“Bare off, bare off.” The sheets were eased, as the Weather mark flashed by.

“Ready for the Spinnaker?”  The answer came back, “aye”.

So they hauled on the halyard and the chute popped out the bag,

to fall into the water as the shackle hit a snag.

“God damn you stupid bastards,” yelled the skipper from the wheel.

How many times must you be told to check that shackle clear?

Don’t stand around like dummies on a summer island cruise.

Get that halyard buttoned up again and make this vessel move.

With the chute head in the water and the halyard up the mast,

the skipper yells blue murder as other boats race past.

We put our rears in action to save the tarnished day,

to cat calls from other crews about our Chinese laundry.

Hauling the head inboard was easier than we deserved.

But the GD halyard up the mast was going to take some nerve.

The smallest guy, elected and guess who that might be?

So they hauled me up the swaying mast, like a monkey up a tree.

That shackle whipped around my head and it was swinging fast.

On the third attempt I grabbed it as it went scything past.

We hooked her on and checked her snug, then pulled the bugger up –

and up she flew and sweetly drew with a snap to lift your heart.

The shoulders of the spinnaker were high and full of air.

The pole was forward to the bow and the luff was all a quiver.

The clew and tack were level, the guy and sheet were taught

and we leapt across the water like a scalded alley cat.

We crept up on the boat ahead they watched us as we came.

And as we edged to windward their bow came up to say

that we would have a luffing match, if to windward we tried to go.

So we let them crank their sheets in till their boat began to slow.

Their bow, too high was pointing with the wind ‘afore the beam.

Their rudder was a dragging, their wake was all a cream.

Then we started the sheets and played the helm, as past her stern we bore

and our boat picked up more speed again as through her lee we tore.

The gibe mark wasn’t easy, with the other boats around

all calling for an overlap and shouting for more room.

But when the wind was full astern and the main a gibing low.

The Fore Deck hands like acrobats gibed the spinnaker pole.

David Garlick, Victoria, May 1986
 

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)