As round the start line sailboats wheel, to read the course and feel the wind.

The ballet of this ancient sport unfolds before the watchful eye.

The count down signaled with gun and flag; so each may mark his allotted time.

For then positioning begins, to try to make the perfect start.

 

The right sails set to suite the day and all the crew alert and keen.

The skipper keeping watchful eye on other boats, who, just like him,

are trying to judge the time and place to take the clean free air.

The time reduced to seconds now and all converge on that slim line.

The starter waits to fire the gun. The helper calls the timer down.

 

With boats that weigh more than four tons, all rushing for the starting line.

Those who helm and those who crew, had better know just what to do,

when someone calls for rights or room and makes their move to suite.

The “bargers” curse, as squeezed they luff, or try to sweep beneath a stern.

To gain a place at the favored end, when better timing would have paid.

 

How well I know that leap of heart, when with a subtle move of helm.

The swinging bow, so far ahead, misses the transom of a foe.

Eight thousand pounds of boat and crew go thundering through the starting line.

As gun and flag, in concert state, that we are clear, though some are late.

The thrill is very real. The air is free. The tide is known.

The sky is clear. The wind is true. The Start is over. The Beat begins.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1986

 

(part one of four)