Dick Sails in Duxbury Bay

“So, you’ve done some sailing?”

I consider the question posed by my 70-year-old neighbor, Paul, as he stands in my driveway. With his wild curly hair, Bermuda shorts and well-worn boat shoes, he looks like a cross between Robinson Crusoe and a mad professor. I know he needs crew since his wife will no longer race with him and I suspect he is happy enough to have me for my ballast alone. Sailing skills would be a bonus.

“I’ve sailed some, all small boats, mostly Lasers and day sailers.”

I let the response hang there. He eyes me and then says, “Well, racing isn’t sailing.”

He adds flatly, “I’ll see you Saturday.”

Years later, I recall the exchange with my neighbor as Dick and I ready for another race in Duxbury Yacht Club’s summer race series in Duxbury Bay. Dick and I are not members, but the Club wants more boats in the races so they allow non-members to come out. Today there are maybe a dozen identical Marshall 15s in the fleet and ready to race.

The Marshall 15 is not what you might imagine if asked to conjure a fast sailboat. It is short, fifteen feet long, and very wide with a flat bottom, making it perfect for Duxbury Bay, which becomes a giant mudflat at low tide. The Marshall is a catboat rig, which means its single mast is set well toward the bow, and a gaff rig, making what on other sailboats would be a triangular sail more like an off-kilter rectangle. Some say a Marshall is like sailing a picnic table with a giant barn door as the sail. Our boat is named Adagio – a musical term meaning “performed at a slow tempo.” That pretty much describes the Marshall 15.

Before the start of the race, boats and their crews sail in all directions, relatively close to each other near the starting line. Today the sailors are a mix of “yachties” mostly older men who’ve known one another for ages, and a few others like ourselves who are not members. The sun is shining, there is a nice breeze, and though there is a chop to consider, the conditions for sailing are excellent. Everybody is smiling.

Dick, at the tiller, steers us toward the other boats. We shout hello. Dick has known some of the skippers since he was a kid, and sailed with them as he grew up in this same water.

“Hello Ned! You look well!”

“Oh, great to see you back in the bay, Dick!”

As two boats can be abreast for only a few seconds, the conversations are brief.

“Hello, Roger. What a day. Great wind!”

“Hi Dick, I see you have able crew.” Roger, my neighbor, gives me a nod and the exchange is over.

During this pre-race exchange, Dick gathers intelligence. Each time a boat passes, he inspects. I realize he is having two conversations at the same time. One conversation is louder, more social, and meant to be heard beyond the boat.

“What a great breeze. Good and steady.”

“That course they’ve set looks terrific!”

“Bill, is that a new sail? Wow!”

The other conversation is barely above a whisper and I am not sure if he is talking to me or to himself.

“John has no crew. That’ll be tough if the wind picks up.”

“Sam, snug up that outhaul a bit. Do it discreetly.”

“Some seaweed growing on that boat. Do they even care?”

From the committee boat we hear three loud blasts of an air horn signaling three minutes to the start of the race. Idle banter stops. It’s time to think racing. Dick eyes the other boats, judges the water, the breeze and then instructs: “Let’s move east so we can come downwind toward the start right next to the committee boat.”

We tack. I bring in the main sheet and duck under the boom as Dick pushes the tiller and reseats himself on the other side of the boat. Dick turns to see that others in the fleet are also tacking, seeking the best advantage at the start.

Two horn blasts from the committee boat – two minutes to start.

Most sailing races start on the fly. It is hard, maybe impossible, and certainly not efficient, to keep a sailboat stationary until someone says “go.” Better to be moving with speed when you cross the starting line. So sailboat races start with a three-minute warning. The idea is that when the three minutes are up you want to be sailing at top speed as close as possible, but not across, the starting line. Cross too late and you are behind the fleet. Cross too soon and you have to turn around and start again as the rest of the fleet sails away.

The air horn – one minute.

The starting line itself, invisible, extends from the anchored committee boat to a buoy that’s been dropped a couple hundred yards away. Those racing try to judge where they are relative to the line by looking back and forth to the committee boat, then to the buoy, and finally back to the committee boat. The ultimate judges, of course, are the race officials on the committee boat who have a direct line of sight from where they sit--on deck chairs on the boat’s stern,--to the buoy at the other end of the starting line. From this vantage point they can judge whether a racer’s bow is even a foot over the line before the starting gun.

With a minute before the start, Dick has us far upwind of the long starting line. There are a few boats with us, but most are in a group advancing toward what appears to be the center of the line. They jockey for position with short tacks, attempting to gain an advantage. I watch the other boats and turn to Dick, but he’s concentrating on the sail, the committee boat, and those boats closest to us.

With thirty seconds to go, he leans forward to look under the boom to check on the status of the rest of the fleet.

“Luff the sail, just a bit, Sam,” he says. “We need to slow down.”

I let a few feet of the main sheet play through my hands, allowing the sail to dump some of its air. The sail luffs and we slow slightly. At our current heading we will sail directly into the stern of the committee boat. I look toward the rest of the fleet. Most have miscalculated as they advance toward the line too fast and too soon. Skippers try to luff their sails to slow their progress, but in slowing they lose control. I see boats crowding one another at the other end of the starting line as skippers yell at each other, threatening to bring a protest to the rules committee. I hear a dull thump as two boats collide at slow speed. I look at my watch.

“Ten seconds, Dick.”

“Yup, pull in the sail, it’s time to race.”

I take up the slack and immediately Adagio picks up speed. Dick pulls the tiller toward him and we head farther downwind, gaining still more speed. The starting horn sounds just as we pass within a few feet of the committee boat. Dick turns to the race committee and smiles. We’re off.

The course today is triangular, what the yacht club calls the “T” course, though it does not resemble the letter T. It is longer than the up-and-back “W” course and shorter than the somewhat convoluted “F”. The course takes sailors up to a windward mark--a big inflatable buoy--then to an intermediate downwind mark, and finally to the finish line at the downwind end of the course.

Despite our excellent starting position, the rest of the fleet soon races along a little faster than us and at the first mark several boats are again jockeying for position, only this time all the boats are moving fast. Sailing is loaded with rules about who has the right-of-way, and as all of the boats come together, I try to remember which rules apply. A boat on the starboard tack has right-of-way over a boat on the port tack. If two boats are on the same tack, the leeward boat has the right-of-way and the windward boat must yield. If you overtake another boat, the boat being overtaken has the right-of-way. I conclude that it is best to hold the main sheet and wait for instructions.

Dick’s head is on a swivel watching boats, the mark and the wind. “You watch the sail,” he says. “Keep it tight unless I tell you otherwise.”

I look up at the sail and pull the main sheet in. The boat heels over and I have to brace my feet to avoid sliding to the other side of the craft. Dick looks to the mark and then to two boats approaching the same mark. They are on the port tack, just ahead of us. We are on the starboard tack and they will have to yield to us, but only if they are otherwise about to collide with us.

“Pull the sail in as tight as you can, Sam, I think we might just do it.”

We hold our course, and I look beneath the sail to see the other two catboats heading for the mark. We are on a collision course.

When the boats are no more then ten yards apart, Dick looks under the boom to the two skippers and yells, calmly but loud enough, “I’m starboard, gentlemen!”

The two skippers take the hint and turn to avoid us, passing within feet of our rudder as we round the mark. I nervously watch the other boats as Dick eyes the second mark.

“OK, Sam, let the sail way out, let’s go.” He turns to the other two boats rounding the mark behind us and hot on our tail. It is a three-boat race.

With the wind at our back and the sails out about as far and they will go, all three boats pick up speed. The skippers are all headed to the same point, and are all on the same tack. It’s a drag race now, and there are not many opportunities for tactics. Just make the boat go as fast as it can.

Today, another boat is just a little bit faster than ours. As we approach the second mark they overtake us and, at the mark turn, heading for the finish line with us hot on their tail.

Dick takes stock of the situation. We can match the other’s speed, but if we continue to follow in their wake we will never pass them. The sail is trimmed perfectly. The only other boat near us is in a distant third position and is really no longer a factor.

Not content to settle for second, Dick says, “Let’s try something.”

He pulls the tiller toward him just enough to change our course slightly.

“Let the sail out just a bit.”

I let a few inches play through my hands and recleat the sheet. The boat accelerates noticeably. It is a gamble. Our path to the finish line is now slightly longer, but if we pick up enough speed we just might get to the downwind end of the finish line first. Dick eyes the other boat, the sail, the finish line. I look over and see the other skipper doing the same, suddenly concerned that our gamble may pay off.

The breeze picks up and both boats accelerate. Dick’s strategy is working so far. I see the other skipper imploring his crew. I turn to Dick, who continues to focus on the sail and the finish line.

“We’re okay,” he says, “We’re okay.”

Seconds later we cross, and I hear the committee boat’s air horn blow once, signaling a winner.

I hear a race official yell “Grant! Adagio!” Close but no cigar. Second place.

I turn to Dick who has a huge smile on his face. “That was fun!” he says, and then he turns to Roger Grant, the skipper of the winning boat, and gives him a big thumbs up. “Great job, Roger!” he yells.

Afterword:

Dick and I raced for two or three summers at the Yacht Club in the late 1990s and early 2000s. The season started with preparation-- applying a new coat of bottom paint, inspecting the sails, making sure everything was ship shape. Dick and I would confer about what needed to be done, and it was my job to prepare Adagio before it would be subject to Dick’s inspection. In early June we launched, stepped the mast, set the sails, and made sure everything was in order before the season started.

Dick’s sailing prowess brought us the first-place trophy in the DYC race series in 2002.