Nov 12 2011 - Who brought the F-#$(*&@! bananas?! To say our first day at the Golden Rock Regatta was stellar, would be an understatement.
Although it was hard waking up – at 7:15am, to get our passports and documents in order – and despite the hasty toss off the raft up (with two more boats still tied outside us, and none of us with our engines on) we dusted off the cobwebs pretty swiftly. The wind was blowing about 17k, the seas turquoise and cobalt; and our crew of 10 snapped to attention, practiced a few tacks and jibes, ran and re-ran the line, and readied for the start.
And even though our power winches (I confess!) died immediately after the start, and we had to grind the jib in by hand – we were doing well. Very well.
The night before we’d met the others – locals teams like “Bobby’s Marina” and “Team Statia” and Anton’s “Bad Boys of the Caribbean” (motivating us to rename “Team USA” with the much more colorful moniker “Nine Yanks and a British Ho”). After the Skipper’s meeting, at the Bottoms Up bar on the Philipsburg boardwalk we sized up the competition; talked smack; and made loud assertions and bets about who was going to win. I wondered if all the drinks they bought us were indeed in friendship? Or designed to sabotage our race …
Soon after the start, we pulled away from the fleet; kept the pressure on and wouldn’t let anyone pass. Before long we were a good half-mile ahead of our class: cockily we took pictures of the parade astern. We beat up past Marigot in absolutely delicious conditions: azure seas, on the average of 22k of wind, the cerulean sky spotted with clouds. It rained about half a minute.
Rounding the northern point, past TIntamarre Islands, we were on the home stretch, just south of Oyster Pond, when BAM! The gooseneck sheared right off the mast, leaving the boom to joust perilously amidship, as it dangled from the main.
Game over.
Our recovery was swift: we eased the boom onto the deck as we dumped the mainsail and lashed it all down – furling the jib too, so the crew at the mast wouldn’t get flogged to death. We were so far ahead of the fleet- even with our sails down, motoring gingerly, we still reached the RC ahead of the rest of our class.
I had seen the bananas this morning.’ Who brought bananas on the boat?’ I muttered. No one fessed up ... Later when I saw Mary eating one on deck, I reiterated my disdain and yet, it was poo-poo’d.
Moments later, our boom was swinging in the breeze, and we were retreating across the bouncy seas back to the Moorings Base in Orient Bay …
Nov 13
Slamming cupboards. Low, rubbly voices. The gurgle of the coffee pot, and shortly after: the heavenly smell of java. The men were readying breakfast: a sound so musical to a woman’s ears, it’s akin to the purr of a new Ferrari in the driveway, or the jingle of a Tiffany pouch full of diamonds.
Our day started back at Captain Oliver’s – the Moorings had fixed our boom, but too late for us to return to Philipsburg. So we made an early start Sunday; running quickly in the strong breeze to the start line.
It was another raucous but incredible start. Never mind that our teddy bear of a skipper is more like a grizzly at the start: all 6’ 3” / 240’ lbs. of him roaring at the other competitors. Nor that our tactician admitted the prior night (after we’d all refreshed ourselves both inside and out, at the pool at the Iguana bar) that he had once sailed into a tree. Our starts were thrilling and we left the others in the dust.
Momentarily. The mast seems to be torqued, and we were a marked 2k slower on one board – the longest tack of the 13m stretch to St Barths. Over time they climbed up, and at the conclusion we had a fierce tacking duel with two other boats, finishing within minutes of us. Alas Johan remarked we were great starters, but they were better finishers. The bravado and bets would continue well into the night.
I couldn’t image how St Barths could be all that different from the other islands I’ve been to – but it was delightfully so. We entered the channel to the anchorage, to a very manicured looking village. Neatly painted cays and boxy buildings, in colors that made St Maarten suddenly seem … gaudy. Cobbled streets and narrow sidewalks – with stagecoach landings here and there. Our moorage was abreast a tented affair, with crowds of chic looking people chatting, dancing, lining for food; and a loud band playing eclectic tunes from rumbas to reggae to ‘I did it my way.’
The race had been swift so once we were tied up (and re-tied up: not an uncomplicated task in the very surgy harbor) we ate lunch – baguettes and cold cuts we’d procured in French Sint Martin, we walked the six minutes to Shell Beach and enjoyed an afternoon of swimming and lounging (and I snorkeled the length of the beach and back)
Later we dined on the boat (too expensive to eat ashore) but meandered the streets in the cool breezy evening; enjoying a drink at the bistro at the end of the harbor, and another poorly ventilated pub, where one of the Chrises was nodding off in the corner ...
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