Heineken Regatta – On the Water at Last

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Bob and Monika met me at Princess Juliana Airport and whisked me off to the nearby Royal Turtle Inn where I could grab a little catch-up sleep.

The Royal Turtle Inn is, dare I say, quaint? Half of it sits on the shore of Simpson’s Lagoon. The other half sits in the lagoon. No matter. Any horizontal surface would do just fine. I pulled the mosquito net tent around me, plumped a pillow, and faded off into dreamland.

Day two in Saint Martin was a flurry of activity. After breakfast, the team was gathered into Tony’s taxi van and we made our way to Oyster Pond to pick up our boat. We ventured a short stop at Budget Marine on the Dutch side of the island so a few of our number could purchase deck shoes, and then began navigating the narrow and torturously convoluted roads that led us to the Moorings charter base.

Our boat was called a Mooring’s 49-4. It’s actually a Jeauneau 49 stamped with the Moorings name and modified so that it sports four separate cabins. Moorings’ hyperbole refers to the four cabins as “staterooms” but we were not concerned. Cruising comforts were of no consequence. The boat, named “Salaway” was to be our racing steed and as we surveyed her, we looked for the predictors that spelled fleetness, agility, and stamina. Could she take us the distance? Would she allow us a fighting chance?

Alas, the signs were not encouraging. Her mainsail was yellowed with age and frayed at the seams. Stray threads streamed from the Genoa leech. Her jib sheets were tattered and worn. We folded back the Bimini and the canvas parted. We dismounted the dodger and the screws mounting it to the deck popped free. The reefer was dead and two of the four heads didn’t work. The house bank of batteries was dead, so the sailing instruments didn’t work. This was a steed that had been ridden hard and put away wet.

I took our Moorings representative aside. “I thought the extra money we paid to you guys was supposed to assure us a ‘race ready’ machine!”

He replied in broken English garnished with a strong Italian accent, “But this boat is ready to race”

That passive-aggressive Euro stuff always drives me crazy! “Like a thoroughbred PIG”, I snarled. He shrugged. I made a mental note. Next time . . ..

I returned to the boat to find dauntless Team Boston pouring over the equipment, stacking lines, and readying Salaway for sea. She would be our steed and we would ride her hard. If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.

We shoved off without Mooring’s assistance and pointed Salaway’s nose toward the Oyster Pond entrance channel. I throttled her up. The throttle sprung back to idle. I tried again, and again the throttle came back to idle. (Another mental note.) “Could someone sit back here with me and hold the throttle while I drive?” Ana jumped to the station and took hold. Like pilot and co-pilot nursing a crippled airliner into the sky, Ana and I pointed Salaway head to wind. The crew raised the main and we pointed Salway’s nose toward the first marker.

The Oyster Pond entrance channel is not the most assuring way to start a Saint Martin sailing adventure. It spills out on the windward side of the island and for a quarter mile or so you must thread your way between reefs with seas breaking to port and starboard. I called for Ana to throttle up full. We centered the main and punched up one wave after another. Team Boston started hooting and hollering as Salaway’s bows rose high and pounded down hard. The boat shuddered violently. I whispered a little prayer, “One more time, Salaway old girl. One more time.” Kaboom!

Clear of the channel, we reached off for Simpson’s Lagoon. The wind blew about 18 knots on our starboard stern quarter. Perfect conditions. We rolled out the 110% Genoa, eased the main and picked a line between Guana Cay and Cow and Calf rocks. The 49-footer tracked nicely. Though her helm (actually two wheels located port and starboard) was a sloppy two turns stop-to-stop, Salway answered smartly as the quartering swell rolled up and under her tumblehome.

We rounded Pt. Blanche near Philipsburg in short order, dodged a few of the 12-meter tourist sailers, had a close encounter with freighter, nosed into Simpson Bay, and dropped our hook about 100 yards off the beach.

Team Boston wasted no time in breaking out the food and drink, jumping into the warm water, and planning a celebratory night ashore.

The game was afoot.

Still at the wheel, I crossed my fingers behind my back and cast an eye skyward, “So far so good”, I whispered to myself.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, March 15th, 2008 at 6:15 am and is filed under Random Images. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.