You can't park that there, son!
A recounting of a perfectly considered decision.
By Bruce Millar
Dinghy Racing is a game of decisions. Making the correct ones not only help you go faster round the track, they generally help keep you out of trouble, too.
Doug and I decided, very last minute, to sail Doug’s RS400 in the Nationals. Too good an opportunity to miss such an event at your home club. Knowing before the first race had even begun that we wouldn't be able to compete in all 5 days, we decided the priority was to have a laugh, stay out of trouble and just see if we could improve as the week wore on. All good decisions! Not only did we have a laugh, I think we provided a few too. Bonus points!
Compared to club racing, the decisions in a big(ish) fleet come thick and fast. But it was our final decision in our maiden race of the RS400 Nationals which stood out way more than any other we made over the course of the week. I'm sure the committee boat would agree.
It all revolved around how best to handle the short sprint from the leeward gate to the finish line. A simple question. Kite up, or kite down?
Like all boats, 400's are easier to gybe in a breeze if you are carrying as much speed as possible. +1 for the kite up option. However, the unknown variable was the sailing angle to the finish line. We knew it would be tight. But how tight? Assuming we complete a nice gybe, would it be too tight to fly the kite across the line? Was there enough time to quickly drop the kite after the gybe, if needs must?
If you have the misfortune to find yourself behind other boats during a race, something I have immeasurable experience of, there is one small consolation. It's always wise to try and observe, if there is time, what other boats do in certain situations and how they fare as a result. As we roared down a gust (that's what 400's do, they roar) on our approach to said gate, we watched two boats handle the conundrum just ahead of us. One dropped their kite for that final sprint, the other looked to roll the dice and kept theirs up. Both survived and finished. Evidence, inconclusive.
Right, our turn. We executed a decent gybe with the kite up, right beside the port leeward mark and carried good pace. So far, so good. However, it became apparent, very quickly, that the angles were not in our favour. Perhaps of more significance, nor was the gust we were still riding.
As soon as we pointed the boat anywhere near the finish line side of the committee boat, the kite became rather upset and started to flog. The result, a dramatic drop in boat speed, a huge load through the mainsail and a heeling angle which was enough to send Doug sliding down the boat. I made an attempt to remain perched on the side deck, trying to ascertain if the rudder was still in enough water to be of any use, whilst almost accepting an imminent capsize, or worse. At this point I probably resembled a conductor who had lost his brass band, but kept waving regardless.
As the boat began to approach the point of no return, from my vantage point I recall being able to peer along the sightline of the mast, like a reticule on a sniper rifle. There was no enemy down these sights though. Arguably something much more intimidating. A stern-looking Bill Roberts, arms crossed in typical cool-but-mildly-concerned fashion. Frown in full effect, just waiting to see what was about to unfold. I swear I saw him reach for a fender. Robbie also seemed to be adopting his best mast-catching position.
It was at this point that I felt we had a better chance of hitting the committee boat, three sheets flogging and at a jaunty angle, than we did of crossing the finish cleanly and in one piece. As it tends to do in these situations, time slowed down. Options were few. The committee boat grew bigger in my Selden Spars reticule, the inquisitive looks on the faces of the race committee now very easy to study. Our flogging sails were doing their very best to drag us to the one mark of the course you absolutely cannot hit. In motoring terms, it felt like we had run out of opposite lock.
I contemplated reaching for a pen and paper, as it seemed sensible to begin filling out an application for Dalgety Bay Sailing Club (would they have me after this?). It was very apparent
I wouldn't be able to show my face at ELYC again if, as a home RS400 during a National Championship, we managed to actually mount the committee boat.
Doug however, had not given up hope of rescuing the situation. An un-cleating of the jib and a return to the windward side of the boat didn't quite rectify all of our troubles, but was enough to give us enough forward momentum in a more desirable direction, to drag us across the line and more importantly, removing the need for the committee boat to deploy the roaming fenders.
We managed to regain full control. Doug dropped the kite while I turned to the committee boat and gave the internationally recognised gesture for "thank ****", a wiping of the brow from one side to the other, followed by a perspiration-removing flick.
Committee boat owner David Robertson was seen engaging in a rapturous round of applause in response. As if the rollover jackpot had been won. His pride and joy had been saved and he was able to return the insurance schedule below deck.
Upon reaching the ELYC Bar, PRO Robbie Lawson tapped me on the shoulder to congratulate us on such a stylish finish to our first race of the Championships. He remarked that not only could those onboard the committee boat "smell the fear" as we tried to save the situation, they also "laughed their socks off". Ok, "socks" wasn't the word Robbie used, but it's close enough.
Robbie also informed me that they wanted crews to have something to think about when going for the finish line. A last will and testament, i'm betting, wasn't quite what he wanted crew's to be thing about, but mission accomplished Robbie.
Decisions, decisions.
