync'. Unsettled. Out of sorts.
Our crew vote that we should continue, so we hang back slightly, (No point in being over early on this one) set the spinnaker and cross the new 'start line' on a run for South Pole. The wind is gusting quite strongly and the sea is building as we run south. We're gybing angles and find ourselves on the port side of Rapscallion, us on starboard, while he's on port. I gybe away, not wanting to play in even fouler air, but quickly find the dratted reef nearing to port of us. Rapscallion is a couple of boatlengths from us, but we've pulled ahead just a bit - just enough to smartly gybe over, regain starboard and force him to give us water this time.
I should have done it the first time.
A gust catches us in mid-gybe and - whammo - we're into a real bitch of a broach. A complete howler. Uncontrollabe and heading rather fast straight at the Rapper. I have sudden visions of our carbon fibre pole snapping in half against a Mustang 30 hull, and panic accordingly, hanging onto the tiller, helm hard up while the sails flog and we bury our cockpit (and half the main) in the water. At the last minute I put the helm down to head further upwind and we miss the Rapper by no more that five feet at the most, noticing, in the midst of our own fear, the whites of their eyes wide with fright.
But our broach doesn't stop there. It carries on even more horribly awash for ages. Jackal just won't come upright and it seems like an hour before she finally surfaces, drags her boom out of the drink, heads off and we're able to sheet in the Bitch and head downwind again. Flustered and pissed off, as Rapscallion has sailed way away down the course.
Neil asks if we can broach again. He likes that kind of on-water action.
Extremely surprisingly, we manage to catch up and pass Rapscallion to the mark, drop the spinnaker and head back for our first beat up to West Pole. The wind has built and the seas are lumpy, so instead of trying to get a lift off the reef, we tack to starboard and head out for the middle of the course. The waves are slightly less here and we're not lee rail under quite so much. We opt for a 'tack-right-up-the-middle' approach. After all, we tack fast, and it confuses Rapscallion, who always likes to follow our lines, plus we may play the shifts such as they are...
It turns out we do get lifted quite well halfway up and we round for our next downwind, having gained quite a respectable lead. The wind is really exhilarating now and we gybe our way down, sailing angles again (as we have to), but we're having fun. Heading up to gain presssure and easing off as we speed up to ride the waves. The rudder is humming. We're smoking down the course, surfing at times. We can feel Jackal lifting, accelerating and then slowing as she buries her bow. A slight adjustment on the helm and she's heading higher, gaining pressure until we ease and catch the next wave. This is fun. OK. Fine. Yes, we have another broach, but it's only a little one.
We head up for the second beat, assume the same tactics and continue to extend our lead on the others. Around the top mark we're set up on the wrong side to launch so we reach across, gybe to launch, gybe again (all nerve-racking stuff) and find the angle to the rather out of place Earth Station mark. From there it's more surfing fun down to South Pole and another slog up to the finish transit of Pumphouse to West Pole. The wind is dying now, which is good for us and bad for the others now far astern, and we finish at 15:11:16 - about twenty minutes ahead we think.
Turns out to be quite a good race after all. We certainly sailed pretty well. And broached even better. At debrief we claim the 'Duffer's Prize' (there were no other nominations) for our attempted ramming of Rapscallion, and find we've also come first on IRC and first on Club Number. Not a bad scoop.
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