This is a text version of a speech I gave at this year's Commodore's Ball. Everyone serves a purpose in this world, even if only to serve as an example to others, that they might avoid calamity. Here goes:
"I am not trying to be a sailboat racer. I want to be a Jimmy Buffet guy and sail to some exotic anchorage. Fire up the blender for some fresh margaritas and get my barbeque grill ready to cook that "Cheeseburger in Paradise". I just don't think me and all that yelling and breaking valuable equipment are compatible."
This is what I would tell the crew from Swiftsure that used to hang out at my friend Hideki's sushi bar in Alameda. They were always telling me how I should go racing. I look over at this girl that's extolling the virtues of yacht racing and asked "is that blood oozing out of your hand there?" "Boat Bites!" she says, like it was some sort of badge of honor to have a chunk of your hand nipped off by a winch.
Swiftsure was a racing boat on the dock next to me at Marina Village. The thing that most impressed me was that they had their own panel truck with the boat's name on it. It was chock full of all sorts of sails, cordage, spare parts and titanium God knows what. I was pretty sure the contents of that truck far exceeded my net worth. The truck was driven by a guy that spent all of his time taking care of every aspect of that boat, on the water and off. There's a popular name for that guy's job description among racing sailors. I had never heard of that name back then.
Successfully escaping the horrors of racing, I cut the dock lines, went under the Golden Gate, chopped a left and headed south. I had taken my oldest son (15) out of school for a semester to go with me. We came quite close to death the first day, but I'll save that story for another time. To say that I was green would be an understatement. Here's an example: One day, after a couple of accidental jibes, I decided to run a line from a bale on the boom, forward to a snatch-block and back to a cleat in the cockpit. This would "prevent" the main from accidentally jibing. I called it a preventer. That's right; I thought I had invented the Preventer. I guess for me, I had. If I'd known then what I have now learned about sail trim, I could have probably cut a full day off of a typical five day passage. I changed my jib car leads twice in six months and I'm not sure if I moved them the right way or not.
Anyway, we ran the Pacific coast south, hitting all the hotspots along Baja, The Mexican mainland and Costa Rica. We went through the Panama Canal and ran up the good dive spots of the western Caribbean and finally crossed the Gulf of Mexico, landing in Galveston a full two days before the start of the fall semester. I didn't have charts of this area, but some helpful guys in Isla Mujeres let me copy the important part. It was a page that showed the Galveston Sea Buoy. They said "Get to the sea buoy, follow the channel in, take a left and go to the Galveston Yacht Basin. From there, you can clear Customs and figure out what to do next. It seemed simple. It seemed like they were trying to get rid of me.
While I was waiting for Customs, I picked up a copy of a local boating rag that advertised: "Come nestle your vessel at Lafayette Landing." "Sign a one year lease and get a free satellite dish." That sounded like a good deal, so that's where I went. My depth alarm was going off through most of my transit of the upper bay into the Clear Lake channel. It was still going off as I pulled into my new slip. I got out the manual and figured out how to reset it from 20 feet down to 8, since I draw 7.
After a few days, I came to realize that someone here in the past had somehow run afoul of our Lord, for here, He surely stomppeth a Mud Hole, and walked large parts of it dry. After sailing San Francisco Bay and cruising the Pacific, to the gin clear waters of the Caribbean and then crossing the Gulf of Mexico, I had parked in a Mud Hole. Then, depression set in.
A few days later, I met my neighbor, Jeff Kitterman. He had a Santana called As-If, and he was racing it. I could always tell when Jeff was heading back to the dock by the sound of classic rock and what seemed like a hundred Miller Lite cans rolling around the cockpit. It wasn't long before he started up with me on that whole racing thing again. "You ought to come out racing with us!" I gave him my same old Jimmy Buffet story and plus, "Dude, we're like, in a Mud Hole here." He tells me about how fun it is racing here and yeah, it is a Mud Hole, but some days it doesn't look so bad and its still "time on the water dude". "Beats being on land." So he finally convinces me to go on a GBCA Rum Race one Saturday.
Here's how he did it: He lied. He says "Just come on, you don't have to do anything, just get on the boat. Check it out!" He waited until we were well off the dock, to start telling the truth. There was a lot of stuff I was supposed to do. Then, he was like, "let's get a beer". Cool. 10 seconds later it was "OK, we need to tack!" When I was cruising, it was seldom we tacked more than once a day. This sense of urgency was something new to me. Anyway, it went all right. I went to a party where there was free rum and people were all talking loudly and making gestures with their hands like they were boats. I found out later that was called "Bar Karate".
I met Johnny Jones who was on the same dock. He had raced the same series on another guy's boat that had a reputation for being a yeller. He had won the series and given all of his crew a gift certificate for Spec's Liquors, so I guess you gotta take the good with the bad. Johnny decided to start racing his own boat and I joined on. I started reading books on sail trim and tactics. I slept with a book called "High Performance Sailing" for about two years before I understood the good parts.
I joined GBCA as a crew member at first because of how much free rum I was drinking. I upgraded to a Senior Membership when I realized How Much Free Rum I Was Drinking. I helped with some stuff, and then Kathy Rodgers got elected to the Board, I think because someone realized that women do most of the work. Next thing you know, I'm hauling t-shirts and barbequing for parties and helping the Race Committee. This is how it happens to you when you least suspect it. There are many examples of that story who are reading this now. Here's one:
When I first met Walter and Beverly, I was cooking burgers for a regatta party. They were new on the scene, but they're both big fans of the grill, so it didn't take Walter long to follow the smoke. He sidles up to me and asks me if I'm the Commodore or what. I said "nope, I'm just in charge of this here grill." So he asks "does that mean we can go inside and get the cheese from the bar and come out here and melt it on our burger?" I said "yes, Walter, that's exactly what that means." Next thing you know his wife's making a deal with El Diablo in Veracruz. She's on the Board now and you're next, Se�or. This is what happens when you get a little bit too curious and have one too many rum drinks with the wrong people.
Well, now I have become a sailboat racing enthusiast and find myself to be Commodore of the Galveston Bay Cruising Association. It figures. Through my involvement in the GBCA, I have become a US Sailing Certified Race Officer. Next time, I'll tell you a cruising story. It somehow makes sense.
