Day Three of Grand Prix kicked off with a wonderful preview of winter. I rolled into the marina at 8:30 AM and was immediately greeted by a wall of cold rain. The traveler had come apart at the end of Day Two, so before coffee or common sense could intervene, I was elbows-deep in repairs. By the time the crew arrived at 9:30, I was soaked through my foulies, through my layers, through the tiny part of my soul that was still warm. A delightful start.
We shoved off around 10, and although the forecast had promised a mellow day, Nature had a different plan. We motored out to find a shifty 10–12 knots pumping in from the east. Not exactly the gentle conditions we were told we’d enjoy.
Race One: Drag Racing Practice
The first race was twice around. We nailed the start, right on the line at the gun, and managed to hang with the fleet all the way to the top mark. From there, things got weird. With the wind out of the east, both legs turned into reaches, so it was less tactical finesse and more straight-line horsepower. Blur is scrappy, but against the big sleds in a drag race, that’s a tall order. We held our own, but the race committee wisely decided the course needed a little adjustment.
Race Two: Now We’re Talking
For the second race, we punched out another competitive start and rounded the weather mark comfortably in the mix.
Then the fun hit.
A 20-knot squall rolled in from behind like it had a grudge. Suddenly Blur was on the step, touching 10 knots and rolling past bigger boats like we actually belonged there. It was glorious chaos. We made the leeward mark, executed one classic broach for style points, got the chute down, and powered upwind in 18–20 knots to the finish.
Sixth place. Our best finish of the regatta. Spirits went from soggy to soaring in about three boat lengths.
A Crew to Brag About
Same crew as Day Two. Same zero experience with Blur. Same unfamiliarity with each other. Yet this wild, last-minute collection of sailors absolutely gelled. Nobody panicked, everyone pulled their weight, and it just worked. I could not have asked for a better group.
The Grand Finale
By the time we got back to the dock, everyone was soaked, freezing, and thrilled. Blur got tucked into bed, we got cold beers into hands, and then it was off to the Seattle Yacht Club for the traditional Grand Prix bash. The party alone is worth entering this regatta. Great food, great people. Exactly why this event is such a highlight.
The Results
Our class was stacked with talent. TC took first, Sabotage claimed second, and Madame Pele rounded out the podium. Nine boats total, all tough competitors. More than one person mentioned how cool it was to see a small boat like Blur out there fighting for it. I’ll happily take that compliment.
End of Season
Grand Prix is the finale for us. Blur will dry out for a while, and I’ll spend the winter hitchhiking rides on other people’s boats. Come spring, we’ll wake her up, shake her out, and get ready to rumble again.
If there’s one thing the Puget Sound Sailing Championship (PSSC) reliably delivers, it’s uncertainty. The forecast for this year’s event was looking… let’s say dubious. It wasn’t clear whether we’d get a gentle day or a full-on ball-buster. With that in mind, I made sure Blur—a B-25 ultralight racer that loves light stuff but needs human ballast to stay upright—was fully loaded with crew. Seven of us on Day 1. Five on Day 2. And a prayer for balance somewhere in between.
The Forecast Fails to Intimidate
When we rolled into Shilshole on Saturday morning, the breeze was blowing a civilized 10–12 knots. Flat water. No whitecaps. Dry skies. It felt suspiciously like a setup, but we weren’t going to complain. We rigged up, got Blur in the water, and were out by 11:00 for the first start.
Originally, we’d registered for the doublehanded class, but one of the boats suffered season-ending damage, and the fleet collapsed. So, with a last-minute switch to fully crewed racing, I scrambled to assemble a new team. Half the folks had never sailed together before, but everyone showed up ready to make it work. My main goal for the day: finish all the races and keep the learning curve pointed roughly upwind.
Race One: The Gooseneck Incident
We were slotted into Class 3, up against two J/109s and a Beneteau 36—boats that make Blur look like a toy dinghy. The starting line, thankfully, was enormous—so big that I could own one end without getting buried under the big boats’ sails. A gift from J/105 class of 17 boats.
Just before the first start, as we were tightening halyard tension, the boom popped clean off the gooseneck. Turns out we’d lost a nut somewhere. Nothing says “good morning” like your boom suddenly deciding it’s had enough of racing. We lashed it back together with Dyneema—ugly but functional—and got back on the line. (Pro tip: Dyneema fixes almost everything except bad starts)
Only three boats made it off the line—another had gear failure—so we took third. Respectable, considering Blur was the smallest hull out there by a good 10 to 12 feet. Twice around the course, and we came back grinning. The boat was solid. The crew was finding rhythm. Not bad for a first round.
Race Three: The Great Kelp Catastrophe
By the time the third race started, the fleet was back to four boats, and things looked promising. That lasted all of thirty seconds. The moment our prep signal sounded, we plowed straight into a massive patch of kelp—so thick it wrapped around the rudder and stopped us dead. Full stop. Like hitting an invisible net.
Cue five minutes of controlled chaos as we backed the boat down, freed the rudder, and tried not to swear too loudly. We made the start with about thirty seconds to spare – definitely not ideal – but got across cleanly and settled into a good groove. The breeze stayed steady at 12–14 knots, the teamwork clicked, and we sailed a clean race. Another fourth-place finish, but the crew was gelling, and the boat felt fast.
Race Four: Smooth Sailing (Sort Of)
The Forth race was a quick one—just once around. I took the helm again, and we sailed it beautifully. Clean tacks, fast downwind legs, and a rhythm that finally felt natural. Of course, we still finished fourth, because physics is cruel and the other boats were, well, bigger. But there’s a certain satisfaction in sailing a small boat well against giants. We didn’t win the race, but we didn’t embarrass ourselves either, which is a win in my book.
Back at the Yacht Club, there was clam chowder and tall tales. Spirits were high. No one had gone overboard. Nothing was on fire. A good day by any metric.
Day Two: From Gusts to Glass
Sunday morning looked intimidating. Reports were coming in of 26-knot gusts off West Point, and Blur doesn’t exactly thrive in that kind of breeze without extra ballast. But by the time we got to the start line, it was only puffing 7–8 knots. Then 6. Then… nothing.
We started a race in dying wind, wandered into a few holes, and generally looked lost—along with everyone else. The Race Committee eventually called it off (thank you, Charlie), which was absolutely the right move. The convergence zone rolled through, and for two long hours, we drifted around like colorful corks.
Then, mercifully, the northerly filled in. Charlie reset the course near the marina breakwater, and we got one last, lovely race. 12–13 knots, sunshine, and a short course that Blur could really stretch out on. We sailed hard and came in third—our best finish of the weekend.
The Wrap-Up: A Small Boat with a Big Heart
Two thirds and three fourths put us solidly in fourth overall for the regatta, which—considering the size difference in the fleet—felt like a win. The weather, which had been forecast to be miserable, turned out gorgeous. Cool, sunny, and full of surprises. We learned a ton, and fixed some weird problems.
All told, PSSC 2025 was a success. The crew was game, Blur was fast, and the sailing was dry. For a boat that thrives on chaos and caffeine, that’s a perfect weekend.
Where Did Everyone Go?
I’ve noticed something odd in recent years: the big end-of-season races like PSSC and Grand Prix seem to be turning into exclusive gatherings of J/Boats and big yachts. The ragtag fleet of small boats that used to bring chaos and color to the starting line? Vanished. Gone.
By “small boats,” I mean those sweet 20- to 30-foot pocket rockets that used to pack the line — the Moores, Melges, Olsons, Santa Cruz 27s, Thunderbirds, and every other slightly-leaky, occasionally-overpowered local legend. They’re still around — you see them at Monday night Sloop Tavern races, tearing up the course and talking smack at the bar. But when it comes to the big regattas? Poof! Gone.
The Case of the Missing Small Boats
What happened? Were they abducted by aliens? Kidnapped by TP52 owners for ballast duty? Or perhaps they’ve gone to that great boatyard in the sky, where every halyard runs freely and no one ever forgets to close a seacock.
I can only speculate. Maybe it’s the cost — two or three days of racing can easily run you a couple hundred bucks (which, these days, is approximately the price of a Seattle latte). Or maybe it’s the new rating systems — PHRF giving way to ORC, complete with fresh paperwork, fresh fees, and fresh headaches.
And then there’s the weather. Let’s be honest: by late October, the “refreshing breeze” has turned into “horizontal rain,” and enthusiasm can freeze right along with your fingers. You’ve got to be a die-hard to leap out of bed for buoy racing when the sun rises at 8:00 and sets at 4:30.
The Sound of Silence
Back in the 90s, the small boat fleets at PSSC were rowdy. It was tight, intense racing — one-design in spirit if not in class. The docks were loud, the beers were cheap, and the trash talk was world-class.
Now? The scene feels like the morning after a great party that everyone forgot to invite you to. The competition is thin, the docks are quiet, and finding crew feels like recruiting for a polar expedition — all the good pirates are already spoken for.
Giant Killer Mode: Activated
But you know what? I’m not crying into my IPA. If it means my little boat lines up against a fleet of giants, so be it. Every David needs a Goliath or two. I’ll happily take my role as the underdog — the scrappy little boat punching above its weight.
So here’s my mission: I want to see more small boats on the line. I want to see those Moore 24s, Olsons, and T-birds back in the mix at PSSR, PSSC, and Grand Prix. Let’s bring back the chaos, the competition that makes this sport what it is.
See you on the line — and one of these days, I swear, I’m going to correct out over a TP52.
Saturday morning started off cool and cloudy, with a layer of fog out on the sound at Shilshole. The wind was light, drifting between 3 and 5 knots from the south. After our recent trend of warm weather, this change caught a lot of folks off guard. Down the Sound is held during the slow, balmy late summer. Typically, you can expect to bob around in little to no wind and bake under blazing sunshine. Not this time. As my crew, Laura Lewis, and I prepped Blur for the race, we found ourselves pulling on extra layers and telling each other, “It’ll all burn off by lunchtime.”
Down the Sound is a double- or single-handed pursuit-style race, so the starts are staggered according to the handicap of each individual boat. We got out to the starting line early and were pleased to discover a very reasonable 5–8 knots of wind waiting for us there. We watched as Blue Jeans, a C&C 27, was first off the line, making good time toward West Point. Soon after, Perfectly Strange (Pocket Rocket 22), Yeah Dogg (Olson 25), Moore Pun (Moore 24), and Impulsive(J/30) swiftly followed suit. This was our class for the race. I’ve raced against all of these boats before and knew they were not to be taken lightly. There were no mistakes—everyone was on the line right on time, and swiftly dwindling in the distance to windward when it came time for Blur to start.
We hit our start time perfectly and gave chase to our competition. The wind stayed around 5–8 knots, so we had the big jib up. After a couple of tacks, we were up to Magnolia Bluff and trading places with our first competitor, Impulsive. As we came around West Point, we were on port tack and got an amazing lift that had us basically pointed 180 degrees straight down the sound toward our destination. We passed Impulsive and had the remainder of our class in our sights as we proceeded to work our way south. They all still seemed impossibly far off.
The good news—unexpected really, given the gloomy forecast—was there was a decent carpet of wind as far as the eye could see. The breeze fluctuated, and there were occasional holes here and there, but on average it was better than previous years. Blue Jeans was doing an extraordinary job and used their first start to their best advantage. They were just a dot on the horizon. We had Yeah Dogg, Moore Pun, and Perfectly Strange in a group about a quarter mile ahead of us. It seemed like a lot of ground to make up against some very good sailors. As we sailed south across Elliott Bay toward Blake Island, we took a conservative approach in the relatively light breeze. No tacking or maneuvering unless there was a compelling reason—just keep moving.
That turned out to be a good strategy. By the time we reached Blake Island, we had caught up to the group. Behind us, you could see the J/105s (Moose Unknown, Panic, Puff, Peer Gynt, and Jaded) and the Evelyn 32, Ratfish, making tracks to overtake us—but still a little ways off. They were not a factor yet. We started trading tacks with Yeah Dogg, and by the time we reached the northern tip of Vashon, we had overtaken them. Moore Pun and Perfectly Strange were right in front of us. However, this is where the wind started to falter and got really light. We were near Dolphin Point and all we could see was dead calm between us and Three Tree Point (the official halfway point of the race). Everyone was coming to a stop. It was a parking lot.
The entire fleet piled up at this point. We moved in closer to shore and followed Perfectly Strange to the right along Vashon for a bit. Then we saw Moore Pun getting into some breeze out in the middle of the sound off to the left, so we tacked back and tried to cover them. Right or left—which way to go? I looked back over my shoulder, and the guys on Perfectly Strange were gliding gracefully along the shore like they were on ice, barely even touching the water. It was a little freaky how well they were sailing that boat. As it turns out, indecision in the middle is exactly the wrong choice. We lost our momentum and parked ourselves dead center in a hole. As we were contemplating our poor choice, the rest of the fleet said, “Bye-bye,” and proceeded to sail around us. By the time we managed to latch on to a passing zephyr, the entire fleet was a good half mile or more in front of us. I mean everybody. We had gone from leading the fleet to dead last. Ah, the joys of light air sailing: transformed from wily super-genius to idiot in just a few short minutes. I guess that’s how it is—the coyote never sees the rock coming.
Once we were moving again, we just put our heads down and started working our way toward Three Tree Point. Along the way, we started picking off boats at the back of the fleet, one at a time. We passed Bella, a big, beautiful Hanse 455. Then we finally managed to overtake the boat that started first in our class, Blue Jeans. As we closed in on the point, we overtook Impulsive. At this point, we had moved up from dead last to fourth in our class. We had successfully made it to the halfway point before the cutoff time (not always a given in this race), and we only had three boats between us and first place. We set our sights on our next landmark, Point Robinson. Our remaining competition still seemed impossibly far away.
I think it was around 3:00 in the afternoon at this point. The wind got lighter the closer we got to Point Robinson. The good news is that the sun finally graced us with its presence. As we neared the point, we managed to overtake Yeah Doggand claw our way back into third place. However, just on the other side of Point Robinson you could see that the water was dead calm. This area of the south sound, Poverty Bay, always seems to have light air, and it looked like we were headed for yet another parking lot. We decided to follow Perfectly Strange and cut the corner at the lighthouse as close to the shore as possible. We were so close to shore I think I could have handed the kids playing on the beach a sandwich as we drifted by. The water was flat, but the current pushed us out into the bay. There was the barest hint of a wind line forming toward the middle. As we rounded the corner, I just pointed the boat directly at Brown’s Point—roughly five miles in the distance. We trimmed our sails for that direct route and had just enough breeze to start Blur moving in that direction. Perfectly Strange followed some of the J/105s who were seeking more wind across the bay. Moore Pun took the middle road and sailed down the bay parallel to us.
The way I saw it, Perfectly Strange was in the lead and sailing spectacularly well. They were sailing a longer route, but if they found more wind, they would easily crush it and win. On the other hand, Moore Pun is a Moore 24, and I have never managed to beat a Moore in a downwind race. They are obscenely fast little boats with a spinnaker up, and I had every reason to worry about beating them in a straight-up spinnaker drag race to the finish. We were behind both of them, but we had a small chance—if things played out right.
The wind obliged by filling in from the east. We had a solid 8–9 knots of breeze pushing us toward Brown’s Point. I don’t know if it was Laura’s trimming (probably), the current (possibly), or the favor of the gods (not likely), but we started to overtake Moore Pun. I held my breath for what seemed like a mile as we sailed past them to windward. Meanwhile, Perfectly Strange, in their quest to find wind across the bay, came up short. They were moving well and had good breeze, but going that extra distance had cost them valuable time, and it soon became apparent that we had also overtaken them by going straight for the finish. As we closed in on the lighthouse at Brown’s Point, we had put both our competitors firmly behind us. Both Laura and I were in is-this-really-happening shock. We didn’t want to say anything and jinx a possible first-place finish. But the question was definitely on our minds… did we just come back from dead last and take first place?
Yes, we did. We crossed the finish line (looking very stylish, I might add), high-fived, and then headed for the dock. The party at Rock the Dock was awesome. There was free food and beer, so a good time was guaranteed. Awards were given, there were a couple of birthdays to celebrate (Duncan and Lisa), and perhaps a few stories told. I bailed out around 10, but the party ended up going up the hill to McMenamins Elks Lodge and continued well into the early hours.
When I stumbled back down to the boat early Sunday morning, it looked a lot like the Saturday start—gray and chilly with a 5–8 knot breeze blowing. The guys on Perfectly Strange were cooking breakfast right on the dock and were kind enough to share a little with me (thanks). Boats gradually started leaving the dock as we all had to make the one-hour trek over to Spring Beach for the Day 2 start line. It was a quiet ride over under power as we nursed our coffee and maybe a little hangover. My biggest concern was the start. My experience has been that the currents around Spring Beach can be surprisingly strong, and the wind fickle. It’s deceptively easy to get swept over the start line prematurely. Getting caught like that can ruin the start of an otherwise great race.
We watched closely as our class all started before us. The wind was coming from the south, so it looked like a spinnaker run down Colvos Passage. Our turn came and we timed it almost perfectly, with our chute up and headed down the passage in a very modest 3–5 knot breeze. Early on, we managed to slowly advance past Impulsive, but the other boats all seemed to hold a constant and very substantial lead. Blue Jeans raced like they were being chased by the IRS. They were way out in front and giving up no distance. On Blur, we settled in and worked our way down the passage. There were very few passing lanes. Everyone had their spinnakers up, and the narrow passage didn’t leave a lot of options for taking big risks or finding passing lanes. As we approached the northern end of Vashon Island, we finally managed to overtake Yeah Dogg. We were now in fourth place, with Blue Jeans, Perfectly Strange, and Moore Pun solidly out in front of us. Around this time, Ratfish and the J/105s caught up to us. Ratfish, like the previous day, screamed along. They looked like they were going to take line honors for a second day straight.
When you get to the northern end of Colvos Passage, there is a tough tactical decision to make. Blake Island sits almost directly in the mouth of the passage, and you have to go either left (to the west of Blake) or right (out into Puget Sound and Elliott Bay). As we approached Blake, a couple of things were clear. We could see wind on the left side of Blake, and out on the sound it looked dead flat. I’ve faced this challenge before. Going out on the sound is the more direct route, but often there are tough currents and the wind can be fickle. Trying to sneak west behind Blake Island can keep you in the wind longer and offers the tempting possibility of sneaking ahead of folks who go the other way. Based on experience, I can tell you that it’s a real roll of the dice. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.
The majority of the fleet, including Blue Jeans (leading our class), elected to go out into the sound. However, Perfectly Strange, Moore Pun, Blur, and Panic (J/105) opted to go west behind the island where there appeared to be more breeze. Honestly, I could have gone the other way, but I wanted to stay in touch with the faster boats in the class, Perfectly Strange and Moore Pun. So I followed them. This turned out to be the right call. The wind on the west side of Blake Island was steady and strong. We cut behind the island and then popped back out into the sound to find that the rest of the fleet had been sailing very slowly in light breeze. By sailing a little more distance in stronger breeze, we had cut to the head of the line. Blue Jeans was now behind us, and we were the top three boats in our little group.
We rounded the shoal just south of Blakely Rock and pointed the bow directly at West Point, our next destination en route to the finish line. This was turning into a 20-mile-long spinnaker run. It was apparent by now that overtaking people today was a lot harder than the previous day. We were slowly making up ground, but catching folks flying under spinnakers is more challenging. By the time we were halfway to West Point, I was absolutely convinced there was no way we could catch up to Perfectly Strange and Moore Pun. They were sailing really well and not making any mistakes. Then the great randomizer hit: cruise ships leaving Elliott Bay. Those giants—one of them moaning the theme song from The Love Boat like a love-sick whale—came barreling out of Elliott Bay at full-freaking tilt. They were aimed right at the middle of the fleet. It was chaos. Big, fat, beautiful chaos.
When the dust cleared and the cruise ships were past, we found ourselves in first place, leading the fleet! Moore Pun and Perfectly Strange had to dodge the cruise ships, and we managed to slip by them. As we rounded West Point, we had Moore Pun right on our tail and Perfectly Strange coming in behind them. At this point, for one brief moment, I felt like one of the luckiest sailors around. We had worked our way up through the entire fleet to first place for a second day in a row! However, remember what I said about Moore 24s being wicked fast downwind? Yeah, they were right on top of us. We sailed into a soft spot, and they got the advantage and managed to sail past us to retake the lead. We crossed the finish line just a few seconds behind them.
It was an exhilarating way to end the day, and I want to give a shout-out to the Moore Pun team for their amazing recovery after the cruise ship chaos. They fought hard for that win. However, it was a win for us too, for a couple of reasons: we won first overall in our class based on elapsed time for both days, and… we’ve never managed to actually finish that race before. Down the Sound is often a tough race to finish. The wind has been known to completely shut down and leave you stranded. One false move and your day is over.
We got lucky this time. The wind was better than forecast, and better than usual. I’ll also take a little credit. Laura and I did a great job of sailing the boat. There is a lot of difficult decision-making and execution that has to take place in a light air race. We were patient, we executed well, stayed focused, and we didn’t take any unnecessary risks.
If you’re looking for a light air challenge, tough competition, and a great party, you should give Down the Sound a try.
By day three of Bellingham Race Week, the romance of sailboat racing starts to feel a little… well, sore. Every muscle is complaining, my knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies every time I climb on or off the boat, and even my fingertips are tender. But here’s the kicker: our sailing today? Absolutely dialed in.
We raced four times, and in every race we finished third or better. OK fine, we mostly finished third. But it felt fantastic. Our boat handling was clean, our communication was sharp, and our results were consistent. The weather couldn’t have been better either—10 to 15 knots of steady breeze all day long, with just enough shifts to keep it interesting.
Best of all? My starts were chef’s kiss. After a rough day yesterday, I finally got my timing and positioning right. We hit the line powered up, in phase, and ahead of the fleet in almost every race. Not to brag (okay, maybe just a little), but it felt amazing. Maybe all that flailing yesterday was just practice for the magic today.
The crew really stepped it up too. We found a new maneuver at the leeward mark that tightened up our rounding and shaved precious seconds off each leg. That kind of on-the-fly improvement is one of the things I love most about a week like this. After five days of intense sailing, everything sharpens. By the time I’m back at Shilshole, I feel like a monster—confident, tuned in, and doing things that felt tricky just a week ago.
Sure, this week hasn’t been without its challenges. Getting our cars towed and dealing with mounting physical exhaustion wasn’t exactly in the game plan. But we’re rolling with it. The vibe on the boat is good, the learning is real, and our performance is trending up.
If I ever had to introduce someone to the sport of sailing, Day 1 of Bellingham Race Week would’ve been the perfect way to do it.
We trailered the boat up from Shilshole on Sunday, got her rigged, splashed, and tucked into the harbor. The weather? Absolutely stunning—70 degrees, sunshine, snow-capped mountains on the horizon, and of course, Bellingham Bay. Couldn’t have asked for a better welcome.
The Racing
We had a guest tactician, Alex Simanis from Ballard Sails, on the boat for the day and it really showed in our performance. He played boat whisperer and helped us up our game across the board. From improving the rig tuning to fine tuning the sail trim, he did an amazing job.
Our first race of the day started after a short delay. We’re sailing in the PHRF B division, so we got to watch all the other classes start before us—so we had front row seats. The big ORC boats, the sleek J/105s and J/80s, the nimble J/70s, and the Melges 15s all made for some exciting starts and tight action.
I’ll admit it: starts are my favorite part of racing. Maybe I’ve got a tiny adrenaline junkie buried in there somewhere, but the chaos, the yelling, the jostling for position—it’s electric. And when you nail it? When you pop out on the line with clean air and good speed? For just a second, you feel like a rockstar.
That first race, we sailed clean and fast and came in third in our class. Not a bad way to start the week.
Wind and Tactics
The breeze in the morning was steady—around 13 to 15 knots—which gradually tapered off as the day went on. The course setup heavily favored the left side of the bay, so most of the fleet bee-lined it toward Fairhaven, hit the weather mark, then gybed their way back down to leeward. Tactically, it was pretty locked in—go left, or get left behind.
Then in race two, we found our groove, hit our shifts, and brought home our first bullet of the week. Race three, we got another third. By the end of the day, we were sitting in second place overall in Class 7—easily one of our best performances to date. I was over the moon.
After the Racing
After a full day on the water, we wrapped things up at the race pavilion with beer, music, and the usual suspects. It was great to reconnect with old friends, swap stories, and soak up the atmosphere. Nothing quite beats tired bodies, sunburned smiles, and a good result on the scoreboard.
The morning of the race was absolutely spectacular—one of those rare, idyllic Seattle days. Clear skies with a few high clouds, temperatures around 80°, and a steady northerly breeze blowing at 10 to 15 knots. It was the kind of day sailors dream of. We got the boat in the water early, with plenty of time before our 11:23 AM start. As the time approached, we realized we were a bit too far from the starting line. Not disastrously so, but enough that we ended up crossing the line about 20–30 seconds late.
Lining Up Our Race Plan
Our race strategy was straightforward and aligned with the rest of the fleet. We planned to head north to Meadow Point, cross over to Jefferson Point, set the chute, and run downwind to West Point. From there, we’d take a short windward hitch back to the finish. Given the flood tide that lasted all day, heading in any other direction would’ve meant fighting the current on the long leg between West Point and Jefferson Point—something nobody seemed willing to do.
Upwind to the First Mark
The quick ride to Meadow Point was smooth and uneventful. We rounded it cleanly and began our upwind leg toward Jefferson Point. The wind held steady around 10 to 12 knots, with occasional gusts up to 13 or 14. By the time we neared Jefferson Point, we were leading our fleet. Of course, in classic fashion, the mark wasn’t quite where it was supposed to be, and we had to do a bit of searching before we found it. But we rounded cleanly and moved into the next leg.
Spinnaker Set and Speed Run
After the rounding, we had a few minor hiccups getting the spinnaker up, but we managed—and just in time to hit a bit of a wind hole. Thankfully, the entire fleet got stuck there too. We were lucky and managed to punch out of it quickly, heading back toward the center of the Sound. What followed was one of the most glorious spinnaker runs I’ve ever experienced. The reach back to West Point was fast, steady, and exhilarating. At one point, we hit 9.5 knots—far beyond what I expected on such a mild, sunny day. The whole run was smooth, with no need to jibe. We just flew downwind with Rainier beckoning on the horizon.
Final Leg to the Finish
We slightly overshot West Point (oops!) but adjusted quickly, dropped the chute, and transitioned to headsails. It took about 20 minutes to sail the final stretch back to the finish. We crossed the line ahead of much of our competition, though at the time we had no idea how we had placed. After putting the boat away, we grabbed lunch, still buzzing from what felt like a nearly flawless day. The entire race had taken us only about two and a half hours to cover about 11-12 nautical miles.
A Surprising Finish
What made it even more extraordinary was that we raced with only three people onboard, including me. Thankfully, the course didn’t require many complex maneuvers, and we managed just fine.
Later that afternoon, I found out we had actually finished first in our class!
All in all, it was a fantastic race, a beautiful day, and a memorable win—proving once again that sometimes, less crew means more fun.
It was Brian Stamper and I double handing this race. The forecast was for a very light northerly for most of the race, turning into what could be a 20 knot bruiser when we got to Port Townsend. The tide was also ebbing for most of the day, which meant that we would have a nice current push for much of the race on Saturday. With that in mind, we set off Saturday morning with the expectation that anything could happen.
The Start – Fickle and Light We got off to a pretty good start. We were on the line, had the sails up and we crossed within a few seconds of our start time. The winds were very fickle. It was one of those starts where, if you were lucky, you caught a puff and could get away from the starting area and into the breeze. If you were unlucky, you sailed into a hole and were stuck on the starting line for 30 minutes. So depending on where you were in the starting sequence, you either got lucky or you did not. A lot of folks starting after us didn’t get lucky.
Fortunately, the wind gods favored us. We had just enough breeze to get away from the start and get working up towards Kingston. A bunch of folks starting after us got shut down with no wind at all. So there was a big gap between the boats that started early and the boats that started later in the morning. In this case, that meant that the small boats (30 foot and under) got a really solid head start on the larger boats in the fleet. RTTS is a pursuit race, meaning it’s a timed start based on your boat’s handicap. The slower your boat, the earlier your start. So the little boats like us are always looking over our shoulders at the big, fast boats that start later in the morning.
Zero Tacks Given We did our best to capitalize on that early advantage and the good news was that the wind was very consistent (if light) and we didn’t have to tack once from Shilshole all the way up to Double Bluff (our halfway mark). The wind ranged somewhere between 4 to 7 or 8 kts all morning. These were perfect conditions for our big #1. As we approached Double Bluff we saw that some of the boats ahead of us like Banana Stand, and Pell Mell were on port tack trying to make their way to the Mark. We could also see that the wind was shutting down and that it was very possible that they were not going to make the mark. That was compounded by the fact that the tide was going out (remember that tide I mentioned?) and there was a really stiff 2 knot current at Double Bluff. All of this meant that if you didn’t round the mark you got swept out into Admiralty inlet. I distinctly remember looking at Brian and agreeing, “Let’s not do that.”
The Double Bluff Gut Punch We could see the quickly evolving situation and so we decided to tack toward Double Bluff early and make sure that we didn’t get swept past the mark ourselves. We got within 50 feet of the mark looking like we were going to do just fine…and then the wind shut down. And just like that we were screwed. We got swept past Double Bluff just like all the other chumps in front of us. Everyone who was swept, had to hoist their spinnakers and try to desperately claw their way back up to the mark in order to successfully round it. It was an unmitigated low speed disaster. A slow moving horror show. We had to try make multiple attempts at the rounding (probably six or seven times) only to be defeated by heavy traffic or the wind shutting down or by various and sundry other minor crises. In the end, it took us over an hour to make that mark rounding. I hate Double Bluff with a passion that defies description. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve got some feelings about that buoy that will require therapy.
In the meantime, the entire fleet was coming up behind us. Seeing our ‘difficulty’ they made sure that they didn’t make the same mistake. We watched nearly 70 boats go around the mark successfully while we tried to claw our way back. It was one of the most humiliating experiences I’ve ever had (at least since last year’s RTTS). Finally, we rounded the mark firmly at the back of the fleet with absolutely no chance of recovering. We were completely and utterly defeated by the Double Bluff buoy. The fleet was over the horizon, and there was nothing to do but swallow our pride and follow the stragglers in to the finish.
The Cost of Delay Despondent, we continued to sail toward Port Townsend, trying the best we could just to finish. Brian and I were in that golden quiet space you arrive at when you are so spitting mad you can’t form coherent sentences. So of course, Mother Nature noticed our distress and gave us a little attitude adjustment by promptly dumping a big, fat, squall on us. One minute we are drifting in 5 knots of breeze, and the next, we hit a 20 knot squall. We got thoroughly soaked. Once we got out the other side of the squall, the wind shut down (of course) and we bobbed around for maybe 30 minutes before the wind picked up again and we made it back up to Marrowstone Point.
The PT Finish Unfortunately, the wind shut down once again at Marrowstone Point and we sat in a kind of washing machine just outside of Port Townsend as the tide started to change. There were waves coming from all directions. At one point, I recall watching our windex spin in a complete circle. The sails were slatting uselessly. It was miserable. We sat there in “the bathtub of woe” for about an hour before the wind picked up again and we were able to very slowly crawl over to the finish line in Port Townsend, finishing roughly 80th out of a fleet of 102 boats. It was an ignominious end to what started off as a great day.
Day 2 Sunday morning arrived with a fresh 15 knot breeze from the west. The forecast was for steady breeze, sunshine, and a downwind run all the way home to Seattle. Perfect!
The Start – Swept East We nailed the start and flew east under our asymmetric spinnaker down past Marrowstone Point and across Admiralty Inlet to the west side of Whidbey Island. Then we gybed right and pointed ourselves due south toward Seattle. The wind was a steady 12-14 knots and the tide was going to be ebbing against us the whole way back home. Given the freak show we experienced Saturday at Double Bluff, I naturally had some anxiety about rounding that mark again on day two. What would Double Bluff bring us today? Standing waves? A cross current? Flying monkeys? Call me a cynic, but my money was on the monkeys.
An Epic Downwind Run It’s been a while since I’ve had a race that was just a solid day of downwind sailing. It was delightful. The wind was perfect, just enough to keep us hauling at hull speed, but not so much that we were fighting for control of the boat. We don’t normally sail Blur with an assymetric chute, but since we were double handing, it seemed the prudent thing to do. We didn’t have to fuss with a spinnaker pole, so no one had to go up on the foredeck for gybes. It’s a very safe and conservative way to sail the boat. Unfortunately, it’s not really the fastest way to sail the boat either.
A Whale of a Good Time Somewhere around Bush Point we were treated to an Orca sighting right in the middle of the race. Fortunately the Orcas decided not use Blur as a chew toy. We did the best we could to give them a wide berth and continued on.
Double Bluff As we continued southward, we approached Double Bluff with some apprehension. Any concerns turned out to have been completely unwarranted. I breathed a sigh of relief as we flew downwind past the mark without incident and headed across the inlet to Point No Point. The day was gorgeous, the horizon was filled with spinnakers, and the breeze promised to continue all the way home.
Point no Point to Shilshole The fleet ran down the east shore of Bainbridge, past Kingston and then back across to Shilshole and the finish line. We ended up losing a lot of ground because the asymmetric spinnaker forced us to sail pretty hot angles. That was a learning experience. It’s a really nice sail, and it’s easy to use, but we learned that sometimes, a symmetrical spinnaker is the right one to use. We ended up coming in toward the back of the fleet once again. I would summarize Sunday as a beautiful day of sailing and a terrible day of racing. From my perspective, this puts it in the “win” column. This was probably the best RTTS I’ve sailed in years. There was some fantastic sailing on both days. There was drama, emotion, and lots of intensity. We learned a lot. I’m probably going to twitch every time somebody says, “Double Bluff!” And I guess that’s OK.
Thanks to Brian for partnering and putting up with me for two entire days. Thanks to Ballard Sails for building the awesome sails that carried us on this adventure. And thanks to the Sloop Tavern Yacht Club for putting on yet another memorable race.
I love a good light air race. The speeds and the forces are low, and the strategy is tough. Light air sailing takes a combination of patience and focus that just suits me well. However, there’s light air and then sometimes there’s no air. That’s how I would characterize this regatta. The race course was a patchwork of wind holes and gentle zephyrs. One minute, you are a genius: gliding along in your own private breeze. The next minute, you are an idiot: trapped in a windless hole watching the rest of the fleet sail around you. It was hard to make all the right moves. The good news was that it was an absolutely stunning day on the water. Both the mountains were out. Seventy degrees and flat out gorgeous!
The start for the race was right up against the breakwater at Shilshole. Unfortunately, the start line was in a pretty bad wind hole at the beginning of the race. There was a little bit of wind at the pin end of the start line, but over by the committee boat there was none. The wind gauge read a solid, unforgiving, zero knots. So the obvious place to start was at the pin end. That’s where the smart place to be was. We watched the cruising class attempt to start. The horn went off and they…just sat there. No wind at all. We were next to start.
For reasons that I can’t fully explain, I had steered us over to the committee boat side of the start in an effort to clear the start line. That’s where there was no wind at all. Not a good plan. I really wasn’t paying attention. I have no idea what I was thinking, but when the start horn went off, I was completely stalled out behind the committee boat on port tack. We went through the entire five minute start sequence, just sitting there chatting with the committee boat. A couple of boats were smart enough to squirt out on the pin end of the line. The rest of us all sat still, trapped on the start line, considering our life choices.
About 5 minutes later, we got a small breeze and we crossed the starting line (technically in the next fleet’s start). We were a solid 5 minutes or so behind the smart folks, so we were playing a game of catch up. The good news is that the breeze held, and we worked our way up to Magnolia Bluff. As we did so, it became apparent that we had dialed in our trim settings pretty well for the conditions. We were sailing faster and higher than most of the fleet. We got up to Magnolia, and then tacked over to head to West Point. This was to be almost our last tack before reaching Blakely Rock. As we came up to West Point, the wind rotated to the east and we got lifted up to a heading pointing right at the rock.
The ride up to the rock was pretty steady with no major wind holes or issues. We sailed it pretty well, and we were making ground on our competition ahead of us. The folks who got to the rock early, sailed into a hole, and so we ended up catching up with the folks who had the early lead. That felt pretty good! We rounded the rock in excellent position in contention for the top places in our fleet. We set the chute and headed downwind along the shore of Bainbridge island. Next stop, Meadow Point and then the finish line.
This is where it all went wrong for us. There were basically two routes back to Meadow Point. You could sail along the shore of Bainbridge in a narrow band of wind on the west side. There was a big flat spot in the middle of the sound, and you could go toward downtown Seattle and take the eastern side of the sound. Most of the fleet was going to the east side (Seattle). We went west because the wind looked pretty solid. There was a flat spot we had to cross, and then we thought we would be home free to make it the rest of the way to Meadow Point. We watched some boats make it across the dead spot, so we tried to do the same. It didn’t work. We got about halfway across and the wind completely died. Zero knots of breeze. We came to a complete stop and watched all the boats on the east side sail past us. We were well and truly stuck. To say it was frustrating is an epic understatement. We could see wind on the water about 300 yards away. So tantalizingly close!
We sat there in that hole for about an hour. At least it felt that way (it was probably 20 minutes). Then a kindly breeze came along and we started to scoot downwind again. In relatively short order we were making 6 knots downwind and flying past boats on the east side. We went from idiot to genius because the wind gods favored us! It only cost us one ritual sacrifice. That wind held up all the way down to Meadow Point (thank goodness). We rounded the mark and sailed back up the the finish in reasonable good form. Our round trip time was about 4 hours and 36 minutes. Not too shabby. We took 4th place in our class. I’m counting myself lucky for that. It was a very tricky day of sailing. The weather was gorgeous and our biggest concern was re-applying sunscreen – so I’m going to count this one as a beautiful day for a race.
For the third and final race of the Center Sound Series, the forecast was for light air. For many, this may have been disappointing. However, on Blur we were excited, because light air is what we do best. Blur is lightning fast in light conditions. We had an experienced crew, brand new sails, and plenty of snacks. Going into this race we were 7th overall in the PHRF ranks and 2nd in our class. This really was our opportunity to snatch the gold ring for the series.
Saturday morning started with the race committee shortening the course from its original length, Blakely to Pt. Wells, down to Blakely to a temporary mark a little north of Meadow Point. They were trying to insure that the fleet didn’t end up drifting all day and could get back to the clubhouse in time for the awards. They also opted to start the little boats (us) first, running the starts in reverse order.
The merry band of pirates on Blur
False Start
I was eager and excited to get out on the water and try out our new asymmetrical spinnaker. “How eager was I?” you ask? So eager that I tried to start the race 5 minutes early. There we were, all sails up, tacking back in forth on the line. We were yelling at folks to get out of the start box, just like the real racers do. We dialed Blur up and hit the starting line right on time! I suddenly realized that nobody else was starting with us. With a feeling of dread, I made a quick query on the VHF. Sure enough, we were five minutes ahead our start. In fact, we were five minutes ahead of everybody’s start. I felt like such an idiot. What do you do when that happens? In my case: laugh maniacally (along with the rest of the fleet). Then get your butt and your boat back on the starting line for the real start. Oh brother.
Here’s the good news: five minutes later we turned around and executed another picture perfect start. We were to weather of the whole fleet and we hit the line right as the horn blew. It doesn’t get much better than that. Clear air and room to leeward. So maybe our earlier little “practice run” was worth it. Our speed was good. We rolled over a couple of our competitors as we worked our way up the first leg to Blakely Rock. However, I noticed that our competition, LXIII was consistently out pointing us to windward. It was a little disconcerting, because we were pointing pretty consistently lower than I was accustomed to. Something wasn’t quite right with our rigging. As forecast, the wind was in the 4-7 knot range – very light. Unfortunately, we were losing about 3 degrees of height to the competition as we worked our way to windward.
The First Leg
As we reached West Point, we were still in touch with LXIII. They had legged out on us and were about 100 yards ahead. Now came the hard choice. We were both leading the entire fleet. Nobody was in front of us at all. No TP52’s, nothing. Just five miles of flat water with no real indication what the right direction to go was. The tide was ebbing. We had about a half knot of current going against us. The question was: do we follow LXIII across to Bainbridge Island and tack up the shore, or do we stay toward the middle of the sound?
Look, in hindsight I know the answer: just follow LXIII dummy. Stay close to your competition. They are great sailors. The current can kill you out in the middle. But, but…I thought LXIII might sail into a hole near the shore of Bainbridge. Anything can happen, right? So we ended up kind of splitting the difference, sailing further toward the middle, but trying to keep an eye on LXIII along the shore. For the record, committing to one or the other strategy is a MUCH better idea. By the time we reached Blakely Rock it was obvious that we had lost some more ground to LXIII, but we were still reasonably close. Our speed was good, and our upwind leg had been respectable. We rounded the rock second in our class.
50 Shades
Now was the opportunity I had been waiting for: time to put up the brand-spanking-new chute. We launched the kite and it truly was a thing of beauty! I was thrilled with the design – our friends at Ballard Sails did a great job with it. At this point, many of the faster boats were overtaking us from behind. At one point, we were sailing along quietly, and I heard a loud screech coming from behind the mainsail. It sounded like “50 Shades of Grey…Whale.” I nearly jumped out of my skin. It turns out it was just a TP52 bearing down on us. Their squealing winches make a heck of a racket (or the music of love, if you are a whale).
Our course
We had some challenges with the downwind run. The problem was that we really weren’t really going that fast. The wind was dropping a little, and we were trying keep our speed up. 4 knots is pretty slow for us. I headed up and we almost hit 6 knots, but now we were pointed a downtown Seattle (far away from our destination). So using this strategy we were going fast in the wrong direction. Honestly, I stuck with that strategy a little too long. Now we were separated from the fleet AND sailing the wrong way. That’s a bad combination. So we threw in a gybe and took down the new chute and put up our old red symmetrical spinnaker. No big deal you say? Well, I spoke with passing boats afterwards and they were speculating on what we were doing:
Running aground? (in 600 ft of water)
Dropping anchor? (see above)
Losing our minds Those of you who picked option 3 are correct. We sat there and watched our competition sail right by us. Ouch! So much for that gold ring I was talking about.
I have to confess, after looking at the recorded instrument data from the race, we were doing better with the new asym spinnaker than with the old spinnaker we replaced it with. I think we may have psyched ourselves out on that downwind leg. It was hard to judge our performance with all the big boats flying past us. It’s deceptively easy to feel stuck in the mud when that happens. The questions start to fly:
“Why are they so fast?” “What are we doing wrong?” “We have to change something!”
It can be brutal. Sometimes, especially in light air, the best thing to do is wait a minute. It’s so hard to find that calm when you feel like you are losing the race.
Anyway, once we got the big red chute up, we proceeded downwind. The sailing was pretty sedate. The breeze was light (4-6 knots), but reasonably consistent. In that kind of wind, 4 knots of boat speed is actually pretty good. As we made our way down to the leeward mark, there really weren’t any passing lanes or opportunities to do anything dramatic. Everybody was just trying to keep moving. By this point we had lost sight of most of our competition. We were a little bummed about our little spinnaker fiasco and just wanted to finish the race. We focused on just keeping the sails trimmed and sailing fast. As we rounded the leeward mark we saw LXIII a few hundred yards in front of us! That was a big morale boost. We had a short leg up to the finish line at the committee boat and got across the line in roughly 4+ hours of elapsed time.
Finish
We realized as we finished, that maybe we weren’t the only ones who ran into challenges on the way downwind. Apparently we were still pretty fast. We ended up in third place for that race and took third place for the series in our class. We ended up in 4th place overall in the PHRF division for all three races in the series. Pardon me while I go back and re-read that last sentence or two. Ooooh, that feels good…maybe one more time.
Demonstrating the “Dad driving with his knees” technique
So we didn’t grab the gold ring this time. Despite all the griping about the trials and circumstances in this series, we sailed really well overall. I’m lucky to have a great crew in Brian, Julia, Anna and Jeremy. I’ve always admired the folks in the racing community here. This fleet has incredibly talented sailors. The first place boat, LXIII is almost impossible to beat. Aurora, in second, is a tough one too. Cherokee, in fourth, always gives me heartburn. I have all of their transoms memorized – I know exactly what they look like from behind. Honestly, the folks on all the boats in our class have decades of experience among their crews. That’s not even mentioning the talent in the other classes. So I feel pretty good when I manage to steal a good placement in a race.
It’s the morning after the Possession Point Race and I think my whole body is sore. I’m covered in bruises across my arms, legs and ego. In short, it was a punishing race.
Just like last year, it started off mild enough to fool most of us into going out and giving it a try. The sound was flat with a tame 10-12 knots coming out of the south east. There were occasional 15-16 knot puffs rolling through, but nothing menacing. It was a lovely downwind start and Blur jumped to a quick lead in our class. We soon discovered that those puffs I mentioned each came with a fairly significant wind shift hidden in them. This caused the boat to roll pretty strongly. We took it in stride, but driving and trimming was quickly becoming a full concentration job. I couldn’t take my eyes off the sails for even a second for fear of a puff hitting us and rolling us into a gybe to windward. The breeze steadily increased as we moved north (just like @#$^%$ last year) and soon we were surfing down big rollers at an average of 12 knots (that’s twice Blur’s hull speed boys and girls). In short: we were screaming along.
We jump to an early lead
The wind had now picked up to about 17-18 knots with occasional puffs up around 23-24. We decided to play cautious and waited for a lull before we gybed around the Richmond Beach area and headed back out toward the middle of the sound. At this point we found it was just LXVII, us and I think Aurora in the lead of our class. It was around this time that we heard the Person(s) Overboard incident down near Edmonds. Apparently 2 people were in the water. A group of the fast boats was responding (Freya, Smoke, etc.) as well as the Edmonds ferry boat. It was a scary incident because it seemed like it took a while to retrieve them. We monitored the VHF, but were too far away to render assistance. In the meantime, the wind had picked up further and was now firmly around 23-24 knots with occasional puffs to 30. We were hitting top speeds easily around 15 knots as we surfed down the ever increasing rollers. We moved everyone to the back of the boat in an effort to keep things stable.
Blur’s Wild Ride
At around 12 knots of boat speed, Blur starts to make a humming noise. The whole boat starts to sing. We call it Blur’s happy noise. I don’t know where it comes from. Most likely from the rigging and the backstay. It starts almost subliminally and you feel it in your bones. Blur was singing all the way from Richmond Beach down to the Possession Point Buoy. We made down there in 90 minutes flat.
The good news was, that I was having no difficulty driving and keeping the boat on its feet. The bad news? With the emergency in progress and the big rollers, I no longer felt confident gybing in those conditions. When Blur gets into a 3-5 chop, gybing our big masthead symmetrical chute becomes pretty dicey. I didn’t want to lose anyone overboard so I called for a douse and we pulled the chute down and gybed over to point back toward Possession Point. I’d like to note that Blur was the smallest and lightest boat in the race (25 ft, 2000 lbs). We get knocked about in the big seas a bit worse than many of the bigger, heavier boats. So, everyone on Blur wears life jackets all the time. Before we had left the dock, we even rigged jack lines and our foredeck crew were wearing (and using) a safety tether. At the dock I remember thinking, “Maybe, I’m over-preparing, it doesn’t really look that bad…” and as we were screaming down the rollers North of Edmonds, bow submerging in the waves, I was thinking, “Thank GOD we rigged the jack lines!”
It turns out we had some challenges getting the chute back up: re-rigging after the gybe was a mess. But we finally got it back up and were once more flying toward our halfway mark. We rounded up once or twice, just to keep everyone on their toes. The puffs were strong as hell and kept trying to spin us out. But we surfed and fought our way down to the bell buoy.
The Upwind Slog
Rather than feeling a sense of accomplishment, I was feeling a sense of dread: now we had to go back upwind and against the current. It was going to be a slow, hard slog home. We doused the chute and rounded the mark and there were already signs of chaos: Some boats were already motoring back, some had torn headsails. All of the TP52s had retired. Yikes!
Our course for the race
First thing we did was tack over toward the Edmonds shore. Jesus, what a meat grinder that was! 25 knots gusting to 30. 3 foot waves with the occasional 5 foot beast mixed in. I’ll describe it in one word: yuck. We had brand new upwind sails courtesy of our friends at Ballard Sails. But we must have spent the first 20 minutes of that ride just re-learning how to trim for the conditions. We were on our ear most of the way. Blur was heeled over so hard that I had to hook one arm over the lifeline and steer with the other in order not to fall across the boat. We put a reef in the main, and that helped a little bit. At one point, we got slammed with a particularly vicious 30 knot gust and we were blown completely on our side. The mast was close to parallel with the water. I’m quite sure our keel was out of the water. Suddenly, I had this gut feeling that we were right on the cusp of Blur’s “point of diminishing stability.” We were now literally dragging sideways downwind in the water.
I did not like it. Not one bit.
We were completely pancaked on our side and not bouncing back up. I was convinced that if we didn’t do something fast we ran the very real risk of rolling the boat. I recall yelling at the jib trimmer to blow the jib sheet (the main was already blown). They blew the sheet and the boat promptly stood back up with water cascading from the rigging (phew). Yelling was the only way to communicate at this point over the howling of the wind and the flogging of the sails. To say that we struggled in these conditions is to abuse the wrong adjective. We survived. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so dramatic, but that’s how it felt at the time. In retrospect, my Vakaros instrument says we only heeled over 45 degrees. What a dumb instrument.
The boat was constantly trying to round up or alternately lie down on her side. Driving was a freaking nightmare. I couldn’t find a stable groove to save my soul. We’re up. We’re down. And we’re up again. The tiller had taken on a life of its own and was making a concerted effort to wrench itself from my grasp. We were wildly overpowered. Nevertheless, through trial and error we made some modest progress upwind and kept with the fleet. We briefly considered switching from the #3 to the extra small #4 headsail, but at the time we decided not to because the rough conditions made a sail change seem like a good way for someone to get hurt or fall overboard.
There were two things that kept me going at this point. First, after abandoning last year’s Possession Point race, I really wanted to finish this one. Heavy upwind air is my nemesis on Blur, and I wanted myself and the crew to learn how to manage big air if possible. Second, I had a set of brand new sails. Although I hated to flog them (Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!), I also felt very confident that they were the best possible sails for the conditions. My old, blown-out sails would have made things even worse. So in the back of my mind, my mantra was “Hang in there, it’ll get better.” Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened. As we got up to Edmonds the wind died down a bit to roughly 12-15 knots and we were given a small reprieve. We were able to work on trimming the sails and we could relax and just sail the boat for a good 30 minutes or so. We even shook the reef out. However, in the immortal words of Hagrid the giant, “I probably shouldn’t have done that…”
What it looks like when the driver takes a dive…
Just about the point where we were starting to think, “Hey, this isn’t so bad.” The wind decided to pick up again. F*ck (that’s pirate-speak for “I really wish that hadn’t happened”). The new breeze settled into a pattern of 15-17 knot lulls with 22-23 knot puffs. Not the worst conditions in the world by any means, but not easy going either. At this point, I slipped while driving a puff and took a bad fall across the cockpit. I think I might have caught air. I ended up lying on my back on top of the tiller, all four hooves in the air, and the boat immediately spun a circle. Grouchy and bruised, I got us back on track. Unfortunately, I repeated that performance 2 more times (without the spinout) as we worked our way back upwind. I really need to put some seatbelts in the driver’s station on Blur. I got the sh!t kicked out of me. The crew was starting to worry, “Dude, you OK?” The problem was that the boat was still getting heeled over hard in the puffs and the deck was slippery as snot. If I didn’t have an arm wrapped around the lifelines, I was more than likely going to get tossed around. I watched a big J/boat go powering past us with the skipper standing blithely and proudly at the helm station, seemingly without a care in the world, and I’m pretty sure I called him a few dirty names.
Sorry dude.
We kept that up all the way to the finish. There really isn’t much more to tell. At that point, everyone was exhausted. Me and the crew had started to form some pretty strong opinions about how to trim the sails in heavy air (I guess that’s the learning part) and we were all fairly cooked. So we did some rather average upwind sailing back to the finish and called it a day. We came in fourth in our class and I think 19th overall, so I’m pretty happy with that result. Satisfied? No, we can do better, but I’ll save that for next race.
We got back into the dock at Shilshole and that’s when I completely “bonked”. Yep, I hit the wall like bug hits a windshield. 5 hours of driving in those conditions and I was completely wasted. I was massively dehydrated and hadn’t eaten for the entire trip. Honestly, letting that happen was kind of stupid on my part. It was such a white knuckle ride for the entire race that I never even considered eating or drinking. I’d need a third hand to do it anyway, because I almost always had one arm wrapped around the lifeline and one on the tiller. Still, a power bar in my pocket would have been a good idea. I was driving like a zombie toward the end of the race. How do zombies drive you ask? Quite poorly.
Lessons Learned
Overall, this race was almost a repeat of last year’s race conditions minus the big 50+ knot squall. We got away lucky with regard to damage: 1 broken cabin house window and we lost one winch handle overboard.
Key learnings:
The #3 jib is good from about 14 knots up to 18-20. Above 20 knots we start getting overpowered very quickly. We can hold the #3 in about 23-24 if we use a lot of twist, but only for short periods with lots of feathering at the helm. Now that I have a #4 to work with (using a #4 is a new concept for me) I think I’ll try using it starting around 20 knots and see how that works. I’m actually REALLY curious now.
The new main is a dream, but it’s powerful as hell. It’s easy to keep flat, but if it’s even a little out of trim I can’t get a good groove at the helm. I might actually have to start talking to the main trimmer…
30 knots is really starting to look like our bail out number. Between the sea state and the small size of our boat, that’s fast becoming the point where I confidently say, “Screw it. We’re done. Let’s pack up and seek shelter.” I’m glad we did this race. We pushed ourselves a bit and stayed safe. But we’re also on a small boat and there is always an upper limit. I won’t even go out if it’s already blowing 20-25 before I even start.
Eat and Drink. Yes, even the skipper. Fail to do so and you will get stupid. Don’t get stupid.
Congratulations to the other boats in our class who all finished including:
LXVIII
Aurora
Cherokee
Blur
Mata Hari
Bardo
Mara
I owe my crew, Brian, Julia and Jeremy a great deal of thanks. They were the secret ingredient that made the day great. I’m kind of hoping that next year it’s a little lighter. It’s hard to find crew this hardcore.
Blur Racing 