The boats about us beating are eager for the fray.

As bow-to-bow we cleave the waves that march across the bay.

We have a good position, to windward of the fleet

but gradually the faster boats edge up and past us creep.

 

“Get up, Get up” they call to us, our tell tales all a flutter.

We have no choice but to tack away, of bad air our sails will smother.

In tacking we are lucky, catching a lovely lift.

The skipper almost smiles again, blessing the fair wind shift.

 

We tacked on the next header, as over the bay we roared

and with a wicked smile shout, to our “get up friend,” Starboard.

Some times to win, some times to lose, we tack the white-capped bay

and foot-by-foot, the windward mark approaches our line of lay.

 

The winches scream, the skipper yells, exhorting us

to watch our sails, and set the draught just right.

A string of boats, on Starboard are heading for the mark

but we are still and Port tack and closing like a shark.

 

We glance back at our Skipper, his lips a snarling grin.

“Hold your course,” he yells when challenged, then tacks right on their chin.

They yell and scream in protest but no red flag do they fly

’cause our main was full and drawing before their bow came driving by.

 

Our dirty air stopped their move; their overlap was broken.

The Spinnaker was in the bow, the boat to the mark a smoking.

The crew was all excited, the skipper poised to say,

“Ready the boat for the starboard reach and the sheets to bear away”

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, May, 1986

(part two of four)