Miracle Sail

This past summer, John and I were invited to make a presentation at the annual boat-owner’s rendezvous hosted by the Hull Company in Charleston.  We bought “Up Jinks” through the Hull Company over three years ago.  The event was great fun.  We had the chance to tell the story of our evolution from having never been on a sailboat to living full-time on one. 

One of the other presenters was Ron Frisowski, the southeast regional manager for Catalina Yachts.  This year marks the 25th anniversary of Catalina. Ron’s program highlighted the company’s amazing growth over that time – more than 75,000 boats sold.  (By the way, “Up Jinks” is the 365th hull of the Catalina 380 series.)

Somewhere in his remarks, Ron mentioned the St. Petersburg “Strictly Sail” boat show.  He explained that during the show, there would be a charity regatta to raise money for the local children’s hospital.  The race was dubbed “Miracle Sail - Sailing with the Masters.” The organizers were bringing together some of the legends in the sailing industry to compete in the regatta.  People who wanted to crew with the masters could do so by

making a donation to the hospital.  Besides raising money for the hospital, these leaders would be honored for their contribution to the sport.  Frank Butler, the founder and owner of Catalina, would be captain on one of the boats. 

I sort of tucked this information in the back of my mind.  John and I had never been in a regatta before.  Shoot, I’d never even BEEN on a sailboat before “Up Jinks.” But, we were big Catalina and Frank Butler fans.   We had met Frank briefly at the Annapolis Boat Show in 2004.  For someone so accomplished in his field, he was extremely humble and approachable.      

Several weeks after the Rendezvous, I called Ron to find out how we might participate.  He put me in touch with Tom Casey, the coordinator of the regatta.  Crew positions on Frank’s boat were still available.  We decided to make the donation and sign up.  We booked a flight to St. Pete and made a reservation at the Bayside Hilton.

In all honesty, I figured the regatta would be more ceremonial than serious. I envisioned we would compete on one of Catalina’s new Morgan 440’s or some other model they wanted to promote.  Let the men of the crew work the boat.  I would just be “deck fluff.”

Arriving at the boat show, we checked in at the “Miracle Sail” tent.  Catherine Casey, Tom’s wife, greeted us and gave us a packet of information.  We didn’t open it until we were back in our room.  That’s when I realized the regatta was for real.

The first sheet of paper in the packet listed the honorees who would captain the boats.  Even for someone who’s come to sailing late in life, a few of the names were familiar.  Besides Frank, the list included Ted Irwin (founder of Irwin Boats) and Charley Morgan (of Morgan cruising boats.)  There was even an Olympic Gold Medalist in the group, Allison Jolly.  My, oh my, what had we gotten ourselves into?

Then we read the regatta instructions.  No, we weren’t going to be on fancy sailboats parading in front of the boat show patrons just for good looks.  We were all going to be on 20-foot Sonars with open cockpits, slide-track mainsails, hanking jibs, and radial-head spinnakers with poles.  The boom was controlled by a traveler that went across the cockpit.  Clam cleats secured the mainsail sheet (rope) on either side.  No automatic furling, no winches, nothing but the basics.  We hadn’t seen anything like this since our basic keelboat lessons. 

There would be five of us on the boat. It was scary to think that John and I would make up almost half of the crew. Fortunately for us, the other three crew members were very experienced.  Along with Frank, there was Deven Hull, of The Hull Company, who sold us “Up Jinks.”  When he was a student at the College of Charleston, Deven sailed competitively with the sailing team.  Rounding out the five was Wayne Burdick, president of Beneteau USA.  He grew up sailing in Long Island Sound around Mystic, Connecticut.  It was interesting having Wayne with us.  He is a corporate competitor with Catalina and actually was sponsoring one of the other regatta boats.  But, he had such respect for Frank he wanted to be on our team.

The next morning, we woke up to absolutely beautiful weather.  We didn’t have to report for the regatta until 2:00 PM.  Our good friends Kevin and Miriann Clifford drove over to St. Pete from Melbourne to join us.  This was great because it helped pass the time and kept me from getting too anxious about the race.  I must admit that it crossed my mind to offer my slot to Kevin.

Right around 2:00, we strolled over to the St. Petersburg Yacht Center where the crews gathered.  The “Masters” posed for pictures and boat assignments were announced.  The five of us walked together down the docks to find our boat.  The sails on the Sonars were already rigged from a regatta earlier in the day.  The spinnakers (downwind sails) were the only ones still in bags.  Deven immediately began unpacking the spinnaker.  He and Wayne instinctively went about checking halyards and stowing unneeded paraphernalia.         

Frank took his position at the rudder as the helmsman.  John was busy taking pictures.  I sat in the cockpit feeling a little like an appendix.

There was lighthearted chit chat going on around us.  Most of the conversation focused on the weather.  To some of the most experienced racers, there had been serious consideration that the regatta would be cancelled – not because of bad conditions, but because there was absolutely no wind.  Not being a seasoned racer, I hadn’t really thought too much about the consequence of a windless day on a regatta.  The race committee determined that we would continue.  It was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the people at the boat show to see these “masters” all together in a regatta to raise money for the children’s hospital. 

I soon learned that too little wind has its own set of challenges when you’re trying to race.  The first thing we had to do was get from the Sailing Center over to the starting line in front of the grandstand at the boat show. This had to be done by 3:00 when the gun would signal the beginning of the race.  We had no engine. We couldn’t use a paddle or waggle the rudder.  Heaving our bodies in unison back and forth was against the rules. 

All of the boats began drifting away from the dock, meandering in one direction, then another, seeking some sort of momentum to move forward.  On our little boat, these first few minutes helped sort out responsibilities.  While Frank manned the rudder, Devan intuitively assumed the role of “tactician.”  He watched the water for color and ripples as signs of wind.  “Head up,” he’d say to Frank.  Or, “Fall off.”  The boat would suddenly begin to move even if ever so slightly.

With each one of Devan’s commands, Wayne worked the jib to capture as much wind as possible.  At first, I was in charge of managing the mainsail sheet on the traveler.  When we would tack and the boom crossed over the cockpit, I would have to pull the sheet to one side then lock it in the clam cleat on the other.  I hate to admit that, even with zero wind, this proved to be too technically challenging for me.  It was a lot like patting my head and rubbing my stomach at the same time.  In short order, I relinquished this job to Deven.  John and I settled in as ballast.

None of the Sonars were making any headway, so the race committee dispatched motor boats to tow us in a flotilla over to the area where the race would start.  It gave us a few minutes to relax and talk.

Frank shared with us that this was his first race in fifteen years.  He was like a kid on Christmas Eve.  He actually looked a little like Santa Claus with his white hair brushed back away from his face.  His blue eyes danced with excitement and devilment.  Every time he’d spot a Catalina (and there were many dispersed throughout the Sailing Center marina), he’d nod and say “There’s another one of our boats, Wayne.” 

“I know, Frank, Catalina’s are everywhere,” Wayne would chuckle, accepting the jovial goading.

I asked Frank if he had a favorite out of all the Catalina boats.  He responded, “Do you have any children?”  Then, he softly laughed.  I understood.  It was a glimpse into the pride he felt for his life’s work. 

As we came around in front of the grandstand, we released the tether to the motor boat and were once again on our own.  Quite a few people were on shore to watch the regatta and an announcer was introducing each boat.  “And, representing Catalina, is Frank Butler!”  A pretty significant cheer came up from shore.  We all raised our hands to wave.  I spotted Kevin and Mirann in the crowd.

Then, it was time to get serious.  A large boat was positioned at the starting line with the starter poised to signal the beginning of the first race.  There were simultaneous challenges at this point.  We had to make sure we didn’t cross the line before the start of the race.  But, we also had to figure out how to get enough momentum to even go anywhere once the gun sounded.  “Three minutes,” the announcer blared.  Deven told Frank to head the boat toward the boat show docks, paralleling the starting line.  We crept along slowly. 

“Two minutes.” 

All the other boats seemed to be doing something else.  Each tactician had their own idea about the wind puffs.

We continued towards the docks.  “Are you sure?” Frank quietly asked Devan.  “Yep.”

“One minute.”

“Steady, steady,” Deven said, almost to himself.  I began to think we were going to run into the row of new Catalinas on display at the boat show.

“How much time?” Frank asked.  “Maybe thirty seconds,” Deven responded.  “Okay.  Ten, nine, eight……. NOW! TACK!”

Frank swung the rudder around.  The boom came over to the port side of the boat.  Wayne hoisted the jib around.  John and I flung ourselves to the port.  BANG!  The starter signaled the first race.  We slipped across the starting line.  Deven had timed our move precisely.   We were officially off in our first regatta. 

With all that commotion, you’d think we’d be like horses bolting out of the gate.  Nobody bolted anywhere.  The sails of the Sonars flapped and folded, gasping for some hint of wind.  Somehow the boats started moving, like a dyslectic ballet choreographed in slow motion.  For those of us in the race, the pace was relative – going nose to nose at half-a-knot.   I imagine from the shore, it looked like a bunch of snails digging their way through the mud.   

It was, however, fascinating to watch Deven work.  By the deeper color of the water or the wispiest of ripples, he detected the wind.  “Head up.  Head up.”  Frank would respond to the direction and Wayne would adjust the jib.  The little Sonar glided forward triumphantly as if some great feat were accomplished. 

Deven was also keeping tabs on the other boats.  Not only was he thinking about our moves, but also calculating how we could outmaneuver the other boats without doing something illegal.

The regatta consisted of two races over the same course.  We were to go out and around one mark, then back to the starting line.  In this first race, it was obvious early on that we were close to the lead.  Deven instructed us that we would be making a starboard to port turn around the mark.  This was according to the race directions he received before we started.  As we jockeyed for position to make it around the mark, Wayne noticed that everyone else was preparing for a port to starboard turn.   Deven pulled out the directions and began reading out loud to himself “…. All vessels … to the mark……turning ….port to starboard.” 

“Whoa.”  He looked up.  We were almost to the mark on its starboard side.  If we came around the wrong way, we’d be disqualified from the race.  This meant we had to tack immediately in order to get on the port side.  Not only that, we needed to have enough momentum to tack back the other way and make the turn around the mark.  With any amount of wind at all, it wouldn’t have been a problem.  But, we had none and what we did have would be used up with the first tack. 

I really don’t know how we did it.  It had to be the collective expertise of Deven, Frank and Wayne.  All John and I did was throw our weight around.  But, we turned at the mark correctly.

Immediately after the turn, we were downwind.  This called for raising the spinnaker.  Deven had already attached the spinnaker halyard.  After Wayne dropped the jib, Deven   raised the spinnaker and worked the port spinnaker sheet. Wayne controlled the spinnaker pole out to the starboard side of the boat.  The two of them played with the massive, flexible expanse of the red and white sail until it ballooned out full of wind.  Spinnakers flew up from the other boats as well, all different bright colors. 

The wind was so light that the slightest adjustment in our course would cause the spinnaker to go slack.  As if willing it to find a breeze, Deven and Wayne manipulated the sail back and forth until it once again billowed out.  Frank gingerly moved he rudder to get the boat into the best position.

Even with his attention totally focused on the sail, Deven still knew where we were in the race.  There was only one boat between us and the finish line.  The outcome was totally up to the wind.  If we could catch any ripple at all, it might propel us in front.  Both boats were almost stalled in the water. The crowd in the grandstand was going nuts.  I felt like we were in a freeze frame. 

Then, a whistle blew.  The announcer came over the intercom.  “That’s the best sound in a race, the sound of the whistle.”  Ted Irwin’s boat had crossed over the finish line ahead of us.  The whistle blew again.  This time, it was for us.  We had come in second.

As Deven dropped the spinnaker, a cheer went up from the Catalina contingent over at the show docks.  We took a few minutes to relax and enjoy the moment before the next race started.  That wasn’t long.  Pretty soon the boats began milling around once again searching for a good position to start.  It looked a little like dogs on the scents of disparate trails.  Deven scanned the water again to find the wind and started giving instructions. 

“Three minutes.”  The sequence started over.

Once again, we slipped parallel to the starting line.  With the first race under our belts, we became more in sink as a crew.  John and I were better able to anticipate what Deven wanted us to do.  Our boat seemed to respond better to the moves we made.

“One minute.”

“Thirty seconds……. Bang!”

We strategically tacked across the start line right on cue.  It was another great beginning for us.  The boat lurched forward as much as the lackluster wind would allow. 

“Head up, head up…… that’s good.”  Frank worked the rudder.

“Bring the jib in a little.”  Wayne tightened up the sheet.

“Lean out, lean out.”  John and I grabbed the side of the little boat and stretched out over the gunnels. 

It was going better than before.  Granted, the other boats were performing better, too.  Every crew seemed to have figured things out.  But, we were in the lead heading towards the mark.  We confidently approached the buoy to make the turn.  The near miscalculation from the first race was fresh on our minds. 

We made three quick tacks to circle the mark.  As we pulled out of the third tack heading back to the finish line, Wayne dropped the jib and Deven hoisted the spinnaker.  The sail started up the mast. 

“BLAM!!”  About half way up the mast, the sail thudded back down on the deck, like a bird shot dead in the middle of flight.  The mass of material folded sloppily onto itself with the head disappearing into the mess as if it were diving into a red and white sea.  It took a second to figure out what had happened.  The spinnaker halyard swayed uselessly at the top of the mast, its shackle open at the bottom.

“The halyard has broken open,” Wayne yelled to Deven as he struggled with the full weight of the spinnaker pole.

The spinnaker halyard was too high up the mast for anyone of us to reach.  As Deven frantically fished through the folds of the sail to find the top, he told Wayne to go up to the bow and take the jib halyard off.  We could use it to pull the spinnaker back up.

I’m not sure how long it took for us to re-rig the spinnaker, but several boats passed us while we were dead in the water.  We had lost our position.  Even worse, we had to find a way to get the boat moving again. 

Deven began searching the water for signs of wind. 

“Fall off.  Wayne, push the pole out.  Lean to port.” 

We all did what he said. 

As Deven held the spinnaker sheet, Wayne worked the pole, poking it first to port then to dragging it back to starboard.  It looked like he was seining the air for wind. 

Ever so slowly, the little Sonar began to move.  Deven leaned back and stretched hard off the port so he could see under the sail.  He quickly inventoried where all the boats were.  At least five boats were ahead of us, including Ted Irwin.  We needed to beat him to have any chance of winning the regatta.

Little by little, we began to gain on the pack.  We slipped pass Irwin with about 200 yards to go.  That put us in fifth place for the race.  Deven kept pressing us.  At 100 yards, we crept into fourth place.  Our boat was doing all it could, seeking out every ounce of wind available to us. 

With 50 yards to go, we pulled past the third place boat.  There was no way we could catch the two in front of us.  Our challenge was to hold what we had achieved.  We were once again within earshot of the announcer.  He was excitedly calling the race as if it were the Kentucky Derby.  The crowd noise grew louder and everybody moved along the shore with us, urging their favorite boats forward. 

The whistle blew once……. Twice……. Three times.  The third time was for us.  We all collectively sank back into the cockpit.  The spinnaker dropped down to the deck.  Over near the grandstand at the Catalina docks, our supporters were jumping up and down.  Sharon Day, Vice President of Marketing for Catalina, led a contingent out onto the docks, a celebratory bottle of wine raised high in her hands.  After all the sputters and starts, we had won the regatta!  Our second and third place finishes in the races beat everybody else. 

We somehow maneuvered the boat over to the docks to grab the wine.  From the enthusiasm of the crowd, you’d have thought we had won the America’s Cup.  Frank’s face beamed.  You could tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he was genuinely pleased to have bested some of his lifelong contemporaries in their chosen sport.

We tethered back up to the motor boat for the tow back around to the Sailing Center.  All along the bank, people yelled their congratulations to Frank.  It was quite obvious the affection that folks had for him.  It certainly proved so for us.  John and I had a ball being on his crew.  We felt quite privileged to get to know him on such a personal level.

As for racing, I think we’ll quit while we’re ahead.  I don’t think we could ever top this regatta.