Their boat was pinned against the shore,

red spinnaker in lifeless folds

and all around the water flat,

ten seconds from the finish line.

And we, bested in the race so far,

approached the line with failing wind.

Keeping high hold better speed,

reach from the center of the bay.

 

Then as the fluky wind died out,

the shute collapsed without a sound

and at the moment, we had planned;

halyard tripped  and down she came.

And now the “way” that we had gleaned

by husbanding the failing breeze.

Edged us across the finish line

to cheers and laughter from the crew.

 

Thus it is with racing yachts

where crews, who labour, win or lose,

to harness forces wild and free,

that quicken sleek and lovely hulls.

But once ashore, who are the crew

what do they do, what pleasures seek?

It’s party time for those that want

or quiet time for simpler folk.

 

Party time, out rolls the booze,

the carpet and unsteady gaits.

The decks of boats are chock a block

with those who sip and talk and laugh.

Then there are those who quietly sleep

on grassy banks or cozy bunks.

Or walk the lanes of little towns

held hostage by the racing crews.

 

But I would follow just one man,

young enough to be a son.

Who loves to race and then to booze

as only youth can mix the two.

And he, with friends, will ride pushchairs

abandoned in a tattered state.

Down hilly roads of sleeping towns,

where street lights gleam in ghostly white.

 

Or in wheelbarrows, clasping mix.

be wheeled towards a noisy yacht,

by someone, who with lost control,

dumps barrow’s cargo off the dock.

Oh joyous move, laughter and fun.

the swimming jockey mix and all.

Cat calls from the assembled throng

and helping hands and helpless mirth.

 

While others quit to eat and talk

the parties progress through the night.

Till gradually the less enthused

drift back to bunks and boozy dreams.

But not our hero, no not he,

with a few stalwarts in his wake.

Remembers Rum he hid on board –

the yacht that brought him to this place.

 

So back they go to find the Rum

and find instead a sleeping crew.

Unsympathetic to his tears

of anguish when he finds it gone.

They poke and prod the sleeping logs,

that groan from bunks or shout abuse.

Till with a threat they leave us sleep

While they continue with their fun.

 

At eight o’ clock we rise. No sign of them!

Breakfast warms the inner man.

Then back on board to run the sheets

and make all ready for the race.

Engine on and dock lines eased.

The crew assembled, less the “gang”,

Cursed for their antics now forlorn,

as head aches make us less amused.

 

But here they come, the gallant gang.

Running along the swaying dock.

Clean shaved and clear in eye and head.

Oh how I wish that I were young.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, October, 1991