Green Wyvern Yachting Club
Upwards of twenty yachts, with sheets pulled tightly in, vying for position behind the line. Anticipation and excitement mounts, mouths become dry. Andy describes how he became addicted.
Racing in yachts is, I have learnt, an experience you either love or hate. Even those who say in apologetic tones 'racing does nothing for me, I’m afraid,' can often be seen later at the helm, tacking for the mark yelling furious commands at the crew, and demanding 'water' with the same determination inherent in a demand for beer at closing-time. Most sailors are either confirmed addicts, whose topsails, not the mainsail, carries their boat’s number, or hardened haters of the game, whose sole item of racing-gear is a railway timetable to get them as far away as possible. Following this season, I have become one of the addicts.
The 'Round The Island' race was the taste that led to my addiction; at the kind invitation of Andy Christie on Nyanza , with Rex Wade and Charlie Dennis.
The racing really started the night before, with lengthy discussions in the pub regarding one’s choice of starting time. There were as many theories as sailors, each taking into account tide (impossible to judge exactly), wind (difficult to judge at all), and wind direction down the New Cut and through the bridges. Also kept in mind was less scientific data, such as when the other boats were setting off (bluff anyway) and, most importantly, opening hours.
Eventually morning dawned, as it has a habit of doing, and saw the crew of Nyanza in a pre-breakfast quant (just like a GW cruise!) up past the starting line in thick mist. Plaintive cries of 'Where’s the river?' and 'Anyone seen my boat?' and, more relevantly, 'Is the pub open yet?' issued from unseen sources. Andy yelled our starting-time at a mist-shrouded Gordon and we moored up.
After a light repast, the mist had been cleared by a welcome breeze, no doubt causing those already racing to curse at having set off too early. We on Nyanza, were content to sit and watch others ghosting past, timing how long it took them to reach the line from where we were moored, and waited for the breeze to become a wind.
Our start arrived at last, but despite careful calculation, we crossed the line over thirty vital seconds after the gun. However, Haddiscoe Bridge was quickly negotiated, and we settled down to an uneventful passage. The only racing boats we passed throughout the course were three going the other way, and we were overtaken only by Cuckoo, flying past on goose-winged jib like a huge bird. The surprising spread of starting times ensured that we needed no special racing techniques. The only difference between it and a cruise is that we quanted like fun through the bridges, delaying sailing for as long as possible . . . it was too slow!
As was expected the bridges separated the men from the boys. The quant-bots-underwater style of passage is all too familiar to the not-so -Green Wyvern, but others came sadly unstuck (notably Serenity, who slid through St. Olaves bridge far from serenely sideways. They were ten minutes late at the start anyway, due to a misunderstanding, causing a wry comment to come from one organiser on the bank.
The race over and Nyanza moored up, we went to the pub for a welcome drink which, due to the length of time needed to calculate the results, turned into more than several (but nonetheless welcome) drinks.
However, the results were given out and, as to be expected, the Green Wyvern ‘cleaned up’. More drinks proved necessary to celebrate.
And thus my first race passed into oblivion. It was to prove an adequate precursor for the other races I took part in this season. Oulton week on Puck (where we snapped the mast), the Perriman Run on Force Four, and the Yare Navigation confirmed my addiction for the sport. If anyone needs a racing crew for next year, please apply to . . .
AG
1984