Heineken Regatta, 2009 - Lessons in Humility

Le Castagnole bow shot (watermarked by Photoaction.com)

At their heart, all seafaring stories have a purity of spirit in which hubris is pitted against the impersonal constancy of an unrelenting sea. Simply put, every sea story is a lesson in humility. My “Heineken Regatta, 2009″ is just another sea story.

As every sea captain knows, there comes a flood of subtle sensations that foretell the coming of a storm. The sea turns slick under leaden skies and there is an unnamable scent in the air. Uneasiness burrows into one’s mind, casting shadows of doubt across carefully considered plans for the upcoming voyage. Those foreboding shadows darkened my dreamscapes for many weeks before embarking on my assignment to lead a group of five fun-seeking couples for 10 days of practice and racing on the waters surrounding St. Maarten Island in the Caribbean Sea.

In retrospect, it’s easy to decipher the signs. My client-crew of landlubbers looking for adventure was no problem in itself. I had trained them aboard my boat on several occasions and we had successfully raced the Heineken in 2008. A lively jaunt aboard a 50-foot chartered boat in Caribbean Trades should be simple enough. But what if the sea conditions were to put my client-crew to the test? How would that scenario play out? The Captain for hire serves two masters—his clients and the sea. When the two become irreconcilable, the captain is doomed to founder on the reef.

On our first day we shoved off from Oyster Pond and readied to hoist sail in the marina basin. When the sail resisted our hoisting efforts, everyone began giving commands at the same time. I watched in shock as they floundered in confusion. It took four times for me to get their attention. When they finally settled down, I told them that the boat’s mainsail was reefed. “Shake out the reef” I called. They looked at me as if to say “reef…what’s that?”

I had reefed and unreefed boats with them in the past. At this point, I had assumed such a basic maneuver would be no occasion for difficulty. I was wrong and after a great deal of explanation, we managed to get the reef cleared and made our way out the channel.

Then came a moment of understanding. Several among the crew pointed at me and admonished, “You should have warned us about the reefed sail. Our difficulty was your fault!” The reality of my situation suddenly dawned upon me. I was about to race a major regatta with a 10 inexperienced crew who would require direction for every boat-handling maneuver we needed to make. Should I disappoint them, or should someone be injured, the blame would fall squarely on my shoulders.

I had expected to practice and race in the light airs predicted by the Caribbean weather service, but that was not to be. Our first day of sailing was marked by strong squally conditions. As we sailed the boat from Oyster Pond, down the east coast of the island to Simpson Bay, my clients were all over the boat, chattering excitedly. As the squalls rolled over us, the fat and unwieldy charter boat careened in confused seas. My hand tightened on the wheel as I struggled to maintain control. My boat handling commands often went unheard and unheeded. My sphincter muscles started to tighten. Up until this point I had accepted my client-crew assertions of their readiness to sail in the regatta. Practices, books, and videos had readied them, they told me. They had told me that all I only needed to drive the starts and assure their safety. It was fast becoming clear to me that I needed to reassess the situation, particularly in the light of the strong conditions that were shaping up in the Caribbean.

Beating up the island shoreline in Around Island, (watermarked by Photoaction.com)

The next day our plan was to do a practice sail around the island. As had happened in 2008, this turned out to me more of a shakedown cruise than a race practice. We found that the main halyard clutch would not allow proper halyard tension. Our round island was transformed into a re-rigging of all lines to assure halyard and vang control. Throughout the day, excited chatter and confusion were de-rigor. I found myself shouting to get their attention and micro-managing every detail of boat handing. The situation was out of control. I knew at that moment that I was going to need to do something or people would get hurt.

I spent the wee hours of that night putting together a new plan. My new aim would be to dampen the overconfidence and overactive “competitive spirit” that was causing my client-crew to race about the boat shouting orders and devising solutions to problems not fully understood. If I was going to have to micro-manage the details of the boat’s handling. I was going to have to take charge much more aggressively.

On day three we all met ashore at the St. Maarten Yacht Club bar. Over breakfast I announced that I wanted to have a shore-side meeting to discuss our boat handling strategy. I was immediately informed by one crew member that we would NOT DO THAT! “You can do your briefing on the boat”, she insisted.

I replied to her, “I would like to do it on shore.”

“Why”, she retorted.

Thoroughly flummoxed, I answered uneasily, “I think it would be better if we did this ashore.”

(Heavy silence)

As I had sensed so long ago, there lurked below the surface, a conflict of wills. Who would command, captain or client? This was the crux of my dilemma and as I listened to the howling 30-knot winds I knew there could be only one answer. My fate was sealed. I would take command and get everyone through the event in one piece. Much later, with our sea battles well behind us, I would pay for my decision.

I called my client-crew to attention and proceeded to explain our new regime.

A crew of 11 aboard a 50-footer competing at close quarters amid 27 chartered boats in near-gale conditions would require disciplined action and attention to detail.

1. In sailing, experience is king. Recognize that no matter how many books you have read or videos you have watched, you have very limited experience. You must know and accept your limits. If you do well against more experienced crews it will because you sailed within your limits and got lucky when more experienced crews made major mistakes. Be humble and sail to the best of your ability but not beyond your ability.

2. There is one, and only one captain on the boat. When the captain speaks, everyone pays attention.

3. Stay on task and in your assigned position when racing.

4. Count a few thoughtful beats before acting unless responding to a command from the captain.

5. Try to keep the boat as quiet as possible in order to avoid confusion.

6. Aim to sail in a manner that earns self-respect and the respect of other sailors.

7. Success and failure always belong to the crew as a whole. Avoid the assignment of credit or blame.

The practice that day and the one that followed, was much improved. Everyone settled down and began to work the boat’s systems. As crew-members found their places, they become more practiced in boat handling. I gave instruction and commands. The crew responded, and the wind continued to build to gear-busting proportions. We would be tested.

T-Bone Crash (watermarked by Photoaction.com)

Another collision (watermarked by Photoaction.com)

Dismasting (watermarked by Photoaction.com)

The next three days of racing were of the sort that shivers the timbers of even the most accomplished crews. On the first day my client-crew and I started the Around Island race in a fleet of 26 50-foot charter boats. After a general recall, the best we could do was an abysmal back-of-fleet start. Nevertheless, we sailed a plan we had devised a year ago and by carefully feathering on the long beat up the island’s rocky shore, we managed to regain and hold a mid-fleet position. Conditions dictated that I drive the boat for the entire race. I was near collapse with fatigue at the finish line, but we had survived without serious mishap.

That night we learned that the winds had blown 35+ knots and 12-foot seas had been running in the Anguilla Channel. There had been a carnage with many collisions, several dismastings, and at least one sinking. That so many boats had abandoned the race was a measure of our accomplishment.

On the next two days the winds abated to 30 knots and the race committee altered the race courses to keep the boats toward the west end of the Anguilla Channel. The charter companies mandated reefed mains and actually cancelled racing for charter boats under 36 feet.

Le Castagnole with first rank start in race 3 (watermarked by Photoaction.com)

On day three I finally managed to get us a front row start in strong gusty winds. We rounded the weather mark in 4th or 5th. My blood got up in hopes of an A-fleet finish. I entreated my client-crew to rise to the occasion. We battled for the favored windward position to fetch the mark at Terra Basa. I called to the crew to watch for boats attacking us on our windward stern quarter, then called to “head up” to fend off the competition. We tried, but our boat handling skills just weren’t up to the challenges posed by the more experienced front-runners. One by one, we got rolled. Experience was king.

As we rounded the mark at Terra Basa, we looked to tack for shore in very heavy seas. We stalled—dead in the water, while the rest of the fleet passed us. Nevertheless, we managed to settle back into sailing within our ability level and once again regained half the fleet for a solid mid-fleet finish.

Despite all of the challenges posed by better crews and the dangers posed by extreme conditions, we pulled out a 12 of 26 finish, overall. Exhausted by six full days of heavy sailing and crew management, I still felt a great pride in getting my client-crew through the racing series without major mishap and in an entirely respectable place.

I got little sleep the night following the last race. Adrenaline, rough water, and shore-side parties, combined to thwart my attempts at getting a deserved rest. The next morning a few crew joined me to deliver our boat back to Oyster Pond. On the final approach, huge seas combed the entrance channel and I wondered out loud how it could be possible for charter companies to operate out of such a difficult harbor. Nonetheless, we braved the channel and brought the boat home safely, buttoned her up, and called the voyage done.

A STORMY CODA

Hard racing in tough conditions tests crews physically, mentally, and emotionally. If the finish of racing had been the finish of the voyage, I would have counted our adventure a great success. On our last night on the island, I was without a place to sleep. I accepted the invitation to stay at the very substantial villa my client-crew had rented for the event now passed into history. I napped as best I could and still unsteady with fatigue, attended a last supper offered by my benefactors.

It was at that moment that a besotted client-crew elected to voice a litany of complaints about my performance as captain and coach. It began when one crew-member harkened back to my shore-side lecture. She spoke in a loud, accusatory tone, “We did not appreciate your lecture telling us that we aren’t good sailors”.

I asked for clarification, and some others among the crew chimed in. It seems they felt that had failed to “motivate” them properly.

“So why didn’t you say something at the time? I asked. “Why not tell me when I could still correct my course and do a little better?”

“Because we decided to wait until now”, was their answer.

I reeled back in my chair as though I had been physically struck. Stung by their words, I was too tired to sort out the drunken logic of landlubbers who felt I had usurped their pay-to-play prerogatives—no skill required, no knowledge needed, no responsibility taken, no respect given, no honor earned. I stood and laid a course off that lee shore, my plate still full of food. Then some minutes later, I brought myself about and foolishly returned to those perilous waters in order to venture an explanation of the rationale behind the lecture I had given so many days ago.

I had given the lecture to instill in the crew a sense of humble appreciation for the challenges facing us. I saw no need to “motivate” the crew. Motivated actions that exceed abilities are a liability. What was needed was an appreciation of our limits—a fundamental humility. There was need to get us settled down in order avert certain danger.” (And in my mind, I added that although I may have erred in some fine details, the fact that my client-crew were all happily drinking and dining on this very night was evidence enough that I had served them well through a perilous voyage.)

Then there began some accusatory shouting. Some few leapt to their feet, fingers pointed.

“How dare you walk away from me in my villa!“, yelled one.

Then another; “We don’t need lessons in humility, we are competitive! What’s wrong with that!”

“You didn’t listen to us!”, someone announced.

And another; “You’re lucky the women in this crew don’t beat the crap out of you!” (A subtext’s subtext rife with still deeper meanings that I am still unable to fathom.)

And finally, “You just need to sit there and take the feedback that’s given to you.”

It was most certainly my pride that sank my ship, but I was in no mood “take the feedback” on that final night. I stood and staggered away toward my room. Clearly, there had been a subtext from the very beginning of our voyage. The tension between the demands of the sea and those of my clients had put me on a fool’s errand. Safe harbor denied, I was cast up upon the rocks.

As with all sea stories, my hubris had been my undoing. I had ignored the forebodings that signaled trouble so long ago. I trust that I shall be redeemed on some future voyage, but for now I am yet again, humbled by the challenges of seafaring.

Wrecked charter at Oyster Pond entrance 1 hr. after our passage in same channel.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 13th, 2009 at 1:12 pm and is filed under Lead Story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.