For more than 30 years, the Snipe—a hard-chine 15-footer almost a century old—has been my teacher. I first stepped into one as a newbie 20-something, as a crew for the most demanding skipper I’ve ever sailed with. That unlikely “blind date” led to countless friendships, fitness, failures and, of course, fun.

Snipe sailing takes me all over the country and around the world—and brings me right back home to Rhode Island’s Narragansett Bay, where Kim Couranz and I won the Snipe Women’s Worlds in 2018. I’ve rigged boats in a shivery, rain-soaked Danish boat park; surfed ocean waves in Japan, where swells seemed to swallow boats and rigs whole. I’ve drifted around a Massachusetts lake so small that I could overhear an international sailor wonder aloud where the races would be conducted. If variety is the spice of life, the Snipe is the cayenne pepper of one-design sailing.

What draws me to this quirky one-design is the challenge to improve—the continuum of learning and personal growth that eventually took me all the way to the Olympics. Usually, sailors become lifers in whatever class they grow up sailing. Even though racing dominated my teen summers and college years, I didn’t have my first Snipe sighting until age 25. Wandering the docks during a springtime visit to Annapolis, Maryland, I spotted a pair of Snipes out practicing. The boom seemed so ridiculously high that I didn’t quite believe it when my tour guide explained that the Snipe was one of the most competitive classes around. Really? That funny little boat?

One month later, I received that first crewing invitation. After several years away from competitive sailing, I certainly wasn’t thinking about the next 30 years, or how much this odd craft could teach me; I was just hoping I wouldn’t completely embarrass myself. As soon as I hung up the phone, I researched it.

No spinnaker? How could this be any fun?

Five days later, Ed Adams and I won the 1990 Chesapeake Olympic Classes Regatta. I was hooked. Snipe sailing, Adams told me on the long drive home, was where college sailors go to die—because it provides a similar tactical and social vibe. Yet, even as a newbie crew, I’d already tasted the additional overlay of technical challenge. I was hungry—no, famished—to learn more. “I gotta regatta,” I remember telling myself and my friends as I signed on to crew for as many weekends as possible. Snipes migrated to Florida in the winter, I discovered, unaware that learning the intricacies of Miami’s Biscayne Bay would eventually help me win the 2004 Olympic Trials in the Yngling. Regattas became my primary source of friendships, education and enjoyment—all centered on an easy road-trip package that was built and rigged right up the road from my home base.

Showing up for my first regatta as Adams’ crew gave me instant credibility and leapfrogged me right to the head of the class—where crewing slots are hard to come by. I went to my first world championship in Brazil with Andrew Pimental, owner of Jibetech, a Snipe class builder, who taught me that a laid-back style works as long as you hike harder and catch more waves than the competition. Two years of “cross-training” with Henry Filter showed me the total dedication of an Olympic campaign. Sailmakers Greg Fisher and George Szabo taught me how to tune (on and off the water), and proved once and for all that boatspeed kills—especially when we don’t take ourselves too seriously. And even though I met my husband through other sailing, he was welcomed into the Snipe family, until knee surgery forced him to give up dinghies.

I had my first taste at the helm when Pimental offered me his boat for a women’s national championship. Though it’s now a stand-alone event instead of a prelude to the Senior Nationals, this weekend of fun is still a fantastic entry point for any female—skipper, crew or undecided—who wants to dip a toe into the class. Steering, it turns out, is actually the easier job in the Snipe, partly because there’s a whole lot more room in the back half of the cockpit.

The 1998 Snipe Women’s Worlds, my first international test of helming skills, confirmed that I loved the gut-churning stress of skippering—and also revealed how much more I had to learn. Back in the front of the boat that winter, I peppered Szabo with questions—and also developed a little more attitude, since I now appreciated just how crucial a Snipe crew really is.

In 2001, my Snipe ­experience gave me just enough confidence to start an Olympic Yngling campaign. For teammates, I drew from the top of the Snipe roster. Early on, my team was known for a signature “Snipe look” upwind, as we turned our mainsail inside out to depower. Over time, of course, we refined our rig ­settings. Combined with that ­ever-present hunger to improve, I can confidently state that Snipe sailing helped me build a team that eventually won two races at the 2004 Games.

And of course, all that Yngling training helped me win a few Snipe regattas too. In 2002, when the annual DonQ Regatta in Miami coincided with a rare empty weekend, I teamed up with Pimental for what was supposed to be just a fun three days of sailing. It was, but we also won—once I convinced him to step up to the left more than he thought necessary. After so many training days on Biscayne Bay, I knew that’s where a dying northerly would fade last.

After an Olympic regatta, many sailors take time away from the sport to readjust goals, detox or focus on something else. I dived right back into Snipe sailing, gratefully applying everything I’d learned to competing with others who also lived a 9-to-5 life between regattas. Though I now identified as a skipper, I stepped back into the crewing position for a few select regattas; two Snipe Nationals and a world championship with Szabo, and a Masters Nationals with Peter Commette. Crewing is a fantastic way to learn—though it doesn’t replace making my own mistakes.

In 2010, I was finally able to buy my own Snipe. I also recruited a dependable, smart and entertaining teammate in Kim Couranz. I first gained respect for her brainy wit while comparing Snipe skipper notes, and later learned what a great keelboat teammate she is, but signing on as my Snipe teammate was a brave step; our combined weight was—and still is—30 pounds too light. Ignoring the naysayers, we charged the longtail of the Snipe’s learning curve.

Couranz and I have spent the past decade developing our own toolbox of Snipe speed tricks. Our competitors have patiently answered endless questions, even when we finish ahead of them, and we’ve refined our tuning and sail shape to match our personal strengths, though we are still searching for a setting that makes it possible to hang with the big boys in 12 to 18 knots. At the 2019 Snipe Worlds in Brazil, we achieved an important international milestone; I overheard a South American skipper refer to us as “Carol and Kim” rather than “the girls,” even though we were, as usual, the only all-female team at that 80-boat biennial regatta.

We’ve also realized that spontaneous laughter sometimes works as a weapon (“Are they laughing at me?”), and it is always the best cure for a bad race. Snipe sailing is both a ­priority and a part-time endeavor, slotted between jobs, husbands, houses—even other sports. For Couranz, an aerobic monster, a 50-mile running race is a fun adventure. Which reminds me of another benefit: Sailing a Snipe as a light team is an excellent fitness motivator. Thinking about how miserable I will be on the third beat at the next windy regatta is the incentive I need to push through a third set of reps in the gym, or gasp out one more aerobic interval—which, in turn, ­provides lifelong health benefits.

Thirty years ago, I blind-dated my way into a new family that has inspired so much personal growth—as a sailor of course, but also as a friend and wife and human. From 20-something to 50-something, from young and dumb to older and a bit wiser, I’ve climbed a huge learning curve without ever leaving the Snipe nest. The challenge to improve continues at every single regatta, and I’m still peppering my competitors (both young and old) with questions. With this quirky doublehanded dinghy, the learning never gets old.

The post A World of Snipe appeared first on Sailing World.

A surreal emotion sweeps over me as I peel back the stiff canvas cover, exposing my Interlake to the warm July morning sun. The routine of rigging my boat before the day’s race will be the same as it’s always been, but this time, the experience will be different. Dad is no longer beside me, meticulously preparing the boat as he always did, checking control lines for chafe, inspecting every bit of hardware and gliding his hands over the foils to confirm their perfection. That’s how we would rig my Interlake together—until 2012, when cancer suddenly took him.

It’s amazing how a simple sound can extract a memory from deep within. When I hear water slapping the Interlake’s flared bow, its hard chine sluicing through a choppy Sandusky Bay, just as it was designed to do, I think of Dad.

It’s also a sound that draws the happiest memories of sailing with my family, of junior sailing practices and the laughter, fun and freedom of being a carefree teenager on the water. It’s a sound that has bonded me to the Interlake for decades.

Like many of us, I was lucky to discover sailing through my parents, both of whom were outstanding sailors with a genuine love and passion for the sport. Dad won a handful of national championships in the Columbia 26 and Tartan 10 classes. He was calm on and off the water and had a knack for making the boat go a touch faster than any boat around him. I crewed for him for many years, unknowingly soaking up his lessons and wisdom.

When I was very young, I would sit behind Dad during windy races on Wine Squall, the family T-10.

This was the safest spot on the boat for a child, and it allowed me to have the perfect seat to watch him drive through the waves. Dad’s best friend, Jack Mueller—who was always the main trimmer in any large regatta we ever sailed—was also a great teacher, a very accomplished sailor, and class builder for many years for the Lightning and Snipe classes. He was also a man who graced any room he entered with a legendary smile and laugh.

Jack shared the same calm demeanor as Dad, making them a great combination. I learned a great deal watching them sail together over the years.

As I grew older, I was given the opportunity to move forward in the boat, from behind the tiller, to trimming the jib, to even sharing the helm with my father during the North Americans. He and Jack worked well together, always reminding the team that boatspeed was essential, but sailing on the correct side of the course was always more important.

They shared the same perspective that winning was great—but not as important as enjoying our time on the water together. They both had a great feel, and they taught me a great deal when it came to sailing in waves. They were always discussing heel angle, traveler height and how the bow felt going through the chop.

They also had the great ability to forget a poor result, and follow up a bad race with a strong finish to save a series.

RELATED: My Class, My Story: Capri 25

My parents enjoyed sailing together and to make a point of it, they always registered as George and Nancy Ward in any major regatta they ever entered, a tradition my wife Jayme and I continue to this day. In their honor, the T-10 class now awards the Ward Trophy at the annual North American Championship to the top placing husband and wife team.

Sportsmanship was always very important to my father too. He viewed sailing much like running a business: If you treat people with respect, act honestly and avoid conflict whenever necessary, you will generally come out on the winning side of things. After his passing, the Sandusky Sailing Club graciously honored my dad by naming their annual sportsmanship award after him. One of his best friends, Rex Carper, a legendary bowman for many years on Wine Squall, designed and donated a beautiful trophy.

After graduating from ­college long ago, I found myself looking for a place to settle and a small boat I could campaign on my own. The Sandusky Sailing Club in Ohio was an obvious choice. The dry-sail area at the club was forever teeming with Interlakes, which the club commissioned in 1933, and the local fleet, with as many as 40 boats at the time, was an active group.

The Interlake was the work of Francis Sweisguth, who also designed the Star. Sweisguth was hired to develop a centerboard dinghy uniquely designed for Lake Erie’s Sandusky Bay.

Eighteen feet long, easy to trailer, rig and sail, it was the perfect boat for the club. Its bow glides easily through the tight chop that we often have on the bay and the right amount of heel angle greatly affects how the boat performs, in flat water or waves.

My first Interlake was an older model, which I raced for a few years. It was a good boat and I had a great time learning more about the class and what would be required of me to race at a higher level.

Every year, the week before the national championship, Dad and I would get together, go over the boat and make sure it was ready for the regatta. He was a believer in setting up for success before leaving the dock for the first race, so he instilled in me one key element of sailboat racing: If my equipment, rigging, sails and crew are in order, I have no excuse to lose.

One appealing trait of the Interlake is its simplicity. The mast is easy to step, and without spreaders, it’s easy to tune. Dad and I would step the mast together and double check the tuning numbers.

He was a believer in ­having settings that are easy to replicate on the racecourse. We would confirm our mast rake and trim marks on the jib sheets, centerboard and traveler lines to ensure they were in line with baseline settings. We would inspect the centerboard to make sure it hung at the perfect angle in the boat. We’d replace any small items we thought could potentially fail, leaving nothing to chance.

The older I got, the more I enjoyed this time with him. As an engineer, he thought about things differently than I. He preferred listening to talking, but he always thoughtfully answered any question I asked. I eventually saved enough money to buy a new Interlake from Customflex.

Terry Kilpatrick was building them at the time, and the process of creating a boat with him was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. Kilpatrick and his wife, Karen, are two of the kindest people I’ve ever met and with them it was more than a boatbuilding exercise. It was family bonding. He allowed me to get as involved in the build process as I wanted. I would visit them on the weekends. Terry would let me lend a hand with the lay-up and rigging.

I met my wife while racing Interlakes, and Kilpatrick worked with the two of us so the boat was rigged for her to be able to easily reach and pull control lines. He’s the only Yale-educated boatbuilder I’ve ever met, and the care and intelligence he put into building boats was remarkable. I wanted to add a custom teak rub rail around the boat because I liked the way it looked—it added a touch of the past to the new boat.

Kilpatrick spent hours working on that rail, and the finished product looks fantastic to this day. A handful of other owners eventually asked for teak rails too, and I feel good knowing he probably cursed my name each time he added one to a new hull. He has since retired, but today, Wes Blazer, of Weatherly Boat Works in Port Clinton, Ohio, builds Interlakes in the same meticulous manner. The boats remain an incredible value considering the craftsmanship and care that goes into each build.

In 2012, the Interlake Nationals were scheduled for North Cape YC in LaSalle, Michigan. North Cape is a special place for me because my grandfather, whose name I proudly bear, was a founding member. He was the club’s second commodore and my parents held their wedding reception there many years ago. My good friend Jay Mueller—Jack’s son—and I had the event ­circled on our calendars for years, and we were really looking forward to it. We’d sailed a Snipe Junior Nationals together at North Cape many years earlier and we’d always looked forward to returning for a regatta of some sort. Jay lived in Connecticut and came back for a few regattas every year.

We’d always enjoyed sailing with one another, so teaming up for Nationals was something we had to do.

When my dad passed away earlier that year, it was hard on the family. Sailing, however, is a wonderful distraction from life’s woes, which is why I committed to racing as much as possible. Dad would have approved.

Leading up to the Interlake Nationals, Jay and I raced major events in everything we could get our hands on: T-10s, J/24s, Lightnings and Interlakes. When Nationals finally rolled around in July, I truly felt we were ready.

Dad, of course, would have expected nothing less.

We won both races on the first day, but our great friends and rivals, Skip Dieball and his crew Jeff Eiber, came back strong to tie the series before the final race. We had some fortunate breaks in that race and crossed the finish line overlapped with Dieball and Eiber, so I was overcome with happiness when the race committee acknowledged we’d won. At the awards ceremony, Dieball gave a gracious speech, mentioning my dad and how special the event was for both of us. I remember his kind words today and will always look back on that regatta with a belief that it all came together at the right time.

After racing, I methodically secured the Interlake’s deck cover, closing the boat like a journal, full of memories and thoughts of Dad, my wife, Jack, Terry and Jay—all of whom have influenced me in more ways than I’ll ever know.

These are the influencers in my life, but it’s also this 18-foot fiberglass boat, designed ages ago for a much different purpose, that has defined my life and who I am today.

The post My Class, My Story: Interlake appeared first on Sailing World.

My dad was a perpetual boat shopper. Never a buyer. The local J boat dealers were always patient though. They’d regularly take my family sailing on their J/24s at reservoirs around New Mexico. I was 8 years old when he first shared his love of sailing with me, but my own infatuation with the sport came from watching the 1987 America’s Cup in Fremantle, Australia, on TV late into the night.

By the time I was a senior in high school, I was sailing a lot, traveling to the Dillon Open, first with a J/24 team and then with a J/80. We trailered the J/80 to Key West, Florida, in 1999, and that same year, I raced with friends at the San Diego NOOD on their Ultimate 20. Soon after, I moved to San Diego, got a job as a sailmaker and raced Lasers, Capri 14s and J/105s. College sailing followed, as did a few offshore races, such as the Pac Cup, from San Francisco to Hawaii. Countless races to Mexico and stints on boats big and small gave me a steady diet of races. My last major regatta of those heady days was the San Diego NOOD in 2007, on board a Beneteau 36.7 called Kea.

That was before a “real” job landed me in Utah, where I started sailing with yacht clubs on Bear Lake and Great Salt Lake. It was fun, but being away from the ocean, my interest waned. I traded race boats for bicycles, but kept in touch with my sailing friends around the country.

Sailing kept calling to me while I was coping with major life changes. I finally answered in 2016, literally, when a call came from a cycling friend who owns a daysailer. He mentioned he wanted to get back into racing boats as well. We dived in, spending the entire spring tuning up the boat. At the same time, I joined the Park City Sailing Association and chartered one of its Elliot 6-Meters for Thursday-night racing.

Eventually, a 1985-­vintage Capri 25 named Little Wing came into my life. It was showing its age, which you’d expect of a 30-year-old ­fiberglass boat, but it was everything I wanted: a sleek 1980s design, a decent interior and a wide deck. It had a few new bits and pieces, some cracks and fading paint, but nothing my elbow grease wouldn’t take care of. The Capri 25 came with a pedigree as a great club racer here in the Intermountain West, but most important, it had a spirit, that of a sailboat ready for more adventures.

After more than 30 years in the sport, I was captain of my own ship.

I’m lucky to have found such a solid little craft. I wasn’t keen on the name initially, but the boat spoke to me and told me its name was indeed Little Wing. It’s now my prize possession, and it’s amazing how a grown man like me can be so obsessed with 25 feet of ­fiberglass, wood and lead.

The boat is 33 years old, remember, so the work list was long. I first overhauled the trailer and then tackled Little Wing‘s bottom with hours upon hours of sandpaper and epoxy. My major projects included replacing a bulkhead, painting the deck and rearranging a few pieces of hardware, but my appreciation for Little Wing grew deeper with every tattered piece of sandpaper, empty tube of goo and quart of paint.

Our first race with the boat was Father’s Day weekend at Bear Lake, a 109-square-mile oval-shaped stretch of fresh water on the Utah-Idaho border. My dad was visiting from Albuquerque, New Mexico, and my buddy brought his daughter along for the race. Even in adulthood, I try to impress my dad and make him proud. Racing this day proved no different. He was a bit rusty on account of not having raced in many years, so I guided him through spinnaker jibes and sail changes.

With the roles of our youth reversed, the dynamic on board Little Wing was far more relaxed and fun than the early days. There was no frustration or impatience, just old-man jokes and a few bumps and bruises along the way. Every maneuver was an opportunity to connect with him in a way that was completely different from when I was the one learning to sail as a kid.

Thankfully, my dad was impressed with Little Wing and what I’d been able to accomplish with it. Our new racing sails weren’t on the boat for that first outing. On account of it being our first true race, we were plenty rusty and finished dead last.

It didn’t matter. That day with Dad was perfect anyway.

The summer sailing ­season continued, with excursions and overnights with my family and booze cruises with friends who’d never sailed. They regularly reminded me how the daysails were the most fun they’d had all summer.

We improved our racing results each weekend and eventually took Little Wing on the road, to Flathead Lake for the Montana Cup. We later wrapped up our first season in the best way I could ever imagine: the annual Bear Lake Monster Race, a 22-mile lap of the lake. As the slowest boat in A fleet, we did our best to keep our air clean and sail the boat fast. At about the halfway point, we figured we were winning, beating the seven other larger and faster boats on corrected time.

The fleet inverted, however, when a new wind filled in along the western shoreline, springing the other boats ahead of us. The wind shift was so agonizingly close; there were whitecaps 500 yards away that we just could not reach. Off they went with the new breeze, leaving us in their wakes.

Once we finally got to the new wind, it was gusting 20 knots and higher. No one else was flying a spinnaker, so what the heck, if we were to have a shot at getting back in the race we had to push ourselves. We popped our spinnaker, it snapped full and Little Wing surged onto a sleigh ride to the bottom mark. We turned the corner within striking distance, and with our heavyweight crew, we were able to keep the boat flat and the heavy No. 1 flying. At one point, I could see my 30-year-old genoa literally coming apart at the seams. I wondered whether the sail would endure the five or so tacks we needed to make the finish line.

The straining genoa got us there, and by our rough calculations, we were close on corrected time, but unsure of the outcome. Once at the dock, we anxiously made our way to the race committee. They calculated everyone’s times, and finally the suspense was over — we won. We whooped and hollered, and I’m sure the entire marina heard us celebrating. There were high-fives, hugs, pats on the back and smiles ear to ear, rewards for all our efforts. We headed for the nearest burger joint and cracked open our celebratory beers, toasting as though we’d won the America’s Cup.

This was a hard-earned win against fast boats and great sailors. Until this summer, the Monster Race perpetual trophy sat on my shelf, engraved with Little Wing‘s name, reminding me each day what this boat means to me and all who sail it. And while my purchase was based on many factors, the potential for one-design racing was a big part of it. There are now five Capri 25s in Utah, with passionate owners who share knowledge and keep these cool little boats alive and sailing fast. We’ve proved to ourselves that having fun and being successful is possible in older boats, and that even in the middle of the Mountain West, sailing is where the excitement is found.

Ben Towery, of Ogden, Utah, splits his free time between family, sailing, swimming, cycling, skiing and pampering his Capri 25. He was unable to defend his Monster Race title in 2018. “Little Wing is definitely in her element in light air,” he says. “But we have yet to figure out how to handle her in heavy breeze.”

The post My Class, My Story: Capri 25 appeared first on Sailing World.

Seeing an iceboat fly across the ice at more than 40 miles per hour is usually met with excited and amazed curiosity from bystanders: “Wow, how does that work?” they ask. “I’d love to experience that, but I don’t know how to sail” or most commonly, it’s, “Dang that’s cool, but I know I’ll never experience it.”

I grew up racing sailboats in the Midwest and competed on both coasts of the United States. However, from an early age, I knew I wanted to live and raise my family on a ­Midwestern lake: Weatherby Lake in Missouri is perfect mid-America, where I could raise my family surrounded by similar people, who would be my friends for life.

I accomplished my first goal when I ­married my wife, Lyn, in 1985. I found a house on Weatherby, knocking off goal No. 2. I was contemplating goal No. 3, having kids, when I stumbled upon a garage sale in the neighborhood. Bingo!I had always wanted an iceboat, and there sat an old, dust-covered light-blue DN needing repairs. Michael and Jan Gunn, who had purchased it used from Weatherby residents who built several in the 1960s, were excited to pass it on, as long as they made sure I knew what I was getting into. You know, the dangers and all.

I brought home the boat, stripped it down, made repairs and painted it white, knowing I could choose an appropriate color scheme and name later. Ice-boat season was upon us, and iceboating at Weatherby is very inconsistent. Competitors wait for thick ice, wind and no snow. We can go through a season without a single opportunity to race, so it’s paramount our boats are ready, day or night, workday or weekend. “The wind waits for no man,” my good friend Augie Grasis would always say.

During summer, we race and beat up on each other in other craft. But as soon as winter arrives, iceboating is the premier social event, with all different types of iceboats: homemades, DNs and Nites, usually surrounded by miscellaneous activities like ice bocce, ice golf, ice skating, ice camp-outs, ice fishing and even ice horseshoes.

In 1988, my white boat had its thrilling maiden voyage, and I was a welcome newcomer to the club. It left me wanting to share the experience with others. As luck would have it, some nonsailing friends, Faye and Dave Southard, from Knoxville, T­ennessee, were considering a visit the ­following weekend.

I’d just finished another moonlit ice-boat run with Augie, and called Dave. “You’ve got to get here and try this!”

He agreed under one condition: “Don’t tell anyone it’s my first time.” True to my word, I didn’t tell anyone, but proudly cut and applied the name in black vinyl across the boat, 1st Time Dave.

Dave was a sport that day, grinning ear to ear, run after run, among our ice-born ­neighbors. After a successful day, I asked him to autograph the hull. He did so proudly, sparking an amazing tradition that would live on for more than 25 years. Even my wife, who once considered it “a barbaric sport,” wanted her name on the boat after Dave’s experience. She made her maiden voyage and signed 1st Time Dave. By the time our sons Seth and Blake were old enough to sail and sign, there were at least 50 signatures already. When newbies see the signature-covered boat, fears subside.

Sailing an iceboat is easy. Because it goes so fast, the wind is always on the nose. The instructions are simple: Sail between two spots (reach, reach), pull in the sheet to go fast, let it out to slow down. To stop, drag your feet and release the sail.The signatures, now in the hundreds, reflect countless 1st Time Dave stories: “I fell in the water” wrote Adam Stulman at age 8. Elderly Floyd Adams, a retired sailor, once took off down a cove, scaring all of us. Bob Mulhall forgot the feet-down stopping technique. Ron Knop wished we’d pulled the racing marks before the freeze. Eventually, the Seth and Blake years — filled with their friends sailing 1st Time Dave — put wear on the aging pine boat, while adding to its legacy. It became a challenge to repair and retain as many signatures with comments as possible.

I only wish a “permanent” marker were actually permanent. Our beloved DN is now mostly retired. We’ve had several iceboats, including the two-seater Nite, but 1st Time Dave was the one with a line, wanting to sail and sign. Most everyone in our ­community of 800 families has their own 1st Time Dave story, but whenever Dave ­Southard visits, he’s a folk hero. He’s the original 1st Time Dave.

To read more stories about sailors who love their one-design classes, new and old, click here.

The post My Class, My Story: DN Iceboat appeared first on Sailing World.

On a warm spring day in 2006, Houston YC’s harbor was alive with sailboats, large and small, coming and going from their slips. Signal flags fluttered from the club’s yardarm, and masthead vanes pointed into the 10-knot afternoon southeasterly sweeping across Galveston Bay. This was not my first visit to Pier 10, home of the club’s Ensign fleet. Many times before I’d walked the dock to admire the Ensigns, wondering which one might be the best fit for me, and on this occasion a blue hull caught my eye. Its skipper deftly headed her into the breeze and coasted into a slip. As I watched, I could imagine myself at its helm.

The elegant lines of the Carl Alberg design, its stout fiberglass hull, bright work coaming boards and 8-foot cockpit seemed a perfect answer to the question looming over me: What would be the best class for an older sailor like me after years of fast, wet racing machines?

I was searching for something to race and sit comfortably inboard with a backrest yet still enjoy the thrill of one-design racing. For my wife, Paula, and me, the Ensign stood out as our next perfect sailboat. I could take part in a competitive fleet one day or set out on a ­comfortable day sail with friends and family.

Once I expressed interest in the Ensign, it wasn’t long before I was introduced to Dean and Kay Snider, who hosted us for a sunset sail on Little Oil. We anchored in Woozy Bay for cold drinks and a picnic dinner. Little did I know, they were romancing me into their fleet. After that inaugural cruise, I crewed on Little Oil many times and took careful notes on rigging, sail trimming and spinnaker evolutions. In the fall, I began to take inventory of available Ensigns at the club, ideally one that didn’t require major rehabilitation. In February 2007, I finally found No. 1029, a 1966 Pearson-built hull, in Dunedin, Florida. I trailered it home to Houston and christened her The Other Woman, with Paula’s blessing, of course. After seven years of club racing at the Houston YC, I was ready to take her on the road to compete with East Coast Ensign sailors. Our first trip was to St. Petersburg, Florida, for Midwinters. There were 10 Ensigns on the starting line for the three-day regatta, and having never raced with more than five or six Ensigns at once, it was an entirely new experience for The Other Woman and its crew. We posted three fourths in the seven-race series and finished fifth overall.

We were pleased with our midfleet standing in our first major regatta, and the experience only served to wet our appetite for national-level racing. Soon after, plans hatched for the long haul to Niantic, Connecticut, for the 2015 Ensign National Championship. The one thing we learned from our trek to Florida was that successful road trips with a heavy sailboat in tow is all about one thing: the trailer.

Three hours into our haul to Connecticut, we felt a jolt, heard a bang, and in the rearview mirror, I could see trailer tire parts flying across Interstate 10. We knew immediately we had a big problem. With no paved shoulder, changing the tire was a challenge. We had to break the last stubborn lug nut to remove the damaged tire and put on the spare. We crept into Crowley and found a tire store. After a three-hour delay and the purchase of two shiny new trailer tires, we were back on I-10. “Niantic or bust,” was our mantra.

Following our GPS navigation system, we entered Connecticut on the Merritt Parkway, passing under a steel-frame bridge with a 9’6″ clearance. I had driven under it before, but never with a sailboat on a trailer. Not actually knowing the height of our haul with the mast tied atop, I shifted to the center lane as we drove under the many historic stone-bridge crossings.

At one point, while crawling in stop-and-go rush-hour traffic, an ambulance driver ahead of us stepped out of his vehicle and walked up to my driver side door, admonish. “You should be on I-95,” he scolded. “There are big fines driving on the Merritt Parkway with a boat trailer.”

I begged his pardon, telling him we were from Texas and didn’t know any better. Besides, we were bound for the next exit, New Canaan. The next morning, I measured the mast height: 9’4″ above the pavement, and thanked our lucky Texas stars. Forty Ensigns competed in eight races, and our best finishes were an eight and a 12, so we finished 20th. After the last race, a fellow Ensign sailor told me that with our placing, we’d won the Doug Wood Mid-Fleet Trophy. What a surprise, in our first Ensign National Championship regatta, The Other Woman had hardware to haul back south. Our travels continued to the Ensign Midwinters on Lake Murray, South Carolina, where we chalked up another midfleet finish.

Encouraged by three midfleet finishes, we have plans for Cedarville, Michigan, in August to compete in the Ensign Nationals. It’s another long haul, but one guided by the wisdom of our christening prayer for The Other Woman a decade ago: “We pray for safe sailing, and spare us large expenses along the way.”

While we’ve returned home safely from every race and every escapade, she does demand constant upkeep and tender care to keep her in Bristol fashion ready for the next sailing ­adventure. Certain ladies, however, are worth every extra penny.

To read more stories about sailors who love their one-design classes, new and old, click here.

The post My Class, My Story: The Ensign appeared first on Sailing World.

Barbara had never sailed until a week after we met in October 1962, when I invited her to go sailing on my Thistle off City Island, New York. It was blowing about 10 knots, and a friend joined us for additional ballast. ­Barbara was terrific. She hiked out, worked the jib sheet, and was enthralled with the spinnaker. She smiled the entire time.

Later, back onshore, my buddy whispered to me, “She’s a keeper.” Ten months later, we were married.

Six years and two children later, Barbara suggested I buy a Sunfish. I’d seen the multicolored sails racing on Peconic and Southold bays off the North Fork of Long Island, but I had never set foot on one. So in August 1968, we bought the first of 11 Sunfish our family would own over the next 49 years.

Months later, in April 1969, on a crisp spring day with a warm sun and 8-knot breeze, ­Barbara and I set off in our Sunfish across Little Peconic Bay. We were dressed for the occasion, and both of us were looking forward to our first sail of the season. It had been a long time since we’d sailed together, and if Barbara had any qualms, she concealed them well. We beam-reached across the bay, both of us enjoying it immensely. We landed at Nassau Point, and I pulled our Sunfish onto the beach so we could stretch our legs with a short walk. The air started to cool, and after 20 minutes, we opted to sail back.

The breeze hadn’t changed direction or strength, so I guided the boat into the water and pointed its bow out to sea.

The water was 6 inches deep at the stern and a foot deep at the bow. Barbara settled herself on the starboard, windward side with her feet in the cockpit while I held onto the traveler. The mainsheet hung loosely. As I turned around to reach for the boat’s daggerboard, which was lying on the sand about 3 feet away, I heard Barbara suddenly yell for help. A gust of wind was propelling her out to sea on a runaway Sunfish. I sprinted into the ice-cold water with the daggerboard in my hands. The boat was moving faster than I could run. I yelled, “Barbara, catch!” and tossed the daggerboard to her as hard as I could.

The board smacked the rudder and fell into the water behind the boat, but my catlike bride snatched it and dragged it into the boat. As she sailed farther away, I went from waist to ­shoulder deep in the frigid water.

“Put the daggerboard in the slot in the ­middle of the boat,” I hollered.

She did so immediately.

“Grab the rope that’s attached to the boom, and hold it loosely in your right hand,” I then yelled.

She did.

“Hold the steering stick in your left hand. You’re going to turn the boat around so it will head toward me.”

“OK,” said Ms. Cool. The boat was now about 30 feet away and sailing toward the horizon. “Keep the stick pointed in the middle of the boat, and slowly pull the rope toward you.” She did, and the boat accelerated away.

“On three, push the stick away from you as far as you can,” I called after her, my voice trailing away. “As the boat starts turning, move to the opposite side, and put the stick in your right hand and the rope in your left.” She followed directions perfectly, and the Sunfish came about.

I thought for sure that this was the end of my marriage. I plunged into the water and took three or four strokes before the Sunfish sailed right to me. I pushed Barbara back on board, and with me holding onto the side, we sailed the 20 feet or so until I could stand and wade ashore. We made it home safely, in about a half-hour, but it was several years before Barbara agreed to go sailing with me again.

That summer, we joined Southold YC, where our children learned to sail and I helped co-found the “Annual World’s Longest ­Sunfish Race, Around Shelter Island, New York.” I joined the U.S. Sunfish Class Association, and as our children grew older, we participated in many regattas within 150 miles of Long Island. I’ll never forget when our two older boys, Joe and Sean, were 13 and 12 years old, and we competed in the North American Championships in Barrington, Rhode Island. They were racing with about 120 other boats in the ­consolation fleet. Sean was 90 pounds at the time. At the ­lobster dinner that night, we dined with several adult sailors, who talked about how they sat to leeward trying to blow air into their sails while some little kid was hiking out and sailing away from the fleet. That was Sean, of course, who ended up winning the race and finishing in the middle of the fleet with a score of something like 416 and 3/4 points.

After the children had grown, I teamed up with my sailing buddy, Dr. Dick Heinl. We traveled to regattas as far away as Mississippi and Texas, as well as throughout the Northeast. Among those on the Sunfish racing circuit, we became known as the “Thelma and Louise of the Viagra Set.”

Sunfish sailors always have a good time, and last summer, Dick, at age 91, the oldest competitor at the U.S. Masters Championship, received a standing ovation and a walker for his participation.

Over the years, Barbara accompanied me to regattas in Chicago, Upstate New York, Cape Cod and elsewhere. Eventually, she agreed to give Sunfish sailing another try.

We launched off Southold YC and frolicked for more than an hour, sailing on a beautiful and clear summer day with a gentle 10-knot breeze. On the way back to the beach, I asked how she felt.

“This is fun,” she answered. “Just the way I like it.”

“Then you’ll join me again sometime?”

“Yes,” she replied.

In those days, Southold YC had a small T dock extending about 10 feet into the water and then about 18 feet or so parallel to the beach. My plan was to sail alongside the dock and drop off Barbara.

The breeze was favorable for what I wanted to do, and as we approached, I noticed a few young children playing at one end of the parallel dock. I approached the other end. The water was shallow, and I asked Barbara to lift the daggerboard halfway. She did, and as we came slowly alongside the dock, one of the boys jumped right in front of the boat. I shoved the tiller hard away to avoid the child, and the boom swung over and hit the raised daggerboard. Barbara and I were both sitting to starboard, and the boat capsized in about 2 feet of water. Barbara did a backward somersault into the bay, stood up soaking wet with her hands on her hips, and glared at me in total disbelief.

She did forgive me, however, in the form of a terrific gift for which I shall forever be grateful: my email name “joesunfish.”

It’s the people and the stories that make each class unique. I invite you to share your story, your class. Write me at editor@sailingworld.com so I can share it and make old new again.

To read more stories about sailors who love their one-design classes, new and old, click here.

The post My Class, My Story: The Sunfish appeared first on Sailing World.

The Day Sailer really moves on the race course. It has all the right sails and strings, and it’s comfortable and it’s responsive. What I cherish even more than George O’Day and Uffa Fox’s timeless design, however, is the experience of stepping on board and instantly feeling connected to other chapters of my life.

I realize this recently at the annual Day Sailer Crab Pot Regatta at the Severn Sailing Association in Annapolis, Maryland, in October 2016. This non-club-sanctioned tradition has taken different formats through the years, but it always includes something adventurous late in the season, an opportunity to switch boats and crews, and a bowl of chili afterward. On this occasion, our generous fleet captain Robin Richards has rigged Kanaka and Bail Out so we can do a little match racing right off SSA’s docks. It’s gusting, so staying close to the club is a smart idea, especially without crash boats at the ready. Short races right where the Severn River and Spa Creek meet means navigating the irrationality of landmasses and competing winds. Big puffs and even bigger lulls make for a fine quadriceps workout.

Eight of us suit up to race while a group of friends watches from the dock. We complete a half-dozen races — quick sprints between mooring balls and government cans, changing out skippers and crews after every race, with just enough time between to take a sip of water, wipe the sweat off our brows, and laugh.

Standing on the dock, swaddled in my spray top and PFD, and waiting to rotate into the next race, I feel the present mash into the past, for it is right on this very dock (or an older, skinnier, wobblier version of it), that I can see Mom and Dad climbing onto Seamonster for the day’s racing. I can’t recall who was babysitting me at the time, or what I was doing while they were out racing. I just remember wanting to go.

I can also picture racing Staccato right off this dock — my new wooden Opti my dad had just finished making. I recall the horror of being on the wrong side of a port-starboard collision, hoping that someday I’d figure out how to push the tiller “the other way!” Quite vividly, I also have a flash memory of sailing with Jim Fisher during a Crab Pot Regatta of days gone by, and fondly recalled learning some very grown-up and sophisticated vocabulary words that day after a Navy launch failed to cede right-of-way.

Standing here I can see the Naval Academy, and picture the dorms we stayed in during the 1993 Day Sailer Nationals. It was that regatta when we got purple hats that are now faded to a light pink, cool T-shirts with Val Lewton art, a puppet show from Frank Robb and family that was Broadway quality, and my first chance to skipper a major Day Sailer regatta.

I can see flashes of a lifetime of maneuvering out of this basin, with the anticipation of what a day on the water would bring. I can also feel in my bones every return to this dock — salty, exhausted, frustrated, thrilled, beat up, sunburned, cold, wet and happy.

“Who’s up next?” Tony calls out as the boats cross the finish line and return to the basin. There’s a flurry of activity on the dock, gloved hands reach for bowlines and outstretched arms, followed by a quick cleanup of guys and sheets, and the exchange of tips and at-a-girls, as we push off, in new pairs. On the starting line we reach back and forth, pull in our main and jib sheets, listen for the magical “all clear,” and target our windward mark.

It’s here where I really feel the past and the present collide. I’m perched on the rail with my feet tucked under the straps, my legs stretched out almost straight, my stomach muscles grateful for the short course. We’re on port tack coming into the mark, with just enough room (probably) to make it around first. With just enough doubt to make it risky.

Our sparring partner comes steaming in on starboard, and we debate our options: “Press down, stay flat, take their stern and catch them downwind, or hope the pressure holds, stay fast, keep our height, and get in there a moment before they arrive? Eek! Don’t be that boat … come on don’t wimp out … gosh this is fun … man this is close … do we have this?”

I’ve been here a million times before, never with the exact circumstances, of course (this is sailboat racing), but always with the exact same questions, same feeling of exhilaration, same sense that everything else in the world has melted away. Oddly, it is being in this moment, truly present in this single mark rounding, that I feel connected to so many moments on the water, intense in competition, feeling the burn, the thrill, the challenge. No matter how old we get, or how mean and unforgiving our knees and backs become, these are the moments that have no age.

As we derig and debrief what we’ve learned and how we’ve fared, someone pronounces me the winner of the 2016 Day Sailer Crab Pot Regatta. I’m not sure what advanced formula the powers-that-be use to make such a determination, except that I am surely a contender for having the most fun. When they hand me the trophy — a black pot for steaming crabs, littered with brass rectangles with names of people I had known my whole life — I feel like I’m being reunited with an old friend.

Sure enough, as we scan the brass plates, I find my name listed as the winner way back in 1984. It could have been, and most likely was, my first trophy. I was 12 then.

And even though the math wizards say that I am now — ahem, cough-cough, sputter-sputter — 44, in the ways that count in life, I am 12 again. Turns out the little boats we race around in circles are little time machines, connecting us to the people, places, and feelings of excitement and anticipation that thread through various chapters in our lives. No wonder we love them so.

It’s the people and the stories that make each class unique. I invite you to share your story, your class. Write me at editor@sailingworld.com so I can share it and make old new again.

To read more stories about sailors who love their one-design classes, new and old, click here.

Dr. Erika B. Seamon, of Washington, D.C., is a professor at Georgetown University. She was part of the first Optimist class at Severn Sailing Association, raced Vanguard 15s in ­Chicago for many years, and currently races with Ken Seamon on the Day Sailer, with her husband on a J/35, and with friends on the Snipe and Interclub.

The post My Class, My Story: The Day Sailer appeared first on Sailing World.

We all have it: that human fascination with the new. Even the cereal I’ve been eating for years is now “new and improved” (which makes we wonder whether Quaker has been selling me an inferior breakfast all these years). I digress. Our curiosity is for new, new, new, all the time. New boats, new races, new classes, new experiences — you name it. We fill our social media feeds, our websites and even the pages of this magazine with new things. And while we’re all so focused on the new, it’s easy to ignore the older classes, boats and fleets that the majority of racers hold near and dear.

It’s true that once a year we dote on the slick new boats that show up at the boat shows, and our respected Boat of the Year awards program is essential, as it highlights the sailing industry’s innovations, which ­advance our sailing experiences. But I assure you, when planning the editorial for this magazine, we’re always keen to share the successes of the many one-design classes that are the heartbeat of our sport.

Take for example the International Comet. I’ve never sailed one, but for some reason I have imprinted in my mind the image of a fleet of Comets racing on my home bay. On that occasion, at least a decade ago, I admired dozens of white triangular sails and multicolored hulls crossing tacks on a brilliant summer sea-breeze day. The scene was as remarkable then as I’m sure it would be tomorrow.

I hadn’t thought much about the Comet until an engineer at Harken chose the class for the Harken One-Design Showcase in our July/August 2016 issue. The half-page technical illustration of the boat sparked my ­curiosity, as I’d had no idea someone was building Comets again. So I called the contact in the listing, Talbott Ingram, the class president and devotee who races his ­Comet up and down the East Coast. The enlightening cold call carried on for more than an hour, and I learned new Comets are coming out of Whitecap Composites, a small shop up in Peabody, Massachusetts.

More importantly, Ingram turned me on to Kevin Buruchian, a 29-year-old who sailed Comets as a kid. Buruchian had faded away as most young adults do from such legacy classes, but today he finds himself the next-gen leader of a quiet Comet resurgence.

Buruchian didn’t grow up in a sailing program with modern dinghies. Instead he started sailing with his dad at the age of 4. He was skippering the family Comet at age 5, when he won his first race. He went on to win his first Comet championship at age 11.

“I didn’t have Optimists, 420s or what­ever,” Buruchian says, “because on our lake, Comets and Sunfish were the only boats we sailed. But sailing with my dad all the time — those are my best memories.”

Three or four weekends a year, Buruchian and his father would hitch the 16-foot ­“junior Star” and travel to Cazenovia Lake, New York. “I can still picture getting to the lake late at night, pitching a tent and sleeping on the lawn,” says Buruchian, who now lives outside of Boston. “We’d sail all day and we’d be beaten up. He’d have a few beers, and we’d just hang out with everyone. As a kid, I was always comfortable being around the adults.”

He sailed with his father straight through his teen years, but when he shipped off to the University of New Hampshire, Buruchian curtailed his Comet sailing. One day, Ingram called him out of the blue and offered him a charter boat for the class’s North American Championship in Lake George, New York. With a pickup college crew, he lost the championship by a single point.

“I know how I lost it,” he says today, “but that’s by the by.”

Life and work took hold, and Buruchian grew distant from, but no less fond of, the Comet. He’d been casually looking for a fixer-­upper, but “no one ever wanted to sell theirs,” he says, until one day, a friend of the family emailed him with a lead on a derelict boat thought to be a Comet. It had been sitting uncovered under a tree for 10 years, says Buruchian. It was full of water, but from photos, he deduced it had the ­desired double-­bottom construction.

He bought it for $500.

“I didn’t bother to tell my wife (then fiancée),” he says. “It was a week before our wedding, so I planned to pick it up afterward.”

At his wedding, however, he says “everyone kept talking about this huge gift, hinting, ‘Did you open up your big gift?’”

It turned out friends and family had chipped in to buy the very boat he thought he had bought. “My dad was so happy for me to have one again,” says Buruchian.

He fixed it up and soon started racing with his wife, a complete novice. They did well in a few local regattas before entering the Internationals.

“We had a blast. It was windier than I thought she would have liked, and my parents thought for sure she’d either come back smiling or never want to sail one again,” says Buruchian. “We were out there in 20 knots, and when we got back to the dock, she had the biggest smirk on her face. That’s the reason why I’m sailing with the Comet class today. She’d never sailed ­before in her life, but now it’s something we can do together. It’s something she knows means a lot to me.”

And so today Buruchian finds that his role with his beloved class is to get younger people into the Comet, to work with Whitecap to improve it and simplify it. “The travel culture is still a draw to the class,” he says, “and there still isn’t anything at a reasonable cost for people coming out of college. The Comet offers a lot of good things: It has plenty of performance, it’s been around forever, and it’s a boat that hasn’t changed a lot, because it doesn’t need to.”

I know there are many stories similar to Buruchian’s from countless long-forgotten, struggling or reviving one-design classes scattered about the country, which is why I’m kick-starting a regular column called “My Class, My Story.” I’m eager to discover why die-hards like Buruchian remain true to their deepest sailing roots. After all, a boat is a boat, right?

Our sport’s aging one-designs are really no different than the five new Boat of the Year winners featured in this issue: They’re simply fiberglass objects that provide us ­immense pleasure, a competitive outlet and a social network for life. It’s the people and the stories that make each of them unique. So I invite you to share your story, your class. Write me at editor@sailingworld.com so I can share it and make old new again.

To read more stories about sailors who love their one-design classes, new and old, click here.

The post My Class, My Story: The Comet appeared first on Sailing World.