2002 Reports

Simply click on the race that you wish to read about - or scroll through the whole lot! Nab Tower Solent St Vaast Yarmouth Deauville Round the Island Race Alderney Cowes Week Poole Nab Tower

After months of budgeting, planning, fiddling and cajoling crew, the morning of our first race with JOG arrived!

There's not much more to say than we had an excellent breakfast and it all went down hill from there! A series of self-induced and avoidable mistakes - the selection of the wrong genoa and then changing it minutes before the start; misunderstanding between the skipper and the tactician about the time to go; a suicidal (and fluffed) change of genoa after rounding the forts and then dithering about whether to raise a downwind sail (and what). The final straw was being passed by the one boat we seemed to have been holding all day in the flukey winds around Cowes .

Morale sapped, but at least our sense of humour was sustained by plentiful supplies of sandwiches, tea and Marlboro!

Anyway, as the song goes, "Things can only get better"!

Final result -22nd out of 22 in Class 4

Solent

Saturday morning saw a new set of red and bleary eyes, viewing Gosport in the drab, windless depression that only a combination of last nights beer and a 6.00am start can bring. The early start was due to the skippers desire to get up to Cowes early for a bit of practice and to pick up our "local-knowledge" from the ISC pontoon at 0830. The plan was blown away (about the only thing that was on Saturday) by the lack of wind combined with a relaxed attitude to time keeping by our local boy who, as we stooged up and down the Medina, was tucked up in bed with a good book!

What more can be said about the race itself? After careful lining up 5 minutes before the start, we still managed to cross the line at the back of the fleet. Despite a bit of mud scraping and rock hopping close in shore, we managed to squeeze past a few boats and were confident of beating last weeks result (you can't do worse than last!) however we were cruelly undone when a rapid shoaling just past "Ocean Safety" forced us to tack; not a problem unless your "local knowledge", with pinpoint accuracy, spins on a lobster pot destroying all momentum and leaving us drifting again back past the tail enders. From then we were reduced to celebrating such successes as overtaking boats that were either anchored or aground!

The decision as whether to risk Gurnard ledge was made as we watched at least one boat ground in front of us, so we pushed out into the tide and crawled down to Elephant, examined incredulously by a seemingly endless succession of leading boats checking to see if we were towing a bucket.

We rounded the mark, hoisted the kite in comparative calmness and set of toward Clipper. As we crossed the Bramble, we like the other boats that we could see, seemed to have very little idea of which buoy we were after, as each of us were heading in different directions. On board there was frantic searching of the sea with binoculars and of the memory as we tried to align marks by remembering exactly which one the "funny little green one" was. It worked (just), the mark was rounded slowly and we set of toward Norris. After a nice leg and relatively accurate navigation a final series of wind holes and marked variability left drifting round in circles deciding whether to hoist or drop the spinnaker (when we had managed to untangled it, the pole, the jib and 15 miles of string.)

Eventually sorted, we at last had a "real sail" up to the finish - although at the time were dreading that some sadist in the race office would send us round again!

Final result -13th out of 15 in Class 4

St Vaast

Well, it wouldn't be race day for Whistler without a few pre-start problems. This week it wasn't beer, or even the hour but Stephen Byers who left the boat with 40% of the crew missing only 25 minutes before the gun! Anyway, all were safely collected and we hurried off to have a sniff of the line. Surprisingly we made a reasonable start, comfortably mid-fleet and holding our own as we set off to the west - perhaps that's a lesson for the future.

The kite went up without a problem and we rounded Bridge, gybed and set off for France - watching with some consternation as the rest of the fleet went off in a different direction. A degree of self-doubt ensued, as did questions about sabotaged sailing instructions (why anyone should bother I don't know - we are quite capable of sabotaging ourselves!) Being made of stout stuff, we stuck to our guns and held our course - we would find out if we had made a masterstroke or were hours from disaster when the sun came up. The run through the night was fantastic, comfortably under the spinnaker until about 0200 when the wind picked up and went further to the east, so we switched to the No:1 and the skipper went for his beauty sleep. As the photos show he didn't get much!

As the dawn broke, sails were revealed at all points of the compass but with alas too many in front. More unattractive faces appeared from below, adding to our woe. The light built and we could identify a number of other boats and settled for trying to hold our relative position. As we neared the coast we hoisted the kite again and ran in toward the finish desperately trying to hold off Xara, who was reeling us in at an alarming rate.

We finished at 0805, with a real sense of elation and satisfaction, especially among the newer members of the crew. After bacon, coffee and a quick kip we too braved the scrum in the marina (although I have too say it felt far more like the bottom of a ruck at times!) We seemed to have more success than some at finding food and drink, particularly the drink, which accounted for the traumas the next day - where Saturdays surplus of beer turned into Sundays absence of milk, bread, biscuits etc, etc. which lead to our return feeling more like Shackleton's escape from Antartica than a hop across the Channel! Despite that we can't wait for our next adventure...

Final result - 16^th out of 22 starters!

Yarmouth

After the usual Friday night overindulgence, Saturday dawned cold, wet, grey and windy. We set off at the usual obscenely early hour and motored up into the wind and tide toward Cowes . This together with a little bit of mis-timing meant it was touch and go whether we would be there or not. Anyway, we got everything up and crossed the line with everyone else in clear view (i.e. in front of us). We followed this with an amazing spinnaker run down towards Royal Albert (near Portsmouth ), surfing at 10 knots! We rounded to starboard and completely cocked up the drop (we should have just let it go rather than trying to be clever); the jib hoist was the start of a disaster leading to ripped batten pockets on the jib due to flogging and an unexplainable rip across the main. There was no choice but to retire, lick our wounds and sulk. Some consolation was that another 6 boats either retired or didn't even start.

In retrospect, my fault as I was asking a lot when we had not sailed together before and the wind was gusting to 30 knots.

Final result - retired (and we also scratched from the return leg)

Deauville

After a fair bit of unsettled weather (some of which had put rips in Whistler's main and No:3 during the Yarmouth race), Friday dawned looking pretty good, with the only problem being the skipper's colleagues at work who still don't realise that "working from home" on Fridays means "getting the boat ready"!

As usual we ran a shuttle service picking up crew as they arrived (it was a good job that two of them didn't admit to having a beer in the Island Sailing Club whilst the skipper was hurtling up and down the Medina faster than his blood pressure was rising!) This time as an added refinement, we managed to pick up some of the crew after 1900, spurt out and through the identification gate, back into Cowes for the last one (who we picked up at 1930) and still make the start at 1945.

We crossed the line under the kite and pretty soon had spotted holes on the island shore, so gybed and headed for the northern side, where we had a nice pasta supper (hot food, another innovation) and were quite happy until we joined virtually everyone else bobbing along towards the forts. The evening crew increasingly surreal as we were passed by at least one boat travelling backwards! Despite the frustration, it was beautiful sitting on mirror-like water surrounded by bobbing masthead lights under a canopy of stars... ah!

As the wind filled in we settled down and on our way, favouring a line slightly to the east in anticipation of the wind veering on Saturday. Not much to say about the night except I must remind the crew that the aft cabin is for me!

Saturday saw some really enjoyable sailing and trying to spot who was around us. We eventually traded some of our height for speed when a few hours out, hoisted the kite (slightly apprehensively seeing the boat in front having a bit of a handful!). As we got within 10 miles our lack of preparation started to tell - firstly, the tide seemed more significant than any wind shifts and we were slightly too far to the east - and secondly, a trifling, minor, insignificant error, barely worth recording - the skipper forgot about the Greenwich meridian and the fact that the finish was to the EAST not WEST of it! This explained our perplexity at the fact that virtually every other boat we saw was going the wrong way, even the ones that must have been on top of the line!

The evening was the usual combination of fun and beer - this time we even managed some food. Unfortunately, a combination of babysitters, decorating and marriage saving meant missing the return leg, a 0100 start on Sunday morning and a chance meeting with a line of unmarked rocks (unmarked except for a bloody great red pole!) but that's another story...

Final result - 17^th out of 24 starters

Round the Island Race

The biggest yacht race in the world - and the least experienced crew to date! With pressure of work robbing us of our walking expertise, the press gang was employed to play a numbers game, with the aim of having plenty of human fenders in case of collision...

We were also still nursing the damage from Deauville, which was worse than originally thought, although we had been assured that it was OK to do the race (wouldn't be them sitting on the upturned hull when the keel fell off!)

The few of the survivors of our last race in the Solent regrouped in the Castle on Friday evening and after a moderate amount of rehydration, moved on to sample the culinary delights of Gosport 's finest kebab emporium. Almost ready for a good nights sleep, at least one of the crew ensured total "knock-out" with a "big fat one" under the moonlight. Meanwhile the dedicated, stressed and not (for once) to be tempted skipper was reading and re-reading the sailing instructions and checking tides and other navigational mumbo-jumbo (just one step up from "marketing bollocks" for those in the know).

The big day dawned, bright and breezy (at least the skipper was), and surprise surprise the rest of the crew turned up on time - might be something to do with the lack of the notorious IoW contingent! One member (who shall remain nameless in case the Hampshire Traffic Police read this, managed to get from his bed to the boat, about 60 miles, in about 45minutes!) After fortification with tea and bacon and as usual slightly behind schedule, we set off for the start.

Mindful of the potential disaster awaiting us in the hurly burly of the race, the skipper had decided on a much higher level than usual pre-race briefing, role allocation and even training. It has to be said that this did pay off as we had very few technical issues on the day. The one downside was a lack of focus on actually getting to the start which meant we crossed the line somewhere between the rest of our group and the group behind!

Trying to keep out of the way while everyone settled in we kept out in the middle and even over to the mainland at times, which was a mistake as we lost ground; this was exacerbated by the skipper trying to helm, do tactics and navigation as well as keeping eyes on everything else on the water, resulting in a somewhat zigzag course at the best of times. Nearing Hurst and being passed by virtually everything including discarded beer cans, Drew was given the helm and the skipper freed up to do what he is best at - running around, shouting at people, getting in the way and generally being a nuisance; mind you, he who pays the piper...

Lasts nights "big fat one" had caught up with 16.7% of the crew who from now on lurked deep in the bowels of the boat - at least keeping on the right side at every tack!

Keeping well clear of the Varassi (well to be honest not noticing the Needles until we were well past them), we headed for St Catherine's, picking up speed after a textbook hoist. Without blinking we took the textbook down and put the spinnaker up instead. Once again electing to keep out of the way we didn't dive into Freshwater Bay but had a great run through the rolling seas with a large number of other competitors, trying to roll some and ducking others. The sea and wind were starting to cause the odd broach but we weren't alone in that! Round the point it was pretty much a dead run to Dunnose, which was interesting; we hung on until we inadvertently gybed the main, had to drop the kite, hoisted it again looking like something that would be worn on Ladies Day at Ascot, gave up with it and stuck up the smaller asymmetric.

Meanwhile the crew were once again down to 5 as, after a brief reappearance, JHD had once again retired to his sitting room to peruse the newspaper (and provide tea).

We eventually spotted Bembridge Ledge buoy, rounded it and into a tighter reach up to the Forts, with one particular dickhead who seemed to take great pleasure in (legally) cutting people up! We rounded No Mans Land Fort to the sound of a great party (unfortunately not on board) and hardened up for the beat up to the finish. Having read somewhere that you never win by being inside the majority of the fleet, the skipper decided to be right outside and in what was either a stroke of genius, or the last fling of a desperate man, decided to sod the tide and hang out in the middle. We were not alone, although the feeling of confidence did evaporate when most of our companions turned out not to be in the race at all!

(Almost) all the crew were now straining to get us home...

It got a bit hot and close as we approached the finish, trying to lay the line and keep out of the way of starboard tackers but we got there in the end.

A memorable day, with great sights out on the water, including that of the movable ballast pulling himself across the coachroof after each tack! All in all a really enjoyable day out, no damage to us or anyone else, no injuries and a few beers on the way home - and the keel didn't fall off!

Final result - 26th out of 34 in IRC Class 8; 129th out of 154 in Group; 433rd out of 547 Overall

Alderney

The Yellow Peril returns! After a layoff whilst the damage caused by a cunningly placed obstruction outside Deauville (obviously the French realised that the true heirs to Nelson were getting into their stride!), Whistler went back into the water on Thursday 25^th July. On race day the trusty skipper went down to take her back in hand, only to be faced by a missing saloon table and dangling wiring, which added a number of hours to the pre-race preparation - hours which we didn't have (more of that later).

The light crew (not a cunning tactical move, just not many people free this weekend) eventually joined the boat that afternoon, after a fascinating taxi ride with a cabbie with particularly strange dietary views. After an interesting incident on the way out (don't ask) we set off to Cowes to get some diesel for what seemed an inevitable motor home. Obviously no one had told Cowes that some people have to fuel late in the day so we had to make do with less than half a tank but no worries; we would fill up in Alderney ...

Back out to the start and the usual ritual of cock-ups! Up went the main, down it came (someone had twisted one of the slides upside down); up it went again - and down again (the top batten hadn't been put in properly and joined the skippers 2000 season sunglasses in the Solent); up it went again with a new top batten botched together from two others that we hopefully wouldn't need! This left little time for pre-start positioning and investigation with the result that when the gun went we weren't really in the right place, which didn't help.

What also didn't help was our inability to get the kite up which saw us whipped past the wrong side of Gurnard, sideways, with the kite taking a bath. Got it in, pole down, number one up and started beating back up to the start with the skipper shouting " go that way and don't hit anything" as he ran below to repack the spinnaker (note to self: teach the crew to do it!)

Several tacks later we crossed the line under white sails, 20 minutes late but we were off! Up went the kite (quite nicely), we trimmed it and sat back to draw breath. The helm asked "what's the course?" to be answered "just point down there and keep outside Snowden"

"Snowden?"

"Snowden!"

The yachting equivalent of a handbreak turn followed as we (luckily) squeezed passed it; another 15 seconds and we would have been in deep doo doo.

We achieved our goal of getting to the forts in front of Class 3 and still only about 20 minutes behind Class 4. A few went through us as the wind came and went but we settled down past Bembridge for the passage. The sticky moment came when the crew asked for the plan...

"Ah, that's the bit that didn't get done because I was putting the boat back together this morning!"

I must admit that the vague and variable wind forecast, combined with a lack of advanced navigational software (not even Electron's fag packet) reduced us to "it's that way - go as near straight for it as possible and we'll see what it looks like later".

We set off on starboard, being pushed onto a generally southward course by the tide. As the tide turned to the west, so did we and reached back to the rhumb line before setting off down it. I have to say it was a fantastic night, ethereal under the moon, with a luminous grey sky and metallic silver green sea. As the sun came up we were heading toward Cherbourg but wondering what the day would hold with the wind moving around and easing and the tide about to give us a few problems. What was more worrying was the lack of sails in view - we didn't think they were behind us!

A slow and frustrating flop westwards along the coast tested our resolve, only the lure of beer and diesel in Alderney kept us going. The GPS was not on our side advising arrival times on Sunday morning! We were running out of "Swiss Tony" analogies (racing a yacht is like making love to a beautiful woman; you..); you can only eat so many sandwiches and drink so much soup and coffee.

We gently progressed, a few more yachts hove into view and as the tide turned we suddenly didn't feel so lonely; spirits lifted as the SOG rose and ETA came down. We kept gybing the kite to hold our course away from the Race as we didn't fancy a trip down to Jersey - a decision that paid off as we watched a couple of competitors disappear (so quickly we thought they must have intended to go that way). As the finish neared, boats and kites popped up everywhere; the harbour opened, we hardened up and ran towards the line with Torbellino bearing down on us - we willed ourselves forwards and bore up to try and get a vital few yards "edge". The hooter went and we were there!

The usual family and social commitments (plus the fact that I had been specifically asked by the new wife of one the crew to ensure he was in home "in time for a cuddle before bed") meant we downed a few beers, scoffed our supper and set off home at 2130.

The fog and a second night of sleep deprivation were interesting... as was discovering that the topping lift had become detached when we dropped the main outside Gosport ... Oh well, Cowes next week (which should be nice!)

Final result - 6th out of 14 in Class 4

Cowes Week

It wasn't very windy, we didn't do very well, we ripped the spinnaker, stuck the pole through the main, hit a rock in Gurnard, came amazingly close to a number of marks (not to mention other boats), smacked the boom with the skipper's head (which lost) but learned a lot, had a lot of laughs and drank a lot of beer (and rum).

The only record of the week is a photo in which the crew look surprisingly cheerful despite the utter and complete lack of breeze and the tedium of a one and a half hour game of "Famous Names"

It is important to note that the skipper won the game!

Not much more to say except we'll be back!

Final result - Overall - 27th out of 32 in Class 5 and 304th out of 370 in Black Group

Poole

The final weekend of racing in the JOG 2002 series. Having missed a couple of offshore outings due to post-Cowes apathy and other commitments we were set to go out in a blaze of glory in the short hop down to Poole . Without the benefit of our expert "local knowledge" we felt confident of a good result!

The crew if not exactly decimated were weakened by the late, but justifiable, (is he going soft - ed?) dropping out of one third of the crew, including the only other person apart from the skipper who had a vague idea on how boats work. Undaunted we met in the pub for the usual Gosport delights of beer followed by kebabs. The crew was almost reduced by a further 25% due to Sean's decision to have a "discussion" with an obnoxious 6 foot something Navy stoker...

Being a generous soul, the skipper tried to maximise the time in bed and forgetting the foul tide, etc, etc, left it rather late for the off. This resulted in us nosing into Cowes to collect the final crew member at about 0835 for a 0900 start! Having had the benefit of those extra few moments horizontally, the skipper had at least thought to have everything set up for the anticipated spinnaker hoist and run down to the East, as per the race instructions. Everything was set, crew were poised with the relevant bits of string held in the little hands and the skipper ready to start shouting (ranting, raving) instructions. We were ready for action!

What we weren't ready for was the change of sailing instructions and the start to the West.

With time to the gun being measured in microseconds rather than minutes, it was time to get through the ID gate, on the right side of the line, remove all the spinnaker gear, get the No:2 up and start - all with a crew who didn't really have too much of a clue what was going on - nice!

It is at times like this when teamwork and a cool head come to the fore. Unfortunately, teamwork took one look at what was going on and kept going, over the side and out of sight, taking the cool head with it. The No:2 also decided to get even for being kept in the sail equivalent of a body bag for weeks on end by jumping out of the track when hoisted. It obviously felt this was such a good laugh it did it again! Finally beaten into submission the bloody thing was eventually up...

By this time the race had started but we had lost the wind and the fleet and were drifting back towards Gosport on the tide. Class 3 started and our only consolation was that no one had too much wind, well I mean there wasn't much wind blowing, no, what I mean was that no one seemed to be going very fast and most boats were still between the start and Gurnard. It is at times like this that the irrepressible British humour and perseverance come into their own, with the skipper muttering "I'm f***ing well giving up, we could be having a good breakfast in Cowes in 15 minutes". Of course he didn't mean it; he was just trying to throw any other boats in earshot (ha - when has anyone ever been near us at the start of a race!) off the scent, whilst his computer-like tactical brain was working out a plan of action.

"Got it" the colossus stated, "we're f***ing well giving up and going for a beer"

Just as we were about to call it a day, a breath of wind helped us claw our way toward the line - yes we still hadn't crossed it - and we picked our way along the shore to eventually cross it a mere one hour late; we were off!

Unfortunately we still weren't really going anywhere but at least not many other people were either. The skipper made the call that rather than follow the pack, where in his opinion (he has plenty of those - ed) you are unlikely to achieve anything better than hanging on, we should strike out across the tide in search of more consistent wind on the mainland shore. It worked! Which makes it all the more inexplicable that after a tactical masterstroke like that, he decided to return to the island shore and throw it all away. Cris-crossing the Solent , we headed West. At least we were moving and felt like we could actually get to Poole !

The wind was filling in and the fleet was spreading out, although we did not feel too far out of touch and even felt we might get within striking distance of a tail-ender.

As we started to beat through Hurst , we had to decide whether to take the North Channel and hug the coast for a quiet life, or boldly strike out through the Needles Channel for a (hopefully) high speed reach to the finish. Seeing a number of other competitors taking the inshore route we went large and ploughed on past the Needles. The wind was building by this time to a steady 4 to 5 and the skipper (not usually the most sensitive helmsman) was holding the nose just off the wind as we pinched past the Shingles. This was made all the more exciting by the building seas. Needless to say incident was not far away - a pinch too far and an inadvertent tack threw Whistler through 80^oand left the "uphill" members of the crew sitting "downhill" up to their thighs in the sea and Deano, taking advantage of the skipper's distraction, trying to dive headfirst down the companionway for the relative safety of the saloon! Sanity was eventually restored and the wet clothing actually added much needed weight up on the rail!

It was around here that the challenge facing us was becoming clear. The No:2 was at the top of it's range and the main needed reefing. The only problem was that the only person who really knew what to do was the trusty skipper, who was busy helming a well-overpowered boat. Faced with the option of pressing on or changing to a more comfortable sail plan and risking huge delays there was only one answer - hang on! An eye was also on the mainsail trimmer (who shall remain nameless) who, as soon as the skipper looked away, was easing the main out and taking his foot off the gas!

It wasn't pretty but we were getting there and our next challenge presented itself - where exactly was the finish? Here we resorted to the Mk:1 eyeball and the time honoured Whistler tactic of following the pack; we spotted "Obsession" and tacked a couple of times to make up the height that we had dropped (no easy task in the strengthening breeze). As usual we had over stood it and now bore off for an exciting sleigh-ride to the line; we sped across trying to look calm and in control and wondering what the f**k to do next!

Our predicament was interesting - we were broad reaching up the channel to Poole, which has a training wall to port, a sandbank to starboard and a chain ferry ahead. The wind was gusting to nearly 30 knots and we had everything eased but were still hurtling along at 8 knots. The skipper called everyone to action stations and gave a thorough briefing "when I head into wind, let everything go and pull it down" but when to make our move?

Nature gave a hand and a large gust hit us, we broached and popped up head to wind. The sails came down in a trice and in several more were untidily tamed and lashed down. With a relieved smile we motored up to Poole and Dolphin Quay, which although not quite in the St. Vaast league presented some interesting challenges (and added to our battle scars!) There was some debate as to whether we were on the right berth but once we were on we were staying; so to avoid any further discussion we hit the town.

After the joys of beer, food, teaching the mobile phone how to spell various obscenities and then texting them to each other, some good banter with the crew of one of the Sigmas about Deano's nice blue jumper, we settled down for the night.

The next morning we were further reduced as Deano left for "an appointment in Dorset "; but with light winds forecast if we could get everything set we would fly! As we motored out we were hit by one more calamity, the gas ran out so not even an early morning brew! Out at the start everything was ready, except for one thing the wind. Endlessly optimistic we hung on until the breeze filled in and we started under the kite, feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. This didn't last because the wind didn't and we bobbed and drifted. Eventually we knocked it on the head, retired, stuck the clockwork on and set off homewards.

Then the wind came back and everyone came booting past us having a great sail..

BOLLOCKS!

Note to self: when the breeze is due to fill in from the SW, look down there before retiring!

Having tidied everything up the skipper resolutely refused to set the kite so we plodded home under a combination of main, cruising chute and engine; good practice cheating the tide in the shallower waters but a slog and not the best finish to the season. We also managed to break the bow light.

Anyway lots of fun through the year, time to start plotting for 2003!

Final result -24th out of 28 in Class 4 in the Cowes to Poole race; retired from the Poole to Cowes race