130
T
he World-Famous
Yachting Photographer
(heretofore identifi ed
as WFYP), a man whose
America’s Cup images back
in the day graced the covers
of Sports Illustrated and Time
magazines, not to mention
nearly every sailing publication
on the planet, was in a fi t of
barely controlled anger. In fact,
he was hollering at somebody,
and in no unequivocal terms.
And just who, or what, was the
object of his ire and derision?
Um, that would be me.
Let’s set the scene.
It was a windy, sunny mid-
week race in last summer’s 12
Metre World Championship
regatta off Newport, Rhode
Island. The “Twelves,” of
course, were the yachts inwhich the America’s Cup
was contested in these very
same waters right up until the
Australians won the trophy
in 1983, so this homecoming
event was a big deal locally.
Along with my old sailing pal,
retired Newport fi refi ghter
Billy Winthrop, we werestationed at the bottom
mark of the racecourse on a
marshal boat (more on this
in a moment) as the 21-boat
fl eet came charging toward us
under spinnakers. It was truly
a colorful, stirring sight.
As marshals, our job was to
keep the spectator fl eet—and
the press boats—off the course
and out of danger. Which is
why we were pestering the pho-
to boat in which WFYP was
plying his trade. Unfortunately,
his driver had breached the
perimeter boundary we’d set
and, in our humble opinion,
was way too close to the action.
As we nudged our way between
them and the mark on a 22-footpowerboat to shoo them away,
WFYP disagreed with our
humble assessment. Vocally.
Very vocally.
Our main concern as
marshals at this stage of the
race was a scenario in which
a Twelve lost control on a
spinnaker douse and careenedinto the spectator fl eet. A
12-Metre yacht is a 35-ton
missile with a small rudder
and too much sail area, and
when they lose it, man, they
lose it. Which is precisely
what happened in the middle
of our, er, negotiations,
when the crew of Enterprise
completely botched their kite
takedown and came scream-
ing past the mark in total,
wonderful, unadorned chaos.
Toward, you know, us.
To say that my being in the
middle of this fi asco was a bit
ironic is a major understate-
ment. If ever there were a fox
in the henhouse in this sort of
scenario, it was me. Over the
course of my career, I have
covered Olympic regattas,
America’s Cups, Sydney-
Hobarts and countless other
major sailing events from a
perch on a press boat, and I
am always the guy whispering
to the driver, “C’mon, mate,
you can edge in there a bit
more.” So, I understood
WFYP’s point. Fully. Right up
to the moment we were about
to get creamed.
However, as a member of
Newport’s Ida Lewis Yacht
Club, which was the host club
for the event, I’d signed on to
volunteer in whatever capacity
was needed for the regatta.
Hence, a marshal. Truth be
told, for too long I’d skirted
my volunteer responsibilities
at the club, where everyone
is urged to chip in from time
to time. And now here I
was, about to get emulsifi ed
for my past malfeasance. It
briefl y crossed my mind that Ideserved it.
Up to this point, I’d
thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Yes, for a couple of windless
mornings, in which we sat for
hours waiting for the breeze to
fi ll in high-summer weather, I
had long periods to ruminate
on the fact that yacht racing
is the only sport in the world
where you can’t play because
it’s too nice out. And while
on the one hand it was hard
to imagine a bigger display of
Yachting (capital “Y”) opu-
lence, on the other, once the
racing actually commenced,
as a sailor, I found it hard to
envision anything prettier or
cooler. I grew up in Newport,
where the America’s Cup was
the backdrop of my youth
for many a summer, and to
witness this living, breathing
display of sailing history was
pretty darn great.
In any event, Billy leaned
hard on our throttle and
WFYP’s driver did the same,
and as the shouts aboard
Enterprise receded behind us,
disaster was averted all around,
though not before we’d left vi-
cious wakes astern, something
the race director had explicitly
warned us against. Sorry.
The next morning, WFYP
and I met on the docks before
racing, aired our mutual
concerns, and parted ways as
the friends we were before
the little incident. All was
forgiven. Next time, though,
I’m going to try to score a
ride on one of the race boats.
Sure, I’ve blown some douses
before, but I’m still a better
sailor than a cop.Herb McCormick is CW’s
executive editor.To say that my being in the middle of this fiasco was ironic is an understatement. If ever
there were a fox in the henhouse in this scenario, it was me.The image of the old America’s Cup boats charging down-
wind off Newport brought back some fi ne memories.The MARSHAL Plan
Off Watch
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