2006 North Americans

Reports by Tom Londrigan Jr.

Final Report

My apologies for not writing this last and final article about the 2006 North Amercians, I shall strive to overcome this common oversight. Writing the last article, as my only two admitted readers (Brian Cramer and Tom Babel) can attest, has always been a problem. Usually, I have no excuse. Usually, I am pissed or frustrated and since no races remain, all hope of a redemptive victory is lost, bitterness pulls a seat up to the table and I dutifully shirk my duties to write about all the races. This regatta is no different except I have a legitimate excuse this time

After the sixth race, I packed up the boat and hit the road with Betsy and the kids and drove well into the night. The next day we drove all day to the hospital and I was prepped for a scheduled surgery on my right hip. My doctor assured me that he would perform the first surgery on the right hip then I would merely be on crutches for four weeks. I could then sail Bacardi, repeat the Keystone Kop travel routine, and he would cut on the left hip and in time I would be right as rain.

Plans were meant to be broken. He called and told me that Bacardi was out of the question. Fine, we could do the surgeries back to back. Let’s get it on! The nurses shaved the respective sensitive areas and “then some” pursuant to my insistence. Unfortunately, they were male nurses, so lets keep that between us, okay. I proclaimed the usual requisite threats about being an attorney and how I do not tolerate pain well and encouraged them to do their best. I awoke three hours later. Betsy and my parents were present but the news was a little unexpected.

My doctor is fairly industrious. I was the eighth surgery for him that day. Six of the previous surgeries were total hip replacements but he claimed that my right hip was the most difficult. My right leg looks to be stapled together like a “special needs” science project. I am operating on a cocktail of aspirin, vicodin, and a WW II favorite, morphine. So pain is traded with nausea, nausea with pain, and the doctor says this will continue for eight weeks not four. The phrase, “What the fuck” comes to mind. Dude, I asked for a touch up not an overhaul.

Betsy was a little numb when she heard the restrictions because her life for the next eight weeks will not be pleasant. First, he cut out a lot of bone, about the size of my thumb and the leg can not be moved beyond 70 degrees, therefore no traditional chairs, no driving. Second, since the thigh muscle was cut and sewed together, I am not allowed to use it at all. This means she has to be present at all times to lift my “dead leg” like a bloated newborn on and off the bed and … the commode. This is where Betsy drew the line in the sand. Still, the pooping had to be modified.

Years ago, at a Church trivia night event, I suggested to the table that Eddie Murphy pays someone to wipe his ass. This suggestion was met with strong opposition. Comments like, “That’s not true, who would pay someone to do that” or “who would stoop to such a level.” Both arguments are quickly refuted. First, if you are the guy who has everything, what is the most distasteful part of your day? This is easily answered, wiping your own ass. I would gladly pay someone on Tuesday to wipe my ass on Monday. Second, plenty of people wipe asses and clean poop daily for very little money (see, hospitals and nursing homes) wiping Eddie’s butt would be an honor, probably not too messy, and only a once a day affair. What are we left with? Pride and Price, sounds like a good title for a novel, eh?

Our little decadent Western Civilization rife with consumables and disposables will ultimately degenerate to spending cash on such conveniences. This is where I will clean up, literally. The venture shall be known as West Coast Hygenics (“WCH”). It just sounds more appetizing than something like “O-rings are Us”. Staff will be dressed in whites, will be on-call and generally roaming the area in a company van, and will be very attractive (male or female). Sign up for a monthly service and you can schedule your bowel movement with WCH at your convenience or dial a toll free number in an emergency and our team will be on the spot within forty-five minutes. Of course, their will be an ala carte of specialty items and services for the fickle and discriminating. Staff will be independent contractors and thereby protect WCH from liability for over-wipes and other indiscretions.

Maybe this last dose of morphine has skewed my perspective a bit.

The wind was from the North at 355 degrees. Matt and I predicted that would oscillate but favor the left ultimately. After a good start, we worked the middle left and rounded in about twentieth. By the end the race we had slipped to twenty-fifth and sure enough the wind eventually edged to the left. Hamish Pepper and Carl Williams won the regatta. Matt and I noted that we were never on the same side of the course as Pepper/Williams on the first leg of each race. We had done well to win the opposite side but that only put us in the 15-20 range at the mark. Tom Babel has reminded me that winning either side in Miami will put you in the running. However, with this tough fleet, to be a real player in Miami, you need to do well on the favored side of the course. Well done guys.

Day 3

“We, we are from Europe”

This third day of the North American Championship proved to be very trying. Due to business calls and helping other sailors prepare for the day, Matt and I arrived on the course very late. The wind was light, crews were in the boat and the wind was swinging from 25 to 40 degrees. The Race Committee placed the mark at 35 degrees. Before the race, we saw Ross MacDonald and Mike Wolfs sailing on port well above the port lay line and other boats on starboard doing the same. Ross commented that he could have put up his pole to make the windward mark. For reasons unknown, this incident did not make an impression on Matt and me. We just nodded and drooled like Homer Simpson… “uhmm, he said pole.” The significance on this was lost on us.

Instead, we tried three starts near the Race Committee boat; we thought that the velocity was on the right side of the course. I should have known that something was amiss when I found myself commenting to Matt, “Wow, we have a nice little starting area here! No one quite around us at all-- this is a nice change of pace.” Congratulations were roundly passed. This confidence boosting technique was necessary after our self-esteem on the starting line had plummeted all week.

Then, we noticed a 15 degree shift to the left at the starting gun. The pats on the back ceased. Peter Bromby was on our hip and kept us from tacking to port, I expressed my concern about Peter’s jerkiness to Matt. I asked Matt why Peter would not tack? He explained, “I dunno”. Vintage Matt Pederson-- succinct and accurate, truly Wisconsin-- but without the f-bombs.

So, we tacked to port, ducked Peter, and then the nail was firmly planted in the coffin. The 15-degree shift was merely an appetizer. The main course included a fifty-degree shift; truly unconscionable. We delighted in sailing in the back of the fleet. However, my son Jack keeps referring to us being in “dead last.” I asked Jack to stop saying “dead last.” He complied and said, “Okay, you were in last, is that better?” Thanks for the adjustment little buddy.

Cheers on our boat erupted when we reached the leeward mark. The race was abandoned.

While preparing for the next attempt, I said Matt, “You know there is no way we are going to work the right side. I may do many stupid things but I will not make a mistake of that magnitude twice in a row. We shall visit the middle or left, but we will not step foot on the right side!” We started next to George Szabo and Mark Strube, near the boat and worked our way up the left middle, two boats rounded well ahead of everyone.

The two boats sailed to the far right of the course. It was Hamish Pepper/Carl Williams (in new SEA Gear ¾ length Airprene battened Hiking Pants, size XXL, courtesy of stargear.net) and Hans Fogh/Dave Caesar (both donning SEA Gear Star Droop suits only available at stargear.net, mention this article an you are guaranteed a 5% discount).

See, we can find the silver lining in all of this. Nobody on our team was grinding their teeth too hard about that fickle right side of the course. It’s all good…Serenity now… Serenity now.

We rounded in fifteenth and saw our bow number on the chalkboard as being allegedly over the starting line early. I returned to the harbor and my afterguard; Jack, Will and Cookie. My darling little girl thought to provide some poignant coaching advice, “Why don’t you just try watching the other boats when you start?” Will pointed out that, “Hey, look on your wrist; you are wearing a watch, why don’t you use that?” Insightful stuff. Is this the type of advice that Andy Z. and Larry Suter provide? Jack, of course, kept focusing on the phrase “dead last.” And, later just, “last”. Serenity now… serenity now… Insanity later.

Back at the hotel elevator, we noticed two sailors. I asked them where they are from, they clarified, “we, we are from Europe.”

Day 2

Yesterday’s results were less than encouraging. My wife, Betsy has been sick, we ate one of the worst meals in recent memory, and sailing our boat seems like learning a foreign language. Needless to say, spirits were down on our boat, in our suite, and in our family. I did not sleep. My gut was gurgling all night, my ass pulled the goalie and it was madhouse in the bathroom. In short, a storm hit Miami. A storm struck gold in my gut, in my ass, and in the sky. When I awoke, it could only get better.

The sky parted, I put on a pair of clean clothes and savored the simple things in life; a hot cup of coffee, a twenty-story view of Biscayne Bay and three sweet kids. We left the dock late and Matt and I promised each other to have a good time; the weatherman promised strong wind from the southwest; he complied. Matt and I always keep our promises to each other… did that sound gay?

Anyway, the mark was set for 205 degrees but the line was set 10 degrees favored to the pin end. Matt and I agreed that, under no circumstance with a line this long, should we give up a 10 degree advantage. So we headed for the pin even though we thought the wind would build from the right side. If you recall, Matt and I are fairly Pavlovian and were salivating to repeat the horrendous starts from yesterday. The saliva began to flow and our poor technique on the line allowed the Portuguese team to force us to tack, we ducked about 40 sterns. For those who are dumb as a fucking rock, this means we started in a very bad place. After ducking forty boats, which usually means you are devoted to going in the opposite direction, I decided to tack back to starboard. Brilliant! I should write a book on strategery.

These same forty boats crossed our bow, but much farther ahead-- one of them being Freddy Loof and Anders Ekstrom. We didn’t think much of it at the time as I was too busy--- in the words of Mr. T, “pitying the fool.”

That would be me.

When we rounded the weather mark; it was a madhouse. I did notice that Freddy Loof and Anders Ekstrom rounded in first. Remember they were with us on the left, not that far in front of us early on; one of the forty.

We appropriately fouled our friends Fabian MacGowan and Federico Engelhard and hit the mark just to make sure we covered ALL the bases! There was some yelling, in Spanish or Portuguese or whatever, the requisite gnashing of teeth, in Portuguese or Spanish or whatever, and we tried our best not to hit anything else. The rest of the race was fairly uneventful for us, wrong direction, wrong decisions etc… but we commiserated in Portuguese or Spanish or whatever. I am not sure Matt was listening anyway. Not even in English. I turned to Matt, “Miami got us good, don’t it?”

The second race started with the exact same course, a 205 degree windward mark and the pin favored by 10 degrees. We headed towards the pin. However, the Race Committee signaled a General Recall. I am sure we had nothing to do with it, right? Our confidence just hit a new low; it ordered an egg salad sandwich and a shot of bourbon in a seedy bar in L.A. at ten in the morning and then did the same for “all my friends.”

The Race Committee signaled the next start. We sailed by the race committee to check the course, it read 215 degrees. We had our first epiphany. Loof and Eckstrom did not win the race because of any wind advantage on the left, they merely sailed fast with a ten degree line advantage. Now, the line was square and it seemed the next wind shift and puff would come from the right. We decided to fight for the Committee boat end of the line. We lost this fight to another boat with the same stargear.net stickers on the boat and to new favorite customer Max Tracy and Anthony Shanks. It was heartbreaking but the medicine went down easy. So we immediately tacked away to port, so did they and they were all over us. What in tarnation, can’t a guy get a break? I mean we should be family by now. Alan Adler, from Brazil, is sailing a stargear.net boat and Max is now a heavy investor!

Matt asked, “Should we tack away?” I said with very little conviction “no”, and thought of George Costanza from the Seinfeld TV show. His greatest success came only when he did the exact opposite of what he thought was right. So I said, “Matt, today we stay on port. Today we sail in is someone else’s bad wind. The sea is angry my friend, and today we shall stay in the backwash of our friends.”

Sure enough, our Irish and Brazilian friends dealt out a heavy dose of bad wind but we rounded in twentieth or so; they were both in the top ten. I commented to Matt, “Hey this weather mark rounding isn’t so bad as the others.” Matt clarified, in no uncertain terms, that the madhouse was close behind and that when you “sail a better first leg” then we don’t have to deal with the madhouse. No wonder I can’t quit him.

The rest of the race was uneventful except auto-tacking on my friends Jon VanderMolen and TC Belco and then barreling at them on port after rounding the leeward mark. Jon threw the tiller to weather to avoid the collision. I apologized later and Jon graciously commented that, “if there ain’t any rubbin’ their ain’t any racin.” I suspect this is a NASCAR quote and I am not sure that I got it right. Any way, I owe you guys a couple.

Oh yeah, there were some more events at the last weather mark. We tacked on the starboard layline and were all hit with a squall. Thankfully, at this moment, Jack Rickard was not on the water taunting the lightning gods with a fourth crack at him, “You want a piece of me? You want a piece of me?” I ripped off my tiller extension and turned the boat downwind toward the finish line. It was a wild ride, a fun ride. A ride like this changed our outlook 180 degrees. Taking off like that reminds us all why we love to sail.

Day One

The sun was out and the wind was gusty but a steady 12 knots from the Southeast. The line was perfectly square and the wind was oscillating but the puffs seemed to come from the right. I just read Brad Nichol’s article and he remarked that the puffs might emerge from the left. Oh, well you can’t agree on everything.

We decided to start closer to the race committee boat and tack to port on the lulls and starboard on the puffs. John Dane/Austin Sperry and Ross MacDonald/Mike Wolfs were to windward and Andy MacDonald was to leeward. Normally, we sail low but on this start we held our lane. As it turns out, we decided to not tape our lower shroud and it had backed off two full numbers on the staymaster. This was a problem but it did little to effect our strategy and we worked the right side of the course.

We won the right side but it seems that Brad Nichol may have been correct in his assessment. As we approached the weather mark, we were tenth, Andy MacDonald was fourth, Dane/Sperry third, and MacDonald/Wolfs second. After that, it was a madhouse.

As Brad pointed out, those who jibed at the offset mark passed clumps of boats, us included. There was lots of yelling and gnashing of teeth but we were disqualified and awarded an OCS. This really did not improve our disposition; particularly when it seemed that both the weather and leeward boats’ bows were in front of ours at the gun. As many of you are well aware, refuting an OCS is nearly impossible. Not that we tried, of course.

Race two presented similar conditions, after a general recall the “z” flag appeared. Time to be cautious right, throttle back, you know, play it safe. Time to be cool, relax, get hip… etc… Not that I am a Queen fan or anything. However, MacDonald/Wolfs stole my hole and slide to leeward of us with twenty seconds, what happened to playing it cool. That’s when the Canadians always get you, when you put your guard down. Let that be a lesson to our border patrol.

After this act of Canadian aggression, I found myself inexplicably saying to my teammate Matt Pederson, “hey, Matt lets tack to port.” I’ve seen Mark Reynolds do this, make a little extra room with a sneaky and quick tack to port and then tack back with a clean start. With my rash decision, I seemed to forget that I am not Mark Reynolds and twenty seconds ain’t enough time for crap like that. With ten seconds, I am naked. I am on port in full view of the Race Committee boat and the middle line boat. No one is claiming me as their friend. For those of you not clear on the “z” flag, it means that you can’t be over the line within a minute of the start, another miscalculation.

The easiest way to get out of this mess is, of course, to turn the boat directly downwind toward the boats sailing upwind. They are at full speed at this point and not particularly pleased with the sudden appearance of my bright shining face and Matt’s expression of horror. By the grace of god, we slithered through the fleet without contact and took sterns to the right side. It was not a good first leg but for reasons unknown we did not receive an OCS for this start. So we limped around the course, vowing never to enjoy our next Labatt’s and Canadian bacon, not that we were willing to give them up, just not savor it as much.

If Pavlov were our sailing coach, he would recommend the second starting technique as the results were more favorable. So tomorrow, we plan more of the same. On guard.

Thanks to Max Tracy and Anthony Shanks taking three years off and not sailing their boat, they have become stargear.net’s best customers for the North Americans. Thanks guys, cheers, I will drink a shot a Bushmill’s in your name!

North American Championship Prologue

The 2006 North American Championship is in Miami, Florida this year. The Coral Reef Yacht Club in Coconut Grove has been hosting the best annual event of the year; the Bacardi Cup. However, despite their unparalleled success with this event, the Olympic Championship Regatta, and other smaller events, they have not taken on the North American Championships or World Championships. This year, it is time to bite off a little more and next year they will host the World Championship. Is this a preview?

I am excited to compete. I love Miami. I love the Coral Reef Yacht Club, and I love my wife and kids. So I thought, maybe toss them all into the blender and see what emerges. We decided to drive: two adults, three kids, one car, one boat, twelve hundred miles, a half a pack of cigarettes, and a limited pair of underpants.

All went smoothly; Springfield, Illinois to Atlanta was about ten hours. After we crossed the Florida border it was time to rest. I went back to help the kids out of the backseat and, one whom I will cryptically refer to as “Individual A”, had his window rolled down, sticking his bottom out with his hand jammed down the back of his pants. As my counsel has emphasized, in order to avoid any legal liability, his hand was “allegedly” jammed down the back of his pants. It looked like a small squirrel was trapped inside and fighting furiously to escape. I asked him, “What are you doing!”

He replied in terms that quickly illuminated the problem. “My bottom itches… and it stings.” Childhood memories burst on the scene: itchy bottom…stinging? Hummm, what could it be?

Oh, the joys of a poor wipe (see, parents decision to have Bar-B-Q for dinner in Tennessee) combined with hours of sitting. Lets all welcome our friend and neighbor, Mr. Skid Mark.

I said to Individual A, “Whatever you do, do not touch anything. Walk directly to our room, to the bathroom, wash your hands with soap and water then take a shower …with lots of scrubbing of the undercarriage.” He complied.

Per my wife, the underpants met their demise. Women.

The next day, Individual A expressed and an undue amount of remorse and angst. “Where were the underpants, when would they return, would they be the same? “ Betsy delivered the news, “……….”

I tried to explain to Individual A that his underpants were in a better place, but he only replied by tossing a blanket over his head. I pressed on, “Listen, those were some superior underpants, don’t get me wrong, but over time, you will meet a different pair. It will be like the sky is opening. You will meet an important and special pair of underpants that will bring fulfillment and joy… a joy is only a trip to Target away. Sure, these underpants are different, but we could color the crotch brown if you’d like. Pick up your head my son, there is more than one pair of underpants in the world for us all.” This turned out to be a poor choice of words.

Betsy joined in the analogy (something about developing a scratch-and-sniff dimension to the garment); it turned out to be less than funny to Individual A. Feelings were hurt, tears flowed. Just like the bell of the Polar Express, apparently adults reach a stage where we no longer appreciate that special pair of Underoos. Apologies marched out, dominated the discourse and the trip turned its evil eye towards Miami.

Note: It has been suggested by counsel that those whom are reading this discourse should exercise all restraint in inquiring amongst the possible suspects as to who, of the three little ones, may be suffering from a broken heart. The ramifications may not be worth the inquiry.