Commodores Commands and Comments
by Commodore Bob Graves, aka ISUC - November 2015
Bob Graves, SPSC Commodore,
2015
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Bob Graves,
Commodore
Imperial Supreme Ultimate Commodore (ISUC)
Two months left in my rein, maybe. However, I would be leaving
knowing full well that the commodorialship will remain in the
family! Bush’s and Clinton’s have nothing compared
to what the Graves dynasty will bring when it’s over!
So much has been happening and there is more to come. Will have
just gotten back from Cape San Blas when this is read hoping
that the red tide has dissipated. The real red tide, not the
commie threat that John Birch pursued. We have the Christmas
party coming up on DECEMBER 12 (twelfth for the number impaired).
This is a FREE event, though we ask you bring some food to share
with the masses. You MUST be a current member, so if your dues
are not paid, please pay them at the event, but we would really
like it if you paid earlier. Then, the Sunday before Christmas,
we have our Festivus celebration, where the Vice Commodore challenges
the current Supreme Commodore to feats of strength, dexterity,
and skill. No way can I win. Hopefully it will be an oratorical
battle wherein I can pile on the BS higher and deeper than most!
In my second stint as Commodore I have had a blast. Thank y’all
for putting up with me and participating in the blather. I look
forward to helping the upcoming Commodore and any after that.
When I joined the club, Paul Hansard was Commodore and I first
served on the board when Mary Ann was Commodore. Best club ever.
I feel sorry for those who no longer participate in any of the
events.
Bob Graves, Commodore
Imperial Supreme Ultimate Commodore (ISUC) |
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2015 Endless Summer Sailboard Classic Novice/C
The success of the Novice/C Fleet starts with our summer program
of instruction- free lessons. This year our instructors and students
had a ball. The true success is watching people of all ages experience
the fun of windsurfing!
Next is the annual clinic held one week before the regatta. In
the past I have done things like set a course on land to do the
Zen thing. This year I arrived exactly one hour late. The clinic
was in full swing. Bill Olson had taken the lead and was instructing
students on the water. Bill and Joe Sisson were demonstrating the
power of the dagger board and effectiveness of using the mast to
steer. Linda was onshore mending sails and offering technical assistance.
All I had to do was review the flag sequence and start the practices
races……HA!
The next week two C Fleet veterans, Debbie Baber (Atlanta) and
Brendon Fogarty, and four newbies, Hector Marrero (Colorado), Rose
McAffrey, Rik Edmonds, Devan Cobb and Robin McDougal raced in the
2015 Endless Summer Sailboard Classic. Wonderful competitors all!
The northeast wind brought a challenge to even the experienced
racers and certainly to those in C fleet. In addition, the start/finish
line for the other fleets (which is usually offshore) was very close
to shore, as was ours, sometimes we even shared. This also allowed
C Fleeters to watch those with (much) bigger sails beach start and
sail to marks “way out there“. And of course, the fans
loved it, no binoculars needed!
With John Gilbert at my side, C Fleet started their first heat
with light wind and little water near the mark. Debbie swam her
board around the mark and Brendon walked somewhere (can’t
remember if it was the finish line or the mark) and Hector definitely
walked his board across the finish line-C Fleet forgiveness plus
shallow water allows for that kind of strategy. During the next
heat Brendon and Hector had a nice friendly collision; fitting since
they are long-time friends. Third heat brought excitement for Rose,
whose uphaul line untied itself at the start. She and John did get
it retied, but whew! Break time.
During lunch we talked with Robin, a beginning windsurfer, who
agreed to join us. She showed her determination as a windsurfer
during the fourth heat. The wind was light and the current was strong.
Although Robin and Rik sailed a great run out and back, the rest
of the fleet was either headed to the wrong mark or was way behind.
Yes, there was confusion-it happens. One more heat and they called
it a day. They earned it.
On Sunday morning, Rose, Devan, Hector and Brennon were on the
beach and ready to race-if they weren‘t finishing breakfast
that is. They shared the start/finish line and again took advantage
of being able to watch the starts for the other fleets. Two long-distance
heats and C Fleet was done.
The final results are as follows:
1st place/1st place Men: Rik Edmonds
2nd place/2nd place Men: Brendon Fogarty
3rd place/3rd place Men: Hector Marrero
4th place/1st place Women: Devan Cobb
5th place/2nd place Women: Rose McAffrey
6th place/3rd place Women: Robin McDougal
7th place/4th place Women: Debbie Baber
My thanks to John Gilbert. It was unusual, but he was onshore most
of the regatta. Being John, he helped with everything including
flags, horns and reminding me of racer’s correct names: “are
you sure that’s not Rose?” “Yeah, I’m sure”,
he’d say. I do apologize to Rose and Devan, I got their names
mixed up the whole event. They join the ranks with others including
DEbbie Baber (or as I used to call her, Barbie).
Of course there is a big big thank you to the instructors for the
2015 season, Bill Olson, Linda Downey, Joe Sisson, Adam Bennett
and our coordinator, the grand poo-bah, Bob Graves. To the members
of the board and SPSC membership who voted to buy new teaching equipment,
on behalf of this year’s C Fleet, THANK YOU!
Tina
The Worm Turns:
Atlanta 2015 (Volume One)
A Pack of Lies by Rik Edmonds? You Decide.
The Dopeslappe, common currency of Car Talk radio, is the physical
expression of “Duh?” (i.e., “what were you NOT thinking?”), as when
Moe disburses one to Larry, who bestows one on Curley Joe, who repays
Moe, etc., etc., in a feedback loop that the geniuses who invented
“collateralized debt obligations” refer to as a “virtuous cycle”.
They should know. I call attention to the Dopeslappe at the outset,
because if you missed the Atlanta Fall Classic, you really should
give yourself one. In fact, invite your friends to participate - if
you have any that still admit to it after a screwup of such magnitude.
The “Classic” was GUR-R-R-R-RATE! For the fifty-five buck registration
fee comparable to half the gasoline tab for the round trip, we got:
- a) a terrific regatta with a broad range of conditions and competitors,
(from the sublime to the ridiculous - in both categories),
- b) a rare opportunity to enjoy magnificent Lake Lanier via LLSC’s
first rate yacht club and primitive camping setup, plus free food,
free beer (am I pushing any buttons?), the regatta “T” shirt, and
of course,
- c) a ticket for the de rigueur raffle of sailboarding gear, which
this time included one night stay at a nice B&B in St Marks, but most
of all,
- d) time to spend with great friends and compatriots in the sport,
particularly our hosts who did a fabulous job of making everyone welcome
and comfortable.
My first challenge in this undertaking was persuading ma bell femme
to let me slide off and play hooky while she stayed home, washed clothes,
patched the roof, slopped the hogs ... In all seriousness, the crux
was staying behind to wrangle our “feathered-termite”/house gremlin.
Fortunately, nearly four decades of connubial bliss equipped me with
the polished moves of a world class groveler. The degrading quid pro
quo that closed this deal will not be related here; suffice it to
say that if the particulars were generally known, I would be the target
of every apple core and banana peal the club could produce henceforth.
The next formidable obstacle was getting around Atlanta at 3:00 PM
on a Friday. I-285 was not yet a complete parking lot, but it was
rapidly degenerating into a behavioral sink. Drivers employed various
hostile devices to register their disappointment in the inadequacy
of recent Federal investments in highway infrastructure. For example,
individuals of both sexes were mooning the southbound traffic which
was somehow actually moving. Midst this vast north-bound glacier of
solidifying slush, at times resembling undulating stampede of beached
walruses, another car-topped sailboard materialized nearby. It turned
out to be Paul Hansard with his bell femme. We proceeded to divert
ourselves by playing lane chess at an average speed of 4 mph to see
who could hold the lead. Fortuitously, I arrived at the I-85 exit
first and sped off leaving the Hansards in my dust. (Probably the
last time I will best Paul in any contest of genuine significance.)
After getting onto the local roads near the Yacht Club, a West Marine
appeared to starboard. I hit the brakes and careened into the parking
lot, hoping to pick up a copy of the ISAF rules for bedtime reading
- little did I know that the prospect of a protest would be the least
of my worries. Inside there were stacks of SUPs, wetsuits, sailing
whatnot, and ... sailing lore books, including one on how to sail
your Ericson 23 around the world. But no racing rules. Chancing upon
a store clerk dutifully stocking shelves, I took the opportunity to
hold him culpable for the malfeasance. Obsequiously apologetic - he
was in all likelihood the store manager, because no mere clerk would
have put up with my crap. I then used the badly needed “facilities”
and stormed out without buying anything. We’ll check next year to
see if they cleaned up their act, but by then I’ll need something
else, equally idiotic, which they won’t have either because it too
is free on the internet.
Arriving at the electronic gate of the yacht club, one could see the
neat rows of expensive wind toys in the water beyond the Augusta National
manicured grounds, but no welcome signage with directions to the event,
no officialdom about, and no office door to knock on. Very weird.
I cruised around searching for some breach in the defenses. A diminutive
woman happened to be ambulating her toy poodle which was with great
attention to detail, sprinkling nitrogen into the lush foliage. Eventually
this gentle lady looked up from her charge and volunteered, “you wouldn’t
be looking for the windsurfing regatta?”.
Thus supplied with the secret handshake, I was in.
Curving to the left and driving some distance to the end of the pavement,
then up a gravel drive to the top of small knoll, one perches on the
rim of a three acre tree canopied amphitheater, in fact, the promised
primitive campground. At its focus is a sand beach looking WSW across
a 2 mile fetch of 60 square mile Lake Lanier; a stunning vista freighted
with adventurous possibilities.
Between the beach and the slopes of the half-bowl, is a tree canopied
grassy area planted with rye timed to peak for the regatta. This provided
a convenient shaded spot for rigging and parking the sails out of
the sun. (Don’t ask me how they managed to grow grass there.) Also
provided was an open shower and rinse-off platform for sailing equipment.
To the left of the beach, via an arbored shoreline path was the yacht
club and toilets. A quarter mile further, past racing dinghies on
trailers, were hot showers.
As I drove down into the bowl, I was presented with an almost impossible
conundrum. The available sites were only about a fourth occupied,
so I set about triaging the abundance for an ideal integration of
view, proximity to beach, privacy, and slope (to mitigate my acid
reflux issue.) After my third creeping orbit of the grounds, BobbyG,
Ultimate Commodore, appeared at my driver side window pointing to
a space between two trees: “Park there, stupid, you’re making the
rest of us nervous.”
It turned out to be the perfect spot.
After presenting myself to the race committee at the club, hoofed
it back to rig up and get in a spin on the water before dark. I didn’t
take the time to put on a wet suit on as advised, and the light but
gusty shifty winds made me apprehensive of falling in. My board seemed
markedly less stable in the fresh water - much more so than could
be credited to the 4% higher specific gravity of Shell Point’s brew.
Upshot: I was freaked and came in after a few minutes. Little did
I know what was in store for tomorrow.
Chris Graves had been advertising his momma’s special recipe curry
rice that was to be the mainstay of Friday’s dinner at the clubhouse,
I got there not too late to waft some enticing fumes out of the empty
pot. Nice goin’ Chris. I’ll give you an honorable mention in my will.
Consoled myself with samples from the Hansard’s munificent platter
of fried wings with dipping sauce, very tasty and satisfying. Of course,
my health-food-Fascist back home would have had an induced cardiac
arrest as her capillaries froze from just watching me gobble it down.
I survived, (burp).
Suitably sedated with surfeit, it was off to bed.
We’re talkin' car camping; had thrown an air mattress in the back
of my senescent Plymouth Grand Voyager, the apotheosis of the minivan.
Between an extra layer of memory foam, cotton pads, cotton sheets
plus two comforters; with benefit of cool night air and no bugs; slept
like a King. Getting into this masterpiece, however, within the confines
of a loaded-up minivan, exposes one to a rage-of-motion exercise that
risks in an ambulance ride to get oneself untangled by professionals.
Saturday.
Up and ready to go.
No wind yet. Breakfast at the Club. Chit chat with the Actual Competitors
in our fleet (comprised of practically everyone except me.) A chance
to view from the elevated clubhouse, a panorama of intercollegiate
crews exercising their 420 light air skills on a little course to
the east. As far as sailboards were concerned though, “no wind” .
At the skippers meeting Chris Voith, race organizer, announced that
even though the fleet included some of the best sailors in the region,
the beginners participating were welcome, genuinely appreciated, and
should never feel like they were imposing. These sentiments gratefully
received by the novices.
Race Committe then promptly announces the “start” postponed pending
“wind”.
Lunch came: a choice of sandwiches from Subway with plenty of fixins.
Two-thirty: still “no wind”, but the race committee senses something
afoot meteorologically. We are told to rig up and get out to the committee
boat - about a quarter mile to the south - any way we can, pronto.
In no time it’s blowing 10 to 15 from the west, and building. More
wind and waves than I’d ever seen from a deck at the waterline, plus
my board is still wobbly from yesterday - or something is wobbly,
possibly the planet. Heedless of such disruptions in “the Force”,
wobbled across the starting line just in time to give the next worst
starter a two minute lead. To psych out the competition, (and the
race committee) I had deftly inserted a three or four capsizes into
the five-minute start sequence, (eight-minute in my case).
First leg was upwind. Managed to get the board heading that way on
a starboard tack - in fact, that was the only direction the contraption
would go. Couldn’t see the mark so I just held on and hoped eventually
to follow someone I might find up ahead. Within a few minutes, another
duffer, also on starboard appears some distance to leeward, then tacks
and has the temerity to squeeze past my bow. RATS! Cheated out of
even that crumb. But God is fair: this (well known) individual will
have his own explaining to do about how he came to be so far out of
the running as to be in my vicinity. In contravention of the evidence,
I rashly presumed he must know where he was going, (hadn’t figured
out who he was yet, hint: ISUC.) Decided to follow suit and tack.
This precipitated a totally autonomous ten-minute sequence of capsizes
devoid of any apparent objective since the contraption insisted on
continuing in what was by now the wrong direction
Near a marina on the far shore, the wind and waves dropped enough
to muddle the board onto a port tack (with the usual flamboyant exhibitions),
but at least this time achieving a result of consequence. By and by,
approaching the windward mark on a reach, I realized there was no
point in any pretense of racing, and committed the remainder of my
miserable existence to staying out of the way of Actual Competitors
who were now headed my way on the first leg of the second race. Additionally,
I determined to allow the contraption to sail any heading it liked
provided A) it did not violate the foregoing, and b) the course was
within 90 degrees of a bearing to home port.
Unfortunately, Actual Competitors kept straying into my vicinity.
My congenital reflex was to capsize - out of confusion and panic more
than calculation. I dreaded the prospect that as the loose cannon
in the proceedings, I might prejudice the prospects of someone in
actual contention for top honors. Victims of this sort have been known
to do terrible things; one reason air travel isn’t fun any more.
At some point I should explain that “capsize” is not a term of art.
Competent sailboarders refer to this maneuver as “falling” as in “Bob
‘fell’ when the bridge pier slammed into his rig at 20 miles per hour.”
I was wearing a wet suit, but Chris Graves, for example, was wearing
the get-up (shorts, T-shirt, etc.) he uses in the back yard when taking
out the trash. In these conditions Chris and his buddies are as happy
as Brer Rabbit in the briar patch. He casually admitted to sailing
the whole series without “falling”, so obviously, he didn’t have to
wear a “wet suit” because his trunks stayed dry. Nor did he need to
contemplate a psychiatric examination, which was the advise I was
giving myself.
When I say I “capsized”, I don’t mean “fell”, I mean “crashed and
burned”, “augured in”, “screwed the pooch”, punctuated by the truly
most affecting part of windsurfing - the thrill of hurtling through
space like a plump water balloon headed for the open face of a fast
tennis racket. Moreover, the topic of up-hauling has been thus far
unbroached due to what the men in little white coats call “dissociative
amnesia” (forgotten because it’s too painful to remember.) It is the
whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and cherry on top of the banana split
that is capsize - except that the hazard of collision is replaced
by the prospect of self-inflicted bone, joint, and muscle rupture.
Continuing the discussion of my self-rescue campaign to return to
the beach from whence, the interval between catastrophes was shortened
in an inverse relationship to their amplitude whenever I attempted
to bear off below close hauled. But Allah Be Praised, through no premeditation
of my own, by and by the windward shore loomed. At last in the wind
shadow of trees, I shlepped to safety, otherwise I would have watched
the sun rise in North Carolina.
Dinner was deep dish lasagna, a choice of three or four kinds. Superb.
Plus salad, garlic bread, and beverages including a selection of beer
for the SPSC stalwarts who think water is strictly for lubricating
the bottom of their boards, and anything else non-alcoholic is just
an expensive version of water.
I should mention that I really deserved national acclaim for getting
out of my rash guard tights without ending up in traction. Simple:
in the driver’s seat of my mini-van, just throw a towel over the steering
wheel and one obviates a hike to the showers. Twenty-twenty hindsight
would have supported the road not traveled, but by the time the folly
of expediency was fully appreciated, the die was cast, cramps or not.
Thus resettled in comfortable togs, I lapsed into another solid narcosis.
Sunday.
A quick Breakfast and the race committee wanted us out on the course
ASAP while there was still “wind”. Clearly their standards were slipping.
It had shifted 180 degrees, dropped considerably in force if not perversity,
and the start was now a quarter mile to the west.
Actually made it to the starting area this time, and in spite of additional
unscheduled baths, crossed the line ... last again. Owing to the comparatively
wimpy conditions, this race was not particularly memorable, but I
did floor the race committee by actually finishing, plus ... NOT LAST!
OK, we know what a fluke is. But the fourth race, I did even better.
And the fifth race is worth telling. You can decide if it’s just more
lies.
Warning gun comes and I’m sitting beyond the right end of the line
with the committee boat dragging anchor which makes a port tack start
for the upwind first leg favored. Or, maybe the port tack is favored
because I’m not over there, what do I know?
So, I’m in the wrong place just trying to stay out of the way. I don’t
have a time piece (least of my problems) can’t see or hear what’s
going on because my last minute multiple uphauls are not going well.
I get sorted out and see most of the fleet on port tack is starting
to bunch up near the line - this must be it. I’m dumping wind on starboard
tack right next to the committee boat as the final toot comes. Do
I sheet in and invite chaos, or wimp out and leave Atlanta with the
parts my momma gave me arranged the way they originally arrived? Naturally,
I chose discretion over physical pain, and left the starting area
in the rump of the fleet, as usual.
Then something amazing happened. The wind had always been squirreley,
but now it got really weird. Shifty in spades. Most of the fleet continued
off on port - they must have been in different wind, but moi, with
nothing to loose, played the shifts, managed to stay upright, and
soon found myself barreling on a straight line between the start and
the windward mark, reaching with plenty of wind. Dead ahead, half
the leg distant, in a cluster around the windward mark were the half
dozen leaders of the fleet, going nowhere fast with rigs arrayed in
every conceivable position, some pumping wildly with no apparent utility.
I blasted into their midst in a nonce, but then couldn’t get my contraption
to turn down wind even in the light air. By the time I got it together
and was on a course to the finish the others in this cluster and possibly
a few more had made it around the mark and passed me. Then the wind
picked up a little, and they disappeared ahead. I was no threat in
the boat speed department. But did finish 6th in class! The race committee
was incredulous and suspected a recording error or something nefarious.
The wind dropped so abruptly after my finish, many of those behind
me apparently “finished in place” and paddled in. That was it for
this regatta.
The awards presentation was a nice wrap-up. It gave people like me
who spent most of their time in the hindmost of the fleet a chance
to find out who was up front doing the thinking. It also provided
an opportunity to thank the many selfless and capable individuals
essential to the success of the event. They are too often taken for
granted. And last, there was the raffle, in which I carried off more
than my fair share of the booty, namely a nice Aerotech shirt, from
among the pile of stuff the maker of my sails donated for the event.
Having bid everyone who would still talk to me a fond farewell and
promising never again to diminish another contest with my presence
(a transparent taradiddle), managed at last to get out of my wetsuit
and into some dry comfortables for the drive back. Packed up, brushed
my teeth, and was about the last person to leave.
Decided to take a few last minute snapshots to show my suspicious
wife and I chanced upon Chris Voith, packing up his gear on the empty
stage of the recent bustle. He waved me over.
He admitted to having a leftover trophy, and that it had been an oversight
on his part to not credit during the awards presentation, my willingness
to sail in the Sport Fleet, considering the “atrocious” conditions
of Saturday relative to my inexperience, low IO, lack of natural talent,
and poor judgment.
Actually, he had two trophies, a second and a third, but he had principles
and only earned a third place trophy, so that left the second place
one for someone ... (do the math) without principles! Perfect fit.
Ergo, he forked over the beautiful little trophy (the likes of which
far better sailors will never see) that now sits in a closet, covered
with a cloth like the portrait of Dorian Gray, and every time I attend
a regatta, another load of bird crap magically deposits on its crystal
crest, so by the time my career is over I’ll have Guano City as a
journal of my selfish indulgence. (Just kidding about hiding it. Come
on!)
I thanked him again for the marvelous experience of the regatta, (which
I did earnestly enjoy immensely regardless of the travails, and would
happily experience all over.) And naturally, I accepted the token,
modestly, protesting that I would be forced in good conscience to
divulge to anyone who saw it the untoward circumstances of its bestowal.
“You can tell them anything you want to,” Chris said, adding, “and
I’m sure you will.”
A smile and a hearty handshake, I turned and was about to abscond
with the delightfully ill gotten bauble when he interrupted: “One
more thing”
“Yes”, I replied, expecting Columbo to produce handcuffs.
“The race committee and I were watching you rather closely, when we
could. It was amazing performance. We kept expecting we would have
to stop everything, get out the hooks, and drag the bottom for your
carcass. But one thing that really, no one could figure out ... mind
if I ask you a personal question?”
“Shoot” I said, swallowing heavily.
He looked me in the eye (the one where the the lens on that side of
my sunglasses had popped out hours ago without my notice) and importuned:
“What the hell were you doing?”
2015 Kona Gulf Coast Championship
I went to the Kona Gulf Coast Championship at the Clearwater
Community Sailing Center in Clearwater Beach, Florida.
I missed the Atlanta Fall Classic. When Dan (Burch) suggested
that I needed to sail in the Clearwater regatta, I thought
about it – for about 5 minutes. Let’s see, Clearwater
should be warm, a chance to race a Kona - ok, I’m in.
When you’re retired and aspire to live the life of a
windsurfing bum, it’s what you do. I reserved a charter
board, registered for the event, and reserved a room. When
Bill (Olson) said he was going to the regatta, all the better
to share room and travel expenses.
Friday night Bill and I met up with Steve (Bogan) and Dan at
the Manguson Hotel (Clearwater Central). In search of a sports
bar, we happened into the Asian Pearl restaurant where we shared
sake, beers, and a variety of Asian cuisine. No one left hungry.
Saturday morning we had breakfast at Lenny’s – right
next to the hotel, then headed to the race site.
This was my first time chartering a board, and racing on a Kona.
Thinking of light breezes, I’d opted for the 8.2 sail.
Yeah, good idea!
For Saturday’s races, the weather was warm and the wind
was good – maybe 13 – 15 knots? The first two
races were basic upwind downwind races, twice around. Going
to windward was okay, but downwind – not so much. I
struggled controlling the big (to me) rig and fell several
times. Uphauling in that breeze was challenging. By the time
I finished the first time around I was firmly in last place.
Thinking there wasn’t much difference scorewise, I decided
to take a DNF and save my back for the next race.
The second race saw more of the same, with more downwind falls,
uphauling, and another DNF. Trying to maintain my good humor,
I was thinking of that line, “a man’s got to know
his limitations” along with another - “dying ain’t
much of a living”.
Lunch was a healthy serving of twigs and berries - fruit,
nuts, and a protein bar, actually. Not too bad if you’re
into that sort of thing.
I managed to finish the rest of the races Saturday, steadily
(barely) moving up in finish position. It’s easier to
move up when you start near the bottom, and the wind had slackened
somewhat.
Saturday supper included Jambalaya, fish and chicken tacos,
etc. It was good, and there was plenty of it. There was also
a cooler containing a decent variety of bottled beers on ice.
There were still some beers left (okay, Coors Light) when
we headed back to the hotel! I was worn out, and called it
an early night.
Sunday saw similar winds. I tweaked my rig to (hopefully) depower
slightly. The first race was a long-distance affair, and had
us heading upwind around two islands before a downwind leg back
to the starting point. I remember approaching the second island
(still heading upwind) and seeing the leader flying out from
behind the island, well ahead of anyone else, jumping waves
on his downwind course back to the finish. He effortlessly carved
a gybe nearby, then flew off on another tack. Yeah, that’s
how I want to do it! After rounding the windward island, I fell
again, taking the opportunity to readjust harness lines. I fell
(and uphauled) a few more times, finally finishing the race
“in neutral”, with the sail luffing downwind. Tired
again.
We took a lunch break (more twigs and berries), and I considered
sitting out the remaining races. However, I decided to continue
racing, and finished the last two course races without falling!
Yay!!!
A few notes…
Chartering a board is nice and easy. No muss, no fuss. One-design
racing is great, especially with weight/sail size equalization.
It’s all up to how you rig, and how you sail your rig.
I’ll do that again.
Get up on the starting line! I learned this in Hobie racing,
and apparently need to relearn that lesson. If you start behind
others, your only hope is that they make a mistake – and
that simply ain’t likely at this level of competition.
Learn to handle your board and rig. To get that start, you need
to get up and maintain position on the starting line. But don’t
be that young kid that flies fearlessly onto the line and crashes
into others, effectively taking them out.
Our sport is alive and well. There were two classes –
junior (under 18?) and overall. The same kid (flying around
the windward island) won first in both junior and overall.
Another young woman took second overall. Congrats to Steve
Gottlieb of Sandy Point for finishing third overall. Our own
Rik Edmonds was awarded an iron man prize for sailing the
entire weekend without a harness! (Rik – we gotta work
on that!)
I decided to go to this race with no expectations of winning.
Actually, I had my posterior handed to me. In consolation, it’s
not about winning, but how you play. After the Kona Gulf Coast
Championship, I am a better sailor. Thanks Dan!
Joe Sisson, Aspiring Windsurf Bum
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Club Officers and At-Large Board Members 2015
Commodore: Bob Graves
Vice Commodore: Chris Graves
Scribe: Bill Olson
Purser: Wright Finney
At Large Members:
Laurie Levine
Deb Green
Mary Rolling
Adam Bennet
Past Commodore: Mark Powell
Board is also known as the Guardians of the Windy Sea!
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Club Officers and At-Large
Board Members 2016
Commodore: Chris Graves
Vice Commodore: Mary Rolling
Scribe: Adam Bennett
Purser: Wright Finney
At large members:
Joe Sisson
Ric Edmonds
Deb Greene
Bill Olson |
Club Meeting October 2015
Meeting called to order at 7:30ish
Our Illustrious and disinfected Commode-Door started off with
The Quiz.
Then we were treated to a slide show!! (Still miss the old
Kodak film-slide projectors.) Subject was his trip to Oregon,
including Tsunami Hazard zones, the Octopus Tree, Haystack
Rock, Crater Lake, Newberry Volcano, Paulina Peak, and Cape
Blanco. Cape Blanco has winds up to 184 mph, so it’s
under consideration for the next NIMBY.
The absence of the usual Minister of Propoganda meant the
absence of the Minister of Propoganda’s Report.
Purser’s Report, Just about $8283.23, with too much
going in and out to get an accurate count.
Old Bidness – No trophies yet for the Summer Series.
Demonstrating the leadership of the current administration,
and need for new blood. Alas, we get his little brother, so
likely no better.
New Business – Two of our training sails are currently
vacationing in Vero, to return to us tanned, rested, repaired,
and ready.
Atlanta Fall Classic – WooHOO!! I can’t go.
Gulf Coast Sailboard Classic - Halloween weekend.
Xmas Party – 1960’s themed.
An argument commenced whether bell-bottoms were from the 60s
or not. Yes, just the important things.
Festivus – Commodor’s Jacket will be up for grabs.
Cape San Blas trips – November (Rico) and May (Vice
Commodore)
The Beach – sit down. I mean it. No, really, you need
to sit down. NOW!
Wright cleaned up the Chase, and actually ******THREW SHIT
AWAY!!!!
(I told you to sit down!!)
Flagpole fixed, the Whitton Effect restored!!!!!!
Rack installed for anchors in trailer.
Meeting ended with Bob raffling off remaining regatta swag.
Judy K won Forgotten Coast gift card with kiss me t-shirt.
I got slapped attempting to fulfill shirts request.
Mark P and Amy C won always coveted Budweiser goodies.
First draw on the medium harness went nowhere, so on a second
draw it was awarded to the Commodore’s brother, which
smelled very fishy, as the Graves always do. Not the Mrs.’
Graves, they always smell and look wonderful!
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"22 Degree Halo"
by Mark Powell
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