Shortly before coming to Taiwan, I spent a summer in New Zealand. I took part in many sailing races aboard 'Distraction', a great little boat out of Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club. I wrote this account of an offshore race shortly afterwards, and have put it here for anyone who is interested. (It was originally published by the BBC under the title "Sport of Kings ")
I hope you enjoy it.
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"New Zealand's east coast
is 'a c**t of a place' and when it all starts to go horribly wrong
there's no place to run to, no place to hide." - The Vice Commodore of Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club
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As ever I'm not really sure when the race starts. I've forgotten my
watch, and never did figure out which landmarks on shore we use to
identify the start line. But suddenly we're in line with a dozen boats,
cranking sails taut, and we're either racing or about to race, or have
been racing and I haven't noticed.
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All attention is on the other boats to see how they benefit, or don't,
from whatever they have done that is different from us. I have a
Romantic Interest in Gucci, who remain close for most of the day. The
boat to beat is ZZ Top, on their way home and distinguishable by the
shark's mouth painted on the bow. Nedax, complete with 'Team New
Zealand' logo, is way ahead in an exciting tussle with Flying Boat, who
have Ericsson's name on the side. Andiamo and the other big boat,
Pretty Boy Floyd, are specks on the horizon while closer in are
Arbitrage and wineDown. Arbi are sponsored by the Australia New Zealand
Bank, who have just charged me outrageously for my first month's
banking so I feel like I'm subsidising their sailing. Grudge match!
Bruce is highly visible (and audible) in the stern of wineGum, standing
up on the lockers with his tiller protruding between his legs as he
usually does when he's excited. Somebody should tell him how Australian
he looks.
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So I bound up the steps into the cockpit, and raise a laugh a few
minutes later by complaining bitterly that they've tacked the boat
again, and the peeing side is not the side it was previously. I bet
even the mighty Shackleton cheered his stranded crew up by peeing on
his own leg occasionally. And, in fairly high spirits, I sit back on
the rail - first in line to shelter everyone else, as is expected of
the foredeck crew.
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We progress north in wind that rises and fades, changes it's mind about
where it's coming from, gusts, swirls, and finally settles down into a
beautiful evening's sailing. Things are marred a little by the feeling
that we're going around in circles. It seems that whatever cunning
strategy we come up with to outwit the wind works against us, and we
find ourselves backtracking or changing course again while the
coastline remains obstinately stationary. The overwhelming memory is of
Gucci's sail, close inshore, and apparently gaining ground on us but we
made it to Kidnappers Point ahead of them and entered Hawkes Bay
savouring the anticipation of an imminent finish.
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It looked like being a splendid day out, with clear blue skies and
strong winds blasting into the bay from the land. The water was
sparkling in the sunshine, with not much in the way of waves, and
rested after our exertions we were all eager to go play. There was a
lot of crew-swapping going on, guests and friends joining boats, and we
were hosting Vice Commodore Cuddles plus a couple of others.
Looking back there are only two things that really stand about that
morning's sailing - one is being mildly terrified, and the other is
being right to be terrified!
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It was the headsail. One minute we're charging along excitingly, the
next it has ripped into two pieces, held together by the extra seam at
the luff. I run forward and start to haul it down, while someone else
dives below to grab a replacement. It was quite an amazingly
choreographed piece of work really. As soon I had the torn sail clear
of the forestay two hands snatched it from me and I was able to start
hanking on the new one that had miraculously appeared by my side. And
while I was doing that someone else was taking care of the sheets that
control it.
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Although this was not a race we were still in a hurry. The weather was
forecast to get worse, there were now only four of us on board, and we
all had other places we needed to be. But, as Napier disappeared, we
did little more than enjoy the sailing. The weather continued to be
spectacular and the wildlife dazzling. Gannets, mollyhawks, whales,
even a pod of dolphins that surfed our bow wave at sunset. And after
sunset the moon and stars filled the sky without any artificial light
in sight to spoil their glory. Lying on deck staring at the Southern
Cross I speculated that it was sights such as this that inspired
religions, and not the mushrooms after all.
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