On a crisp late-­November afternoon in swanky Greenwich, Connecticut, Teresa Laughlin hadn’t yet grasped the magnitude of her place in sailing history. Well, Riverside Dyer Dink ­history, that is.

Two hours earlier, out on the flat and swift-running waters of the shallow Cos Cob Harbor, Laughlin, a glamorous 65-year-old public relations professional from Larchmont, New York, was maneuvering her tippy 10-foot Dyer Dink in the same fashion she would her car in the rush-hour madness of nearby Interstate 95. She was fearless yet calculated as she steered her way into the pandemonium of 69 other Dinks trying to squeeze between an anchored race-­committee boat and an orange flag on a buoy 100 feet away. Buried in the pileup of white dinghies near the committee boat, she instinctively tacked to escape—into the lead and into the Riverside Dyer Dinghy Association’s annals as the sailor who won the first race of the biggest frostbite championship turnout in 62 years.

“It was the first time I sailed with my compass this season,” Laughlin shares with me on the porch of Riverside Yacht Club. Inside the clubhouse, the bar is boisterous with sailors regaling stories of woes and wins after four races of sheer shifty madness. “I’m trying to get better with a compass, so I had done some readings before racing and took note of what the wind was doing. But I had a very bad start, which ended up being a blessing because I saw the windshift while I was trying to figure out what to do next and quickly flopped over.”

Her gut was right. She was the first skipper to jump the shift and “just kept getting lifted all the way to the mark.”

She had clear air and left the maelstrom of white sails in her wake.

“I kept watching the other side, and I was like, Am I going to round first? And then I was like, No. And then I was like, Oh my God, I’m gonna round first.”

With a bunch of dinghy-sailing hotshots soon on her tail, Laughlin is pretty sure she spent the entire downwind leg talking herself out of a panic.

“I rounded the leeward mark first, which was beyond thrilling,” she says, “and I felt the pressure of not wanting to lose it, and then ­having this wall of boats coming at me, trying to navigate through them. It was very exciting, and I’m gonna put that in my brain forever.

“But it made a mess of me for the next race. I went to 59.”

That’s the thing about Riverside Dyer Dink frostbite racing—it’s as cruel and cold as it is strangely satisfying.

The remainder of Laughlin’s finishes in the day’s other races go out with the tide, while the perennial fleet champions, new and old, go tit for tat at the front of the fleet. We’re talking about 2022 season champ Jon Singsen, one of the young bloods of the Riverside Dink fleet. He’s exceptionally fast and smart, but he has a long way to go to strip 21-time frostbite fleet champion Ty Anderson of his GOAT status.

Anderson’s name first appears on the championship’s bronze trophy plaques as winner of the 1988-1999 season. After a few interruptions, he goes on a 12-season winning streak from 1995 to 2008, until a fella named Joby Breck breaks his stride. Anderson, the 66-year-old past commodore, accepts that he’s not as agile as Singsen and others, but he still makes them work for their wins. 

“It took me four years to get to the top,” Anderson tells me, “and that’s typical because no one has come here and won their first year. With the subtleties of the boat and the trickiness of the harbor, you don’t just step in and win the fleet. Jon sailed for five or six years before he broke through.”

The funny thing about Singsen is that he is one of the few sailors here who doesn’t actually own one of the 95 Dinks neatly arranged on Riverside YC’s winter docks. He’s a beneficiary of the association’s allowance for skipper substitutions on a weekly basis. The simple point is to leave no boat behind. “I’m fortunate that I get to sail a lot of the different boats because the fleet is so welcoming,” Singsen says. “That helps bring people like me into it and has helped the fleet grow.”

On this particular day, the fourth of the season, Singsen jumped into a boat named Hasta La Vista, Baby and knocked off an enviable string of results (7-2-15-1) that keeps him at the top of the monthslong championship scoreboard and well ahead of Anderson. The two sailors share an equal and healthy respect for each other on and off the water, with Singsen confessing that he’s learned the nuances of the Dink by watching the old master.

“Ty has been in the fleet a long time, and he keeps things pretty simple on his boat,” Singsen says. “My first couple of seasons, I watched what he did with his boathandling because I think, when it comes down to it, efficient boathandling makes a huge difference in these boats. It’s a half of a boatlength every time you maneuver, and Ty looks smooth all the time.”

Anderson, who is ninth overall for the day, is grateful of Singsen’s praise, but he dishes it right back: “Jon is now the best ­boathandler, and it really sets him out. The great thing about the fleet is the one-design aspect, and the fact that somebody like Jon can come in and sail a different boat every week and win the series is a ­wonderful endorsement of our fleet and the boats we sail.”

The Dyer Dink is still built by The Anchorage (previously Dyer Boats), three hours north in Warren, Rhode Island. The Dink is also referred to as the 10-foot Dyer, which Anderson says is distinguished from the more ubiquitous 9-foot Dyer. It was designed by Phil Rhodes in 1934 and, while they were originally wooden lapstrake hulls, fiberglass Dinks came online in the late 1940s.

The Dink, Anderson says, is the better of the Dyer dinghies because it has “both a bow and a stern. The 9 kind of has two sterns.” The closest comparison he can draw is the Interclub, another popular frostbiting dinghy of the East Coast winter-sailing establishment. “The Dink is sort of like a singlehanded Interclub—same basic kind of hull shape and setup.”

Originally intended as a yacht tender, the Dink once had a sleeved wooden mast and overhanging boom that could be stowed inside the boat. Rigs today are aluminum, and booms have been shortened to prevent them from snagging shrouds during close ducks. And while most of the Riverside Dinks once served as rowing ­tenders, most oarlocks have been relegated to basement parts bins. 

Before racing, Anderson shares a picture with me that he found in his basement, which he believes is from his first year in the Riverside fleet, circa 1984. When the fleet shortened the booms, it redesigned the sails with extra roach and a full-length batten. The most important change, however, was commissioning a new rudder design from renowned naval architect Bill Tripp. The original Dink rudder is more of a teardrop shape, similar to that of a Lightning rudder. The new fleet rudder is a longer high-aspect blade that now prevents a whole lot of capsizing. That is a big deal in winter sailing because despite air bags, Hippity Hop balls and other flotation aids, once a Dink is in the drink, there’s no coming back. It must be towed to the dock underwater and pumped dry.

They also now have two sail options for both ends of the wind range. “Back in the day, we still had actual reef points in the sail, so everybody would come into the clubhouse, roll up their sail, and tie it up before we went out,” Anderson says. “Now whenever we put in a fleet order of new sails, we take the old ones and cut them down so that everybody has two sails.”

Walking the docks once covers are removed reveals a lax approach to sail-control customization. It’s easy to overthink it, Anderson says. From his decades of experience, the most important customization for him is leading a double-ended vang tail to the rail, through cam cleats mounted on homemade carbon brackets—that’s his only exotic fitting, which is offset by the stainless-steel hose clamps holding his gooseneck firm to the mast.  

Anderson’s entree to the fleet long ago is similar to the day’s top-three skippers: Singsen, John Bainton and Will Graves were all dinghy and college sailors who settled in the area and found a welcoming and familiar scene at Riverside. “Frostbiting became my sailing outlet after college,” Anderson says, “which it does for a lot of people because frostbiting is so very similar to college sailing: It’s small boats, small bodies of water, shifty breeze, crowded marks, stuff like that. It’s the same, but there’s just less swearing.”

The true skill of a Dyer champ, he adds, is one’s nimbleness. “When the younger college-sailing types show up, they’re fighting it out of the pin, and they’re very good with stopping and starting, accelerating, and changing speed and direction.”

What’s also appealing is the short time commitment on any given Sunday. Because the boats are stored on the dock with masts up, it’s as simple as peeling back the cover, hoisting the sail, dropping the rudder into the pintels, and sailing to the racecourse 200 feet or so from the dock. With such a shallow race area, the tide dictates their sailing window; they start at either 10 a.m. or 2 p.m., and have a hard stop after two hours. 

“This is far and away the best sailing year-round,” says Graves, an investment officer in New York City and a two-time All-American at the US Naval Academy. He’s also one of Singsen’s weekly threats. His boat is dialed in, and yoga keeps him fit enough to endure two hours of careful footsteps and Crouching Tiger stances in the boat when it’s light.

“I’m amazed at how sore I feel on a Monday morning,” Graves says. “It’s the awkward sitting, the crouching, and the constant movement. There is a fair bit of physicality to it, and it is just superior college-style racing that sucks you right in. It’s two hours of total separation from life—really magical.”

Graves hunted for a good Dink for a while before scoring one a few years ago. They go pretty quickly, he says, but he was able to get his hands on a light five-year-old hull. “The boats are really simple, so it’s just a matter getting sail controls led to the skipper and close enough on weight, and with that the fleet does a great job with corrector weights.” 

One entourage in the fleet who don’t require corrector weights is a band of big fellas who call themselves The Slayers. They take great pride in being too big for the boat. “We’re a group of overweight, underskilled sailors, and when you’re in a big fleet like this, you ­actually need to have another competition; otherwise, it gets boring being at the back of the fleet,” Tom Jankovich says. “We have rules that only we know and no one at the top of the fleet knows. Those rules focus on how can the fat guys win and the fast guys not win.”

With a weekly gathering of such size, it does take a local army to pull off the racing. “It takes a ton of volunteers to make it happen every day,” fleet co-captain Bobby Pruett tells me. “We have about 18 race committee on crash boats, mark boats, whatever it may be, each and every Sunday between October through March, so it’s a big lift to make the opportunity to race with everyone happen.”

Pruett’s journey from New York City’s West Village to Riverside YC each weekend is epic unto itself: “It’s about an hour and a half commute. If it’s a 2 o’clock start, I’m hopping on the BDFM [New York Subway] to take the shuttle across, then to Grand Central, then Metro North, then to my sister’s house to pick up my moped to get to the club.”

But it’s absolutely worth the journey, he says. 

Pruett’s co-captain Kevin Kelley had not raced a dinghy until 10 years ago. When he moved to Riverside, he quickly discovered that Dink racing was where the offseason action was at. “We now have 95 boats on the dock, and when I was looking for a boat, there were more new members than there were new boats, so I had to buy a new one,” he says. “Two decades ago, I understand the biggest challenge was getting people to sign up. Now the biggest challenge is fitting them all on the dock space we have.”

Clearly, this crowd is into the Dink thing, and while the racing is over in a blink, the pace of derigging on the dock is as brisk as I’ve ever seen. It’s barely past noon, and in a rush, sails are rolled and covers zipped, and there’s a beeline to the bar where Pruett shares good news over chili, beer, and properly mixed Dark ‘n Stormy ­cocktails served in proper-size pint glasses.

He gathers the sailors in a small side room in the club, where the perpetual trophy hangs in a corner by the window.

“There were a total of 70 boats today,” he says once the crowd is hushed with whistles. “Initially, I was given wrong information that the record was 71. Well, it was 64, so we have the record. We got it done.”

The sailors cheer, finish their drinks, and slip away to domestic chores, afternoon football games, trains to the city, and naps. It’s been a proper day of frostbite Dink racing, and they’ll be back again next Sunday for their weekly fix.

The post Into the Dink appeared first on Sailing World.

I am amazed at the impressive talent of so many young sailors across the American sailing landscape today. Since 2001, when I originated the Junior All-Star concept, I have written about more than 150 dedicated young sailors who have demonstrated excellence on racecourses across the country. Almost every one of them has continued in their sailing careers and become leaders in the sport­—respected professionals and amateurs alike. 

In scouring the results of junior regattas and speaking with coaches and mentors to finalize this year’s All-Star squad, I sense the emergence of a highly groomed generation of talent from top-level programs and clubs. It is heartening to see so many of them committed to achieving their goals at such early stages of their young sailing lives.

The most difficult part of this All-Star project is finalizing the list; I know that there are many others working equally hard to reach their own personal milestones. However, in finalizing this year’s All-Star squad, I am inspired by their dedication to practice routines and aspirations. Meet the 2024 Jobson All-Star Juniors—the present and rising stars of our sport.

Makani Andrews and his crew, Noelani Velasco, Bryce Huntoon and Jaxon Hottinger, from Hawaii’s Kaneohe YC, have now won US Sailing’s Chubb US Youth Triplehanded Championship for the Sears Cup two years in row. Andrews also won the US Youth Championship in the iQFoil class as well as the Under-19 division of the 2023 Long Beach Olympic Classes Regatta. He traveled to Lake Garda, Italy, as well and raced against more than 400 competitors in the iQFoil division—his first top-10 race result on the international stage.

“Getting a seventh in the marathon race with all 422 ­competitors racing at the same time was incredible,” Andrews says. “It was ­disappointing to miss the top 10 after getting an OCS the last race, but this has inspired me to work my hardest and shoot for the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics.”

When asked how important it was to sail with the same crew in the Sears Cup, Andrews says that they were able to learn together from all their past and varied experiences. “We have gotten to know our specific roles and strengths and weaknesses,” he says. “We are also close friends.”

Huntoon says that the crew raced in the 2021 Sears Cup and finished fifth in their first appearance. “It happened to be the 100th edition of the event,” he says. “I really got a feel for how important and historical the event is.”

Huntoon’s primary race boat, however, is his ­foiling Waszp. “In Hawaii, we do not have Optimists,” he says. “The 29er is the first boat I’ve ever owned, but I have raced a few other keelboats—Solings, Melges 24s and J/80s.”

Looking to the future, Huntoon says that his life goal is to “make a living out of racing sailboats, and the Youth America’s Cup is the launching pad to achieve this.”

Huntoon and Andrews’ teammate Jaxon Hottinger likes racing the ILCA 7 because “the boat keeps me physically fit and improves my tactics.” He also races a 29er locally, and crews on a variety of keelboats and high-performance catamarans in Hawaii.

When asked how the team was able to win the Sears Cup two years in a row, Hottinger says: “Hard work and not letting tough situations affect us. We have great communication and know each other very well. Keeping a clear and calm mind under pressure is how we ultimately prevail.”

Velasco, 17, the only female member of the winning Sears Cup crew, says, “I personally prefer crewing over skippering because I always liked the labor-intensive jobs that crewing offered, like trimming the spinnaker and jib.”

Velasco says that the good chemistry of her Sears Cup team is their friendships, “developed while bowling, playing other watersports, hanging out, and learning to rock-climb together.”

All four sailors credit their coach, Jesse Andrews, the sailing director at Kaneohe, for developing a strong sense of discipline and character off the water.

Audrey Foley won the Leiter Trophy for the 2023 US Junior Women’s Singlehanded Championship. She was also the top female sailor at the 2023 ILCA 6 US Youth Championship, finished 10th at the ILCA 6 World Championship in Morocco this past October, and qualified for the 2023 Youth World Sailing Championships in Buzios, Brazil, in December.

“From start to finish, each race is determined by my decisions,” Foley says of her preference for singlehanded sailing. “I have ­complete control over what happens. It pushes me to my limits and encourages me to keep testing them.”

Foley has raced many different boats, beginning with the Optimist when she was 6, and has since competed in ILCAs, Snipes, i420s, C420s and J/70s. Foley is well-traveled, having raced Optimists in more than 30 countries. She currently attends school in England, where she’s expanded her portfolio to include the Firefly dinghy and the SB20 sportboat. For fun, she says, she’s developing her ­foiling skills on the Waszp.

Foley says that she received inspiration from an Olympic champion at a young age. “As a ­7-year-old Opti sailor, I had the pleasure of meeting [Laser Radial Olympic gold medalist] Anna Tunnicliffe-Tobias and hearing her speak. Since then, she has inspired my passion for sailing and pursuit of ILCAs. My current coaches, Erik Bowers and Sophie Reineke, have helped me reach a higher level. Erika Reineke and Mauricio Galarce have also been ­outstanding role models.”

Seventeen-year-old teammates Freddie Parkin and Asher Beck, who sail out of Connecticut’s Riverside YC, won the 2023 US Youth Championship in the International 420, which qualified the pair to race at the upcoming Youth World Sailing Championships in Brazil. As the reigning world champions, Parkin and Beck also won the 2023 Club 420 National Championship in Chicago this past summer. When it comes to racing domestic regattas versus international championships, Parkin says, the size and depth of the field is far greater in big international events. “The i420 World Championship had around 120 entries in the Open Division,” he says. “The top 20 are very good, so you need to be fast in all ­conditions, and any mistakes get seriously punished.”

Because they race both Club 420s and i420s, I asked about the differences between the boats. Parkin explained that the i420 is more technical and responsive. Beck’s assessment is that the i420 is ­significantly faster. “It can be tuned far more precisely than the C420,” Beck says. 

Both young men credit their coach, Steve Keen, for their improvement over the past few years, but Beck says that he’s always looked up to Olympic 470 skipper Stu McNay, who once coached them at a clinic in Rhode Island. Parkin’s older brother, Jack, won the Youth Worlds as a crew in 2016, and the younger Parkin credits his parents, Barry and Susie, for helping him. Both were Olympic sailors ­representing Great Britain.

Skipper Cody Roe, 16, and his crew, Brooke Mertz, 16, who sail out of Florida’s Lauderdale YC, won the 2023 US Youth Championship in the Nacra 15 class. Roe also won the Nacra 15 World Championship with crew KJ Hill, while Mertz finished fourth racing with her brother, Conner. 

When asked about their practice routine, Mertz says: “As much as possible. Our normal practice is every Saturday and Sunday. We get out there at 9 and leave anywhere from around 4 to 6. On-land workouts and strength training are also important. The Nacra 15 is a complex boat and has more controls than many other boats. It’s also different in foiling versus nonfoiling setups. In foiling boats, we adjust the rake of the daggerboards in addition to everything else. We spend a lot of time making sure everything is tuned to both our weight and the ­conditions we are sailing in.”

Roe sails at St. Thomas Aquinas High School in 420s and Flying Juniors, and credits several who have been helpful mentors: “My dad has gotten me where I am today,” he says. “He has helped and supported me my entire career and has pushed me to be a better sailor.”

His two Opti coaches, Arthur Blodget and Pilo Rocha, have been key mentors as well, and John Casey is his current Nacra 15 coach. “Without him, none of my Nacra achievements would have happened,” Roe says. “The sailors at Lauderdale Yacht Club are all very good and help push me to be better.”

Mertz says that she had to work to improve and credits her sailing friend Wylder Smith for his ­guidance. “Self-confidence has always been one of my greatest weaknesses,” she says, “and Wylder helped me a lot with this. If I would talk down to myself, he would talk sense into me on how to stop thinking so negatively.”

Long term, Mertz says that she just wants to get better. For Roe, the future is loftier: “My long-term goal is to make it to the Olympics.”

Jobson Junior All-Star Honorable Mentions: Gavin Ball, Travis Greenberg, Laura Hamilton, Andrew Lamm, Tyler Lamm, Wylder Smith, William Whidden and Caroline Zager

The post Jobson All-Star Juniors 2024: The Fast Generation appeared first on Sailing World.

Seven minutes after the start of Chicago YC’s Race to Mackinac, I’m soaked to the bone, my heart is pounding, and I can’t believe I’m sailing this damn race again. This is my sixth Mac, and each has served up some new form of terror. But there’s a lot riding on this one.

On this same weekend 100 years ago, my great-grandfather John O’Rourke passed through what was then called the Van Buren Street breakwater gap, along with 16 other boats, to attempt the Race to Mackinac. Much of what I know about him and his little Q boat, Intruder, I learned from the Chicago Tribune archives. Headlines like, “Intruder Fights Waves, Rain to Capture Mackinac Race,” had conjured a legend. And here I am on the bow of Skye, a Nelson/Marek 46, ­making my own epic journey to the island a century later.  

The skies open the moment we cross the starting line east of Navy Pier on the afternoon of Saturday, July 22, 2023. I am tossed around on the bow during our first spinnaker hoist, white-knuckling the lifelines as rain stings my face. Throughout the day, we navigate storms rumbling off the Wisconsin shoreline bringing windshifts and cold air. During the occasional lull, my thoughts drift back to John Paul O’Rourke’s 100-year-old logs full of notes on Lake Michigan’s unpredictable weather patterns and his calculations using celestial navigation. In 1923, at the age of 30, he was a skilled sailor helming a small boat he had purchased for $1,800 earlier that spring in New Orleans. Despite his inexperience with the vessel, he was confident enough to bet on himself. John and his fellow Mac skippers were gamblers and had pooled a cash purse for the winner. First prize for that year’s Mac was $600—one-third of the cost of Intruder. The Mac race committee has since banned this practice as a result of controversies surrounding the contested outcome of the 1923 race.

Today, while no cash is on the table, we have a little gentlemen’s wager tradition aboard Skye. Before we leave the dock, each crewmember bets on the number of sail changes it will take us to reach the island. As we cast off from Columbia YC’s dock, the predictions range from 12 to 35 sail changes, with the optimistic afterguard at the lower end and the pragmatic foredeck crew submitting the ­highest guesses. 

By 17:27 Saturday evening, four hours and seven minutes into our 331-nautical-mile race, we are at 13 sail changes and making 7 knots on a run due north. I see 1,000-yard stares on the faces of our trimmers, Alex Loch and Tom Grant, as we notice a long cloud forming that looks like a gnarled finger pointing at us from the southern sky. Last year, similar clouds formed just before our anemometer spiked and a squall hammered the boat. Skye’s co-owner Jeff Hoswell expertly manned the helm while Loch, Grant, and I suddenly had to wrestle the jib to the deck in 38 knots and 8-foot waves. Low-side heroics from our pit, Dan Gardiner, are the sole reason we didn’t end up in the drink. In 2022, two nights of intense squalls left us beaten up and exhausted. While this night is not as sporty, it feels as though Lake Michigan might test us again at any moment. 

The Skye crew was haunted by our last Mac. And 100 years ago, my great-grandfather was likewise haunted by his. The only other Mac he had participated in was in 1921. The race had taken a hiatus during World War I, and the size of the fleet dwindled. Chicago YC members launched a campaign to encourage younger sailors, often with smaller boats, to enter the Mac Race.

John O’Rourke and his brother James were among the newly invited ­competitors, on their boat, Chaperon. Their log from that 1921 race ends dripping with frustration: “Monday. 2:00 P.M. jibed spinnaker and also tore it. 2:54:49 P.M. Finished. Virginia finished 1:42:28. Chaperon’s allowance 1:10:14. Lost race by 2 minutes, 7 seconds.”

John didn’t celebrate earning second place in his first Mac attempt. “Lost race” offers a glimpse into his competitive fervor. He entered the race again in 1923, this time with a better boat, more experience, and a vow to beat Virginia.

Today on the deck of Skye, we use the waning daylight to check the positions of our own section rivals. At nightfall, the fleet is tightly packed on the rhumb line as stars appear over silhouettes of spinnakers. The crew trade in red caps and sunglasses for headlamps and tethers. At 20:00, we are tracking a menacing storm cell ­coming from the west between Racine and Milwaukee. Skye’s co-owner and navigator, Jane Hoswell, ­estimates that we will be in the cell within 90 minutes. As the clock ticks down, we organize our headsails, flake and bag the used jibs, and prepare dinner. We flirt with the edges of storms all evening, until a fresh wind line slams the boat at 2 a.m. I spring to the deck to drop the staysail, hoist the No. 3 jib, and pull in the kite. 

The storms finally dissipate, and Sunday delivers a gorgeous afternoon of downwind sailing. At 15:09, we are making a steady 9 knots of boatspeed. As I take a break from bow duties to make sandwiches, the annual debate on whether to go over or under the Manitou Islands takes over the cabin. Various crew are huddled around iPads and laptops trying to grab one bar of cell service off the Michigan dunes to update forecasts and routings. The decision is made. We’ll go over. With 21 sail changes thus far, we’re moving along nicely, and I trim the spinnaker as we pass Point Betsie.

After sunset, our luck runs out. We’re becalmed. I scratched the mast to bring wind, a sailing superstition I’ve learned from reading the logs of the 1923 Mac racers. My scratch eventually produces a couple of knots. One hundred years ago, the bowman’s mast scratch supposedly brought “the great hurricane of 1923.” John O’Rourke vividly describes it in his log: “With strong puffs of wind off Sleeping Bear, our lee side was entirely awash, and it was a question of how long we could weather the blow before our canvas or mast should carry away…. Though we had been on starboard tack for over 36 hours, the barometer continued to fall and it seemed certain that the storm center was approaching. We therefore reefed two down as there was no sign of wind or sea diminishing and there was water ahead that was dangerously shallow.”

By Sunday evening, we are navigating these same shallow shoals and reefs that my great-grandfather had fretted about a century ago. The night is pitch-black. Low clouds block the stars and shroud the sliver of moon. Our horizon line vanishes, and we are floating along in the void pointed directly at South Fox Shoals. Alan Cichon, our ace of light-air driving, is at the helm. As each crewmember wakes for their watch and glances at our current position on the chart, they warn him that we are dangerously close to a reef. “We know!” the on-watch crew shouts back. Grant is the third person to pop his head out of the companionway and caution that we are approaching a rock. Luckily for him, raucous laughter from the crew breaks the tension. Cichon and our tactician, Scott Pattullo, keep the boat gliding safely through the darkness. 

The morning my great-grandfather finished the 1923 Mac, he wrote in his log: “With the first streak of dawn came the biggest surprise of any Mackinac race. Instead of having two of our class competitors astern, we had two of the big P boats, Intrepid and Mauvoreen, winners of previous Mac Races. Before we crossed the finish line, they both extended congratulations. We crossed the ­finishing line [Tuesday] at 4:31AM.”

Dawn on our final day also has a surprise in store. Monday at 6:40 a.m., with 29 nautical miles to go, we pass Grays Reef lighthouse and spot Hot Lips, a Farr 40 in our section. It is a competitive boat with an excellent spinnaker trimmer—my sister, Meghan. We owe Hot Lips time, so barring a major error, we know they have us beat, but we decide the fight for line honors between us is worth it. With Marc Bernstein at Skye’s helm, we overtake them, and I hail Meg by screaming the chorus to “South Side Irish,” our family’s musical sigil. But they catch a shore breeze that carries them across the finish line ahead of us.

Soon we can see the Grand Hotel’s gleaming white columns. Our Mac rookie, Nathan Benya, trims the spinnaker as we pass under the Mackinac Bridge. With the finish line in sight, he hands the sheet to Jane Hoswell, who is celebrating her 25th Mac. This milestone is commemorated by her induction into the Island Goats Sailing Society, a coveted honor among Great Lakes sailors. Our ­helmsman, Robert Libcke, steers us over the finish line at 14:05:38 on Monday, July 24.

In 1923, one observer wrote: “Mackinac Island was a busy place on Tuesday morning, July 24. The boats came in fast and bunched. And the celebrations on shore were numerous and noisy.”

In this regard, a century has changed nothing. On Skye, Benya gets his Mac baptism: a stealthy bucket of water dumped over his unsuspecting head. Jane Hoswell is properly feted for becoming a Goat. Hundreds of temporary “Jane” tattoos are inked on every sailor the Skye crew can find, from the Pink Pony to the Rum Party. And once again, our team is up to the usual island shenanigans. 

But not all stories end neatly at the rowdy sailing parties on Mackinac Island. Four months after John O’Rourke won his 1923 Mac Race, he was disqualified on a technicality related to Intruder’s measurement certificate, giving way to Virginia to once again claim the Mackinac Cup. The club’s decision has been hotly debated for a century and become the stuff of Chicago sailing lore. For the rest of his life, he maintained that he was wrongfully stripped of his 1923 victory. While he went on to win many races, he never won another Mac. 

My great-grandfather’s story ignited my curiosity and pushed me to the docks of Columbia YC and onto the course that takes us annually to the island at the top of the lake. While John O’Rourke was the fabled sailor who drew me to the sport, I’ve now met many legends forged by the waters of Lake Michigan. On the deck of Skye, I have witnessed grand acts of courage, medical emergencies calmly handled, and countless moments of selfless compassion. That is the great thing about amateur offshore sailing. The sport makes heroes out of ordinary people.

The post A Tale of Two Macs appeared first on Sailing World.

As complex as the AC75s will be when launched for racing at the Louis Vuitton 37th America’s Cup Challenger Series, New York YC’s American Magic trimmer Lucas Calabrese says that getting the team’s 75-foot foiler around the racecourse will demand the same fundamentals he honed in his years of Olympic 470 sailing. A mainsail is a mainsail, after all, but how trimmers manage the power in these towering high-aspect sails is exponentially more critical. The AC75 Tech Regulations, which define virtually every aspect of the AC75, are “quite restrictive” with the sails, Calabrese says. But for the second-generation twin-skinned mainsails, there is plenty of innovation yet to come.

Most teams accept that Barcelona will be a generally lighter-wind venue, so most design packages will focus on performance in medium to light breezes. And when it comes to designing the “aero package” for these AC75s, the challenge is to have ample power in the sails for takeoff and minimal drag when up to speed. “These boats go very fast, and as soon as we’re going very fast, we need to get rid of a lot of area, which we can do,” Calabrese says. “But the hard part is that we also need to maneuver and need to accelerate. So, there’s no one solution to this challenge. It all relates to the rest of the package.”

That package, of course, includes foils, flaps, a rudder, rudder elevators, and countless other considerations. But for Calabrese, the main concern is the mainsail he’s tasked to trim with efficiency. The controls at his disposal include the mainsheet, which controls leech tension like any sailboat. Unlike a traditional keelboat, however, the AC75s have no booms. Given the high apparent wind angles at which these boats sail, booms are essentially unnecessary. With such narrow angles and no boom, Calabrese says that the mainsail could be considered as being more akin to a jib. The mainsheet simply impacts leech tension (on both mainsail skins), and then there’s the outhauls, which work ­similarly to a traditional outhaul. The cunningham system, he says, “is a pretty simple setup.” One additional consideration is mast rotation.

“Those are the main controls we use to set up the sails, and are important to controlling the boat’s heel angle,” Calabrese says. “But the most important tool to control the heel is the traveler. Heel is important because it’s all related to the foil-cant angle and to the flap, and to the stability of the boat.”

On the AC40s, used for pre-Cup development and preliminary regattas, the traveler system is battery-powered, so mainsail trimmers use it extensively. On the AC75, however, the traveler is powered by humans, the cyclors, so teams are more limited in the amount of traveler adjustments. “You just need to know how to use it wisely,” Calabrese says.

Outhaul adjustments are more micromovements, but because the clews are so close to the traveler itself, “the angle changes quite abruptly with small movements,” Calabrese says. “For every centimeter you move the outhaul track, you’re moving the angle, so you get a nice effect without having to move them too much.”

As for the cunningham, the loads are smaller to begin with at low speeds, but as speed builds, more travel in the system is required. The faster they go, the faster it changes; faster equals more load and more effort to pull, which requires more power from the cyclors.

Preliminary racing in the AC40s has demonstrated one of the most important elements of sailing an AC75: the takeoff. Initiating takeoff is one of the more challenging moments, Calabrese says, because the apparent wind angle during the acceleration phase is quite wide. The first thing they must do is rotate the mast fully to try to be as close as they can to the apparent wind angle. With maximum rotation, the traveler is pulled outboard.

“Because we don’t have a boom, it’s the only way to get the sail to set wider,” Calabrese explains. “So, basically, we’re trying to have good trim on [the main and jib], making sure that the two leeches are matched.”

As the speed builds, so too does the apparent wind as it shifts forward. “That’s when you start trimming on. And once we reach the boatspeed that we think we can pull up, that’s when we do the final trim up on the traveler. That will basically get us onto the foils, and once we’re on the foils, the speeds start going up really, really fast.”

At that point, he says, they’re looking to shed excess drag in the sails, using all the tools at their disposal (and this applies to the jib as well): cunninghams, outhauls and mast rotation. “Upwind, the apparent wind angle is about 13 degrees or so, and downwind really is not that much different,” Calabrese says. “So, basically, once we are up in the air, it’s about flattening the sails as much as we can.”

All of this, of course, requires tapping into the wattage output of the cyclors hammering away on their cranks. “We have the sensitivity of needing human power to move every sail control,” Calabrese says, “so we have to be mindful that if we’re moving the traveler all the time, the cyclors are not going to be happy.”
Takeoff is one thing, but the high-speed bear away at the top of the course is another. It’s the most difficult maneuver, especially uprange, Calabrese says. “Everything is very loaded, and we’re going very, very fast, so it’s all about timing. We have to be ready to time the helm really well because if you get to the point where the helmsman is going into the power zone and you start to heel to leeward, you can really start to lose it rapidly, which happens on an almost daily basis on the AC40s.”

Success in the bear away is therefore all about being in precise synchronization. If the helmsman turns downwind and the boat is not properly depowered, leeward heel increases rapidly, and the point of no return is instant. “When you heel to leeward, you’re losing your righting moment quickly, and it snowballs. What happens next is the rudder comes out of the water, and then it’s over.”

Equally demanding on the power team and critical to being in sync is the turn through the bottom gate, especially when it’s windy. Going into the turn, the trimmers rely on software to tell them the time and distance to the turn. It’s also important that the cyclors know how far out they are from the mark—when things start getting pulled on and loaded, they’d better be ready for maximum output. The timing has to be right; pull things on too early, and VMG drops. Too late is too late. The sequence of events, Calabrese says, is cunningham on, outhauls adjusted, and then be prepared for the round up and acceleration. Mainsheet and jib-sheet adjustments ­happen in sync.

“The hardest part is to time things right so that you don’t end up with things trimmed on too early or too late,” he says.

And let’s not forget about the traveler; there’s a lot of big adjustments right after turning up, which draws a lot of energy from the cyclors. The cascading effect of any late adjustment is that other controls come on even later, which then requires even more traveler adjustments to follow. “Like every boat, if your sails are not in the right shape, you’re gonna end up way more unstable,” Calabrese says. “It’s similar here, so you want to make sure when you go around the mark, you can be pretty much set. It’s as much about managing the pressure from the cyclors as it is doing what you want. A lot of the time, you just can’t do what you wish to do.”

If the mainsail comes on too early and the jib late, the boat “gets pretty backloaded, and you can spin pretty quickly,” Calabrese adds. “Been there, done that. These are ­incredibly sensitive boats, regardless of how big they are. And we have to be very careful making sure we’re balanced because even though they’re big and heavy, they are still super-sensitive to being in the proper sail trim. The issues come when the helmsman turns and the sail trimmers are not ready or not ahead. That’s when you get into problems.”

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As with most things in life, a necessity called for a solution, and for Lindsay and Alfredo Lopez, that need was a RIB for their home-port Hampton YC. That need then quickly transformed into a full-time family-run RIB-rental business, a fast-growing fleet, spiking demand and a dealership to tie it all together.

A couple of summers ago, Lindsay says, Hampton couldn’t raise the capital to buy a new RIB, so they considered chartering one at a daily rate for the entire summer. “The rate was astronomical,” Lopez says. “So, we said, ‘Why don’t we just buy a boat and charter it back to the club for way less.’ It was really about doing something to help out our program, and hey, we get another boat. So that’s a win-win. We very quickly realized that there are never enough boats for events, coaches, spectators and parents.”

Naturally, one became two, two became three, and their new company, Club Boat Charter Company, was formed. They’re now moving eight RIBs with an insane schedule of charters already lined up for youth sailing events in the ­mid-Atlantic summer and Florida regattas all winter long.

“When we looked at what was out in the industry, we realized it was a great opportunity,” Lindsay says, “but our model was to see if we could get boats at a lower cost and pass those savings along.”

They connected with Highfield Boats, which makes award-winning aluminum-hulled RIBs, and Alfredo says that’s where the business took off. “What they were trying to do with the brand and competitive sailing and what our goals were aligned really well.”

The intent with their ­charter business, Lindsay says, is not about getting rich off the sport, but rather to make it more affordable for parents and families in the youth space and be an asset resource for organizations, regattas, and wherever else there’s a need. “It’s about keeping it reasonable for host clubs, PROs and everyone who’s involved by lowering the market price to charter a RIB.”

So far, she says, they’ve ­managed to keep their rates below $400 per day, depending on the location. “I think keeping it as affordable as we can is important because sailing is already an inexpensive sport, and I hate seeing kids unable to do something they love or enjoy because they can’t afford it. That is unacceptable, so we want to keep it as affordable as we can in the spaces where we have control.”

And as they say, and the pun is intended, the charter experience is turn-the-key turnkey. “We provide what we call a white-glove service,” Alfredo says. “Bring your life jacket, and the boat is in the water when you get there. It’s clean, it’s gassed up, keys are in the ignition, and it’s ready for you to go.”

Same goes for the return. “It’s as simple as leaving it at the dock; we’ll recover it and take it to the next place,” he says. “We make it as painless as possible.”

Seems too easy to be true, but Alfredo says that’s the point. “It is logistically difficult in many ways, but personally, I saw this as an opportunity to be on a boat more, which I love. It is tough and it requires a lot of capital, but the market and the demand are growing. We will grow the fleet as much as demand allows and is ­appropriate for the market.”

There’s plenty of cleaning boats, as well, Lindsay adds. And driving, which they’ve been doing less of since onboarding their first operations manager, Brian Fox, a former college sailor and active coach. “He actually taught our daughters when they were Opti Green fleeters,” Alfredo says. “His perspective is good because he knows what coaches want.”

Now three years into the biz, things are humming along for the parents of two young daughters, and both Alfredo and Lindsay see the potential of more. Partnering with Highfield Boats was the critical relationship to jump-start the company, and Alfredo looks longingly at the fact that Highfield is the official RIB sponsor of the Paris Olympic regatta next summer, which means Los Angeles could fit perfectly into their long-term business plan (they both have MBAs, by the way). “I would love to do LA in 2028 and support that initiative,” Alfredo says. “But next year will be one of sustainability. I think that we’ve hit a pretty good number in our fleet. We’ll focus on turning it around and refreshing it, and then just continuing to break into new events however we can.”

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The five-minute horn sounds as the J/70 class flag goes up. It’s shake-and-bake time for the team on Brutus III. I deliver my signature bony-knuckle fist bumps to my teammates, a tradition I brought to them as the only American on board. We do it before every race to loosen up and get excited. It’s Day One of the 2023 J/70 World Championships in St. Petersburg, Florida, and “No Windersburg,” as we like to call it, is living up to its reputation. The forecast is set to improve as the day goes on, but we all know that this first light-air race will reveal who has what it takes to win the world title. 

We’ve been preparing for these conditions all year thanks to Mother Nature delivering light winds at several events at Davis Islands, Miami, the UK, and typically windy Lake Garda. All of our light-air training and racing has taught us several lessons: patience, clear communication, coordination moving around the boat, and important feedback loops. Most importantly, we’ve learned to trust in one another, and to do our jobs and do them well. While there might be literal stepping on toes on our boat as we sail five-up, there is no overstepping our individual roles. We own our positions and back up one another whenever necessary. We all bring different but complementary skills, and we use those to work as equals—a true team mentality.

As the final gun sounds for the first race, our focus is simple: sail normally, which is easier said than done in an 83-boat fleet full of talented teams. But nothing is ever normal in the first race of a big-fleet world championship. Thanks to our practice and preparation, we have a decent start and good boatspeed off the line. This was a major goal for our team, and we knew that good, clean starts would allow us to control our race. But even with our good start, we find ourselves hung out in an unfortunate windshift, which puts us in the chaotic midfleet scrum. It’s daunting and disheartening to see so many boats ahead of us, but it’s a place we’ve been before. We buckle down and get to work, crossing the finish line after what feels like a three-hour race; 53rd is not a Worlds-winning result to start with.

At this point, we know that something needs to change. We need to shake off the nerves, reset, and get after it again. I go below and pass up water bottles and the traditional Brutus-style energy bars: the best chocolate fudge brownies. The ­discussion while we scarf our sweet treats is to remain positive, and we joke about what a relief it is to have our drop race already out of the way. We all know that we have a long week ahead and anything can happen. We stick to the game plan: Sail normally, do our best, and keep the positive energy at full tilt. Small windshifts make a huge difference on long legs, so we know that we need to keep a ­particularly close eye on them.

We then go straight back into our normal prestart routine by going head-to-wind near the midline committee boat and determining the side of the line we want to start at. Then we go upwind on starboard and port tacks to get our bearings and check our rig settings. After one more wind check and a back-down to make sure we were free from all the little bits of seagrass we’ve seen on the course, we ping the ends of the line and time our runs to the line.

Again, we’re shaking-and-
baking at the five-minute signal. The breeze is building, the sugar is kicking in, and we are ready to redeem ourselves. And redeem we do, crossing the finish line with a third. We could attribute the brownies as the secret to success, but what really happened is we found our stride. 

For the remainder of the week, our best sailing is done when we find ourselves with room to play, and we constantly adjust our technique to even the smallest changes in wind strength. Our trust in one another to change modes easily provides us with opportunities to make big gains both upwind and downwind. Knowing this, our tactician, Ben Saxton, can make confident decisions about what our plan is and utilize the feedback loop of information we constantly have going in the boat.

Our driver, Thomas Mallendine, provides Saxton with how the helm is feeling and what he needs. Chris Grube constantly relays big-picture wind reports, what phase the breeze is in, and how far up and down we are from our mean compass numbers. Downwind, he keeps the communication flowing about how the spinnaker feels, helping Mallendine drive to the mode we need. Charles Thompson, Brutus’ fearless owner, provides feedback on relatives both upwind and downwind, and I call short-term puffs and lulls upwind and downwind. It might seem like a lot of chatter, but we have been able to fine-tune it with practice so that we can make the best decisions while racing without being on information overload.

As a team, we find that if we are overly dialed in, we’re too stiff and don’t execute the boathandling as well. Overcoming that is what makes this team so special. All of the technical information, boathandling, feedback and preparation make us a fast team, but our real magic is our banter. No one on the boat is safe from being lovingly picked on, and nothing diffuses tension faster than making fun of yourself. It’s not constant, but at many points during races, and always between races, we turn to laughter to set us straight. There’s no point in playing if we’re not having a good time.

Before the last race of the regatta, we have a decent overall lead in the standings, but we know we need to sail well to win. It’s still anyone’s game. I am nervous. We all are, but we’ve talked about it. Being nervous is OK—as long as we utilize those nerves and enjoy the privilege of being in a ­position to be nervous. 

Lo and behold, the start of the last race is our worst of the regatta. We’re deep in the third row and about to lose it all. But we harness our nerves differently than we did in the first race: We laugh and move on. We sail fast, make smart decisions, and keep our composure. We sail our way, the Brutus banter in full effect, and it works. This is what makes winning this world ­championship title so special.

It’s an amazing feeling to win my first world championship, and I am honored to be the first American woman to win the J/70 world title. But the satisfaction is far greater than that. It might sound cliche or sappy, but I’m proud that we won as a team, as best mates, laughing and smiling from start to finish.

The post How the Worlds Were Won appeared first on Sailing World.

Cedric Lewis, his J/105 co-skipper Fredrik Salvesen, and their band of blue-shirted merrymakers from Annapolis, Maryland, arrived early to the Helly Hansen Sailing World Regatta Series Caribbean Championship in the BVI with a master plan. As holders of the title from a year earlier, they had more than enough time to plot their defense, and plot they did. They locked in their ace crew, chartered a mothership catamaran to cargo their provisions, people and potable water, and then set up their Sunsail 41 to be as slippery as possible. Over five days of racing, they were ­virtually untouchable.

With Hurricane Tammy churning menacingly close to the Leeward Islands, most competitors arrived mere hours before regional airports and ferries closed. Some crews never made it off the continental US. While it looked as if the fleet would be grounded in base for a few days, Tammy gracefully departed, and the first of five distance races got underway on a tropical Sunday afternoon off Cooper Island. For the week’s first challenge, dubbed the Islands Race because it encircles Cooper, Ginger and Salt islands, the hurricane flipped the traditional easterly trades, so the fleet was sent counterclockwise around Salt and Cooper in a light northwesterly.

In the expected chaos of six teams, five of them new to the 41-foot charter boats, the start was a frantic affair with a few boats on or near the line, but a few others were caught off guard while trying to figure out how to work the mechanics of their cruising cockpits. From the melee, Team Mirage promptly broke away and led comfortably around the western corner of Salt before turning upwind and into the heaving hurricane swells. Nearly two hours and many tacks later, Team Mirage put its first win on the scoreboard.

Hot on their transom was the talented squad from Holland, Michigan, led by Tom and Mary Bryant, winners of the Helly Hansen Sailing World Regatta Series in St. Petersburg, Florida, with their S27.9 Matros. Due to an unexpected twist of inventory at Sunsail’s Tortola base, Team Matros found itself on a 46-footer, much more substantial than the 41s allocated across the fleet. While benefiting from the extra waterline length, Team Matros’ longer steed was, however, laden with a generator, air conditioning and other accessories that would theoretically even things out over the course of the week. And while there was some quiet consternation from others in the fleet, it was the opinion of regatta PRO Dick Neville—with decades of experience running the charter-boat fleet races at the popular BVI Spring Regatta—that the Matros syndicate could enjoy their AC, but all would even out across a variety of ­conditions over the week.

Third across the Cooper Island finish line were the California Space Cadets of the VX One that earned its Caribbean Championship berth at the San Diego regatta. Skipper Charlie Welsh arrived in the BVI on a hot streak, having won US Sailing’s Mallory Cup. This young six-pack of friends and teammates were new to charter bareboat racing, but it didn’t take them long to figure out the nuances of their laden vessel.

Finishing mere feet behind the Cadets were the New Englanders of Carolyn Corbet’s Team Elektra, IOD sailors who won the Marblehead edition of the Regatta Series. In the moments before the Islands Race, they unfurled their jib for the first time and quickly realized that it was massively oversize and near impossible to trim correctly. To either tack the boat or sheet the sail home properly, Corbet reported, they had to partially furl it. But as engineers and young critical thinkers, the Elektrans got to work after the race to solve the challenge—rum undoubtedly fueling the innovation.

Next to finish was Team Exile, a late entry to the regatta when Jeff Davis’ Chicago-winning J/111 team surrendered its berth. Team Exile, led by Andy Graff on the big wheel, was short two crewmembers who were unable to reach the regatta because of hurricane travel snafus. Graff, an accomplished doublehanded racer on his J/88 with teammate Scott Eisenhardt, was nonplussed, other than what to do with all the extra provisions. They each had their partners to assist with the trimming, so all was good on board.

Last across the Cooper Island finish line was the young and enthusiastic crew of Bruce Irvin’s Team Shamrock, which put in maximum effort despite being handicapped with a mainsail that was a good few feet short of full hoist. Suffice to say, they drew the slow boat, but Irvin’s fun-loving crew quickly accepted their fate; the revelry to come would more than make up for the unlucky boat draw.

The mainsail on Shamrock’s boat, clearly pilfered from something much smaller, could not be replaced overnight, so for the following day’s leg from the Baths to Bitter End Yacht Club in Virgin Gorda Sound, Neville spotted them a one-minute jump on the fleet. But even that wasn’t enough as, one by one, teams cruised past. Team Mirage was, again, first to Bitter End, making quick work of the course that took the fleet through the Dog Islands and into Virgin Gorda. The Space Cadets scored a second, finishing ahead of Team Matros by a few lengths. Team Elektra grabbed fourth, Exile was fifth, and Shamrock rocked in a few minutes later.

With a Bitter End Yacht Club lay day to relax and jump into the official Wave Beer Can Series, the racers convened the next morning at the watersports center. After a short briefing, they hit the sound in the colorful cats for some spirited buoy racing. The two divisions of Hobie Waves and Getaways raced together, and the Cadets, through all means possible, took advantage of the no-rules racing scheme and won both classes. They followed up with a ­narrow ­victory later that evening at the Mount Gay Rum Cocktail Contest with a tasty ­concoction called “Astro Punch.”

The following morning, the fleet set off to a new destination on the traditional championship route: Scrub Island Resort & Spa and Marina Cay. Team Shamrock got its jump-start and was first to short-tack its way out of the channel while the rest of the fleet lay chase, bouncing each other from side to side until out in the open ocean and into some loose reaching. Team Mirage found itself looking at a fleet of transoms as it exited the sound, but it later pounced at Scrub Island when the front-runners attempted to cut the corner.

“The wind shadows on this course were significant, and those guys were moving along before they hit the wall,” Lewis says. “We steered clear of the shoreline, and to be honest, we got lucky.”

Such fortune in the final mile netted them a horizon job into the Scrub Island finish. Team Elektra, meanwhile, having engineered a better jib lead with borrowed blocks and spare dock lines, had remarkably better pace and handling. The crew put a second place to their score line, proving all along that it had been the boat, not the sailors, holding them back. The Cadets were third, Matros fourth, Exile fifth, and Shamrock was in familiar territory.

The Scrub Island pitstop was a ­welcome respite. While some teams napped, swam or snorkeled, other teams scrambled ashore to the resort for a complimentary rum punch, a pool swim, and a luxury lunch in the air-conditioned dining room.

With many more miles to go to reach Jost Van Dyke before sundown, the race committee hailed all teams back to their boats for the start of the day’s second leg. Irvin’s pleas to the race committee to allow his team to start with the fleet was granted, and the Shamrock squad promptly engaged with Mirage in a pre-start duel that found both of them OCS. Despite the outcome, it was a highlight of the regatta for Irvin. The two were once rivals from back in their junior sailing days, and Irvin was thrilled to be able to square up against his one-time rival. Team Matros, however, got a clean getaway and quickly established a lead it would never relinquish as boats slowly made their way to a finish line set off the picturesque anchorage of Sandy Cay. Here too the Elektrans notched another second-place finish to inch ever closer to Team Mirage in the standings. Mirage was third to the island, the Space Cadets fourth, Shamrock fifth (its best finish yet), and Exile cruised in across the finish not far behind.

The Soggy Dollar Beach Bar and later Foxy’s Bar and Restaurant served as natural post-race gatherings, which carried on into the early hours.

The championship’s notorious Leg Five, which includes a clockwise loop around Sandy Cay and its surrounding reefs before leading the fleet through Great Thatch Cut at the Western end of Tortola, started off with a slow and clean start. But the morning’s promising wind went light just as the boats tried to navigate past Sandy Cay’s reefs. Crews held their breath as they held impossibly thin lanes, creeping past the submerged rocks. Heaving swells pushed boats ever closer, eventually creating a frantic scene of calls for water and engines in reverse. When it was all eventually sorted, Mirage was first to reach Great Thatch Cut and the finish of the shortened course, notching another win before proceeding under power to Norman Island for the ­afternoon’s buoy races.

With a weather mark tethered to a ­mooring deep inside The Bight, Neville pondered the sanity of a half-mile weather leg in such a small anchorage but proceeded with the plan for two windward-­leeward contests. Mirage nailed the first race and then the second, even with a second-­row start. Lewis, Fredrik and Missy Salvesen, Greg Larcher, Vernon Sheen, Lilla Salvesen, Vince Yannelli, Kaila Lewis, and Molly Hughes Wilmer had once again conquered the BVI and the championship (with the help of their mothership skippers Tina Lewis and Debbie Larcher). While their defense plans are not yet in motion, Lewis says, they will come to fruition after some much-needed recovery.

The post The Ultimate Prize appeared first on Sailing World.

I’m about to lose the surf, so I lean in, steering up to a momentary reach. Then, at just the right moment, I roll the boat to windward, carving down to catch the next wave. Surfing, I follow the trough, sailing well by the lee. Sadly, I can’t ride this wave forever, so once again I lean in to head up. Carving S-turns down the course is a hoot. On the upwind leg, I lean in to head up and start my tack. Then as I near head to wind, I snap my shoulders back, rolling the mast hard over me. That sets me up for an aggressive flatten, accelerating my boat up to speed on to the new tack. A satisfying roll tack is a welcome break from ghosting along in light air.

I had always figured that the reason kinetics like these are so effective is because as we roll our boat, and thus rig, through the air, we create extra wind over the sail. Although partially true, it turns out a recent Cornell doctoral thesis shows that it is way more interesting than that. When we roll, our sail induces an invisible spinning tube of air called a vortex. It is this vortex that is the mechanism of optimizing kinetics.

The fundamental feature of a vortex that makes it useful to us sailors is that it is an area of low pressure. The thesis shows that creating and managing the placement of these low-pressure vortices enhances the overall lift on a sail. Lift is the principle driving force that makes our sail work. Airflow around our sail results in a higher-pressure region to windward and a lower-pressure region to leeward behind the sail. It’s this pressure difference that produces a net force forward on the sail, and therefore the sails ­propelling our boat.

The vortex we are ­interested in creating and managing is behind the sail. The low ­pressure of the vortex further decreases the low pressure already there. This lower combined pressure makes for a greater differential between the front and back. With that comes a greater overall lift, and thus force and ultimately boatspeed.   

The study of my reference was designed by professor Charley Williamson, head of the Fluid Dynamics Research Laboratories at Cornell University. Williamson is well-known and at the top of his field. But he’s also a small-boat sailor at heart. Brought up in England in the Laser, he knows kinetics as well as anyone.

Williamson’s specialty in the field of fluid dynamics happens to be vortices. Although much of his work has to do with aircraft and other mainstream applications, he always has his eye on sailing. “I realized these vortices are likely a leading contributor to the kinetics that make a sailboat go faster,” he says, “so I designed a doctoral thesis study to investigate further. I needed a doctoral student who had the background and knowledge to technically fit the bill, but also a strong sailing background.”

Williamson connected with Riley Schutt, who studied aerospace engineering at MIT for his undergraduate degree, then went on to be part of the design team for Volvo Ocean Race and America’s Cup programs. He now works for New York YC’s American Magic and is the head of technology for US Sailing’s Olympic program. Schutt’s thesis models the ­underlying mechanism of what makes these kinetics work. “Our goal is to explain the physics of these kinetic techniques and show the fluid-dynamics ­mechanisms that result in added driving force,” he says.

I recently had them explain to me a few vortex fundamentals that are relevant to kinetics, and here’s what I learned: A vortex is a region of low-pressure because spinning air is pushing outward due to centrifugal force, lowering the pressure in the center. We create a vortex, or enhance an existing one, by moving our sail through the air when we roll our boat. The harder a roll, the stronger the vortex and the larger the area of influence, and a vortex continues to spin for quite a while.

“It will still be spinning and creating its low pressure long after we have lost touch with it,” Schutt says.

A vortex is by nature stationary; it needs external influences to move. Williamson adds: “A vortex will move with the greater air mass that surrounds it, which is, of course, always going downwind. This means it passes quickly when sailing upwind, like cars going the opposite direction on a highway. But when sailing downwind, like a car slowly overtaking another in the same direction, the vortex stays close far longer.”

“If we can control where we can place the vortices, we control where the low pressure is, enhancing this effect,” Schutt adds. “The usefulness of whatever vortex we create is based on how long we can keep it close.” What that means is each kinetic technique takes advantage of the properties of a vortex in a different way. Let’s dive into the specifics.

The S-Turn

Downwind, when we bear away by rolling to weather, we create a vortex with the luff of the sail. The bigger and faster the heel, the bigger and better the vortex. This S-turn vortex is going with the wind and so are we, so it can linger behind the main and be effective for a while. The cars are going in the same direction. To be useful, we need to position it behind the main and then keep it there as long as we can. Because we can’t actually see it, this is not so easy. When asked if can we move the vortex or are we just chasing it, Williamson says: “Both. Because we are creating the vortex, we are in effect controlling and moving it. But after formation, it will travel with the wind and do what it wants, so we are no longer in control.”  

Eventually, we lose both our wave and the vortex, and just before this happens, we roll to leeward to turn up. This roll induces a leech, a vortex that briefly moves behind the sail, then quickly gets swept away once on a reach.  

Is this vortex more efficient bearing off or heading up? “More often than not, the ­bigger vortex with a longer-lasting effect is from heeling to weather as we bear off,” Schutt says.

My personal experience with S-turns confers. I feel a strong acceleration and sustained speed when I bear off and carve down. But when I head up, the feeling is fleeting, so I try to head up hard and fast. Because I am heading away from the mark on this reach, I am anxious to roll to weather again and bear off on the next wave.

Roll Jibes

Although not part of the study, it stands to reason that a roll jibe has similarities to the bear-away of an S-turn. We initiate the jibe with a roll to windward to turn down. This action creates a vortex at the luff that we can keep behind the sail briefly, then jibe the main. With the sail now on the other jibe and the boat heeled, we are set up for a hard flatten. Our flatten creates a second and more significant vortex, and if we bear off at the right pace, like we do in an S-turn, we can keep the vortex behind the sail for a while. Two rolls and the ability to follow the vortex downwind make a good roll jibe highly effective.

Flicking Sails

“Flicking” is a series of short pulses we apply to the rig while sailing upwind. Olympic 470 sailors are particularly good at this. While hiking, we can repeatedly propel our shoulders out. While trapping, we can yank down on the trap wire. The vortex we use is created at the luff, from mast pumping. The boat sails upwind as the vortex is swept downwind behind the main, so its useful life is short. Cars pass in opposite directions quickly. At best, it’s a few seconds in light air, and just a fraction of a second in heavy.  

Since the vortices created are small, we want aggressive pulses because that will make them spin fast, and thus be lower pressure. Since each vortex is fleeting, we need to create a new one as fast as the old is carried away. Any one pulse does not do much; it’s the cumulative effect that creates an overall greater lift. All rigs are different, but I feel as if there is a natural frequency of a mast oscillation in the range of one flick per second that works best. “Sail flicking can be useful in situations where you need to maintain driving force but want to point a little higher,” Schutt says. “It’s like pinching up to the weather mark or coming off the start line in a crowded fleet.”

Roll Tack

Like the flick, we use the roll tack’s vortex created at the mast, and that vortex passes from luff to leech behind the sail quickly. The flattened part of a roll tack creates one large vortex instead of the flick’s series of small ones. Because it is large, it can still be quite effective, even though it is just one.

A roll tack is most effective in light air. Because the steady-state lift generated by sailing is so small, any enhancement is welcome. “The effect lasts longer in lighter wind because although the cars are passing in opposite directions, both are going much slower and spend more time overlapped,” Williamson says. “But it is an important time because it is a significant vortex, and we are downspeed from turning through the tack because we use this large vortex to accelerate back up to speed.”  

My own roll tacks are most effective in light air and moderately effective in medium. Once it’s windy, the boat is easy to get back up to full speed after a tack. I don’t roll at all; I “flat tack.” Rolling just heels the boat, and that dumps power from the sail while the boat slides sideways.

About Rule 42

I would be remiss if I did not discuss the rules limiting kinetics, and there is no doubt that all the techniques we are discussing are kinetic. RRS 42.1 states as part of its premise: “A boat shall compete by using only the wind and water to increase, maintain or decrease her speed.”  Reading this, one would think all kinetics are prohibited, but not so. Rule 42 instead defines and sets the circumstances and boundaries to the level of kinetics allowed. Further, there is a Call Book that umpires use for guidance. Generally speaking, here is how Rule 42 applies to each of our techniques. 

A roll tack or jibe is permitted if the boat does not exit the maneuver faster than it entered. Repeated actions are prohibited. A roll, such as heeling as you head up just before the start signal, then flattening at “go” is accepted as standard practice, as is the S-turn cadence downwind. In both cases, if the heeling is in conjunction with a change of course, it’s all good. But an umpire will flag repeated rolls or a roll with no change of course.

Flicking is generally not allowed, but some classes encourage the athleticism of kinetics as part of the game. When the race committee permits it, we see 470 crews flicking their rigs aggressively from the wire, windsurfers pumping their sail as if it were a wing, and Finn sailors rocking back and forth as physically as their heart rate will allow. 

As Williamson puts it, “A ­vortex imposes a region of low pressure, and this can be a good thing if positioned correctly.”

Schutt’s final thought: “The hope is that sailors can use this knowledge to improve their sailing and ultimately be faster around the racecourse.” The thesis Williamson designed and Schutt carried out reveals the vortex as the mechanism behind kinetics, but it’s up to the sailor to take the next step.

Now that I know there’s a ­vortex behind my sail, I try to create and manage it better. Whenever I do an S-turn, I ask myself: Did I roll to windward hard enough to create a significant vortex? And where is it? Is it l behind my sail, or have I carved down too fast and shot past it? Knowing the why helps me focus my experimentation. My goal is to visualize where that invisible vortex lurks and take full advantage of it.

The post Why S-Turns, Roll Jibes and Roll Tacks Are Fast appeared first on Sailing World.

It was just after 0200 on a wild and woolly August morning, just north of Block Island on the rather thrashed waters of Rhode Island Sound. On the 58-foot catamaran Impossible Dream, we were about 12 hours into and a third of the way around our ­129-nautical-­mile racecourse during the annual running of the Ida Lewis Distance Race. We’d come to a crossroads: It was time to make the sort of decision one never wishes to contemplate in any offshore boat race.

Quickly closing in on Rhode Island’s shoreline, in deteriorating conditions with the wind rising and a crew scattered about in various states of blurry awareness or total incapacitation, should we 1) tack for the next mark, dead to weather, off Long Island; or 2) cut our losses, ease sheets, and head home?

Dream’s 15-person squad included owner Deborah Mellen, Capt. Jim Marvin, former America’s Cup racer Sarah Cavanaugh, my old Newport friend Harry Horgan, a four-person film crew making a documentary, and a handful of intrepid disabled sailors negotiating the race from their wheelchairs—an eclectic team if ever there was one.

At the wheel, cocooned in the cozy confines of the central inside steering station, as I watched a gust on the anemometer top 40 knots, I was quite aware that I was enjoying a false sense of security. I knew Impossible Dream well, having raced the boat from Key West to Cuba across a roiled Gulf Stream in the 2017 Conch Republic Cup, and was confident that the big cat could handle just about anything. But I also wondered, Was there even more breeze building? Because I understood that if I slipped up, the worst happened, the cat flipped and we all went swimming, it would be an unmitigated disaster. I had a definite opinion on whether to bail, but it wasn’t my call. 

“Hey, Jim,” I said to the skipper, “I have to turn the boat. Which direction? Montauk or Newport? I reckon you and Deborah need to have a chat.” 

For me, racing aboard Impossible Dream was not only unusual, exciting and challenging, but it also was personal. That’s because, for better and worse, I had more than a passing acquaintance with crewing alongside wheelchair-bound sailors. I was on a camping trip in the early 1980s with one of my best friends, a wild man known as Jack Mack, when he slipped on a steep ridge above a New Hampshire river, instinctively tucked for a dive, broke his neck and became a quadriplegic. In an instant, both our lives were forever changed. 

Not long after, one evening in my Newport apartment, the wail of sirens broke the silence, and the next day I learned that Horgan, another mate, had been in an automobile accident down the street and was paralyzed from the waist down. 

Neither Jack nor Harry took matters sitting down. Jack continued charging through life with his usual dry wit and fierce tenacity. And with a small fleet of specially designed Freedom 20 sloops, Horgan founded Shake-A-Leg, which was dedicated to helping folks overcome devastating injuries and disabilities through firsthand experiences at sea. In one of the very first Shake-A-Leg regattas, Jack and I went sailboat racing, a healing experience for both of us. The saddest thing about spinal-cord injuries, I’d come to learn, is that they’re largely incurred by active young folks, relative “kids” in the prime of their youth. Couch potatoes are immune. I also learned that the greatest things they have going for them are their hearts and resiliency. 

Eventually, Horgan and his wife, Susie, relocated to South Florida and started Shake-A-Leg Miami, which has become a vast watersports entity with world-class sailing facilities on Biscayne Bay that not only annually serves upwards of 10,000 disabled children, military veterans and their families, but also hosts numerous international one-design regattas. It was 2014 when Mellen, a Shake-A-Leg volunteer and local businesswoman who’d also survived a car crash, teamed up with the group to purchase the rugged offshore catamaran that exponentially expanded its breadth and reach. 

Impossible Dream was launched by extreme-sports enthusiast Mike Browne, a Brit who was paralyzed in a skiing accident and commissioned naval architect Nic Baily to design a boat on which he could still pursue adventures. Among its features are a wraparound deck that allows wheelchairs full access forward and aft, internal lifts for wheelchair boarding and access to the below-deck staterooms, and a deckhouse with special seating on tracks and all sailhandling lines led inside within reach of the enclosed helm station. 

In addition to offshore races like the previously mentioned Conch Republic Cup and the 2018 Regata del Sol al Sol from Tampa Bay across the Gulf of Mexico to Isla Mujeres, Mexico, each summer Impossible Dream embarks on an annual voyage up the coast from Florida to Maine (the late President George H.W. Bush once enjoyed a spin off Kennebunkport), introducing literally thousands of inner-city kids, wounded vets, and others to the singular joys of a day on the water.  

This past summer, there was an additional event on the cat’s calendar: the Ida Lewis Distance Race. There was but one hitch: There was no multihull division, but this was a trivial matter to the very persuasive Horgan. The club agreed to a start for an Exhibition Multihull Class, the sole entrant being Impossible Dream. What sealed the deal, Horgan believes, was the documentary. “It’s going to be an inspirational piece that’s going to inspire people to believe in their dreams and pursue them,” he told me. “For me, personally, Ida is where I learned to sail when I was 12 years old. We wanted to demonstrate that people with disabilities can achieve good things with the right team and technology, and be part of the Ida legacy.”

All of which put Impossible Dream on the starting line.

Tall and lean, with a cool demeanor and the striking appearance of a Rastafarian—and a pair of spindly prosthetic legs from the knees down—Bradley Johnson cuts an imposing, impressive figure. Before all was said and done, I was going to be very happy to have made his acquaintance.  

Among others, director Anna Andersen’s film—tentatively titled This Is Not a Dream—will focus on Dianne Vitkus, a former physician’s assistant who was paralyzed relatively recently in a fall, and Johnson, who was returning from the entrance exam to law school at the University of Florida in 1993 when his sports car hydroplaned on a rainy highway straight into a guardrail. “One leg was severed completely,” he told me. “The other was ­lacerated beyond repair.”

Some folks might’ve retreated to their basements. Not Johnson. “It was a choice,” he said. “What are you going to do? I can’t grow my legs back. I also can’t waste the valuable time given to me by being alive. All the efforts by the people who saved me would go for naught if I just shriveled up. I wasn’t going to hold on to something I can’t ever get back.”

Instead, he threw himself into sports, and was competing in volleyball in the 2000 Paralympic Games, when, by chance, he met sailing coach Betsy Allison in a hotel bar, who asked what turned out to be a life-changing question: “Would you consider sailing?”

It led to an international sailing career on Sonars, including a bronze medal in the Athens Paralympic Games in 2004, and eventually on to Impossible Dream. “The sailing’s been incredible,” he told me later. “I’d lose the legs all over again ­without reservation.”

Which is one of the most remarkable things I’d ever heard. Although our fun night on the Ida race might’ve given him some second thoughts. 

It was a scramble from the outset. For the first time ever, engine problems had forced ID to cancel most of the New England stops on its summer tour. Once in Newport, the generator conked out, and without power, there was no way to hoist the mammoth new North Sails in-boom furling main. The diesel mechanics were still working that out just hours before the start, which, thanks to a two-hour postponement for a passing front, we made with ­little time to spare. But the sporty weather was a definite preview of coming attractions. 

Horgan, with many miles behind him and a light touch on the helm, handled the start and the long beat out to the first mark in the rising southwesterly with aplomb. Already, however, the conditions had laid low a few wobbly souls, a handful of whom were experiencing their first ocean race. And an inaugural bout with seasickness. Another sign of things to come. 

I took over the driving on the next leg, thankfully a downwind run to Buzzards Bay Tower. It required sailing hot angles compared with our monohull brethren, which I later learned elicited much confusion with the folks at the yacht club tracking the fleet. But I also knew that the long boards and frequent jibes were stacking miles on an already lengthy boat race.

The conditions had laid low a few wobbly souls, a handful of whom were experiencing their first ocean race. And an inaugural bout with seasickness. Another sign of things to come.

At the tower, with the prospect of a 70-odd-mile overnight beat to Montauk ahead of us but with all bunks already accounted for, I grabbed a pillow and plonked down in the galley to catch some rest, but not before suggesting that we hug the coastline at the outset of the leg for current relief. About two hours later, I roused myself and was stunned to see that we were on an inshore tack directly toward Sakonnet Point, and on the wrong side of a government mark we needed to honor. Capt. Jim was on the cabin top sorting out a traveler issue, but I yelled that we needed to tack—like, now!—and luckily the experienced Johnson was on the helm and quickly spun us out to seaward, away from ­trouble. Close one. 

Shortly thereafter, I took back the steering duties. By this time, there were a few sentient beings among us, one of whom was Horgan’s son, Eli, riding shotgun and keeping me updated on boatspeed and windspeed, buoys and shoals, and so on. His company was welcomed, and though he was more or less a novice at this game, he has a future in it if he wants one. 

Meanwhile, a couple of miles or so to windward, a plethora of blinking lights, including what appeared to be a US Coast Guard cutter, suggested that someone was in major distress of some sort, though there was no VHF traffic to confirm it. The whole thing was starting to feel somewhat apocalyptic. 

That’s when we came to the figurative fork in the road, and I got the order that I was hoping to hear: Bear away to Newport.

I caught up with the crew at the awards ceremony, nobody looking the worse for wear, and explained that it wasn’t the first race I’d abandoned, and it wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes the winning move is exercising discretion over valor. We’d all learned something—about sailing and ourselves. It was all good. And a dozen other boats had retired, including a couple that had dropped their rigs. It was absolutely the right move. We all got a fresh sea story or two out of it.  

I had to laugh later on when Horgan referred to the entire episode as “The Impossible Nightmare.” But I think that they got the title of the film right. It sure as hell was not a dream.

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Much has been written in ­textbooks and articles about how to win sailboat races once you cross the starting line, especially when it comes to tactics, speed and boathandling. And while it is true that races are won and lost between the start and finish lines, it’s also true that the outcome of any race or regatta can be affected by what happens well before the start. Here we’re talking about building an overall plan for the day before we even suit up to go racing.

Our first order of business is to align with our teammates on our goals for the regatta well in advance, which will ­eliminate any stress that creeps in when or if your expectations and actual performance don’t match up. If your team is intent on bringing home a trophy, it usually makes for an awkward dynamic on board when you choose to win the regatta party instead. Step one is to set performance-related goals, like “finish in the top 10.” Our performance or results-based goal will be determined by factors that are outside our control, so the second type of goal is even more important: ­process-oriented objectives that are completely in your control. For example, if we expect a shifty and puffy venue, we will set a goal to “look up the course to identify the first puff at one minute before every start.” On the other hand, if we anticipate steady wind, making boatspeed the critical element, we would set a goal to line up with multiple competitors before the start and check our control-line marks for the first sprint off the starting line. Putting these goals in writing will give us a framework for debriefing after each day of racing. It also allows us to better divide and conquer the pre-regatta homework.

Speaking of homework, let’s talk about hitting the books. A little research can go a long way to minimize surprises during the regatta. Start by printing or taking a screenshot of the racecourse areas and annotate the common breeze directions. Familiarize yourself with the body of water and surrounding land features so you can put the forecasts and local knowledge into a geographical context. Identify which weather-­forecasting app is most useful for the region, and make sure your subscription is up to date. Ask local racers about which forecasting model they find reliable. If you don’t know anyone, check out the validation feature on the PredictWind app. Local airports and fishing, surfing, and NOAA websites are excellent sources because these entities catalog a ton of historical data. The goal is to better understand the regional weather systems during the regatta window, the direction and strength of the typical sea breeze, and the ­influence of currents or tides. At a minimum, you will make better-informed choices when deciding which wetsuits or spray gear to bring. 

Once you have a general idea about the venue’s ­predominant wind characteristics, brush up on wind-related strategy basics. My favorite textbook to reread is Wind Strategy by David Houghton, and you can also find great web-based resources from sites like Sea Tactics by Chelsea Freas. If we are sailing in a bay like Palma de Mallorca, the typical sea breeze creates a racecourse with a left-hand shoreline looking upwind. This tells us we can expect convergence on the left side of the racecourse, so we’ll likely have some drag races from the starting line to the shore and need to be set up for it.

Practice Winning Moves

Visualizing the winning path and rehearsing likely tactical scenarios will build confidence during your pre-regatta training. In the Palma example with a left-dominant racecourse, our pre-regatta training will focus on strong boat-on-boat positioning off the starting line to control our lane to the left corner. Drills that replicate the left-corner-exit scenarios provide a chance to practice communication during critical moments, such as: Are we going to be the first or last boat to tack out of this corner? Can anyone tack on us?

On a shifty, high-tempo ­racecourse, being able to tack or jibe on a moment’s notice will be important, so maneuver readiness should be a focus of our boathandling training. All of our venue homework should give us a sense of what style of racing we can expect and the best way to establish good ­habits and confidence. 

Study Your Competitors

It’s beneficial to skim through class-results archives to get a sense of which teams dominate in certain conditions. For example, we can avoid starting next to the fleet’s light-air experts. Look for trends, like whether a fleet is generally conservative or aggressive on the starting line. It also helps to identify our fleet’s starting-line repeat ­offenders so that we don’t get tricked into being pushed over by a team who has a history of OCS penalties. This is especially important in fleets who cannot use GPS instruments. It’s important to know who tends to misjudge the starting line. There is one caveat, however. A venue with strong current can introduce unique starting challenges. For example, we can take Charleston Race Week scores with a grain of salt.

It also helps to identify our fleet’s starting-line repeat offenders so that we don’t get tricked into being pushed over by a team who has a history of OCS penalties. 

Also, we examine the score lines of teams with the same performance goal we set for ourselves at recent, ­similar-size events. We like to set a daily-total-points goal for ourselves each day before racing. Focusing on our average score line should help us avoid desperate and risky decision-making.

Race-Day Preparation 

When looking at the forecast on the morning of the regatta, make mental notes of the most important things, and don’t try to memorize it all. Knowing the minimum and maximum of the velocity range and expected trend will help us make informed choices about our rig and sail settings throughout the day. The most important piece of information we want to pull from the forecast is what type of breeze we will race in because that will dictate our priorities on the racecourse that day.

Try to identify whether you’re going to sail in a sea breeze by looking for the key ingredients for a thermal: a land and water temperature difference greater than 5 degrees and a forecast direction more or less blowing perpendicular to the shoreline. Expect three major trends when racing in a true sea breeze in the Northern Hemisphere. First, as the breeze builds with heating over land, it will likely veer (shift to the right). Once the breeze is established, watch for small, rhythmic oscillations. Then, as the breeze fades in the evening, look for the direction of the wind to get pulled toward the angle of the gradient wind aloft.

If we don’t have the key ­components of the sea breeze, the forecast can still help us understand the likelihood of predictability. For example, if our forecast calls for an offshore wind throughout the day with a wide range of direction and velocity, we get ready to follow our instincts and sail what we see at the moment. If we see that we’re going to sail in a gradient breeze, our challenge on the water will be to determine a pattern to the oscillations. Look closely at the predicted directions throughout the day to see any hints of a persistent shift. We treat the first few hours of the day as if we are detectives trying to determine the accuracy of the forecast. Look at the wind strength, direction and clouds to see if things are aligning. Forecasts give us clues about possible patterns, but most of the time, it’s only that: clues. We are trying to find indicators of the expected change, such as a temperature drop and darker clouds that can be a red flag for a storm system nearing. Even if we don’t know exactly what the new system will bring, telling ourselves to be heads-up for a change here can give us an edge over our competitors. There will be days, however, when we have to ignore the forecast and sail what we see. 

On the Racecourse

The hour before the race is our last chance to gather the final and critical pieces of information: starting-line and racecourse geometry. Before each race, check the race committee board to find the bearing to the windward mark, and identify the compass heading numbers that are “neutral to the course.” Compare the compass bearing of the starting line to the compass bearing of the head-to-wind numbers to determine the bias of the starting line. These data points won’t usually dictate our strategy for the race, but occasionally, we find an opportunity to gain an ­advantage off the starting line. 

Now comes the most important moment of our pre-race preparation: determining what we need to prioritize. If we’re sailing in light air or in a steady breeze, we need a comfortable upwind lane off the starting line, so we will need to set up in a low-density area, home in on our distance to the line, and determine if we want a two- to four-tack beat. If we see puffy, shifty craziness upwind, we choose our starting position as late as possible to keep our options open, remaining ready for anything and reminding ­ourselves to stay flexible. 

In an ideal world, we can accurately predict the priorities of the racecourse and execute flawlessly. The easy answers of racing to a geographical feature are convenient but actually rare. Usually, only hindsight makes the winning strategy perfectly clear. The most important skill, which takes humility and confidence, is admitting when we don’t know what will happen on the racecourse. There should be no shame in the no-plan plan. We must come to terms with unknown variables in order to be open-minded enough to learn as the racing unfolds. Ultimately, developing a solid racing strategy requires skills in filtering information, remaining adaptable, and learning as you go throughout a race, a day, and a regatta. Now go get ready.

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