by Noah Malpot
[Jon Tucker writes: I recently met an impressive thirteen-year old during an author workshop at Nelson College, New Zealand. Noah struck a chord on several notes, especially his love of Optimist sailing – like Jake in his black Privateer (cf Those Snake Island Kids). When I learned that he originally grew up in NZ’s Bay of Islands where his father worked with oyster farmers (cf Those Sugar-Barge Kids) I couldn’t resist challenging him to write a piece on his forthcoming experience representing NZ at the European Optimist Championships in France. Here it is – fresh from his victorious first place in the Silver fleet.]
ON THE START LINE
3, 2, 1… A slow, warm shiver goes down my back as the Race Committee hoots the fleet in the five minute sequence. Instantly, I start the timer on my watch which will countdown…
To my starboard and a little bit to windward – the Race Committee. The massive vessel has a motherly impression. The fleet is like its little chicks running around under the Race Committee’s wing. Occasionally, the officials aboard race us in difficult conditions, and all we can do is adapt and fight it out – One moment, the Race Committee is my best friend, the next it’s my enemy, and another person’s friend.
I anxiously stare at my watch counting down to four minutes, then at the tall, square structure at the rear of the race committee waiting for the next flag to be hoisted.
I can hear the officials aboard counting down on the radio: 3, 2, 1… The black flag is hoisted, accompanied by a hooter and a moan from the fleet as the news spreads from boat to boat. Under black flag, any boat over the start line in the last minute will be disqualified. It’s an easy spoiler for my regatta if I get caught over. I’ll have to be very careful. Pressure levels rise amongst the optimist sailors, doubting about our strategy and positioning on the line…
To my leeward, and a hundred meters down the line; the pin boat is marking the other side of the start. This vessel is smaller in size, but just as impressive as the Race Committee. Maybe because of the high rising orange flagpole, like a medieval war banner. The officials on the pin boats’ main job is to record boats over the start line and generally aren’t appreciated by the fleet. Officials smirking behind their breath, face pressed against the orange flagpole giving “annoyed teenager” stares.
3, 2, 1… The deafening roar of the Race Committee’s hooter warns us that the start is only a minute away, and the preparatory flag is being dropped. Suddenly, the beating of my sail flapping in the wind matches the thumping inside my chest – the black flag now applies, and the pressure is really getting into me. The tension is awful. I push on into the first row fighting for a good position.
Forty-five seconds. Officials record boat numbers down radio pressed against their mouths. I nervously check my transit to make sure that I’m not over. Another wave of panic echoes within me; I feel like the sails are flapping louder. The spray off the water’s surface is colder than usual, and I start to question my positioning on the line. Doubtful and miserable. But this is a myth – just my body reacting to stress, triggered by every little detail. Maybe these sensations are painful, but they are also what motivates and encourages me.
I can hear officials now counting down in their radios: Thirty seconds. A whistle pierces a few boat-lengths to leeward – The Jury penalizes an unfortunate boat. It’s Hugo who desperately doing his turns realizes that his start is compromised with only thirty seconds left and a couple of turns to complete in order to continue racing. Poor bugger…
When under pressure on the start line, I’d just wish that it was over; that I was in a good position off the line and the rest of the race would be simple. No time for doubting though, all I can do is trust my experience, my training, and back myself.
Twenty seconds. Still pressuring the boat to windward, I prepare to accelerate. Getting a good start is very complicated amongst a compact fleet of sixty boats, each manned by single skippers; even some of the best sailors mess it up occasionally – only a split second can make the difference between accelerating too late and having your wind blocked by someone else’s sail, or having a great start in a perfect lane…
10, 9, 8, seconds. As the boat to my leeward accelerates to full speed, I wait a couple of seconds to create a gap, then I bear away to build up speed too.
7, 6, 5 seconds. I gently steer into a close-hauled course rolling the boat and flattening using a simple pumping motion
4, 3, 2, seconds. This is looking good! I’m now sailing towards the line pushing my bow forward of other boats. The line I figured is about half a boat-length forward. …1, 0…; The Race Committee hoots loudly. It seems louder than the previous ones, as if the Race Committee was using all of its last energy to scare us away, or perhaps the intense yelling background noise of my competitors has ceased – everyone is concentrated on their race: Looking at their sails, the wind indicator and for signs of wind pressure further up the course. Anything to get my boat going faster and create a gap with the others. I have a boat that is falling back behind me as I lee-bow him and change modes into a lower but faster angle to overtake and roll the boat to leeward. The separation with the others is done, and I have a clear lane in front of me and the whole race to enjoy.
I look across and see Hugo sailing out to the side trying to get into a good position after a grim start. A dark band of wind comes down the course down the right side and while the rest of the fleet is moving slowly, Hugo is making a comeback skimming over the water in the extra breeze. I need to tack and get into it too. I imagine the ducking movement of my shoulders, and the passage of my hand on the centerboard case. I envision my feet landing lightly like feathers on the water, and the boat’s acceleration out of the tack. I’m mentally prepared. I glance to my right before pushing the rudder softly into the wind, pouncing energetically but landing softly on the other side. The tack was perfect, but I’m not sure if it will be enough – boats are skimming past like raindrops fall from the sky.
……
Noah is particularly lucky to have an English teacher (Diane Garside) who was able to recognise his passion and channel it into his ability to write.
Starboard – To my right side.
Port – to my left side.
Windward – closer to where the wind is coming from.
Leeward – opposite to where the wind is coming
from.