Beer-Can Racing
“You’ll want to bring some rubber boots,” my skipper emailed. “The island is flooded, with water levels six feet higher than normal. There’s eight inches of water over the whole boatyard.”
Cool. I don’t have rubber boots because I sold everything I owned to sail around the world. I’d manage.
In this instance my skipper was Bruce, captain of Bandoleer, a 30′ Odyssey sailed out of Queen City Yacht Club (‘QCYC’) in Toronto. I was home collecting visas for my upcoming intercontinental train trip and I sure as shit wasn’t going to miss this chance to race with my old crew.
The weather up in the great north had been variable at best, in a typically fickle spring manner. While it had been rainy, Lake Ontario was at its highest level in two generations due specifically to extra freeze-thaw cycles during the past winter, which had gummed up the dams used to control water levels in the lake – the dudes in charge hadn’t been able to drain the old girl, and she just kept collecting water as the snows melted and spring rains added to the problem. It was amazing to see, partially because it wasn’t quite a disaster – six extra feet of water made for flooded water tables on Toronto Island, but the city itself hadn’t been overtly affected. No one was dying. Anyone who didn’t live near the waterfront would be excused for not even knowing about the problem.
Bruce was right about the club; the water level had risen so much that most islanders had reverted to using canoes and kayaks to get around. I was forced to roll up my pants and wade barefoot through bitterly cold, calf-deep lake water as I got off our tender and headed for Bandoleer. At least it wasn’t raining…
Reuniting with the captain and four other crew members over a beer, we casually established roles on the boat and joked about our impending failures during the first race of the season. I hadn’t sailed with these guys for almost two years, and Bruce had replaced me on the jib with a more-than-capable new sailor at the club. For that night I’d just be rail meat, a necessity to balance out the boat in the 20+ knots of wind we were facing. We prepped Bandoleer and headed out into the harbour to stretch her legs; Bruce hadn’t had her out sailing yet this year so the night would also be her sea-trial after a few rigging changes over the winter.
“I’m nervous,” semi-joked the captain, a former Canadian Olympian who was cooler behind the wheel than any captain I’d sailed with.
I swung up to midships and let the guys go through their standard routine getting the sails up and ready; it was an odd feeling to not pitch in, but they had sailed together for a full season and I was just in the way. The break gave me a chance to take in the scenery around the harbour as a mountain of blackening storm clouds loomed in the west, obscuring the sunset and promising a wet end to the night. Fifteen other QCYC racers zipped around the course and we dipped and dodged as our sail crew practised their tacks. A huge smile was plastered across my face – it felt good to be back.
We totally boffed up the start and ended up hitting the line a full minute behind the lead boat. Our tactician apologized sheepishly but we made a smart tack and caught up quickly as the competition got bogged down fighting twisters coming out of the wind tunnels from the city. The wind was blowing 18 knots and gusting up to 24; Bruce had considered a reef, but in the end he shook out the full main and a Number 1 jib, meaning that we were somewhat overpowered. I dove back and forth under the boom, responsible for little other than dangling my legs over the high side of the boat in a futile attempt to correct her 30 degrees of heel. Bandoleer’s low-side rails dipped into the lake as we ploughed a frothy wake up the course.
Grey sky, grey city, grey water and a lot of spray. I would hesitate to call the water in Toronto Harbour ‘fresh’, but it was odd not to taste salt after my four months in the Caribbean. The crew worked well together and I had a chance to help Whit with the whisker pole up on the bow; watching him expertly snag the jib sheet before latching the pole to the mast reminded me of my own fumbling attempts during my regatta in Samana, back in the Dominican. I took pointers as best I could, determined to cause less risk to life and limb the next time I was responsible for that hated piece of equipment. A light rain started, adding a slick sheen to everything on deck.
Despite the heavy winds, there was only one hairy near-miss that night. One of our competitors, Alpha Omega, came in to round the windward mark just behind and inside of us, in a position where we owed them space to make their turn safely. Bruce gave them almost a boat’s length between us and the buoy, but as we turned downwind, Alpha’s blue hull roared to within inches of ours as they pulled their own turn. We were blocked in by another boat and didn’t have any room to manoeuvre. No one was shouting and all kept focused on holding their safest course, but I could easily have stepped from the deck of Bandoleer over to Alpha. Their boom dipped between our lifelines, causing a worry that they’d snag and we’d end up fouled together in busy traffic. Thankfully it slipped out from between the lines as they exited their turn, and we sped ahead. I looked back a minute later and Alpha was furling her sails; something had clearly gone wrong on the otherwise expertly-helmed boat.
After an hour of racing we crossed the finish line, second in our class before time adjustments (we’d ultimately end up in third) and generally happy with a well-fought race. The guys all joked and chattered as we rolled up the sails and got out the fenders, damp from the light drizzle that had kept up for the past twenty minutes. As we passed Alpha Omega in the moorings, Bruce yelled over to see what had happened to them – we weren’t sure if we had somehow fouled them, but Alpha’s captain, Eric, told us that one of his crew had lost his footing in the turn and almost tumbled overboard. While Eric was distracted with that near-disaster he had let the boat drift too far past the mark and almost ended up skewering Bandoleer in the turn. Both captains apologized in a very Canadian manner and Bruce was clearly relieved that he hadn’t wronged the other boat.
The night ended with beers and snacks in the cockpit, rain-hoods up in a stubborn effort to ignore the miserable weather. QCYC’s clubhouse is a warm, comfortable wooden building but Bandoleer had a tradition of keeping the post-race beers to a team exercise on the boat rather than joining the rambunctious bullshittery that tended to take place up at the club. The weather certainly wasn’t Caribbean and the race was a beer-can casual affair around the local harbour, but the night had reminded me of why I fell in love with sailing in the first place.
