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Commodores Commands and Comments by Commodore Bob Graves, aka ISUC - November 2015







Bob Graves, SPSC Commodore, 2015
  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)




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

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!

  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!







"22 Degree Halo"

by Mark Powell





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