Great Pumpkin Pursuit Race 2010

by Steve Carroll of El Raton

It was a bright day. The sun was high in the sky and there was no sign of wind on the water. As usual the Great Pumpkin commanded a strong attendance, which meant most of the boats were crewed by morons. The limp flag reflected in the old man’s eyes as the little boat slowly drifted away with the outgoing tide.  Ten minutes to the start.  The spinnaker was draped around the deck like it was part of a Macy’s window dressing.  It was clear that the kite wouldn’t get them there in time. And of all the times too; he was tied for first in the season standings and this was the last race that would decide it all.  It was his fault, he knew.  This wasn’t the first time he strayed too far away from the starting line in light air.  The thing is if it weren’t for all the other boats crowding in on them they might just have a chance. Glancing over his left shoulder the old man saw Great White paddling against the current.  Clever, he thought, but then that paddle must weigh at least a pound.  Just then he heard a noise to his right and he saw a big J boat motoring down on top of them – taking away any chance of fresh breeze.   “We’re starting here!” he yelled.  The crew stared back with the blank incompetent expression that all big boat people have.  Resigned, the old man turned his attention back to his own boat. Without having to be told the crew had dropped the kite and started to scull. They really were the best crew one could hope for: strong, good looking, intelligent – well, maybe that pit guy wasn’t the sharpest, but he sure was enthusiastic.  They even smelled good when he was hard on the wind.  Probably the girl, he thought. Just then a small window opened up and a little pressure sneaked through.  The crew was on it and the kite went back up.  The trimmer, seeing all the boats converging on the committee boat and realizing the cluster that was about to ensue, called for a jibe.  The old man started to protest, since it would take them further away from the line, but the crew was already moving so he followed suit and turned the helm.  The move put them in clear breeze and the boat started to move.  Slowly the speed increased and soon they were moving against the tide at a couple knots.  The old man called to jibe back, but the trimmer insisted that with the cluster at the boat they would need to over stand and come back hot; either that or the ebb would drag them into the mess.  This caused the old man to look at the committee boat and he saw their season nemesis rounding for the start.  Damn.  It felt like an eternity as they continued to sail away from the starting line.  Finally the trimmer thought that they should jibe.  Having been waiting for this he slammed over the helm causing the crew to scramble to keep up.  The wind was light but the boat kept moving.  The old man started to heat up for more speed but got reprimanded by the crew.  “We’re ranging on the boat” they said.  As they got closer they came into the cluster, boats still paddling and sculling regardless of rights.  They were coming into position to capture his wind.  The old man yelled at them, not sure what he said.  Soon he forgot about them as the anchor rode on the committee boat demanded his attention.  He had to drive deep, which slowed the boat and make her more susceptible to the ebb tide.  Barely, and painfully so, the old man heated up and rotated the boat around the rode. In doing so he encountered a Wabbit paddling next to the committee boat and yelling for room.  Little gnats, he thought, and ignored them.  The crew skillfully doused the kite, raised the genoa and was on the rail – the low rail- before his attention was back on his own boat.  Damn good crew the old man thought, especially that trimmer.  He was on the wind but still barely making the pin. But his speed began to build: one, two, four, six- tenths. Soon he was doing a knot, then two. The old man applied the concentration he honed over the past seventy some odd years to work across the line despite the troglodytes floundering around him.  They were racing.  The problem was the old man was quickly gaining on the boats in front and slightly ahead.  And there were some big boys quickly gaining on his quarter.  To make it more interesting he was now just behind the season nemesis, Witchy Woman, who was pinned on starboard by other Expresses.  The decision was made – tack!  The old man squeaked across in front of the starboard boats and headed off towards Angel Island.  Odd he thought.  Both Peaches and Wile E Coyote were still struggling towards the start.  Were they over early?  “You’re low” the bowman yelled “traveler up” and his attention snapped back to the little boat.  

 

No one followed as he continued out towards the shipping channel.  The further he went the more the ebb picked up but also the wind, which developed as a header.  Soon the little boat was pointed at the mouth of Raccoon Straight and a conversation ensued regarding taking the counter clockwise route.  But the ebb was good and fair and wide and the wind appeared to be developing around Alcatraz Island.  The crew grew unsettled as they continued to separate from the fleet which was making their way across the Berkeley flats.  The old man tacked, partly to cover and partly due to concern about getting to close to the island but mostly to shut the crew up.  And when it was completed he found himself on a lifted line with good wind and the boats below without.  The old man pressed on.  Eventually a second tack was called for which was intended to work up towards what appeared to be better breeze near Point Blunt.  Another tack was made and the old man found himself on the line of three Santana 20’s and pointed at Alcatraz Island.  There was a great expanse of glassy water between the little boat and what appeared to be good pressure near Alcatraz Island.  The old man continued on, his great crew keeping the boat healed to leeward with the movement mainly thanks to the ebb tide.  Eventually he broke through the void and was informed by the crew that the next express in sight was Expressway, a couple football fields to leeward and behind.  Knowing of the hole that develops on the east site of Alcatraz the sails were eased and the boat driven hard for speed.  He timed it perfectly and hardened up around the island just behind the first place boat, who, not being as clever or skilled, rounded the island traveling a much greater distance.  A Moore was hot on his heels.  Glancing over his shoulder he recognized John Kernot – Banditos.  Noooo he thought.  He’s good.  But John tacked close to the island on the west side expecting that the ebb to carry him to the buoy while the old man continued on starboard.  The trimmer called for a tack and the old man turned the helm while he first place boat continued on towards the St. Francis Yacht Club.  The little boat cracked off and was the first to pass the buoy by quite a distance.  The boat ranged on the western tip of Angel.  The kite was set well before the island, but as the island was reached the winds backed off.  Boats stated to come out of Raccoon Straights on a counter-clockwise path.  Wile E Coyote was the first Express encountered and as always the old man hailed in lively spirits.  “It’s not over yet” was the response from Dan.  Acadia was passed next and the old man asked “how is it in the straights”.  “Its f*c$&d” was the reply.  And f*c$&d it was.  

 

The old man was the first clockwise boat into Raccoon Straits.  The call from the crew was quickly made to cross the tide for the north shore.  The ebb was substantial. The biggest boats were now chasing the old man down but still he was well ahead of the bulk of the fleet.  When the little boat was about half way across the first of the big boats caught him.  They passed quickly and jibed near elephant rock to head up the north shore.  The old man jibed in suit and almost over stood. He was on a tight reach and if not for the superior spinnaker trim he wouldn’t have made it past the first homes to the cove, where he ducked in for current relief.  Glancing back the old man saw boats piling into Raccoon, some opting for the southern shore.  The wind was gone, and the fleet was quickly catching up.  The crew called for the old man to head for the point, there would be no wind but hopefully there would be reverse current.

 

At the point the old man was rolled by a couple more big boats, and a Moore was hot on his heels.  The little boat poked out into the bay and was swept south across the opening.  The crew tackticks began to divide; some opting to work south in favor of chasing a recurring wind line and others for bucking the ebb along the rhumb line to the finish.  The drifting felt like hours and all the while the fleet kept closing in.  The little boat picked up a line of pressure and starting ranging across the bay towards the finish and the old man started feeling better.  Then the good looking girl noticed that a wind line established back at the point and two Expresses were gaining fast, with more speed and direct path. Someone else noticed the yellow boat Arcadia followed by what look liked an Express making their way across the Berkeley flats.  The whole thing was unraveling!  As long as we beat Witchy, he thought. “That might be Witch Woman up there” the good looking girl said.  “Damn it!!!!”

 

The crew identified what they thought was both current relief and pressure near the Richmond breakwater and the old man kept reaching towards it despite the two Expresses in pursuit ranging on the finish.  The old man waited until the large spinnakers cleared away - the ones that double a termite tents for homes in their second lift – the he jibed and followed the big boys to finish.  It was Wiley Coyote that passed ahead on them Berkeley flats. Where’s a roadrunner when you need one, he thought.  The old man drove hard and straight and true. There was no way he could catch Wiley but the race was on for the other two expresses, one of which could potentially be Witchy Woman.

 

Then it happened.  Wiley jibed just before the committee boat. A collective “what the…” escaped the boat.  Instead of reinvigorating the crew it completely confused them.  The good looking girl, who also happened to be the smartest of the bunch, grabbed the race instructions and re-read the course.  Sure enough, Wiley missed it.  The anxiety continued until it was obvious that the little boat would finish before the other two expresses.  The old man jibed just past the committee boat and finished comfortable ahead of Xena and Great White.  Witchy Woman was no where in site.  The old man was elated.  Note because of the finish but because it was another incredible sunny day on San Francisco Bay.

 

For those who don’t know, Wiley ducked the finish because he was over early and wasn’t able to get back to the start.  Dan figured that by the time he got back to the start he would be dfl, so why not spend the time racing.  And being that he had such a long ride back home he didn’t want to take the penalty for being over early – washing dishes at RYC.   Still, he’s a pretty good sport.