That Good Night by Richard Probert

Author:Richard Probert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beaufort Books
Published: 2016-11-27T05:00:00+00:00

WEDNESDAY, JULY 11

I’m not much of a racer. Years back, I crewed as a mainsail trimmer for races on Lake Ontario. Racing skippers are another breed entirely. If they have a lot of money, their boats are bedecked with every conceivable electronic gizmo on the market. They’ll buy sails worth more than a modest house. Their wives seldom go with them. Racing sailors yell a lot. And as far as safety goes, they might as well have their crew walk a tight rope over alligator pits. After a few of those races, I promised myself never to go near those nutcases again. But, I have to admit, more often than not, they know how to handle a sailboat.

From what I had observed so far, Ernie would be more collected and respectful of crew, boat, and wind/water conditions. As it turned out, he was, except for one thing: he appeared to literally hate every other skipper out there.

It wasn’t a matter of winning for Ernie; it was more a matter of belittling every other sailor. Ernie knew tactics like a navy admiral and used them to out maneuver his competitors. Like at the start of the race. Once we had the five minute warning, Lamecuf went into stealth mode, zipping among boats like an Australian sheep dog, herding the boats into an ever tightening pack; adhering to rules for racing sailboats becomes much more difficult in close quarters. Ernie enjoyed the mayhem he created.

Once the cannon roared to announce the start, Ernie held back, letting his competitors crunch across the starting line. As the pack broke loose, old Ernie trimmed Lamecuf’s sails and off we went on a journey of harassment. Ernie’s favorite was to saunter up to a boat’s stern, hang there a second then go windward around the boat, stealing his wind. And never did we go by a boat without Ernie saying something sarcastic and, at times, giving a one finger salute. At the end of it all, Ernie neither won nor did he ingratiate himself to any member of the club. It was enough for Ernie to let everyone know that he could have won the race if he had wanted to.

I shared crewing duties with a young fellow named Steve McIntyre. Steve ran the foredeck which essentially meant setting and managing the spinnaker. He was a good guy, nimble and very focused on his job. Steve, thirty-five years old, was a fireman with the West Harbor Fire Department. Ernie handled the helm, I trimmed the main and Steve did all the rest. I envied his agility; Steve just zipped and zagged around that foredeck like a cheetah chasing an antelope. I, on the other hand, had painful spasms in my neck from looking aloft to find the right sail trim. The three of us left the Yacht club right after dinner in time for Ernie to avoid the award ceremony. We took a slow walk back to Ernie’s place, sat on the deck, drank beer, talked and waited for dusk and the annual yacht club fireworks.

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