Ian McColgin
08-02-2009, 09:22 AM
Yesterday Mary Ellen and Susan (the Bo's'un, & kayak buddy, & I don't hold it against her drinker of BadLite, now known on Marmalade as Presidential Beer) joined Marmalade & me for a sail. The early morning was quite calm. We sailed out past Kalmus surrounded by hundreds of 420's (one of which, we could not see which, had Mary Ellen's nephew at the helm) and slightly lesser numbers of J's, hotshot cats with logos on their mylar, Lasars, and whatnot. Swarms of Opti's were inside Lewis Baydrifted. We drifted on to Osterville in a swelter that made me so glad not to be ashore.
We looped happily behind Dead Neck admiring all the fabulous boats the tasteful rich can own, and as the breeze finally came up and we debouched from Cotuit we admired a flock of Cotuit Skiffs and then further out the Wianno Seniors. By the time we got back off Hyannis Port, a 420 race had clearly ended and the boats were sailing back downwind for another start. The J5 course seems popular nowadays with sometimes the third weather leg a good deal longer than the first or second. The really terminally ernest racers had their coaches in an inflatable gunnel to gunnel getting analysis of the race.
So we hung out for a start. Far enough away that we could not possibly identify the nephew. Farther away than other start spectators. Reaching back and forth clearly to leeward of any possible course the starboard tack mob might take starting up the left side of the course. But not far enough to prevent some pompous idiot with a P flag from coming by to tell us it was not permitted that we sail through the race. I was polite, recognizing that she was spledidly ignorant of what boats actually do and newly enthralled with her power.
Among the spectators was one RBI with three attractive women in it. Given that it was a fleet of mostly teens, I figure this was not the girlfriends, but the mothers. More suitable for a seadog my age but with Mary Ellen and Susan aboard I figured that discretion was the better part of gallantry. Or more gallant than lechery. Anyway, once more, I was polite.
What a trying day. Perfect afternoon weather. A real farmer's breeze. That's a wind of strength and direction so salubrious that even a farmer could sail in it. We watched two races and then loafed in. For our victory lap in the cove I was delighted to see another catboat that did the same trick I often use when in flat water and wanting to get the best of the breeze. Anchored by the stern. We doffed caps and exchanged the ritual,
"Cats rule."
"Sloops drool."
Glorious.
We looped happily behind Dead Neck admiring all the fabulous boats the tasteful rich can own, and as the breeze finally came up and we debouched from Cotuit we admired a flock of Cotuit Skiffs and then further out the Wianno Seniors. By the time we got back off Hyannis Port, a 420 race had clearly ended and the boats were sailing back downwind for another start. The J5 course seems popular nowadays with sometimes the third weather leg a good deal longer than the first or second. The really terminally ernest racers had their coaches in an inflatable gunnel to gunnel getting analysis of the race.
So we hung out for a start. Far enough away that we could not possibly identify the nephew. Farther away than other start spectators. Reaching back and forth clearly to leeward of any possible course the starboard tack mob might take starting up the left side of the course. But not far enough to prevent some pompous idiot with a P flag from coming by to tell us it was not permitted that we sail through the race. I was polite, recognizing that she was spledidly ignorant of what boats actually do and newly enthralled with her power.
Among the spectators was one RBI with three attractive women in it. Given that it was a fleet of mostly teens, I figure this was not the girlfriends, but the mothers. More suitable for a seadog my age but with Mary Ellen and Susan aboard I figured that discretion was the better part of gallantry. Or more gallant than lechery. Anyway, once more, I was polite.
What a trying day. Perfect afternoon weather. A real farmer's breeze. That's a wind of strength and direction so salubrious that even a farmer could sail in it. We watched two races and then loafed in. For our victory lap in the cove I was delighted to see another catboat that did the same trick I often use when in flat water and wanting to get the best of the breeze. Anchored by the stern. We doffed caps and exchanged the ritual,
"Cats rule."
"Sloops drool."
Glorious.