[ Paddy MacCallum photo ]
I watched a fox catch and kill a squirrel once. It was a foggy morning in the Beaches neighbourhood of Toronto where it is not uncommon to see a fox out hunting (sometimes cats and small dogs, in fact.) I had a perfect ringside seat at my 2nd floor home office window. The squirrel was on the front lawn, no further than two feet from the base of a large oak to one side, and only a few feet more from the safety of a rabbit hole on the other. Yet the fox managed to confuse the squirrel so well with its feints, hops and staring that it mesmerized the poor thing so that it couldn't decide what route to take to safety, even as either were clearly well within range. The squirrel was catatonic by the time the fox was within striking distance, and easy prey for the wily fox.
I was that squirrel this past weekend at the June Bug Regatta at Fanshawe Yacht Club in London, Ontario, the wind of Fanshawe Lake the fox. I was mesmerized, hypnotized and cataton-ized until, on the last race of the first day, I also succumbed to its wiles.
It started well enough. The beats of the first day were into a good breeze up the southwestern arm of the lake to the dam that makes the lake what it is. The arm is about 300 yards wide and about a mile long. There is just enough room to make a race of it, but still plenty of intrusive land features for the wind to change and gust and generally be shifty as hell and a tacking nightmare.
The first race was what I was expecting from myself. I rounded the top mark just behind Brad Biskaborn, (Bullet Boy, I'll call him. You will understand). The run and reach home were uneventful and I picked up a 2nd place. I felt that I had figured out the mess pretty quickly, and was very satisfied with myself for doing so. The only thing that worried me was the reaching starts, which felt like crap shoots of the highest order.
Race number two was the beginning of my undoing. Again, it started well. I rounded the top mark first. Rick Goldt and Steve Carroll rounded close behind with Bullet Boy in fourth. Somehow, very quickly we were four abreast heading for the next mark. I was frustrated that the three managed to catch up and so I started to work the boat - a little too much. I am not sure exactly how it happened, but when I did crash, Rick found the time to look back to let me know that I had dumped in his spot. Apparently the locals own certain places on the lake for certain reasons, and that was Rick's crashing place. I was sorry to have taken it from him.
Well, as I saw fit to crash in his "spot," it remained for the wind gods to make sure there was another spot prepared for him, and further on, he went swimming, too. My heart bled for him - sort of. I came up to find my mainsheet paid out to the aft boom block so it took me a minute or two to get back to sailing. The result was a five.
The third race was the fox at his best. Now discouraged by my sorry bit of racing in race two, I was moody. The start was good, very good in fact, but the turn to upwind began a series of shifts and tacks and autotacks and tacks through 200 degrees and shuddering shifts that would darken the heart of Mother Teresa. I just could not get a single shift right, and I murdered both beats of that race again and again. My confidence sank quickly, the lessons from the first race completely forgotten. I was that squirrel, watching helplessly as the wind feinted back and forth, eyeing me, inching closer and closer to the moment when it could catch me in its deadly jaws. I came eighth.
By the fourth, I was an empty shell. I was slow downwind, I was beaten again and again and stopped caring. It felt like anyone could pass me. The fox had me stunned me into indecision. Starboard tack? Port tack? The rabbit hole? The tree? I had no idea what to do or what way to go. All the while, the eyes of the Fanshawe Fox pierced me with deadly determination. I stared back, dumb and helpless.
The fifth and last race of the day ended my suffering. Kevin Biskaborn started at the windward mark of the start line on the gun (again, a reaching start), which took away any wind I had at about five seconds to go. The wind died, the gun went, and the wind quickened. Everyone hit the straps ahead of me, and shot forward. Expecting some breeze myself (and feeling a little on my face) I hit my straps, too, but there was nothing there, and my boat slowly, painfully heeled to windward on top of me.
The counter intuitive thing to do in such a circumstance is to lean back into the water and let your lifejacket take the effect of your body weight away from the boat, and then wait for the wind to pull you out of the water. I reluctantly leaned back into the icy jaws of the Fanshawe Fox. I waited. The boat heeled more. I waited, shivering against the cold. I remember distinctly looking up to watch the rest of the fleet powered up and fully hiked not 20 yards away, on their way to their metaphorical tree. The fox squeezed its jaws, and I sank into its clutches. The boat fell on top of me.
I righted, and promptly flipped the other way. It was as if the foxes' grip needed a slight adjustment, so I was freed momentarily to ensure a better hold. By the time the boat was up again, I was dead. I sailed to the committee to announce my retirement, and headed in.
That night, I went outside while the rest of the fleet ate pizza (the clannish love of the London Laser crowd astonishes me. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, boyfriends, girlfriends and guests, all come together to race, to have fun, and to enjoy each others' company in the cleanest fun you'll see on earth. The kids actually don't mind hanging out with their parents!! If I die and go to heaven, I expect the pizza parties will be just like the one we had that night.)
As I sat on a wet chair in the back yard, I remembered starting this diary, and how, without questioning it, I had in my mind's eye that the end of the diary would be a glorious testament to hard work, belief and commitment. I never once imagined that the end would be anything but triumphant, with my holding in my hand the fruits of my summer's labour - the World Laser Grandmaster trophy. I can honestly say without reservation that I never planned for failure. I knew there would be a lot of losing before the winning came, but I never thought the diary would be anything less than an harbinger of future success. For the first time, in that back yard, I was faced with the thought that the end may not be that way.
But of course, sailing is as much about revival as it is about death (see entry: Redeemer Sailing). The second day was a blizzard of wind. More than I sailed in this year, and certainly as much as I have ever sailed in a full rig. The Fanshawe Fox was frothing with whitecaps. Estimates put the top winds in the middle 20s (knots). Bullet Boy, being young, healthy and strong, was thrilled. He scored all firsts on day one except for one race, which Steve Carroll took. Jeff Fullerton (formerly known as Brutus Number Two) (see entry: Playing With the Big Boys), was thrilled, and Steve Carroll seemed just fine about it, thanks very much.
I was reconciled. A deeper soul in me recognized the facts in the wind, and I decided that, if I could pick up a couple of fourths, I would be happy. As a result, I didn't pay much attention to the course. I knew it was going to be down the lake instead of up, but I was relying on Brad and Jeff and Steve to step out well ahead of me.
I started at the favoured end, with Bullet Boy behind. He tacked. I held. I came as close to the shore as I dared, and picked up a lift. I held. I was lifted. I held. If I'd dumped, I would have had to pick leaves out of my mast sleeve. I crept along the shore no more than 30 feet away from the rocks and branches that lined it, and held for about 100 yards more before I lost my nerve, and tacked. When I looked up, I was in the lead by 50 yards!!
But I hadn't a clue where I was going. Not a clue. As I crossed Bullet Boy I yelled for directions. I thought he said we were going to mark number five, which I had by now overstood. I bore off. Being patient with me, he yelled, "NO, NO, we go to six first!!" I rounded up. I was fast as hell in 25 knots of wind!! I rounded the mark first. "Where are we going now!!" I yelled. "To the pumpkin!" he says. "What the hell is a pumpkin," I yell into the screaming northwesterly.
Brad was very gracious and helped me around the course, all the while wondering what the hell was going on that I was finding every shift, and going fast. His boathandling did finally catch up with me and he beat me to the finish, but not before I was thoroughly chuffed at my turn of speed. Could I beat this guy? Could I beat Bullet Boy in this breeze?
It turned out I could not. In fact Jeff nabbed a second place in the second race, but I did come second behind Brad in the other two races and came within a few boatlengths of winning the last race. He rounded the last mark and tacked after 50 yards towards the upwind finish. I was about 30 yards behind. I held though the knock he had tacked on, got a better one and then tacked. I would have crossed about two boatlengths behind, but he tacked to leeward and ahead. The starboard end was favoured, so I thought if I could hold him from tacking in front of me then I could have that end and win. And if he decided to go to the left end, I would win. But he tacked on the right side layline as he should have and crossed me, and left me no room beneath him to the tack to that mark myself. The day ended 2,3,2 for me, with Brad getting his well-earned bullets, and Jeff and Steve in a tie for 2nd place overall.
Fanshawe is indeed a fox, and I am glad to have had the chance to be bitten by it. I can say I have been there, and have taken its worst. And when I sit around the fire with those who have fought the fox for years, I will be a little closer to understanding how that kind of adversity makes their smiles bigger, their laughter louder, and their love so tangible.
Regatta Results: www.fyc.on.ca/racing/results/2009/June-Bug-Regatta/
Regatta Photos: www.fyc.on.ca/gallery/2009/June-Bug-Regatta/
Rob Koci races in both the Laser Full-Rig and Laser Radial fleets around District 3. Currently, Rob is the District 3 secretary and maintains a frequently updated race diary on D3Laser.com. Rob's home port is St. James Town Sailing Club in Toronto, Ontario.
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