Fated to be Gated

Fated to be Gated

Tower Bridge would make an excellent gate for average lap races.

Another Saturday of personal dramas and attributations. Wind, pleasant in a masochistic sort of way. Unusually, MSC was unpredictably shifty with a general trend of reversing circular motions. Too much all at once, too little when wanted now.....

Where was the normally stable directional wind? 270 degrees constant. Steady 8 knots. Wave length 92-95 fm. John Humphries in charge.


First race: plenty of time for Shaka Zulu as the first horn signals. What? not a pursuit race with time for a cup of tea as the Solos commence. My goodness it's a mass start with my mass nowhere near! There goes Dicky Dee, leading the race with the nice rear commodore in command. Oh no! They've retired! Turns out not in the lead but an even later start than the somnolent Chief Shaka.

What to do about gates? I think a Tower Bridge look alike that each boats passes through the famed centre channel. Perhaps not a brick structure, we could have a bouncy castle representation. It seems that the natural order of sailing boats was disrupted by tidal effects sweeping leading boats the wrong side of the Tower like gate pillars toward the execution tunnel subtly position on the north side of the water.

First place requires to be counted, firstly.

And some firstlies ended up reversely.

Indulging ourselves with beverages, soups, rolls and cakes courtesy of the ever indulgent Ms Crabtree, we launched for the conventional pursuit race. Having lost the watch, the initial pursuit was finding our time status followed by professionally identifying a port based jous , sorry, biased line, too late for that Olympian start rehearsed earlier over a Donut. No worries, former sailing partners of Dee and Kennaugh were easy targets for the formidable Sharks! Alas, the spinnaker of the dice killed our inevitable victory as the various elastics got in a knicker twist, followed by a dropping of drawers leading to a veritable embarrassing exposure of our naked incompetence. Still, all to go for, as the bar was unlikely to be open early on our behalf. More to the point, Anslow was clearly having his own anguish and keeping ahead of him was now the challenge. Try as we might to relinquish our forward position, Anslow's superior lack of performance yielded victory to the Bluebell coloured boat.

Now the rest of you may have your own stories, but for us in the White bowed Lilac we had our fun and it was a lovely day on the water.


We strengthened our resolve in the Club, with fortified sailing juice, IPA, EPA, whatever. It's a friendly club, even if sailors are feted to be gated and lated to the line invisibly drawn on the Reservoir water.


Steve W(here were you on the start line?)