Ah, another sailing season started off in the Figawi fashion. Often described as 'more party than race', or sometimes as 'a race to a party', this year's rendition played out in classic form and once again sailors all over New England can take comfort in the fact that the sailing season was started off with both a bang (literal and metaphorical) as well as a hang over induced whimper (literal). Gentle readers that get upset at depictions of rowdy behavior, unchecked drinking, indiscriminate sexual contact or the occasional run in with the law should go read one of Clean's articles instead. There will be no undue focus on actual sailing exploits in the brief recap that follows.

Our tale starts out a little over a week ago, when my buddy Bruce calls up… "Uh, Rail Meat, we have a problem. The boat is not going to be ready for Figawi". Meanwhile between the two of us we probably have $3,000 into this race between tent bracelets, entrance fees, dockage in Hyannis and Nantucket, as well as hotel rooms on the Cape and on the island. This clearly calls for an extreme intervention, although my boat has just been launched that day and is in no way ready to sail, let alone race. Monday was spent clearing the calendar for Thursday and coming up a list of 37 things to be done to Indigo to have her ready for the race. On Tuesday we made the call to the Figawi folks to see if we could Indigo substituted for the original boat. At the same time a call was lobbed into New England PHRF to beg for a last minute PHRF cert. A huge debt of gratitude and thanks go to Shelly McCabe and Bob Haag of the Figawi gang, as well as John Collins at New England PHRF for going out of their way to accommodate our fuck up.

So Thursday rolls around and I have a full blown version of the virus running around New York right now. At this point, I can barely swallow and snot is flowing out of my nose like Niagra Falls. The fever is not much fun either. Bruce and I spend 10 frantic hours putting Indigo together for the race and finally fall into bed at 10 pm. Four hours later we are back up and shoving off the dock in Mystic at 2 AM for what turned out to be a 19 hour delivery up to Hyannis in fog that shut down visibility to about 100 yards. The extra 5 hours was for typical early season engine bull shit. Meanwhile I have lost my voice, which is gonna be real nice for all sorts of reasons, not the least of which I can't be my usual tyrannical self with the crew, and end up turning over skipper duties to Bruce.

Saturday morning and the sun can't find its way through the fog. Which is fine since apparently a case of pink eye has welded my right eye shut with the same crap that keeps coming out of my nose. That, or I fell asleep in a puddle of my own snot. Out on the water the visibility is maybe 400 yards and there are 300 boats drifting around in the general vicinity of the start line. Give it to the Kennedy's, they are sporting even in less than optimal conditions. Teddy is out there along with the rest of us miscreants, drifting around in no wind and heavy fog.

Figawi is a pursuit race, but you end up with batches of anywhere from 5 to 20 boats going off in the same time frames. At one point there are 20 boats lined up, drifting down to the line in about 3 knots of wind. You could have walked from the pin to the committee boat without touching water or pausing. And then…. one boat port tacks the rest. They come down the line, bouncing off of every boat on the way. Screams fill the air, curses are hurtled, and otherwise calm men suggest anatomically impossible acts… with the offending skipper yelling all the way down the line that he has lost his steering. The resulting carnage was worth every cent of the admissions price. I am sure that the skipper involved now knows that if he wants to maintain control of his helm he should not inadvertently turn on his autopilot. Yup…his autopilot.

Meanwhile, back on the good ship Indigo we nail the start, in super slow motion. But we have got the right hand lane and are moving along toward Nantucket on the far right side of the fleet, and we own clean air. Not much air, but it is clean. It slowly picks up, and about a third of the way through we have maybe 12 knots and it has gone far enough back that we can pop the asym. Symmetrical spin boats might as well have entered the cruising divisions in this race. The wind keeps moving forward and back within a 30 degree range and we switch between the #1 and the .6 oz perhaps four times during the race. Just as the fleet got to the only waypoint (keep the #17 can to the right) the wind starts to fade out, but the fog has actually lifted enough that you can see a decent portion of the fleet. Anyone who went too far right were a bit fucked as they had to go dead down wind in puffs to make the rounding. We got around it in great shape, with maybe 20 boats in total still in front of us. We work our way to the right lane again, which pays big dividends as what wind does show up ends up coming from the right and staying on the right. The rich definitely got richer on this race, and the poor turned on their engines.

In the end we managed to blow our chance at the bullet for our class. The wind died again within a half mile of the finish, and then clocked east. We fumble our gybe like a bunch of J School drop outs, while our competition on Dark Star takes advantage of their east position (and better sailing ability) to coast across the line 3 minutes in front of us. Maybe if we had left the case of ginger beer, the 3 liters of Goslings and the bushel of limes at home it might have made the difference, but where would the fun be in that. But given the fire drill we went through just to get to the starting line, we were pretty happy with a second this year.

We pull into Nantucket, get the boat sorted and mix up the Dark and Stormy's. Pound back a few of those, and then it is off to the tent where crew gets into all sorts of the usual trouble with the usual floozies. The tent always reminds me of some hopped up version of a high school dance, where crews stand protectively around one another sipping on drinks and checking out the crowd. A few drinks later and mingling begins and then a few drinks later you are on the dance floor rubbing up against a girl named Candy who had great fun coming over on the Hyline ferry and wants to know what the sail boats do with those funny looking sticks they have. There is a near constant rotation to the bar, sucking down various Mount Gay drinks, and newly earned Mount Gay hat's are offered up in trade for certain sexual acts. Of course one Nantucket cop I was standing next too informed me that such an offer constituted a solicitation for prostitution. Sorry, ocifer…*hic*.

When the tent wraps up at 11, people stumble out into the night to fill the local bars, or a strange bed, or a bed with a stranger. In once case, at least, a more dubious berth was lying in wait. At about 2 AM the crew that were sleeping on the boat were woken up with a loud "BANG" as something hit our hull. By the time Drew stumbles up on deck, there are two crew members from Ballywho that are pulling some guy out of the water. Apparently the idiot fell off the dock, hit Indigo and then landed in the water. He gets hauled to the dock like a sack of shit and laid out. There is a 50/50 shot that he is dead but proving that alcohol is not a consistent friend of Darwin, the guy actually stumbles to his feet and weaves off into the night. Who ever you were, if you happen to be reading this article, please give me a call. I am having some difficulty getting your blood off my awl grip.

Sunday was a phenomenal day, with the sun out and temps in the high 70's. Our last crew member stumbled home around 11 AM from what ever man trap he got caught in. It was a perfect day for sitting around with a drink in the hand and prayer on the lips thanking what ever deity you pray to that they, in their benevolent wisdom, came up with the idea of tits and ass. There is nothing finer than sitting on out at the Rope Walk with a Dark and Stormy and flirting with the girls who stroll on by.

So while the winds were light, they were tricky as well which led to some interesting tactical sailing. The band rocked, the talent pool was deep and the bar was free flowing. While it may scare the hell out of Nantucket locals, we will be back next year.

Your humble scribe,

Rail Meat

06/02/06

Errors and Omissions Dept.

Wrong Drunk

Here is a slightly different take on the story.

Dear SA,

There was a major mistake, or omission, made in the “Figawi Fubar” story. The gentleman that fell off the dock was in no way affiliated or connected to the “Ballyhoo”. Your story wrongfully portrayed the crew of the Ballyhoo as a crew of drunks that present a liability to any dock owner or regatta organizer. This is not true. The details of the real story are far more heroic and noble. The facts are, one girl from the “Ballyhoo”, and one gentleman from “Katabatic” were returning to their respective vessels in the middle of the night when they watched an unknown stranger, stumble, fall, hit his head on the dock, and land in the water in a dazed-unconscious (they aren’t sure, but they said he looked like a dead fish) state.

The two immediately sprung into action fishing the injured sailor out of the water. He was apparently very heavy and bleeding. By all reports, the female from “Ballyhoo”, and the gentleman from “Katabatic” saved the life of a complete stranger. Had this act happened during daylight hours these two would be being proposed for a rescue medal, but since it happened in the middle of the night at Figawi, they are being cast as wreckless drunks. As the owner of “Ballyhoo” I have always demanded that my crew have fun, practice the punctilio of Corinthian spirit, and most of all, be safe. I was very proud to hear of their good work on Sunday morning. However, I was very upset after reading “rail meat’s” column this morning.

This was compounded by the 15 emails I received from concerned friends and family members, who had read the column, that wanted to know who on my crew fell off the dock. We still don’t know who it was that fell of the dock, or even whether he was part of Figawi, but I would like to set the record straight that he was in no way affiliated with the Ballyhoo. What is more, I am also infuriated by Rail Meat’s column because I discussed the incident with him in detail at the tent on Sunday Night. Rail Meat and your website, owe it to the two individuals who saved that guys life, to at least make mention of the purely heroic act the committed on Saturday night in Nantucket.

Sincerely,
Concerned and Proud Skipper

06/05/06