WIRE
When the wire snapped, it made an explosive sound.
It happened so fast, I wonder where my eyes went first. To the mast? To the boat below us? To the boat above us? We were pinned between them, just above the start line. I saw something silver sparkle. I heard the chime of wire hitting metal.
Lotta was a loaner. Accounts varied as to when she last sailed. 4-6 years ago, the owner mused. 10 years ago, others said. But Lotta was free and the Finnish archipelago beckoned below cobalt skies. The rocky islets seemed to say, come and play.
It had been a long, lonely year. We had vaccinations. We had new friends in a new fleet in a new country. We were so grateful and we did what we could with what we had. We scrubbed the green streaks of mold from her hull. We replaced ancient lines with lines that were merely old. The life jackets had a vintage 80s look. There was no time for finesse or fine-tune before the October regatta, the last of the season at 60 North.
I checked the forecast. Windy and Sailflow. Eiranranta station and Harmaja Lighthouse. I looked at all of the models. I considered the crack in the cockpit. I pondered an upper range of 13-22 knots. It’s not much in most boats. The Star is different. The main sail is massive and the boom is so low that “guillotine” comes to mind on a gybe. The Star mast is so tall and flexible, it can snap like a twig under load.
The Star sailor is a warrior. A master puppeteer. A musician tuning an instrument. Me, I’m a Star virgin and I haven’t broken a mast. Not yet, they say.
Star sailing is my drug. It is an addiction for which there is no cure. There are no support groups, only fellow addicts who give you sails so you can’t quit. My cares and concerns disappear on the downwind wave. My hand and the tiller are one. I see strange sights. A rare seabird, a Finnish Star crew smoking a cigarette on the foredeck.
Upwind, I saw gusts that knocked even the big boy boats. I grew homesick for my sleek mainsheet setup. That yellow-black line that made me giggle and chant, “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” Upwind, trimming Lotta’s kelly green mainsheet meant driving with my aft knee, a two-handed heave — and a sea shanty of curses.
We lost the forestay between “mother” and “f*cker”.
As soon as the leeward boat cleared, we dropped the new main. It was spotted with blood from the cuts on my hands. I pinned it with a bear hug and tied it on the boom. Then jib down, as fast as you can. Looking back, I saw that the cockpit was filling with water. When I lifted my eyes, I saw that the waves were pushing us towards a rocky lee shore. I closed the scupper and we set the little anchor.
Or so I thought. The rocks were getting closer by the minute. The anchor was dragging.
Race committee’s lone boat was part of the start/finish line. I waited for them to come and get us. I waved; they stayed. A small motorboat passed us and I waved frantically for help. The driver returned my gesture with a cheery wave and sped away.
I berated myself for 7 Ps failure. Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Why had I not brought a Paddle? Risked my new +358 Phone? I thought of The Wreck of The Hesperus. I imagined standing chest-deep in the cold water, trying to protect the boat from the rocks.
After the last Starboat crossed the finish line, the committee boat pulled their anchor.
“En ymmärrä,” I responded to a blur of Finnish.
“Viisi minuuttia? We go get the buoys.”
“Ei! We don’t have 5 minutes,” I said and I pointed to the nearby shore.
Recognition struck. They must have seen our anchor line and not how we had drifted. As they towed us to safety, we passed Lotta’s owner in his motor skiff. There was a jib halyard where once there had been a forestay. He smiled.
Kept the rig up, I thought and grinned back at him.