Saturday, Aug. 8, 2009

Distance: 5 miles
Time: 2 hours
Average: :24
Run type: Hike
Location: Lake Perry, Kan.
Weather: 78, clear, humid.
Aches: None.
Injuries: None
Session notes: This was supposed to be a session of the Men's Running Club and a trail run of 5 - 10 miles, followed by a bike ride of 20-35 miles, followed by an afternoon of sailing on one of the member's Hobie Cat.
The course for the run turned out to be fit only for the most experienced trail runner. It was hilly and strewn with large loose and fixed rocks, tree limbs, fallen trees, ruts and holes. We were all wearing regular street running shoes, and none of us is a trail runner. Se we ended up hiking at a brisk pace, although the pace doesn't suggest that. It was tough terrain and difficult going. Fun though. Deep woods, creeks, lake only a few yards away. Lots of good banter among friends.
The bike ride never happened either. After getting back from the hike the plan was to eat breakfast and then hit the road for a distance to be determined en route.
During breakfast though we we learned the local yacht club was holding a regatta, and a couple of captains were desperate for "rail meat." Would we be willing? Maybe. "What's rail meat have to do?" we asked. "Just sit on the high side of the boat and enjoy the ride," we were told.
Great, we thought. 4 hours on 29-footsail boat built for racing, free. Just sit on the high side.
The race was at noon, and we were to report shipside by 10:40 for instructions before shoving off at 11 for a pre-race shakedown on the course.
A warning: if you've sailed and you find my maritime descriptions not quite up to spec, I apologize in advance. I'm a lubber here.
My instructions had nothing whatsoever to do with high-side sitting, which I felt qualified for even without training. Captain Terril Cook (yes, Captain Cook) introduced me to the outside rachets on each side of the boat. I was shown how to release the rachets so the sheet (rope) could move either way, how to set it so the sheet could move in only one direction, and how to lock the rachet so there could be no movement. When or why I would do these things wasn't important enough to explain to mere rail meat. Nor, I should say, did I care at the moment. I was just trying to absorb the few details I did have.
I was also shown the boom vang, a large white rope attached to the boom of the mast. This sheet I must grasp and pull on with all my might when so ordered. Why? Not explained. Rail meat.
When I assured the captain I could handle my chores, he gave Mike and then Bill their instructions. I heard those instructions, but since I was still cogitating on my own job, I remembered not a word of what was said. I do know that as the only one of the three of us with any sailing experience, Bill was handed quite a bit more responsibility.
As we got under way one of the experienced hands - Tony - sat next to me, so I asked him about "rail meat" duties.
"Just sit here like we are now, on the high side of the boat, with your legs out over the side. Whenever the boom moves to the other side, make sure you duck or you'll lose some part of your body, then make your way to the other side, which will be the new high side."
Okay. Something I understood, or so I thought.
Getting from one side to the other was technically easy enough to grasp. What I didn't appreciate was how often this would have to be done during a race, how hard it would be at times to climb a 45 degree incline over the top of the cabin with your head down, and how many deck burns, lacerations, abrasions and bruises I'd get doing that. More than once I appreciated my twice-weekly gym sessions with the weights.
We competed in two races. Both were a blur of activity that I observed between scrambles from one rail to another. The captain manned the tiller and barked out orders to his two and a half experienced sailors. Occasionally, he would have me do something other than sit on the rail: open a rachet, move or pull on a sheet...
I was absolutely dumbfounded by the captain's command of every aspect of his boat and the race. He was always several steps ahead of the action. He might not say this, but it seemed to me that not the smallest detail escaped his attention, from how much the crew hydrated (no booze) to approaching wind lines to sheet and sail adjustments and hundreds of other matters totally unknown to me.
During the afternoon we had three emergencies. We were solidly in second place in race one when a halyard snapped. I quickly learned this was the sheet needed to raise and lower the sail. With the captain shouting orders, Tony swiftly had things back in order with a backup halyard, but it cost us a place we never got back.
In the second race we narrowly escaped a collision with another boat. The boat was on our starboard side and was dropping its spinnaker when something went wrong. It turned in our direction and then onto its side, nearly dipping its mast in the lake. As the overtaking boat, it was our job to get out of the way. We did, and while I can't begin to say how, I can say that every knowledgeable person aboard said it was a fine piece of sailing.
Later in the same race the boom vang was accidentally released, seriously reducing our speed. While I wasn't immediately aware of how much we were slowing down, the importance of this event was unmistakable in the captain's many colorful pronouncements.
Personally, my best moment came when the captain ordered me to the bow, which I proudly knew to be the front of the boat, to lift the bottom of the sail over the rail to the inside. I did this without being tossed overboard. We sailed on and won the race, although others aboard might not subscribe to this particular cause and effect.
Another time, though, I took the initiative to help Tony wrestle the jib sail pole back toward the boat. Tony was pushing and I was pulling, but suddenly the captain shouted me off the effort: "You can't pull it straight into the boat!" Right. Back to the rail.
If you're getting the idea Cap. Cook was a some kind of hard ass, let me say I (and I think we) didn't take his admonitions personally. He is a competitive guy, true, and things needed to be done, and done now and right. But if he wasn't barking out an order, he was patiently explaining why he was doing something or how something worked. He frequently praised individual crew members for a job well done. He reminded me of some of the better football coaches I had in an earlier life.
Once the race ended we were treated to a relaxing 30-min. ride. John, the other experience sailor, went below and emerged with a half-empty bottle of Sailor Jerry Rum. He took a quick swig and passed it to Tony, who did the same. By now I realized this to be a traditional salute, and rather than decline I took my own swallow, as did everyone else. We later toasted with our hydration of choice, talked about the race and generally gloated over a job well done.
Captain Cook wondered if we'd want to race again. I think I said yes, but I was thinking "not so sure." I was hot, exhausted, bruised and sunburned, and I'd have to think about it. This seemed to be a young man's sport.
Today? Maybe.
(In the photo, from the left, it's Tony, Mike, Captain Cook, John, Bill and Rob.)