Quannapowitt Yacht Club

On a gray fall day with the breeze appearing only as patches of ripples that meandered down the lake scooting individual boats around like leaves on a parking lot, we race.

This is fall in New England; not too many more times to get the club’s fleets out and stay warm and dry, so we use what we have. I call over to John, on the race committee boat, that I’m glad I have my job (to keep my Laser moving) and not his (to divine the steadiest direction of the wind and consequently to set a fair course.) John dryly observes that, “You just do the best you can,” and John does.

The first race he starts the three fleets three minutes apart, but ends up with the first two fleets just a mixed clump of boats sitting on the starting line causing what wind there is to lift right up over the shapeless sails. The mess just barely sorts itself out in time for the Lasers to start with enough open water to get across the line.

David hangs left for no good reason I can see and I go right pretending that that’s where the next breeze will be. David rounds the windward mark (not aptly named today) ahead of Tony and me and heads resolutely toward the leeward mark. He’s doing a great job of keeping his Laser moving, but given his proclivity to swimming in self-criticism, I’ll have to point out that he isn’t sitting far enough forward or heeling his boat.

We have three interesting races with a challenging series of breeze and lulls, an occasional steady 7 or 8 knots and a few minutes of drifting – the Flying Scots drift farther than the Lasers. As I look for potential useful patches of breeze to try to intercept, it’s hard not to feel dismay for the lonely DaySailors, Flying Scots and Lasers that sit becalmed in pockets of nothingness as their competitors glide toward the next mark or even, frustratingly, glide back down the course past these hapless victims.

At the end of a long downwind mosey I look back over my shoulder and the little patch of bright green that is Tony’s bathing suit, sitting on the deck of his Laser half way up the course, seems blindingly florescent amongst the muted greens, yellows, reds and whites of the racing fleet. The only other really bright spot of color is the head of Eric’s red spinnaker lying on his Flying Scot side deck.

There’s something delightful about this day even with its lack of go power. We all seem to be taking it as it is and not railing against the wind gods like we might during the summer. Even those, like Suzanne in her DaySailor, that profess to “hate” light winds are smiling; by the way she’s sailing like she lives for this stuff, go figure.