IT IS NOT THE SPORT OF KINGS
One of the great attractions to the sport of ocean racing is the unheralded highs and lows. The highs are represented by victory, comradeship, achievement and circumstances which bring about much mirth. On the low side, there is defeat, misadventure, gear failure, injury and seasickness or simply a slow boat or a bad decision. What other
Every ocean race is an Everest. Sometimes the weather makes it a stroll and sometimes the weather makes you wonder if you paid your life insurance policy before leaving home.
I acknowledge the inspiration of the burbling fisherman, Rex Hunt, whose book I read once whilst taking a group of sailing students to Lord Howe Island. It proved that a small compendium of amusing short stories can give you a lot of pleasure. I hope I do the same. Here are some of mine.
Diesel
Most sailors suffer from sea sickness, either occasionally or for the unfortunate, often. It manifests itself in the feeling of wishing you were not there, to sometimes wishing you were dead. I don’t speak from experience, so mine are all third, party, except for one occasion.
Everyone is familiar with sucking up petrol through a tube to start a siphon. Most of us have had a gulp of petrol having mistimed the flow of petrol down the hose. However, one stormy day, we had the misfortune of taking air into our diesel motor, one of only a few things that will stop a diesel. Having done that, we then sought to bleed the diesel which requires pumping copious quantities of diesel through the lines. Where there was an obstruction, I thought I would suck it through, only to find that the obstruction was gravity, and all I succeeded in doing was fill my mouth with diesel.
I retreated to the rail of the yacht, feeling decidedly unwell and the cook arrived, on song, with a plate full of cocktail frankfurts, commonly knows as “little boys”. The frankfurt passed my lips twice, once down and once up, almost simultaneously. It didn’t even get to my throat, the reaction was so instantaneous.
Viagra
Charles used to suffer seasickness. On long races he would climb into a bunk with a green garbage bag and proceed to fill it with everything he hadn’t digested in the last month. A couple of days out, the crew would go down and see if he was still alive, being careful to replace the bag and also being careful not to disturb its contents.
However, running into him on the wharf recently, he had the answer. “My girlfriend put me on Viagra” he said. (I am not reporting other things said) but he did conclude, “and you would never guess, I have not been sea sick since”.
Sea Sickness
Colin was a tough rugby player before he started sailing. He suffered from sea sickness, usually on weekends and continued to claim it had nothing to do with the night before. On one harbour race, whist he was making the usual guttural noises (it was a dead flat harbour) one of his fellow crew members had a cure. They threw a condom (used or not, I never inquired) into the water. The crew member then yelled out “no wonder you are crook, look at what you just spewed up”. Needless to say it sent Colin into whole new, previously unheralded spasm of vomiting which left him tired and sore for days.
Where is the cook?
Cookie was cooking up the scones on a delivery trip. He had delivered the first tray on deck only to discover the wind had increased since his last sojourn upstairs and he covered himself in whipped cream in two milliseconds. Going down below to replace the cream, the boat rose over this tremendous wave, and as happens sometimes, the wave had no back and the boat came crashing down the other side.
A call went out to make sure no one was injured and there was silence in the galley. The crew looked down and couldn't find the cook presuming he had retired safely to his bunk and forgotten the scones. Then they found him face down on the galley floor, unconscious. The boat flexed so much the roof of the cabin came down and smacked him on the head. Six feet of headroom became three, he had a sore head for a few days.
Who has the fork?
The cook had created a marvellous mix of bacon and eggs in the morning despite the rough weather. Food at sea is always appreciated, especially when you know someone has gone to so much trouble. On a racing boat, the cook has to perform calisthetics and stretch exercises to stay in close proximity to the cooking apparatus whilst the crew on deck do all that they can to bounce the boat along as quickly a
A race crew can be cooped up for a week in a space no bigger than a small caravan with the occasional bucket of cold water thrown in for good measure. Even the most basic body functions become a physical challenge and subject sometimes in conversation.
I was sitting chatting with the cook as he realized that he had dutifully passed up all the meals and left himself with none. Boat cooks are always improvising. So on deck he went to resolve his breakfast problem. After criticizing marine toilets, which are known to all yachtsmen as being mechanical disaster areas, the cook explained because of the poor design he had to become far more involved in making sure the “log “ he had just passed in the toilet, was taken down the toilet bowl.
“As a matter of fact boys, I used a fork to break it up.”
Whist all the crew was reprimanding him for discussing the matter over breakfast, the cook then explained, “The reason I mention it is that I don’t know which fork I used”. The cook returned down below with half the breakfasts, delighted with his success.
Cook
One crew member was lying down in his bunk, having suffered several days of sea sickness. He was trying to ignore the cook who was noisily relishing his task of cooking up bacon and eggs for breakfast. Making lots of smells, greasy fat spitting around, jokes about salmon milkshakes, the cook then turned around and said ““Do you want me to cut your breakfast up into small pieces and go into the toilet and throw it all over the floor and walls. Could save you the trouble of you doing it yourself.”
Swimming
We were without wind for two days inside the Barrier Reef. After everyone assured him all was clear and safe, he jumped over the side for a swim, . As soon as his head surfaced, all the crew called “shark”. Cookie would have done the length of the boat in less than 2 seconds, almost Olympic time. He even climbed the transom (back of the boat) unassisted for the first time in his life. The crew were laughing their heads of with the distant sighting of the “shark”, a 2 foot gummy shark.
Flying
It is still incomprehensible to me that perfectly intelligent people can have a fear of flying, especially if they are sailors as many of the fundamental principals of lift and drag are common to both.
Cookie is one such person, good boat cook, hates flying. On Lord Howe Island, the airport is 3 metres above the sea level with the end of the runway on the beach. Takeoff requires a hard run and often the aircraft find themselves in straight and level low flight until they pick up more speed. Such was a flight out of Lord Howe on a Piper Navajo. Cookie’s skipper, in the co pilot’s seat had conspired with the pilot and put Cookie immediately behind the co-pilot. As the plane was hurtling down the runway, the conversation went like this:
Pilot to co-pilot “Are you sure we weighed everyone, the plane feels heavy”.
Co-pilot to pilot “I thought you weighed them”.
Pilot to co-pilot “Shit, I am sure we are overweight, quickly add them all up”.
Co-pilot to pilot “Almost at takeoff, don’t have time”.
The co-pilot could feel Cookie tense. He could feel the hands on the back of his seat tremble and as he takes grip. Then Cookie adopts the “brace position”. Watching too much television or is he praying?
Pilot to co-pilot “Is it low tide, I might need that extra 6 feet?”
Co-pilot to pilot “Yes, low tide you will be right”.
Just as the plane took off over the end of the strip, the pilot dropped it a couple of feet and then maintained level flight.
Looking back at Cookie as we started to climb out, you had to feel sorry for him. He couldn’t get his fingers out of the foam in the chair he had gripped it so tightly. The laughter all around finally relaxed him, but he hasn’t flown there since.
Fishing
One of the fisherman on the crew was hunting a damsel in distress. The crew, ever keen to help him, encouraged him towards a delightful lady who was obviously lonely and need of company. With the encouragement of his fellow crew members, our adroit fisherman chanced his hand and was seen in engaging conservation, verging on physical contact.
As ever supportive, his crew members assisted by making sure the couple were not short of a drink. The Fisherman however had some difficulty understanding why his social exploits were proving to be so amusing to his crewmates. When his lady friend asked him to hold her handbag whilst she went to the toilet, his night was ruined. He did not share the amusement of his crew colleagues when it was realized that his lady friend had in fact gone to the MENS and was in fact a bloke. The mirth and merriment which followed left the him so embarrassed, he purchased a ticket out of Hobart town never to be seen again.