The first full weekend in March, life was about as good as it can get for Stanford senior Jacob Rosenberg—a regional collegiate-team race-regatta victory in his rearview mirror, his coursework finished with a semester to spare, the spring college sailing season just ahead, and plans for a unique business opportunity incubating, one that sells high-quality sunglasses lenses directly to customers.

Then, it all changed. “We were at our first team race of the season, at St. Mary’s, when we heard the rest of our winter-­quarter classes were going online. At that point, we didn’t really expect it to go past spring break. The next week, things progressed, and everything shut down. It was really a bummer losing the last quarter of sailing and having the end of my senior year slip away.”

Undaunted, he regrouped and moved in the goal posts for his business timeline. The company he had soft-launched in the fall, Tajima Direct, fit perfectly with new government guidelines—it was a completely online, ­e-commerce ordering platform. All he needed to do was kick it into full gear.

The idea germinated two summers ago, on a drive back down to school. He and his father, Steve Rosenberg, a former leader at Oakley and founder of Kaenon, which he sold four years ago, were discussing the sunglasses industry. “We knew we had a lens technology superior to other lenses out there, and the question was, ‘Why are we restricting that to certain brands?’” Jacob says.

“Growing up, some of my friends liked the Kaenon lens best but really liked their other frames better.” So, the initial idea was to stop thinking of sunglasses as just one package but instead as two main ­elements—the frame and the lens. The frame is mostly adapting to your lifestyle and what you need. The lens is for functionality: giving you the best view possible, keeping your eyes protected and reducing the glare. So, why not deliver this lens technology directly to consumers, letting them use the frame they want?”

The answers led to the creation of Tajima Direct, a company that allows customers to buy replacement lenses for sunglasses, including prescription lenses, saving the expense and hassle of buying entirely new sunglasses. The lenses are Tajima Urethane polarized lenses that Steve developed through his long time partnership with a family owned Japanese lens maker, which Steve initially worked with to create the technology used while he was preparing to launch and build his brand Kaenon.

Father and son continued to noodle with the idea, and during the school year, Jacob tapped into the business resources at Stanford to fine-tune it. “I really tried to make the most of the resources and professors at Stanford, who know so much, and would give me some of the tools that would help me build the business,” Jacob says. “I’m still getting advice and help from some of the professors there.”

In August 2019, Tajima Direct, named after the Osaka prefecture that was the birthplace of the Japanese optics industry, as well as home of Talex, was launched.

The idea was to keep it ­low-key until Jacob graduated, but when everything collapsed, it was game on. Suddenly, a company that provided an inexpensive alternative and required no face-to-face ­interaction became a new-world-order poster child. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“The biggest challenge so far has been how to best and effectively get the word out,” Jacob says. “At first, it was just word of mouth and social media, and all the customers have given us great feedback. So now the biggest challenge is, how do we cast a bigger net?”

What are Jacob’s recommendations for the best lens for sailing—to allow you to easily see contrast on the water, making it easier to detect puffs, and at the same time provide plenty of eye protection? “Two main combos. For really bright conditions, like you encounter when offshore sailing, I recommend a gray tint with a blue mirror. The blue mirror [makes] it a little less true to the actual color, but it provides more contrast.” For lower-light conditions, his go-to lens is a brown tint with green mirror. “The brown tint provides more contrast than the gray tint, and matched with the green mirror, it pushes it to another level.”

Tajima Direct lenses are ­available in nine colors and five mirror tints, with a flat price of $95 for regular lenses and $295 for prescription lenses. The process is simple: Once you select a lens on the site tajima-direct.com, you’ll receive a postage-paid box to send your frames to the company for lens installation, or they will send the lenses directly to you so you can install them yourself.

The post How to Save your Sunglasses appeared first on Sailing World.

Inside Building No. 5 at Safe Harbor New England Boatworks, Jocko Alpress stands on Running Tide’s new deck. When the boatyard is quiet, he can hear voices from the boat’s past. He was on the boat for seven years, with two owners. On this cold March day, however, quiet reflection isn’t an option for Alpress, who is on the team responsible for the Tide’s comprehensive refit. Those voices are inaudible over a cacophony of power tools as a small army of craftsmen swarm the vessel, which has been stripped to the bones and is in the ­process of being refaired, repainted, rerigged and reimagined.

Running Tide was built in 1970 by Jakob Isbrandtsen, a shipping magnate and passionate racer, who commissioned Sparkman & Stephens to design a yacht that could beat the likes of Windward Passage, Yankee Girl, Dora and Sorcery—all the hot boats of the day.

Isbrandtsen’s one requirement of Olin Stephens was that Running Tide be 45 feet on the waterline. With the assistance of one of his favorite crewmembers, Vic Romagna—who won the America’s Cup in 1962 aboard Weatherly and again in 1967 aboard Intrepid—Isbrandtsen created the deck layout.

“Nothing against Rod Stephens, but my father was never a fan of his [deck] designs because you were always tripping over sh-t,” says Isbrandtsen’s son, Hans.

The Huisman yard, in the Netherlands, built the aluminum ­vessel and then shipped it to City Island, New York, to rig the deck at Kretzer Boat Works under the watchful eye of Romagna. “Running Tide was one of the first stripped-out racers,” says Hans Isbrandtsen, whose father passed away in July 2018. “We did the deck layout to sail the boat with eight people. The idea was to have an easy-to-sail boat with people who knew what they were doing.”

Running Tide’s design was exceptional, as was the ­camaraderie of its crew. Before Isbrandtsen and his team would sail against the likes of Ted Turner, they squared off against Nazi Germany. Isbrandtsen, too young to enlist in the Navy, was the captain of the yawl Edlu, a 68-foot Sparkman & Stephens design, whose mission was to patrol for Nazi U-boats off Greenport, Long Island.

German U-boats could submerge for only eight hours before they had to surface and run their engines to recharge batteries. When Isbrandtsen and his crew, which included Romagna, spotted a U-boat, they called in air support to bomb them. They assured themselves that the Germans would not waste a torpedo on the likes of Edlu or the other sailing vessels patrolling 10-mile grids. Freighters and US Navy ships were the preferred targets.

The camaraderie and teamwork Isbrandtsen’s crew fostered during their submarine-hunting days was realized decades later when Isbrandtsen assembled the very same crew on Running Tide. They won countless regattas, including the 1971 Southern Ocean Racing Conference, as well as their class in the Bermuda Race. Their results are memorialized with trophies and silver dishes, but the comradeship is what crewmembers remember today.

Bizzy Monte-Sano, part of the team that competed in the Admiral’s Cup in 1963 aboard Windrose, recalls that after the regatta, the crew was relaxing in Isbrandtsen’s home in Cowes, England, when there was a knock on the door. In the vestibule, festooned in full yachting regalia, stood two emissaries of the Royal Yacht Squadron who cordially invited Isbrandtsen and his two watch captains to a cocktail party, the first time nonmembers had been invited to enter the Royal Yacht Squadron.

“It took seven of us to get the boat here, and we would all like to attend,” was Isbrandtsen’s reply, Monte-Sano says. The emissaries said such a thing was not possible, so Isbrandtsen then informed them that he had just checked his calendar and he was going to be busy on that particular evening.

After his business came upon hard times in 1972, Isbrandtsen chartered Running Tide to Turner, who sailed it to victory in numerous races. After the charter period, Running Tide was auctioned off, and Albert Van Metre, a wealthy American developer, was the high bidder. Turner, the second-place bidder, wasn’t amused, so he purchased Lynn Williams’ yacht, Dora IV, and renamed it Tenacious. A rivalry was stoked, and Running Tide kept running, fueled by a new father-and-son team and a band of brothers.

John Marshall, East Coast manager of North Sails at the time, believes Running Tide had soul from the day she was drawn at Sparkman & Stephens. “The Van Metre family had a real reverence for Running Tide,” he says. “It wasn’t just a boat. It was an honor to own it and race it. Al Van Metre always struck a tough deal on a sail. But if I said, ‘Al, Running Tide needs a new genoa,’ he would say, ‘All right—you gotta strike a good price, but let’s do it.’ He never cut a corner to make that boat go better.”

Butch Ulmer, another sailmaker who made his hay in the ­heyday of offshore yacht racing, estimates he has sailed on more than 200 boats in his lifetime. Running Tide is his favorite. “There were a number of boats that could do everything well,” Ulmer says. “Running Tide was one of those. She was so well-laid-out.”

Van Metre, he says, was the quintessential high-class owner. Even in moments of chaos on deck, he would address the crew as “gentlemen” before he would request a change to the heavy-air jib. His son, Beau, was a good sailor too—a really good sailor, Ulmer says. “He didn’t play the owner’s son. I think Running Tide was, for the sake of a better analogy, the glue that kept Beau and his father together for a lot of years. Running Tide was common ground for both of them.”

During Ulmer’s time on Running Tide, the yacht had a reputation for going upwind well. Downwind, there was room for improvement, so he challenged one of his smartest sail designers, Owen Torrey, to come up with a better spinnaker design. Torrey, a Harvard and Columbia graduate who quit practicing law to become a sailmaker, had a keen mind. In those days, most people used a footlong slide rule, but Torrey’s was 3 feet because it provided him with greater accuracy. Torrey eventually ushered Ulmer to the loft’s roof in City Island. There, flying from the flag pole was a radial-head spinnaker that boasted a beautiful, round, full shape. “This is great, Owen,” Ulmer said. “How the hell did you come up with the design?”

In those days, navigators consulted with Bowditch tables, which were as thick as a dictionary. Torrey found a table that gave him the distance between meridians at a given latitude. He made the head of the spinnaker the north pole, the bottom of the head the equator, and the leeches the two corresponding meridians. The shape was so impressive, Van Metre promptly ordered a few spinnakers from Ulmer.

For 16 years, the Van Metre family and three generations of crew campaigned Running Tide hard. They sailed out of Annapolis, Maryland, in spring, Newport, Rhode Island, in summer, and then delivered it south for the SORC races. For Beau, the wins were ­exciting, but Running Tide was all about the journey.

By 1986, the young Van Metre retired from racing and sailed Running Tide to France with plans to cruise the Mediterranean and beyond. After the cruise was delayed due to Suez Canal construction, he sold the yacht. “The first guy I sold Running Tide to had the boat for 15 years,” he says. “I’d call every couple of years to see if he was interested in selling. The gentleman had the audacity to ask for $500,000,” Van Metre says, “but I sold him the boat for $175,000, so I thought that was ridiculous.”

Every year, friends racing in St. Tropez would send Van Metre photos of Running Tide. When he started thinking about getting back into sailing, his broker called the most recent owner and queried his interest in selling. The owner was 85, in poor health and ready to sell. The yacht, however, was in rough shape. The plywood deck was cracked, and down below, Van Metre was shocked to find the same cushions, the same gauges, and even the Igloo cooler he had placed on the boat some 35 years earlier.

Its deplorable state would not sway Van Metre’s mind, ­however. “I knew it needed to be gutted,” he says. “I thought it would be much better for me to own Running Tide and fix it up than to have ­someone else’s boat or to build a new one.”

For the refit, Van Metre tapped designer David Pedrick, who knows his way around Sparkman & Stephens yachts, having started his career with the firm in 1970, just about the time Running Tide was launched at Huisman. In Running Tide, Pedrick saw a classic Sparkman & Stephens design that was evolved from 12-Metre designs in general, and Intrepid in particular. “Intuitively, Olin thought about being friendly to the water,” Pedrick says. “He wanted to make it easy for the water to get around the boat.”

Continuous improvement was an ethos in the Sparkman & Stephens office. When Pedrick pulls out a book today with a line drawing of Running Tide, he is quick to note eraser marks over the rudder area. Stephens was always looking forward to the next great idea, never looking back, says Pedrick, so the responsibility of ­drafting Running Tide’s refit is one he does not take lightly.

“This is one of the most phenomenal, legendary yachts around to be brought back to better-than-original with modern equipment,” he says. “It’s more than a second life. This is a real rejuvenation.”

The goal of Running Tide’s extensive refit, which began in October 2019, is to preserve the yacht’s hard-racing soul, while modifying it so Van Metre can effortlessly daysail it with his wife and family—thus the installation of powered winches. The 2020 Bermuda Race was also on the boat’s reunion tour, but with the race’s cancellation in late March, Van Metre is suddenly afforded the luxury of two more years to whip it into racing shape. Given where they were with the refit in March, it would have been a ­miracle to cross the starting line in Bristol fashion.

Early on, the decision was made to preserve Running Tide’s 1982-era keel. It was “good enough,” Pedrick says. Changing the keel would be extremely expensive and would also surrender the boat’s age allowance. The eraser marks on the rudder of the original plan were there for a reason, so Pedrick focused on a new rudder. The old skeg-hung rudder was large, low aspect and heavy. The new rudder, a carbon spade hung from the hull, is 200 pounds lighter than the appendage it replaces.

The new rig, built by Offshore Spars, has a carbon standing-­rigging package that is one-third the weight of rod rigging. It is 10 feet taller than the original and will carry much more sail area. An additional 300 square feet or so puts the new inventory at 2,023 square feet of high-tech sail area—flatter, more powerful and far less likely to stretch than the Dacron of Tide’s early days.

As the vision for Running Tide 2.0 came into sharper focus, plans became shop drawings and shop drawings became hours upon hours of hard labor. For the craftsmen of New England Boatworks, the first back-breaking task was to strip Running Tide to bare hull. When Thomas MacBain, of NEB’s metal department, first saw the boat, he reached a different conclusion than Alpress. “I’m 33 years old. I didn’t know what Running Tide was,” he says. “I thought it was a pile of scrap until I saw the older guys taking pictures of it.”

After stripping paint and filler, the metal department ­determined that a few parts of the hull required patching, and the shaft log had to be replaced. Pedrick called for significant alterations: new chainplates and frames to support the rig’s higher loads, and the bustle—the area ahead of the rudder—needed to be streamlined.

The aluminum work requires a unique approach, says NEB master welder Abraham Sabala. “Welding it isn’t easy,” he says. “[Aluminum is] a softer material than steel. It heats up quickly and moves, so you have to control the material with jigs and stiffeners. You can’t afford to be off the target, as the margin is slim to none.”

A new ram mast step, engineered to take a 3-ton working load, was installed, as were extensive hydraulics for the push-button winches. Francis Meisenbach, a naval architect at Pedrick’s design firm, used to be a boatbuilder, so when he sends model drawings to Simon Day, an engineer at NEB, he checks their accuracy down to the millimeter. According to Meisenbach, “Slack bilge, long ­overhang boats like Running Tide don’t have a lot of volume. One of the challenges was fitting in the new amenities.”

Day’s job is to take the engineering drawings from Pedrick and Meisenbach, and turn them into construction plans his team can use to guide the build. “The best place for an engineer to be is upside down in the bilge with a tape measure,” Day says. “The ­tolerances on the new systems are tight.” As a young engineer, Day is intrigued by the cutting edge of the sport, but he also has great respect for the history: “Speed isn’t everything. Having a story behind what you are doing is almost as important, and in some ways, more.”

One guiding principle for everyone involved in the project is that Running Tide harken to its past but live in the present with modern technology. This required them to overcome the challenge of adding a furling boom and push-button winches. There was debate over how the winches should be powered. NEB rigging expert PJ Schaffer believed ­hydraulic was the way to go.

The philosophy behind the rigging, however, is old-school, Schaffer says. “Every good program I’ve been on, the simpler the boat, the better the program. My challenge was to make the boat convertible at the deck level. I want it to be clean so when it’s sitting at the dock and Beau is going cruising with his grandkids, it’s minimal. Two sheets and a mainsheet, you go. But it also needed to work for bluewater sailing and the Bermuda Race.”

Running Tide’s interior is being carefully crafted by Wayne Rego, a master joiner with hands the size of baseball mitts. The new plywood deck went on before the interior went in, so everything Rego and his team builds must first fit through the hatches. To make sure he is fulfilling Van Metre’s vision, Rego built mock-ups of the cabin sole that ranged from highly polished book-matched mahogany to hardwood with more grain. Van Metre chose the grainy wood with more character because it is in keeping with the spirit of the original.

While the team at NEB works on finishing the project throughout the spring, Van Metre is focused on his vision of eventually racing to Bermuda with his son and daughter. “They know the history,” he says, “but they haven’t experienced it.”

It’s March, however, and sailing days are still months away. With a moist southerly licking the outer walls of Building No. 5, Van Metre can practically taste his first summer outing. If all goes to plan, he’ll once again bury the rail of this iconic yacht, with Isbrandtsen, his father, and all those who sailed aboard Running Tide in its glory days, sitting on the weather rail in spirit.

The post The Rebirth of Running Tide appeared first on Sailing World.

“Ease, hike, trim.” Say what? This a ­common phrase that’s been around for a long time, and one that has always bothered me. I understand that the point of this age-old piece of advice is to keep the boat flat and humming along through gust, but taking it literally, it’s misleading. If the goal is to go fast, I think a rewording is in order to make the technique more accurate through a range of conditions. Hear me out.

It’s safe to assume that the phrase lays out a sequence of events meant to handle an upwind puff: 1) ease the sails; 2) hike the boat flat; 3) trim the sails back in. The specific condition this phrase refers to is hazy to me. By telling us to “hike,” is it implied that we are not yet hiking but on the edge? Close to hiking? Are we already hiking but not all the way yet? I’m not sure, but instead of worrying too much about that, let’s just go through the wind ranges and decide the best thing to do in a puff for each scenario.

Light Wind

I define light wind as ­conditions when you’re well below hull speed and your team is sitting inboard. In this condition, you keep the boat level by moving body weight in and out, and you are trimming to maintain flow over the sails. A puff comes along, and the proper response is to move your body weight to windward to keep the proper heel. Leeches on both sails will blow open a bit with the new pressure. You will need to trim them back in; but not too quickly—the timing is important. Your first response is to move your body weight gently to windward. Next, head up a bit as your apparent wind increases and shifts aft while trimming just enough to match your new steering angle. The order of events should be: 1) weight to windward; 2) trim in as you head up. The light-wind equivalent phrase to “ease, hike, trim” would be “weight up, point, trim.”

Medium Wind

In this wind range, you’re getting close to hull speed and your weight is to windward. You’re either sitting on the rail, or at a gentle hike. You’re watching your leech telltales on both sails to trim to optimal flow. The ­forward crew counts down, “puff in 3, 2, 1.”

The flatter the sea state, the more I feather to depower; the wavier it is, the more I ease the main to depower.

At right around “1,” your team hikes (or hikes a little harder, if you already are) to keep the boat from heeling as the puff hits. The leeches will blow open, so you will have to trim in to keep optimal flow, and you will want to head up as the apparent wind moves aft. The order of events should be: 1) hike; 2) trim in as you head up. In other words: “hike, point, trim.”

Medium to Heavy-Air Transition

Here, you’re already hiked, and a puff will transition you to overpowered. This is a sweet condition to sail in—my favorite. A lot goes on to maximize your acceleration in this puff, so, “puff in 3, 2, 1, puff” sets a bunch of things in motion. At around “3″ or “2,” to get ahead of the curve, any significant depower controls come on, such as the backstay, if you have one. I have sailed on boats where the vang rams the boom into the mast, bending it, and in catamarans where an 8-to-1 cunningham compression bends the mast. Whatever the major depowering tool on your boat is, now is your time to use it. At about “1,” you’d better be hiking harder, or you are already too late. At the front edge of the puff, the leech will blow open, but unlike the lighter winds, this is good because it helps auto-depower, and you will likely need to ease more to balance the boat, depending on how big the puff is. As in lighter winds, you will head up, following the apparent wind’s aft shift, and you might even want to head up more to feather the sails.

The order of events goes like this:

1. Pull on depower controls
2. Hike full (if you are not already)
3. Ease (if necessary)
4. Head up and re-trim.

This one is a ­mouthful: “controls, hike, ease, point, trim.”

Overpowered Conditions

You’re hiking as hard as possible while feathering and playing the sheets to keep the boat flat. I don’t believe in changing how hard we hike by hiking extra hard in a puff because that is not sustainable. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, so I would rather a steady 80 percent effort over a long day. Your primary depower tools are already at max, so that’s easy—just leave them where they are. With that, when a puff hits, there are only sheets and steering left to keep the boat flat. It’s always a combination of both, but the question is how much of each. The flatter the sea state, the more I feather to depower; the wavier it is, the more I ease the main to depower. Even when it’s flat and the priority is to steer, easing the mainsheet is the quickest way to spill power as the front edge of a puff hits, so most often, I ease on “2″ or “1″ of the puff countdown. The order here is: 1) ease; 2) head up and re-trim. In our phraseology, that would be: “ease, point, trim.”

Though it does not match the way I would respond to a puff in any of these conditions. I do think that the ol’ “ease, hike, trim” serves as an ­effective reminder of the importance to keep the boat flat, and for that I give it credit. There are two significant things that rub me wrong, however. The first is that if you’re easing and not hiked full, you are giving away precious leverage. I can think of no condition where it is better to ease before you hike. If you are ­overpowered, you should already be fully hiked, whether it’s 15 knots or 30 knots, so it does not work there either.

The second rub is that the phrase implies reaction instead of getting ahead of the puff. Ease before hike is what one would do if blindsided by a gust. Someone should be looking and calling that puff.

The closest condition I think “ease, hike, trim” refers to is in the medium-to-heavy transition condition. Clearly “controls, hike, ease, point, trim” doesn’t roll off the tongue, but it’s a far more accurate description of what’s best to do. Get used to saying it if you want to go fast.

The post The Fallacy of Ease, Hike, Trim appeared first on Sailing World.

Moments after the start, the boatspeed jumps to 35 knots, and I am terrified. If I was driving, I’d be white-knuckled. The wind-whipped Caribbean Sea thrashes Argo’s hulls, but Jason Carroll is cool at the tiller of his 70-foot trimaran. He leans back in his driving chair and squints through the visor of his crimson helmet at the turning mark ahead.

A few days earlier, one of Argo’s new T-foil rudders snapped during the delivery from Antigua to St. Martin for the Caribbean Multihull Challenge regatta—a delivery of less than four hours despite the breakage. Carroll’s team spent the night swapping to Argo’s older rudders, but combined with the boat’s newer and longer J-shaped foils, the boat isn’t set up correctly. “Things could get a bit sporty out there,” Carroll had warned me before we shoved off. “As long as the conditions aren’t too crazy, we should be fine.”

So much for that. With 30-knots blowing across the bows, we hurtle out of Simpson’s Bay, and I take a knee at the back of the cockpit and brace for dear life. I’ve seen the video of Argo’s capsize before the 2019 Caribbean 600, so I’m stoked with my decision to extend my insurance coverage to include extreme watersports. Still, I’m having one of those what-have-I- gotten-myself-into moments—one hand gripping a GoPro, the other clenching the lifeline.

Carroll and company outmaneuver the other MOD70, Maserati, leaving them behind in trio of wakes. Ahead, Serge Durrant’s Irens 63, Shockwave, cruises along with a storm jib and three mainsail reefs. The Argonauts tucked only two reefs, and in a blink, the boat is careening past Shockwave. A gust fills the sails and the speedo jumps again—this time to 39 knots. The boat shudders as waves smack its underbelly; up ­forward, the bows begin to rise.

T-foil rudders would have ­prevented the bows from riding too high, but the big J-foils ­generate so much lift that water flowing over them begins to boil, causing cavitation. Argo’s bows slam into a trough, and the front beam takes a direct hit. In a situation such as this, one of two things can happen, and the outcome depends on Carroll’s ability to make the correct split-second decision. Option A is to ride it out and hope the trimmers ease the sheets quick enough to depower the sails. If they fail to do so, the entire crew will soon be dogpiling through the companionway as the boat pitchpoles. Option B is for Carroll to make a sharp turn to try to spill power quickly.

The 42-year-old helmsman chooses wisely, pulling down the bows with authority. The foils regrip, and after this little pucker moment, Carroll guides the trimaran through a wide, arcing turn upwind around the mark. The Argonauts are safe for now, but challenges await.

“The boat is actually easy to steer when everything is set up right,” Carroll says. His relaxed and intellectual demeanor is a calming presence, contrary to the sheer madness of the trimaran. As a co-founder of Hudson River Trading, Carroll put his Harvard computer science degree to use developing high-frequency trading algorithms, and when he’s not flying across the ocean, he’s soaring across the sky as an enthusiast pilot. Yet the MOD70 is like nothing else he has experienced. “We’re hitting speeds we never imagined,” he says. “But nothing happens out here without having complete trust in the guys next to you, so it all comes down to the team.”

The Argo crew is a lean but talented squad. Such a boat demands experience. At its core is 48-year-old Chad Corning, who manages the operation. He’s been Carroll’s go-to guy since before they captured back-to-back Melges 32 World Championship titles in 2013 and 2014. When he first started sailing with Carroll, Argo was an all-­amateur team of college buddies. “The scope of the program was small,” Corning says. “Eventually, we started sailing internationally and doing distance racing on Jason’s Gunboat 62, Elvis. At one point, we even had three Melges 32s. It just became too much for Jason to organize on his own, so I stepped in.”

The two have been thick as thieves for years, and the team eventually transitioned into the GC32 foiling catamaran scene, a circuit that pitted Carroll, an amateur helmsman, against a few of the finest pro drivers in high-performance sailing. In 2018, they traded in the Gunboat for the MOD70 and started racking up victories with a combination of longtime Argo teammates and specialized offshore multihull sailors, including Brian Thompson, the first Englishman to break the round-the-world record twice. Thompson has also sailed nonstop around the world four times, won the Volvo Ocean Race, and broken 27 world sailing records.

“He’s the guy who knows when to push and when to back off,” Corning says. His primary role on Argo is to act as point man for the boat’s complex maneuvers.

“This is very much a close-knit team,” Thompson says. “Jason is one of the best drivers out there. The guys know the boat really well, and they work hard maintaining everything to minimize breakdowns. Chad has done a remarkable job developing the boat and the team, and it’s good fun off the water as well.”

On the long beat toward the rounding point off Tintamarre Island on the northeast side of St. Martin, Thompson marshals the troops as the breeze spikes to 32 knots. With confused 6-foot swells, Argo smashes its way uphill at 21 knots. “I’d love a wider groove to get through these waves,” shouts mainsail trimmer, Anthony Kotoun. A five-time world champion in multiple classes, Kotoun is a longtime member of the Argo crew. He and Thompson chat for a moment and agree that a lower mode would be ideal.

“Let me check the course with Artie to make sure we have enough water to make that happen,” Kotoun shouts back to Thompson. While most pro race teams are known for their lack of shouting, with more than 50 knots of apparent wind funneling across the deck, communicating on this machine is like rolling down your window on the highway and trying to have a conversation with someone in the passing lane. “Communication is especially important because things don’t happen on demand,” Kotoun explains later. “The boat is so ­complicated with the foils, the canting mast, the rake and the centerboard that something as simple as a mode change can take minutes to achieve. You can’t just sheet out. It’s completely different than most things out there.”

Kotoun staggers to the ­middle of the boat and pokes his head beneath the splash hood, where navigator Artie Means plots a course. Means has the most protected position on Argo, and he’s still soaked head to toe. His eyes are glued to his tablet.

“We can spare a few degrees, but not much,” Means says. “Luckily, we overstood a bit.”

Means and Kotoun take a moment to review the course, and eventually Kotoun makes his way back to the weather hull to relay the information to Thompson, who recalibrates the boat’s upwind mode by raising the centerboard up a bit, adding more foil rake, and moving the transverse jib-lead outboard. These changes allow the boat to sail lower without becoming overpowered. With a mainsheet load of 7 tons, the lines throb as they ease through their systems.

From beneath the spray hood, Means shoots me an ecstatic look as he nerds out over the instrument panels, which in true Argo fashion, have a dancing hula girl mounted above. “We’re going faster upwind than a TP52 would be going downwind today,” he says. “Hey Fouche, check this out!”

Headsail trimmer Thierry Fouchier pops his head beneath the spray hood. Fouchier is another international multihull legend. Originally from Marseille, France, Fouchier won the 34th America’s Cup aboard Larry Ellison’s big trimaran USA 17 before joining Artemis Racing in 2013 and Groupama Team France in 2017. Looking at the data, he gives Means a twisted smile. “C’est fou,”—That’s crazy—he says, returning to his jib-sheet winch.

Thompson soon relieves Carroll at the helm as Argo pitches in the waves. “Be ready for a gennaker around Tintamarre,” Thompson shouts.

My God, I think to myself as water jets through the trampoline and the boat bucks me skyward off the netting, we still have to go downwind.

Even though the ­maneuver is 15 minutes away and the rounding point is over the horizon, the crew preps for the downwind leg. The biggest battle is hoisting the gennaker with the equivalent of tropical-storm-force winds blowing across the bow. Argo’s slender 31-year-old ­bowman, Westy Barlow, sprints forward and secures the tack while the grinders hoist the furled gennaker to the top of the mast. With Carroll back on the helm, Thompson reminds the trimmers to make sure the main is well-eased and the jib sheet stays on in order to keep the boat under control through the bear away. Once Argo reaches the right downwind angle, the crew explodes into action: deploying the gennaker, raising the centerboard, trimming the main- sheet, changing to the J2 headsail, reducing the mast cant, increasing the mast rotation and adjusting the traveler. When everything is set, Argo romps downwind at 30 knots.

As we enter the Anguilla Channel, Shockwave is nowhere in sight and Maserati is still within striking distance. “Try not to go over 30 knots,” Thompson advises Carroll. “Anything more than that, and we might trip over ourselves.”

As Argo zips down the ­channel, trimmer and grinder Scott Norris taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Hey, can you go below and grab the big water jug and fill up the bottles?”

Norris is a big man with a big personality—one of the longest-tenured Argonauts on the crew.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“Thataway,” he says, pointing downward and aft.

Going below on a search ­mission is hardly what I want to be doing right now, but I scale the ladder into Argo’s center hull. Forward, the nav station is empty. Beyond that, a pair of berths hang in the dark. As Argo cleaves through the waves, sounds of unimaginable horror pound from wall to carbon wall like drums between warring villages. I crawl toward the stern, glancing out the porthole at our starboard hull, which hangs 15 feet above the waves. I snag the water jug and make it back topside, where Norris smiles down at me.

“Pretty gnarly down there, huh?” he asks as I reemerge. “Don’t worry, the first time we took this thing out, we were terrified. And today…terrified.”

“It’s going to be about a 100-degree reach after the turning mark,” Means shouts out to the crew. With Maserati shrinking on the horizon, Thompson decides to play this leg conservatively. “All right, it’s going to be the J3 and three reefs on the main,” he howls through the wind. This is the least amount of sail area Argo can carry, and when conditions are right, the reduced drag and lower center of gravity produce the highest speeds a MOD70 is capable of, but as they reconfigure the sail setup and round the mark to a reach, Argo is starved for power.

“Really searching for it,” Carroll says, emitting one of those are-we-seriously-going-this-slow looks. After a few minutes of letting the conditions settle, they shake out the third reef, and one of the stainless-steel T-bone shackles on the mainsail luff lashes Barlow just below the eye. He drops to the net, his legs ­wriggling in pain.

“Hold, hold, hold. Man down!”

Before the race, Barlow joked that “nobody cares about the bowman,” but watching his teammates jump to his aid, that sentiment is obviously false. He took a hard hit, but there’s no bleeding or signs of a concussion. He even tries to hop back on the ­grinding pedestal, prompting a stern word from Thompson to sit in the companionway and ice his eye, which begins to swell shut.

By the time the excitement wanes, Maserati has halved its deficit. Even though it was a blip on the radar mere minutes ago, in MOD70 racing, you can’t take your foot off the gas for a moment. Slow is slow. The crew shakes a reef, and after one final upwind leg, they cross the finish line first. There’s no time for handshakes or back slapping, though. The shoreline is fast approaching, so they tack and sail back out to sea. The race might be over, but the hard work is not.

“Hey, Helmet, hop on that pedestal and help me with the traveler,” Kotoun says.

Helmet is the ­nickname for English sailor Alister Richardson. A veteran of Carroll’s GC32 squad, Richardson is a former wing trimmer for America’s Cup challenger Luna Rossa, but he says he gets much more ­fulfillment from his Argo gig.

“I spent six years of my life doing the America’s Cup,” he tells me after racing. “Doing that is like joining the Army. It’s fine if you choose that lifestyle, but I enjoy sailing with Argo because I have good fun with these guys. We’re always pushing for performance, but at the end of the day, we’re having the time of our lives. Everyone can get a joke out of each other, which is important.”

That evening, the crew enjoys a private dinner at their rented condo in Port de Plaisance on the Dutch side of St. Martin. They debrief the day and pour a bit of rum, eventually gathering around a table for a late-night card game of President.

“We’re limited in what we can play because Jason will count the cards,” Corning says.

“Anything it takes to win,” Carroll replies mischievously.

Anything it takes—that’s the Argo way. Race hard, never give up, and have fun, no ­matter what.

The post Jason and the Argonauts appeared first on Sailing World.

A boat that gets off the ­starting line in a good position and has good upwind speed is probably going to be near the top of the fleet at the first weather mark. That’s easy to say but challenging to do, especially the starting part. However, if you learn to follow a script or plan that makes the starting routine mechanical, you’ll discover that each start becomes better, and your starts, overall, become more consistent. The good news is that plan can be followed wherever you start on the line and whatever the breeze.

How do you know when you’ve managed a good start? Simply put, you’ve gotten off the line in the front row with competitive speed so you can take advantage of the first shift. It’s cool to be able to blast off the line with a boatlength or two lead and have the fleet over your shoulder. But even just one boat hanging on your weather hip eliminates your opportunity to tack on the first header and, as a result, a good start is wasted.

Determine Where to Start

The race committee’s goal is to set a line basically perpendicular to the wind so that no single boat has an advantage, regardless of where it starts. However, the wind almost always shifts, and seemingly does so at the last minute. If the line is fairly short and/or one end is favored by 5 degrees or less, starting in the middle becomes an excellent choice, giving a conservative starter the opportunity to take advantage of a shift from either side of the course. The fastest ­college ­sailors often start near the middle of the line, knowing that they can protect the left side of the course or tack and consolidate the right.

However, in big fleets—50 boats or more—or on a line where one end is heavily favored, say, 15 to 20 degrees, then starting closer to the favored end becomes more advantageous. I emphasize closer, as it can be risky to start right at the favored end because everyone’s trying to start there. Starting a third of the way up or down from the favored end is much less risky and can make it easier to get off the line.

Remember, the angle of the wind relative to the starting line determines which end is favored, and unless the course to the first mark is way off square to the wind or the starting line is skewed by more than 30 degrees, the course to the first mark shouldn’t have any effect on where you start.

Follow Your Pre-start Checklist

While there are several ­different methods in checking which end is favored, unless I am sailing in a small fleet or on a small inland lake, I use the compass. If the line is short and the fleet is small, head into the wind and note which end of the line the bow points closer toward. That’s the favored end. On longer lines with more boats and in more-extreme ­conditions (very light or very heavy winds), the ­compass is much more accurate. Take a compass heading while sailing down the line and compare it to your head-to-wind reading. If more or less than 90 degrees (which tells us if the line is square), not only will you know which end is favored, but also how much it’s favored. In addition, once you have the line compass bearing, you can double check which end is favored anytime, anywhere (and away from all the traffic on the line) just by ­heading into the wind.

If you have GPS technology, ping the ends of the line once the line is set. Luff head-to-wind, close to the committee boat, moving very slowly so it’s easy to get a good reference. At the leeward end, set up outside the line, again head-to-wind and moving slowly, where it’s easy to gauge exactly when on the line. Once you have confidence in your pings lining up, managing the last minute becomes much easier.

Without a GPS (and to ­double check your GPS settings), rely on line sights. Start at the weather end, on starboard tack, closehauled, loosely trimmed and moving slowly, four to five boatlengths below the line. Start taking line sights with something onshore through the leeward end of the line. Ideally, you’ll have one at four to five lengths, three lengths and two lengths off the line, as well as the final shot right down line. Those early “safe” line sights are crucial in gauging the speed and timing to the line, because invariably the sights down the actual line become tough to maintain in the last 10 seconds, when the fleet is lined up. Sometimes a line sight to weather through the committee boat by the forward crew can be a valuable check in the last 10 to 15 seconds.

Check for current at all spots on the line, recognizing that there could be current at different speeds and different angles at each end. Practice the laylines at each end to gain confidence in the approach angle to the line, and especially where you ideally would want to start. Finally, practice your actual maneuverability and the speed required to maintain control of your boat. It’s important be able to recognize when you are too slow to be able to head up or bear off, even when using your sails to help control the boat.

Own Your Final Approach

While many sailors develop a series of different approaches to draw on for starts in different conditions in different size fleets and for different positions on the line, I focus on one approach for every start. Therefore, I know exactly how I’ll set up, no matter where I want to be on the line. The only variable becomes the timing. The two most common approaches are starboard luffing, where boats line up several lengths below the line several minutes before the start, and the port-tack approach, which is my favorite.

With the port-tack approach, come in a boatlength or two below the bulk of the fleet; most boats will be luffing on starboard. Depending on the breeze, the waves and the size of the fleet, I’ll look for and then tack into a hole on the line close to one minute before the start, depending on the conditions and fleet lineup. In some ways, this approach might seem risky because you’re sailing on port tack toward a group of starboard tackers. However, remember that one of the most important goals of the starboard tack boats is to develop a hole to leeward. If this hole is big enough and left open, it’s an open invitation for a port tacker.

One of the keys to a ­successful port-tack approach is the tack into the vacant hole. This tack should be slow and controlled so that once around and onto starboard, your bow will be slightly behind that of the boat to weather. Speed after the tack should be slow so that you are immediately in a position to become the leeward controlling boat. Leave yourself the opportunity to accelerate and not be dangerously close to the line. This is one of the major differences between the starboard and port-tack approaches. During the port-tack approach, you are attacking the starboard boat’s position, while those using the starboard approach are usually trying to defend.

If you’re the approaching port-tack boat, you must sail all the way through the tack and onto your starboard closehauled course before you can assume your new, leeward boat rights. And you must give the weather boat room and time to fulfill its new obligation to keep clear. Once the port tacker has completed his tack to starboard, the now windward starboard tack boat must begin to keep clear and assume the port tacker has now become the leeward boat with rights.

What if there isn’t a hole at the spot where you want to tack? In that case, you probably wouldn’t want to start in that pileup of boats anyway. Instead, sail down the line a bit farther until a more inviting hole ­presents itself.

Obviously, the starboard-tack boat will not just sit and wave you on into the hole they have been working hard to create. They should defend by bearing off toward you as you approach. If the hole is small, or the tack from port to starboard becomes rushed, the port tacker most likely will become discouraged with that spot and sail up the line looking for the next hole.

Once you know how you’ll approach the line, the remaining variable is timing. Ideally, you’ve practiced your timing in that five or 10 minutes before the start. When I set up with the port-tack approach, I determine how long it takes to get from the leeward end pin to my spot of choice on the line, unless the line is super long. I sail back and forth several times in order to determine how long it takes, and then add 10 to 15˛seconds for the tack. Usually, I try to complete the tack onto starboard by 55 to 60 seconds before the start, depending on the breeze and the size of the fleet—the lighter the breeze, the lumpier the wave state; the larger the fleet, the earlier the tack. If we know it takes 40 seconds to get to that spot, we’d leave the pin with 1:45 left before the start.

Once in position, ­control your hole and the boat to windward. This doesn’t demand any sort of attack that requires the use of the rulebook. It requires you to maintain a position where your boat can dictate when the windward boat can trim in and accelerate. Position your bow slightly behind the windward boat’s bow but still in clear air. Your course should be just above closehauled with your sails luffing. Use mainsail trim to help maintain this bow-up position. Try to maintain a boat’s width or slightly less between you and the weather boat. If the weather boat begins to trim and accelerate, trim, gradually head up, and force it to slow down. As long as they’ve been provided the opportunity to keep clear of you, they will also need to luff.

At the same time, work hard to stay off the boat to leeward, if there is one. Constantly watch the leeward boat’s position and speed. If they accelerate and sail higher toward you, react by doing the same to maintain a safe distance—hopefully as much as two to three boat widths. This hole to leeward is key in allowing you to sail slightly below closehauled, in first gear, in order to accelerate in the five to 10 seconds before the gun.

In the last 15 to 20 ­seconds, the GPS pings and/or line sights are important gauges that will give you confidence in your positioning. Pay close attention to your placement relative to the lineup of boats close by. Especially watch the two to three boats to windward, always trying to maintain the same slight bow-back position throughout the entire starting approach. That will give you a runway to accelerate into so you can begin to trim before the competitors above do. If any of those boats to weather trims and begins to accelerate, trim immediately and match its speed, no matter where it is on the line or the time before the gun. If even one of those boats gets the jump and ends up on your wind after the gun, it can be game over.

One tip is how to slow the boat when you find yourself dangerously close to being over early. Our instinct tells us to turn down, away from the line. However, bearing away usually means burning up the valuable hole to leeward and, in fact, you end up accelerating right into it. Instead, head up to near head-to-wind. The boat will slow more quickly and slow the weather competitors. You’ll buy more time and save distance to the line. Most important, you’ll build the hole to leeward and close the ­distance to windward.

Especially for the first minute after the start, boatspeed is king. Fight the urge to point as high as possible until the boat has sailed through all the gears and is at top speed. Definitely do not pinch. A common mistake is to trim the sails too tightly, too quickly. If the sails are trimmed right to the closehauled position before the boat has the time to sail through the gears, the boat will load up and slide sideways. Talk about ­burning up the hole to leeward!

On our boat, we divide all the responsibilities where, in the last 15 seconds, I am simply steering when and where the crew indicates. If we’re sailing with three, the jib trimmer keeps track of the line and our position relative to the boats to weather. That person has control of our final timing and dictates exactly when to pull the trigger. The middle person keeps the time and looks aft and to leeward for boats approaching late on port or behind and low on starboard. Our boat is anything but quiet in these last seconds, but this constant influx of information allows me to concentrate entirely on boatspeed.

The post Sailboat Racing Starts Done Right appeared first on Sailing World.

It’s Pete and Blair. Journalists say Burling and Tuke, respectively, but because they are so intricately attached to each other, it’s appropriate to associate the two as practically twins. Every boat on which they sail together, they move in synchronization. Even the most trained eye finds it impossible to find flaws. At the 2020 49er World Championship in February in Geelong, Australia, the pair won an unprecedented sixth world title in the class. No one in the crowd even blinked.

Their emotions, despite having also won the 2019 world championship three months before in their native New Zealand turf, were surprisingly high as they pulled their skiff up the seaweed-covered ramp in a cool drizzle after the medal race. It never gets old for these two.

“I’m pretty stoked to win this one, and obviously being an Olympic year, we wanted to test our skills,” Burling said, with a big grin and a rare chuckle. “I’m pretty on top of the world to walk away with another one.”

The pair could not have imagined that the travel bans from China that week, hints of a burgeoning pandemic, would become a global shutdown, leading to the cancellation of the 2020 Olympics. The sailing in Enoshima would have most certainly been a reenactment of their gold-medal performance in Rio de Janeiro. As the primary characters on Emirates Team New Zealand’s America’s Cup defense team, their 2020 Cup also came to a grinding halt. But no virus would stop this duo.

Considered the best male sailors on the planet, having won the America’s Cup together in Bermuda, having sailed around the world in the Volvo Ocean Race and won a gold and silver medal, deconstructing their dominance in the sport is an impossible task, vexing even the top coaches in the world. To better understand how Pete and Blair do it, you have to read between the lines. And listen carefully to the people who watch them closest.

“They’re not leaps and bounds ahead, but they’re always there, always. Every single time, they’re always there in the last race,” says four-time 49er world champion Chris Nicholson, of Australia. “So, on the law of averages, it kind of means they’re almost leaps and bounds ahead,” he concludes, with a wry smile.

Nicholson emphasizes the “always” with a certain seriousness, a lowered stare, almost as a warning to anyone trying to compete against the pair.

The clinical ability these two sailors possess allows them to execute tactical maneuvers and decisions that, at best, other teams see as possibilities but don’t have the confidence to try. Nicholson knows, just a little, where this rabid consistency in execution comes from.

He remembers training with Burling and Tuke, now 31 and 30, respectively, before the 49er World Championship on Italy’s Lake Garda 10 years ago, “when they hadn’t made it yet, but it was clear that they would.”

“They’re just smart,” Nicholson says. “They were working on all kinds of areas of their sailing that were three months, six months in advance of where they were.”

There’s an efficiency and confidence that shows, integrating kernels of skills not yet established in the building blocks of elite athletes, allowing the transitions up the ladder of progression to occur more smoothly and sooner. But it takes brilliant minds and coordinated physiology to even consider or think of this approach. Nicholson noticed these unique qualities immediately, and in the small nation of New Zealand, it didn’t take long for these two to find each other and start building what has become an unbeatable partnership.

From a modest home in the New Zealand town of Kerikeri, Tuke says he was fortunate to be close to the water. He started racing at the age of 12, eventually crewing on one of the top team-racing school teams. Crewing on International 420s, 29ers and eventually with Olympic medalist Bruce Kendall in the Tornado, Tuke and Burling met on the 420 circuit. After Burling’s first Games in 2008, at the age of 17 in the 470, he looked to Tuke when he shifted to the 49er.

“I wouldn’t say we were close at that stage,” Tuke says of their relationship. “After three months of sailing the 49er, we got along and made a goal of doing London 2012. It was a steep learning curve the whole way up to London,” he recalls. “We went from new to—three and a half years later—winning a silver medal. When you start, it’s about boathandling. Now it’s about speed.”

Burling grew up in the beachy town of Tauranga. His path was a little more structured in dinghies, racing in indigenous craft such as the P Class and Starling. “The P Class wasn’t overly balanced,” he says, “but the Starling was a lot more balanced; it flowed nicely. It was a great boat to learn from.”

At 5 feet 11 inches, just a haircut shorter than Burling, Tuke is relaxed and congenial. His dark hair and square jaw make him a bit intimidating, but his looseness and quick smile offer a counter to Burling’s directness.

The two started their first campaign during a medal drought for New Zealand’s Olympic sailing program. “In the early days, we didn’t have people to race against, so we spent a lot of time on boathandling,” Tuke says. “You know the outcome you want out of a maneuver. If they don’t, you got them.”

At the 2020 Worlds, it seemed both the 49er and 49erFX sailors had put serious time into studying the Kiwis, dissecting their superior skillsets.

“The hard thing with Burling is nobody really knows why he’s fast,” says Keanu Prettner, a young Austrian 49er helm. “His style? It’s really smooth. They don’t communicate a lot. They just know what to do.”

There is a head-shaking ­frustration in Prettner’s response, as if he is looking for a silver bullet, something to write down, to emulate, to learn.

“It’s about experience,” adds Jakub Flachberger, Prettner’s crew. “The coaches see it best. They would have figured it out if there was something big to see.”

Burling also points to boat­handling as their strength, and some observers say it’s impossible to match it at this point. The 10,000 hours it takes to be an expert at anything doesn’t assure anyone of dominance, just some form of mastery. And it can’t just be boathandling.

Before Burling and Tuke, there was Nathan Outteridge and Ian Jensen, 49er gold medalists in 2012 to the Kiwi’s silver. The Aussie pair’s early successes in the 49er and foiling Moth classes, combined with the America’s Cup moving to catamarans in 2012, helped create a demand for young high-performance sailors from the 49er ranks comfortable in fast boats and with rapid-fire decision-making skills. Understanding the 49er helps not only identify how the boat helps create the sailor, but what attributes the team has that breeds success.

“It’s the shared nature of responsibility between boat and crew,” says Ben Rhodes, British 49er Olympian and world champion, on why the class produces such talented sailors. “I never felt like I was crewing. There’s something about the hands-on-ness. It’s not speed on the water; it’s speed in decision-making around the course. That’s why a good 49er sailor can go anywhere.”

The Kiwi pair’s sixth world title puts them on a unique plane that competitors can simply dream of. Stevie Morrison, Rhodes’ helm, separates the 49er class into historic segments, naming the previous time period the “Outteridge years.”

“They have the perfect personality combination,” says sailing journalist Nic Douglas, of Australia, who’s followed their careers closely. “Pete is almost robotic, tactical. He is so clinical, and it seems he puts his emotions aside. Blair is emotional and talented. If [Pete] is risk-averse, Blair will say, ‘Let’s do this!’”

The Superclass

“With every generation, there’s something better than anything else,” says Dave Ullman, multiple world champion and coach of US 49erFX sailors Stephanie Roble and Maggie Shea, who qualified for the rescheduled Tokyo Games at the 2020 Worlds. “Both went around the world. That really showed us something. It shows they’re really, really good. Not anyone can do it.”

Ullman’s assessment of Burling and Tuke is not to be understated. Gold in 2016, America’s Cup win in 2017, around the world in 2018, with a few world championships in between. It would seem those three years of diverse sailing would have made it hard for them to jump back into the 49er at a peak level, but this diversity has only made them stronger. And happier.

“We enjoy what we do and enjoy the diversity,” Burling says. “If I just did 49ers for 12 years, I’d be a little bit over it. It’s only one-third of my life. I enjoy the challenge of figuring out a smarter and better way of doing things.”

The Volvo Ocean Race was a particularly awesome experience for Burling. His posture changes when he talks about ocean racing: He leans in, like it’s what he really wants to talk about. “To test my skills offshore was pretty special,” he says. “I learned a massive amount about myself.”

The 24/7 style of racing and those physical and mental demands were a fascinating challenge. “The most interesting thing for me was how to deal with sleep deprivation and knowing when to push or not,” Burling says. “In 49er, if you can’t push 100 percent of the time, you’ve made a mistake. In the Volvo, you have to know when to rely on other people or ask for help. You have to know the fatigue factor.”

Tuke had a head start on his partner. Having aspired to do the Volvo Ocean Race since childhood, he sailed to Fiji with his father when he was just 13. “We fished all the way up,” he says. “I loved it.”

A Sydney Hobart Race rounded out Tuke’s experience before sailing the Volvo with Team Mapfre in 2017. “It was a massive life experience,” he says. “You learn how to get the best out of people in a way you don’t get in any other sport. Not in such a high-pressure situation.”

Burling and Tuke no longer train more in the 49er than any other team, but they are still sailing nearly 300 days each year, and always under pressure. They have opportunities their Olympic rivals could only dream of, and as New Zealand began to clear the hurdles of the COVID-19 pandemic in May, Burling and Tuke were back on the water, training in Emirates Team New Zealand’s diminutive foiling test boat. Without an Olympics between them and the 2021 Cup races next spring, they are now singularly focused. But that balance and diversity, which they say they need to stay fresh, is always on their mind. “After the Cup, I’d love to do another Ocean Race and do it for New Zealand,” Burling says. “It’s a tough race for New Zealand, and it always feels weird when you race for another nation.”

He also thinks about the change in Olympic classes, and when asked about the mixed offshore event, he was critical. “The thing that frustrates me is it’s so hard for young kids to see a pathway through,” he says. “When I was young, the classes were stable. You knew the equipment could hold value. Our sport is expensive. That’s why the Laser, 470 and 49er are so strong.”

Burling does see the mixed offshore event as an interesting, if not appealing, challenge. “Part of the fun of these campaigns is building up the pieces of the puzzle together, at the right time,” he says.

He and Tuke not only spend hundreds of days training together each year, their downtime is often together, but not by design. “It’s funny, we share so many of the same hobbies,” Burling says. “To relax? I spend time out on the ocean: freediving, spearfishing, surface-fishing, foil-surfing.”

Though Burling says he has the most respect for Outteridge as a sailor, it’s waterman Kai Lenny who inspires him most. “It’s incredible how progressive he’s been with a wide variety in all aspects of watersports,” Burling says.

At the closing ceremonies in Geelong, a wet, tired group of 49er, 49erFX and Nacra 17 sailors pack into the tiny sailing club’s bar area as downpours drench the dinghy park. Burling leans against the edge of the bar, smiling as the awards are handed out. The occasional friend pats his shoulder as they walk by, and even though many of the sailors present are heartbroken about not qualifying for the Games, the room erupts when Burling and Tuke take to the stage. Once again, they have everyone’s attention. There is no better pair in all of performance sailing. ν

The post Speed Savants appeared first on Sailing World.

When everything on the ­racecourse is running smoothly, it’s important to remember that it’s because good decisions were made by the race officials, leading to a fair and well-managed race. There are many variables that need to be addressed before a racecourse is set and the starting sequence commenced. While perfection is the goal, it’s incredibly difficult to achieve.

Pressure on race officers, judges, umpires and ­handicap measurers is immense these days. Highly motivated ­owners, professional crews and paid coaches push hard to win, again the reality that regatta organizers are staffed mostly by volunteers and have to deal with the strain of demanding competitors. There have been many changes in our sport over the past 10 years: faster boats, foiling craft of all kinds, kiteboards, new race formats, more professional sailors and coaches, drone and onboard footage, and telemetry leading to more sophisticated analysis of performance. With such a fast-paced evolution, I regularly wonder if our race-official system is keeping up with the changing times. The answer is not straightforward; it depends on who you ask.

Race management across America was uneven 50 years ago. To its credit, US Sailing launched a series of standardized educational and certification programs in the 1970s in order to elevate the collective skill level of our essential race managers. The goal was to conduct safe, fair and compelling regattas. These educational programs have been painstakingly upgraded over the years. The efforts by many people have paid off for all stakeholders, and as a result, sailboat race management is better today at every level.

Matthew Hill, director of US Sailing’s Race Administration, recently explained to me that the organization is focused on consistent race administration across the sport. “Our task is to make it better,” he says. “One of our priorities is to improve the pathway to get certified.” To do so, he says, they continually update the curriculum and offer proper tests for officials at every level. “This is important because our race officers have to make safety decisions and keep racing fair,” Hill says.

Taran Teague, chair of US Sailing’s Race Officials Committee, says: “It’s serious stuff. You have to take time to run through the judge’s [certification] process. To go beyond the club level takes time and money to take educational classes, and you have to travel. We try to make an easy on-ramp for the club-level race official. To do this job, you have to be passionate. It takes a lifetime to be a good race officer.”

The challenges race officials must grapple with are notable. “A race official needs to be balanced and have good judgment,” Teague continues. “We ask ­ourselves, how perfect should the racecourses be? When should a race be canceled?”

Teague also says that the pool of qualified race officers must grow, ­geographically, because the sport is ­underserved. Which prompts the question: How do we recruit volunteers to serve as race officers?

Kathy Lindgren chairs US Sailing’s Umpires Committee and is upbeat about attracting new umpires. She points to a recent surge of younger people looking to get involved. Many are former college sailors. “We need to expand our footprint and encourage them to stay with the program,” Lindgren says. “Our committee is working to clean up our requirements. We want to be more transparent in our process, and our tests need to be standardized and in sync with World Sailing’s Regulations.”

There are also a few ­practical challenges, Lindgren says. “We need to practice our techniques. Our people need to learn ‘umpire-speak.’”

So what exactly is umpire-speak? “We pair two umpires in a boat in match racing, and each takes the role of one boat. They verbalize the actions of each boat and use a specific language about each maneuver, cross or rounding. There is a cadence to it.”

Mistakes are made, Lindgren admits. “Remember, we are making calls in real time, with no video to review. If we are wrong, the competitors take it in stride. It is a learning ­experience for everyone.”

The GPS technology applied in the past few America’s Cup matches for precise location and racecourse management have made viewing better for fans. This technology has also been used by umpires to determine if boats are over the starting line, foul another boat, or go out of bounds. We might see a day when judges and umpires are obsolete, with competitors instead relying on software that instantly interprets boat-on-boat situations and start-line infractions. This would also eliminate the need for a formal protest hearing after racing, and would certainly improve the experience of yacht racing.

The size and scope of our Racing Rules of Sailing rulebook seems to expand every four years. The next edition is scheduled for release in early 2021. It seems there are always discussions at the committee level on how to make the racing rules easier to understand and how to streamline the text. Both sailors and judges must study the racing rules to understand the subtle differences every four years.

Judges are charged with making reasoned decisions when adjudicating a protest, and for them, there is a lot at stake, including the outcome of regattas or the determination of fault when it comes to damages after a collision. It’s not easy for judges to make rulings, but Sarah Ashton, who chairs US Sailing’s Judges Committee, says that while the goal of every decision is fairness, the rules are convoluted, and they require a certain level of mastery and experience that comes only with time. “It’s hard to get enough judges because most people would rather sail,” Ashton says. “Most judges are over 50 or 60, but I don’t think we should have [a minimum age] for judges.”

All three committee chairs have mixed opinions about the certification process. Ashton says she’s disappointed there are not more American international judges. World Sailing’s list of international race officials includes only 23 American judges, 21 umpires and 10 race officers.

“It seems difficult to get ­international certification,” Ashton says. “There seems to be a roadblock.”

She says the process in the United States is easy for club-level judges. “You take a seminar, work some local events, and take a test. For Regional Judge certification, there are more seminars and tests, and you need to work events in your region. It gets harder to be a National Judge so you can work anywhere in the States.”

What used to be an “old boys club,” she says, is improving. “We need to be more creative in the future. The tests are better, we have revised the Judges Manual, and we host clinics and webinars. We are proud of our education. I especially like working with the kids and young people. They accept more education.”

Ashton doesn’t feel as though judges like her are feeling more pressure from professional sailors and coaches. The greater demands, she says, are placed upon race officers and organizing authorities. “We do expect competitors to behave in the protest room,” she says. “They should understand that protest [hearings] are for learning too.”

With an increased presence of professionals and coaches on the water, there has been a noticeable demand—and expectation—for efficient races and race management. I have witnessed younger hotshots being highly vocal and critical of organizing authorities and race officials, sometimes to the point of being abusive. Most race officials are volunteers and need to be respected, and such behavior should never be tolerated. In college and scholastic sports, there has been a sad increase in abusive behavior toward officials, and as a result, 26 states across the United States now have laws protecting sports officials. The key to making our system work is mutual respect between all parties and understanding that post-race discussions can clear up any misunderstandings, and protest hearings are always learning experiences for ­sailors and juries alike.

At this writing, the roster of national race officers in the United States seems slim, with 114 national judges, 39 national race officers and 47 national umpires. Competitive sailing relies heavily on the dedicated work of these race managers, and each of them will welcome additional sailors who are willing to join their ranks. The process is easier and there are many opportunities, so the next time you’re at an event, take a moment to thank your race officials and regatta organizers for making our sport available and good for all of us.

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Ernst-Michael Miller glides to the dock at Shake A Leg Miami on his red foiling catamaran. What a cool-looking boat. Looks fast. Tricked out too. I walk over to chat with him about the boat, and I’m surprised to find out he’s the guy who designed it. Very cool. There, on the spot, he gives me a thorough explanation of the boat’s “FlySafe” foil-control system and the “Code F,” which is a light gennaker that promotes early foiling in light air. Curiously, it’s tacked to the ­leeward bow and has no boom.

I’m sure the guy could have chatted for days about the craft he calls an iFly. His enthusiasm for it is immediately contagious, and suddenly I can’t wait to have a go at it myself.

We agree to a future day and time for me to demo it, but in the meantime, I invite him to a house party, where we go deep into the topics of foiling, sailing and his 15-foot, 200-pound iFly. He’s an aviation engineer by day, whose profile lists Airbus and BMW. His intelligence is obvious. The guy is extremely smart, and even gives me a few good ideas for my Moth. He is excited for me to try his boat, which he’s been refining in earnest since 2016 and is now building one per week. He explains that he needs “someone good” to give him feedback. He shipped a container of them to Miami and has been running scheduled demos off the Miami Yacht Club’s beach through most of early winter, looking to spread the experience of foiling simplicity and a guaranteed easy flight. The company’s slogan is “We love speed while keeping control,” and that’s what he wants me to experience.

He tells me he’s not really a “good sailor,” so he wants to hear what professional sailors think about his invention. But later, I witness what a badass sailor he really is: foiling through maneuvers on his iFly alone, operating its lines like an octopus. From the trapeze no less. In 8 to 25 knots of breeze, the mainsail alone is all you need to fly; just drive and trim the main, no fussing with the foils. The Code F, Miller explains, is for extreme light air. If the breeze picks up; roll it away. If you know it’s going to be windy, leave it at home.

When it’s finally my time to try the iFly, he suggests that I bring a friend; which I do. Abbigail is new to sailing and eager to get on the water. She’s also a fast learner and far more athletic than me. But this is her first foiling experience, and first time trapping or sailing a high-performance boat. I’m a little nervous for her because the thing sure does look sporty. I’m always nervous when I give joyrides on the Moth because wipeouts can be dangerous, and I fear it will be similar on the iFly.

Abbigail and I board a RIB with plans to swap with Miller, on the water. Once we’re alongside, he gives me a quick explanation about the iFly’ s flight-control system, and off we go. As soon as my new crew is hanging from the trap, we pop up on the foils and start hauling, foiling upwind, downwind and reaching. The boat is very stable despite the chop. What’s most impressive is, however, how well it flies and how gentle the landing is when the bows touch down in waves while going downwind. I had no sense of danger of stuffing the bows and having Abbigail flung around the forestay. Throughout it all, she is super comfortable and keeps saying how much fun it is.

I also sail the boat alone and that is super fun too, especially trying to trap, drive, and trim the main and gennaker. With a little practice, the maneuvers feel more natural, and I get better pretty quickly.

When we pause, Miller gives me some more tips. I rip around for a while and get to play with the sail controls, the ride-height ­adjustment, and even the angle of attack differential between leeward and windward hull to create extra righting moment. I feel like I need every bit of it being 130 pounds and sailing alone. The boat is very responsive, which should be expected of a full carbon foiling cat. During one good run, I don’t know how fast I’m going, but it sure feels like more than 20 knots in 12 knots of wind. It’s an adrenaline rush, for sure.

The build quality is also noteworthy. There are a lot of parts, but they all look durable, which proved to be true when I had a “little” incident, sailing over a sandbar and running aground at 15 knots or more. My bad. I thought playtime was going to be over, but once we got off the sandbar, we started foiling again as if nothing had happened, and then foiled for the rest of the day. Miller had told me about an iFly being sailed across the English Channel from England to France, a 140-nautical-mile run in full-on conditions, and given my beaching incident, I believe him when he says it’s well-built. Let’s put it this way: I’m happy for the ­titanium reinforcement in the foils.

Ultimately, I’m impressed by how nimble and versatile the iFly is. For me, it’s a rush and plenty challenging to sail it alone. At roughly $30,000, it’s definitely a high-ticket, high-performance catamaran, and I’m excited to see how the one-design racing evolves. The one thing my Moth is not is forgiving and user-friendly, especially with two people. I can see myself having one in Miami, racing hard or cruising around Biscayne Bay with a friend. It’s a hardcore racer, but it’s also a hot rod to impress a date. For a couple looking to get into foiling together, it’s a unique option. I also wonder how it would be for some warm-water coastal racing. Maybe, I think, I could convince my friend Katie Pettibone, who is super skilled and fearless, to do a race with me, just sending it down the coast. Now that would be cool.

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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.

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Pop quiz: Which technology did not exist in sailboat racing 10 years ago but will be decisive in the 36th America’s Cup? No, it’s not foiling. Sailboats have been “flying” for more than two decades. It’s the human-in-the-loop simulator. It didn’t exist a decade ago, and now it’s central to the design and development of America’s Cup boats.

Simulation is a technology whose time has come—thanks to the increase in speed and the decrease in price of computing power—but it got a big nudge from the rules of the 36th Cup, which banned all the traditional means of design evaluation and optimization. For the first time, the protocol banned full-scale testing with two boats, but also tow-tank and wind-tunnel ­testing as well.

The new rules ensured that the technical battlefield for this Cup cycle would be a space that Emirates Team New Zealand already dominated. They were the first Cup team to build a simulator, and their edge in the 35th Cup in Bermuda established that they knew how to use it, and they used it well.

The race to catch up has been ongoing, but the coming of COVID-19, and with it the shutdown or limitation of sailing operations, has leveraged the simulator into a position of even greater importance.

“The simulator part of this has been interesting to watch and evolve,” commented Terry Hutchinson, skipper and executive director of New York YC’s American Magic. “The development that happens there is really ongoing, and that’s as much about researching areas where we can get faster and understanding where we think the others are as well.”

INEOS Team UK also had a simulator for the 35th America’s Cup, and development has continued into this Cup cycle. The “SIM,” as it’s known, consists of a motion platform, virtual reality goggles, human-machine-­interface hardware from the boat, and a lot of computer power. It all works in much the same way as modern-day flight or auto simulators.

One thing worth pointing out though, is that the SIM is an aggregation of a lot of other simulations. There is ­computational fluid-dynamic modeling of the aero and hydrofoils. There is also the more-familiar velocity-prediction program that will calculate the steady-state speed of the boat before dynamic elements are added for a real-time ­simulation with the crew in charge of the ­rudder, T-foils and sails.

RELATED: INEOS Team UK Reveal A Unique Take With Its First AC75

It takes a little time to get used to the experience of sailing the simulator. The virtual reality goggles and lack of any apparent wind, spray or noise make for a surreal experience. While there is no mistaking it for the real thing, it’s still an excellent tool to explore the boat’s design, and to optimize sailing techniques.

The AC75 is a completely new class, and two years ago, little to nothing was known about it: hull and foil shapes and configurations, sail trim, foil and rudder settings…never mind how to optimally control all this in changing conditions and through maneuvers. It all had to be explored in the simulator initially, long before there was any opportunity to take ideas to the water.

Once teams launched their first boats, the goal became a virtuous circle where the simulator suggests an improvement that’s then tried on the real boat. If it works, the team makes a direct gain. If it doesn’t, there is still a gain, because the difference between the predicted performance and the actual performance can point out problems in the physics of the simulations. These can then be fixed, leading to more-accurate predictions. In an ideal world, this process of validating the simulator would probably come before the tool was used for development—but this is the America’s Cup, and there is never enough time.

There’s also the ­application of what each team’s spies report back. With the simulator, “we do get the opportunity to test our foils,” Hutchinson says, “and to test what the other teams have, and run through their strengths and weaknesses.”

A high-quality simulation ­program can help with the time problem, and though it can’t warp the space-time continuum, it does accelerate the design process. The simulator allows concepts and ideas to be tested faster and more cheaply—and in the end, the speed of innovation is usually the difference between winning and losing.

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