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2 August
Dinghy Novice
Some desparate Dads who dressed for the allotment, but won anyway.
When I first joined the club to start sailing, I wrote an article to describe my experience as a novice sailor (some would say complete prat) setting out on the Cat sailing adventure. I ended it with the words "With this level of determination and commitment, just watch out for us in a year's time. By then JJ [my teenage son, then crewing for me]will no longer be in pink and we will be focused on going fast rather than how to reach the water." OK, so it took 4 years to start winning. In hindsight I'm pleased with that.
Last night saw my entry into the highly competitive, closely fought world of one design dinghy racing, graced by an elite field of owners of over-stuffed trophy cabinets. And sundry others, such as RIB drivers and girls! [Other Ed: some might say they're the same thing!] In the best traditions, I entered this brave new world in the same way as I had for catamarans: as a complete geek, who'd never been left alone in charge of a plastic tea tray before. My sole dinghy experience thus far had been trying to breath through all too frequent dousings while hanging on to Q's jib as he thrashed his Wayfarer into last year's mountainous Dee chop during a typical Force 4 or more.
The West Kirby mill pond looked far more inviting in the relative calm of Force 0.5, and no-one seemed too serious about the racing. Added to that the first few out made sailing a tea tray look easy. I felt somewhat like the spotty skinny kid with two broken legs and no friends, left 'til last in the cruel world of primary school football team selection, but what did I expect after my self proclamation of impending pratness? Frankly, more than for the remainder of Team Animal to grab a more senior (i.e. elderly) cat sailor of almost no experience, currently gracing the other end of the Summer results table, and make for the water under a new banner as the Fast Cats. Fat Cats more like. My pride and feeling of self worth was restored when the Dart B team took me under their wing. I chose to overlook the fact they'd not get a sail otherwise.
So I watched carefully: They're stable, I shouldn't capsize. Sit at the front. Face the front. Lie down in the face of the strong winds. Tiller's at the back but seems to be broken on most boats. And there's only one and it's in the middle, apparently either lying in the bilges or getting tied in knots with the mainsheet. No 7:1 mainsheet - that'll be tough then, though the youngsters seem to cope. Nowhere near enough string on board. No jib? No spinni? I only go fast with a spinni. Half a pole is better than no pole (ask Mark) and these have no pole! No crew either. That means it's down to me. Who can I blame? Ah, there's a dagger board and I seem to know what to do with it, but it's not in the right place and some elastic seems to do the opposite to what's intended. A course that would fit inside a bus stop and these guys are still using the dagger board, up, down, up again? The kids set off and kick ass. Must be easy. Team Fat Cats get slayed - serves them right for blatant disloyalty. Dads versus kids now. Jesus, someone's taking this seriously. No, hang on, they all are, despite looking like late arrivals at the Whombaff Allotment Owners Ball, with no sailing gear to their name. Never mind, at least the fast ones will hold up their opponents and shepherd the slower boats through. I am sure the remainder of Dart B will be indebted to me for their chance to sail and will do likewise. I'll certainly block the oppostion and let my team-mates through when I get a chance!
Finally the moment arrives and I have to step aboard a tea tray and navigate it around a course, while slowing the opposition and working out how to drive it at the same time. (Reminds me of when I bought a Robin Reliant, while I was a student living in London - you can drive those on a motorbike license, so no need for driving lessons. Talk about in at the deep end. Mayhem on the streets of Ealing, and you thought my sailing required attention? Never mind, the Green Machine imperilled London for no more than three weeks before finally falling to bits half way to Oxford. My main source of pride at that point was that I had 70mph out of it, albeit going down a slip road onto the M3 with a strong following wind.) So how hard could this be? Now what? No trapeze line either, so discretely remove harness and stow it in the bilges before anyone notices. As expected, my tiller was also broken with a bodged hinge in the middle - not very stiff then - and the steering's all back to front. Never mind, if I look at the rudders, sorry, rudder, I'll be sure to go the right way. Now I find the mainsheet comes out of the floor - I'll control it from the boom, seems to be much easier! I got my watch started at 1 minute, and the race went downhill from there. My team-mates might have waited and blocked for all I know. They didn't do it for long enough, as I am sure they were changed and onto their second beer by the time I completed the 25 metre course. At least Simon M is in charge of results, no worries. Get out of boat, reflect, consider where I'd gone wrong. My two rules of sailing are Don't make mistakes, and Don't sail any further than you have to. Clearly I'd got that sorted, so it must have been the boat. The sail wouldn't fill, and hey, it was the same boat Aiden had used - he's far more experienced than me on these things and he'd seen fit to rule it out as his first choice of fighting weapons. Lesson: don't make the mistake of choosing a boat with a floppy luff. Not helped by the opposition removing my battens.
Sit at the front, face the front, lie down. That's it, Go boy Go!
Second go round. Get in, set watch, am in control, right on the line at the start but had gone downwind to avoid OCS. Not helpful on the beat, but at least I am on the same leg as the rest of 'em. Leading lady darts round the windward mark. I may as well extend my beat below the mark and dodge her off course, but she snuck in front and escaped. Tack twenty times for the mark. Lord knows how you tack these things. Waggle the rudder a lot, panic and flap the sails - nothing like cats - but it worked. Neck and neck with Kim as we head downwind. Kim drifted a little wide, some excitement here, I could sneak in above her at the downwind mark, and did so. Must say, she took it like a man as my boom swung right out across her boat. Stole her wind and caused a brief lady-like exclamation of impending proximity, but hey, I hadn't dunked her when she had a ride on the Spitti, so she was owed a dip. The fact she stayed aboard her plank showed great determination not to be beaten by the Fast Prat. Too bad she couldn't get past on the final beat to the line - and I had officially improved my results by one place and finished on the same day as the prizegiving.
Will I be back? I've got a year to practice, so watch out. I only need four more races and I'll be winning!
Simon Stannard
Photos by Mark Emptage
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