BOMBS AWAY! Another recap of the Gov Cup
Greetings Chris et al,
I just rec'd an email from the owner of another entry in the Gov Cup that included a recap from one of his crew members...I think you all might appreciate this--especially the part where they enter the restricted Naval bombing area!:eek:
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Last Friday night I crewed on a 30 year old, 30' Coronado in the non-spinnaker class, in the annual Maryland Governor’s Cup race from Annapolis to St. Mary’s, Maryland, which is located just inside the mouth of the Potomac River, a distance of about 70 nautical miles.
148 boats were racing in about 7 divisions. We were racing in the phrf non-spinnaker fleet, which generally consisted of a variety of 25 slower rated boats. Our division was the last to start, at 6:30 p.m.
At the start, we had a north wind of about 15 knots, and we were headed south. Within the first hour or two, the wind speed increased to a maximum of about 18 knots, at which time we watched a number of the spinnakers ahead of us disintegrate into long strips of torn sailcloth.
From the start, most of the boats popped their chutes, broad-reached east across the Bay, and sailed south along the eastern shore. It was their plan that when they got close to the Potomac River, they would broad reach back across the Bay and into the mouth of the Potomac River. At the start, we discussed whether to follow the fleet east across the Bay. I believe the fastest route to leeward in breezy conditions is to run as nearly dead downwind as possible. Most racing sailors advocate broad reaching downwind, based on the reasoning that dead downwind is the slowest point of sail, and that the additional speed that is gained by broad reaching compensates for the extra distance that they must sail to get to the destination. My thinking is that there is a limit to how fast a displacement sailboat can go. If the wind is so strong that the boat can reach that limit running dead downwind, then broad reaching actually works to your disadvantage, because broad reaching adds to the distance that you must sail without increasing your speed by a sufficient amount to compensate for it. In this particular race, the rhumb line was virtually dead downwind. We started on that course, running wing-and-wing, and before long, our speed was nearly 8 knots. As we continued south, the size of the waves increased slightly, and the wind speed increased, and we were surfing 8.5, and sometimes nearly 9 knots. One of the crew asked if we could increase our speed by broad reaching to the east, and I asked, “When a 30' boat with a 30 year old hull design is already surfing and doing 8.5 to 9 knots, how much faster can it go? Will the change of course increase it’s speed enough to compensate for the extra distance we would have to sail? We all found that hard to imagine, and continued our course dead downwind.
When the wind began to subside slightly, and we slowed to about 7.5 knots, we raised a second jib, so that we had one jib poled out on the port side of the boat, another jib flying without a pole on the starboard side, and the mainsail to starboard. The boat was equipped with a roller furler, and the headfoil had two slots. As I understand it, twin headsails are only allowed if the sailing instructions specifically authorize it, and that is the case in the Governor’s Cup. We had to alter our course to the east by a degree or two, to keep the wind slightly closer to the port quarter, and to keep all three sails full and drawing, but the extra jib brought our speed back up to about 8 knots, and we believed that ½ knot made it well worth the small increase in distance.
As the night progressed, we watched the long parade of lights of the many boats sailing a few miles from us down the eastern side of the Bay, come into view, fall back abeam of us, and then fall astern of us. Many of those boats had started five minutes or more before us and many were flying spinnakers.
Around 2:00 AM, the moonlight faded and it became very dark. At that time, we were just south of the point where the Patuxent River empties into the Chesapeake Bay. That is the location of the Patuxent River Naval Air Station, and there is a restricted area in the Bay where Navy pilots practice bombing. They use targets that look rather like cubistic mushrooms. They are about 20 feet high, 20 feet across the “cap,” and they are built sturdily enough to withstand the impact of many practice bombs. We knew the area was there, but none of us had ever sailed through the area, and we didn’t know the target structures were there. It was marked as a “restricted area”on the paper charts, and the locations of the targets were even shown on the paper charts, but we were using a computer for navigation, and that degree of detail was only shown if you zoomed in on a small area. Our mistake was that we didn’t zoom in close enough. The helmsman asked the boat’s owner if he thought we could continue our course through the restricted area. The owner replied, “I don’t think they’re going to be scheduling bombing practice at this hour of the morning, especially when everyone knows that all these boats are going to be racing down the Bay.” Because the computerized chart didn’t show any structures in the area & we didn't consult the paper charts until afterwards, none of us thought there was any cause for concern. The first indication of a problem was when we suddenly saw two large, unlighted targets appear out of the darkness at a distance of about 20 yards from our starboard side. Within about 20 seconds, we passed another target about 20 yards from our port side. We realized that we were surrounded by unlighted, fixed objects that we couldn’t see until they were already alongside us, that the objects were only about 40 yards apart, and that we were traveling at about 6 knots on a very dark night. While the owner hunted desperately to find the flashlight he had been using, the helmsman altered course toward the east, and out of the target area, not really knowing whether that was a safe way out, but deciding correctly that continuing into the dark, unknown territory was an invitation to disaster. Despite the magnitude of our mistake, it was just not our destiny to have our tickets punched that night, but that moment moved right up into second place on my all-time list of scary sailing experiences.
As the morning wore on, the new whisker pole that the owner was using for the first time, developed a bow. Then it turned into a kink. Finally, under the stress of a strong gust, it snapped. We continued sailing with both jibs, and found that we could still keep them flying fairly well, even without the pole. The starboard side jib was pretty easy to keep flying as long as the helmsman kept the boat in the groove. The port side jib collapsed periodically, as any jib is inclined to do when being sailed wing-and-wing without a pole, but we found that we could keep it filled fairly well by playing the jibsheet. Using only the crudest of tools, the owner was able to put the broken pieces of the pole back together into what looked like a whisker pole, but it was just too short to be useful anymore, and he began wondering aloud whether it had any kind of a warranty.
We reached the mouth of the Potomac before dawn, took down the twin headsails and, after the longest and most exhilarating downwind run I’ve ever experienced, we began to beat to windward up the river. A line of boats came across from the east side of the Bay and converged with us, and, for the first time in a long time, we had close competition with other boats that we were trying to pass, or that were trying to pass us. We beat our way up the Potomac to the mouth of the St. Mary’s River, and then up the winding, narrowing St. Mary’s River to the finish line, at St. Mary’s College. Shortly after sunrise, at about 6:30 a.m., almost twelve hours after the start, we crossed the finish line.
We knew we had done well, but didn’t know until just before the start of the awards ceremony that we had finished first in our 25 boat division.
I had one more “first” that day. It was the first time a skipper with a two-day growth of whiskers ever wrapped his arms around my neck and gave me a big kiss on the head. He was a happy, gregarious man, and he deserved success.
Our crew consisted of our principal helmsman, Paul, who got a great start, and kept the boat squarely in the groove for most of the 12 hours. He kept her sails full and drawing, contributed to our discussions on course and strategy, made suggestions on sail handling and sail trim, and, above all, he steered us safely away from those bomb targets. Ken was our utility man. He did anything he was asked to do, from sail handling to steering the boat to trimming the sails, to setting the whisker pole, and he did it all well and without hesitation. The owner/skipper was John. He did everything from the most exhaustive boat preparation, to rigging and equipping it, setting up the computer program, plotting the waymarks, steering, sail handling and trimming, repairing, and keeping the crew well supplied with food and beverages. He left no task undone.
The official race results show that we not only beat all the boats in our division, but we actually crossed the finish line ahead of most of the boats in division C/D (started 5 minutes before us), and before many of the boats in division B (10 minutes before) and two boats in division A3 (15 minutes before us). Those two boats, racing with spinnakers, had ratings in the area of 125, as compared to our rating of 198, racing non-spinn..
Ah! Life is good!