Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Cerveza, por favor
Back in the prehistory of 25 years ago, I crewed on some offshore sailboat races in the Gulf of Mexico. The highlight of the season was the race from Galveston to Veracruz. There were many memorable moments that year, but one day stands out. That day was at the end of the race, so I will have to lead up to it.
The race is 500 or so miles and usually takes five or six days. Most boats head due-south across the Gulf. A few boats go west along the coast hoping for shore breezes and hoping that those out in the middle of the Gulf will have light air. We went straight south.
Typically, the wind blows out of the southeast at that time of year and the race is more or less against the wind. For our year, the wind blew out of the north the whole way and it was a sleigh ride, as we say in the trade. Several boats, including ours, beat the record. There were ten of us on board the 36-foot sloop. We finished in 96 hours.
We left Galveston with the floor raised a foot by solid cases of longneck beers. Many racing boats do not drink much during competition. We were not in that group.
After three days of flying the spinnaker downwind, we began to look forward to the finish. This was before the days of GPS satellites and online charts so we plotted our course using the compass and our estimated speed. On that last day the wind piped up to a steady 30 or 40 knots. We had taken down the spinnaker and gone to a smaller one we had that we called the ‘storm chute’. In early afternoon, the storm chute exploded and sounded like a four-story balloon being popped (which is exactly what it was). After that we sailed with no sails at all. In sailing that is called ‘bare poles’. Fortunately, the wind was blowing exactly where we wanted to go. The boat was moving faster than we had ever been. The waves were as big as houses. Our mast was 53 feet and, when we were in the trough, the crest was above the masthead. When we reached a wave crest the wind would power us and we would begin to surf down the face of the wave at an unknown speed. When we reached the trough, the speed would come down enough to register. This was great fun. The only problem, and only a small one, was that we had run out of beer.
Our first landmark was the volcanic snowcap of Pico Orizaba amongst the clouds to the southwest. Land was not in sight and hours later we would see the the huge cranes in the port of Veracruz rising from the sea on the horizon.
Veracruz is surrounded by reefs a few miles out. There are towers on the margins of the reefs to guide the mariner. We picked two towers that we should go between. By this time the wind had cut back to 30 knots or so, so we had put up a tiny jib and a deeply reefed mainsail.
All of a sudden, there was a horrible noise that sounded like surf. A few hundred yards ahead we saw breaking waves. We were between the wrong two towers. The helmsman pushed the tiller hard, the main jibed and we escaped by the skin of our teeth. A few minutes later, we were inside the reefs and, suddenly, the house-size waves had disappeared and we were in a relatively calm ship channel. The wind was still high, we were flying fast, but the deck was stable for the first time in days. We were followed in by a freighter that was listing about thirty degrees from the wind.
We radioed to the race officials at the Hotel Emporio and some of our wives and loved ones were there waiting for news. We asked them to please meet us at the dock with some beer.
Now comes the best part of the story. Actually, the whole point of the story.
The finish line was at the end of a very long jetty that curved around the harbor. Finishing yachts were required to pass close to the end of the jetty. Our loved ones, in their eagerness to help, had brought a case of bottled beer to the finish line. As we crossed, they began to throw the bottles of beer at us. We were all barefoot, the wind was still blowing like a bitch, and the beer bottles were breaking all over the deck of the boat. The good part is everyone managed to catch a beer.
We all cut our feet, but for a moment we got to stand there, safe, holding a cold beer in that howling wind, knowing we had arrived, and to see the proud faces of those wonderful drunken women to whom we were so grateful.
The race is 500 or so miles and usually takes five or six days. Most boats head due-south across the Gulf. A few boats go west along the coast hoping for shore breezes and hoping that those out in the middle of the Gulf will have light air. We went straight south.
Typically, the wind blows out of the southeast at that time of year and the race is more or less against the wind. For our year, the wind blew out of the north the whole way and it was a sleigh ride, as we say in the trade. Several boats, including ours, beat the record. There were ten of us on board the 36-foot sloop. We finished in 96 hours.
We left Galveston with the floor raised a foot by solid cases of longneck beers. Many racing boats do not drink much during competition. We were not in that group.
After three days of flying the spinnaker downwind, we began to look forward to the finish. This was before the days of GPS satellites and online charts so we plotted our course using the compass and our estimated speed. On that last day the wind piped up to a steady 30 or 40 knots. We had taken down the spinnaker and gone to a smaller one we had that we called the ‘storm chute’. In early afternoon, the storm chute exploded and sounded like a four-story balloon being popped (which is exactly what it was). After that we sailed with no sails at all. In sailing that is called ‘bare poles’. Fortunately, the wind was blowing exactly where we wanted to go. The boat was moving faster than we had ever been. The waves were as big as houses. Our mast was 53 feet and, when we were in the trough, the crest was above the masthead. When we reached a wave crest the wind would power us and we would begin to surf down the face of the wave at an unknown speed. When we reached the trough, the speed would come down enough to register. This was great fun. The only problem, and only a small one, was that we had run out of beer.
Our first landmark was the volcanic snowcap of Pico Orizaba amongst the clouds to the southwest. Land was not in sight and hours later we would see the the huge cranes in the port of Veracruz rising from the sea on the horizon.
Veracruz is surrounded by reefs a few miles out. There are towers on the margins of the reefs to guide the mariner. We picked two towers that we should go between. By this time the wind had cut back to 30 knots or so, so we had put up a tiny jib and a deeply reefed mainsail.
All of a sudden, there was a horrible noise that sounded like surf. A few hundred yards ahead we saw breaking waves. We were between the wrong two towers. The helmsman pushed the tiller hard, the main jibed and we escaped by the skin of our teeth. A few minutes later, we were inside the reefs and, suddenly, the house-size waves had disappeared and we were in a relatively calm ship channel. The wind was still high, we were flying fast, but the deck was stable for the first time in days. We were followed in by a freighter that was listing about thirty degrees from the wind.
We radioed to the race officials at the Hotel Emporio and some of our wives and loved ones were there waiting for news. We asked them to please meet us at the dock with some beer.
Now comes the best part of the story. Actually, the whole point of the story.
The finish line was at the end of a very long jetty that curved around the harbor. Finishing yachts were required to pass close to the end of the jetty. Our loved ones, in their eagerness to help, had brought a case of bottled beer to the finish line. As we crossed, they began to throw the bottles of beer at us. We were all barefoot, the wind was still blowing like a bitch, and the beer bottles were breaking all over the deck of the boat. The good part is everyone managed to catch a beer.
We all cut our feet, but for a moment we got to stand there, safe, holding a cold beer in that howling wind, knowing we had arrived, and to see the proud faces of those wonderful drunken women to whom we were so grateful.
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