I had exchanged that same glance with a friend several years before, down in the
Windward Caribbean Islands at the end of a very long day of engine trouble and increasing
headwinds. That day we were several hours behind our scheduled sunset arrival in our island
hopping vacation. It had become a very dark night indeed. The building wind had brought a
thick cloud cover which had blocked out all moon and starlight, making it impossible to see
the narrow passage through the crudely piled boulders that made up the breakwater we were
seeking before the weather broke. Even though a light rain was falling, I had to send the two
women with the sharpest eyes to the bow carrying two flashlights each, to try to spot that six-
foot slender wooden stick marking the entrance. I was tired, and more than a little upset,
because bareboaters are not supposed to be sailing after sunset, at which time their rental
insurance promptly voids until morning. Outside the breakwater I had been having visions of
the beautiful 50' boat that I had rented with my friends suddenly lurching to the side in the
darkness with a loud grinding sound, as our fancy home-away-from-home slowly slipped out
of the night into the sea. I noticed my friend Phil--no doubt having similar thoughts--
scrutinizing me from the other side of the cockpit. We locked eyes and I gave him a broad,
tension-relieving grin, then nodded slightly and winked, before returning to searching the
long black horizon. About an hour later the eagle-eyed but wet women on the bow were
shouting and pointing, and we were soon resting at anchor behind the breakwater where we
gleefully toasted each other's acumen. The next day as we again recounted the events of the
prior night, Phil said that he had been quite alarmed until we had exchanged that look, which
in a silent millisecond said, "This looks bad, but don't worry. We're going to be fine." He
said that that brief look caused him to relax instantly, and he began to enjoy the unfolding
drama of the evening. I guess it's true: No man is an island.
That night's events flashed through my mind as Mike and I nodded at each other as we approached Grays Reef. I had felt relieved the prior afternoon when my calculations revealed that even with the help of these strong trailing winds, we would not enter the passage until after sunrise. I remember that years ago, Ted Turner, of America's Cup fame, had waited outside the entrance until sunrise, and had lost the race. The first year we were here we flew toward the entrance with a full mainsail and a billowing spinnaker, even flying an old neglected staysail that we stretched between them, in an attempt to squeeze every bit of speed out of my old warrior. During the exhilarating ride up the lake, taking all of our six-person crew's combined skill just to keep the boat continuously pointed northward in the eight-foot trailing seas, we heard a heart-wrenching r-r-r-ip'ing sound envelop us all, as a vertical gash appeared from luff to foot in the staysail. We quickly pulled the mortally wounded rag down, stowed it in its sailbag in preparation for its well-earned trip to the sailmaker's loft, and continued toward the passage. The boat was becoming so unstable that I feared a windward broach, where the spinnaker and pole are driven into the water and the sudden torque on the rigging brings everything down. After turning the corner to slip through the reef, the wind came more from the beam, and we were having trouble carrying the chute. The boat was laid so far on its side that with every wave gallons of water would slide several feet up the clew and bury the foot of the spinnaker. The only way that I was able to carry the huge sail was to turn down wind, putting it in the lee of the main, but that headed us across the passage and into the reef. "All hands on deck! We have to drop this spinnaker!"
Taking down a spinnaker is a complicated process requiring careful coordination of everyone involved. Under these conditions it's downright scary. The coast guard cutter Bramble, which had accompanied the racers up the lake, was at its station at the top of the reef, counting stragglers like us. We must have spooked the officer of the day as he watched us erratically zig-zag through the passage from his comfortable bridge, morning hot coffee in hand, because as we approached, they turned around and steamed off toward the Mackinac Bridge, every racer's symbol of the end of the race. In spite of two days of white-knuckle sailing, because we had not seen another boat since the previous afternoon, we took that as a depressing sign that we were the last boat to come home. In spite of the three-hour head start that they give us little boats, we always bring up the rear some sixty hours later. Fortunately, our sizeable handicap catapults us to the middle of the pack. This satisfies me completely, because we are a boat of average, out-of-shape urbanites that are racing with the big boys. I remember that for our first Mac, due to a last-minute change in work schedules, no one on board had ever been north of Waukegan, Illinois, some three hundred miles to the south of our present location. We were happy to just go the distance. The second year, pressing for every ounce of speed, I again called for my neglected staysail in an attempt to gain that winning increment. Onto the deck, out of the bag, and up the mast it climbed. The wind immediately filled it and we could all see last year's gaping rent gawking down at us! Alas, I had forgotten to take it to the sailmaker. So much for sailing with average urbanites. Hours later, in an all-too-familiar situation (and fortunately without the flagship in view) my tired old leeward spinnaker halyard finally gave up the ghost as we entered the passage, and the spinnaker suddenly shot out in front of the boat, paused like a startled spirit from the netherland, and dropped under our bow. It quickly passed under the boat like roadkill, and seconds later it was pursuing us like an angry great-white. Soon after we brought the lifeless behemoth on board we discovered that it had survived the ordeal completely intact! Within minutes my dauntless crew had it flying again, this time on the windward spinnaker halyard, and we were back in the race. Wouldn't you know, twenty minutes later we watched it again pass under the boat like you-know-what through a goose. Hours later we limped across the finish line to again finish...in the middle of the pack.
So this year, it was with some trepidation that we again approached Grays Reef. But
this year I was ready. This year I was experienced. This year I was older and wiser. I had
replaced the aging spinnaker halyards with new--and heavier line. This year the same large
boat was about to pass us for the third time. We knew we were doing something right. This
year with 25 knot winds at the mouth of the passage we approached sans chute, with a
double-reefed main and the number two pulling us wing & wing into the throe. Two
experienced crew were constantly playing the windward jib sheet and doing a tango with the
tiller, all choreographed by the surges of the high trailing sea. In spite of experiencing the
roughest seas yet at the mouth of the passage, we were in control and making excellent
speed.
Not so the big boat behind us. We watched as someone must have released the
downhaul and their spinnaker ballooned up above their masthead. She rolled farther to
leeward than I had ever seen a large boat go, with the mast dipping nearly horizontal. The
spinnaker rested on the water for a moment then shot leapt back into the air and promptly
shredded. We managed to catch the last few seconds of this aerial dance on film, the light
green spinnaker whipping like an angry banshee tethered to the masthead, until some
crewmember released the halyard and let it snake through the mast, peacefully drift away
from the boat, and silently slide into the water down wind. A few minutes later, as the bigger
boat neared, I stood at the rail, bowed my head, and placed my bright red Mount Gay hat
over my heart to mourn her lost sail. The crew on the other boat whooped with laughter at
my gesture as they slid past, one member shouting out, "That's the second chute we've
blown today!" With that quip we all laughed and relaxed a bit, not knowing that our own
ordeal was waiting at the top of the reef.
As we happily exited Grays Reef and set course for the Mackinac Bridge twenty-five
miles to the east, the wind gradually lightened. The crew was calling for me to shake out the
reef and put up the spinnaker for the final run to the finish line. Wave Dancer was a few
hundred yards behind us flying its spinnaker and slowly gaining on us. I had been
considering a sail change, but I kept turning to the west to look at a strange little cloud on
the water a few miles upwind near the now setting sun. It looked like a strange grey dome,
or a flying saucer resting there on the water, with occasional flashes of light coming from
below. It was forgotten for the next few minutes while we were involved with various boat
things, getting it and ourselves ready for night racing. We quietly chatted as we headed east-
-all eyes watching the sunlight slowly seep from the longest suspension bridge in the world.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, it hit us with a vengeance. A cold wind from behind hit our
bare necks, sending up a collective shiver. Within ten seconds the boat suddenly laid down on its
side and began to round up. Everyone on deck reached for the upper rail or any nearby
protrusion to keep from sliding into the water. We had not yet donned our personal lifelines,
which I make everyone wear from dusk till dawn. During those hours everyone is continuously
leashed to the long jack lines that we run from stem to stern on each side of the boat. I glanced
at the anemometer, which was reading sustained winds of 40 mph. Then it began to hail
intensely. For the next five hectic minutes we were nearly blind, with hail stinging our exposed
skin, making us only able to look downwind and see the crests of nearby waves detach and fly
into the darkness ahead. There was lightning striking the water all around us, with no clear point
of sail to avoid it. I checked that each crew member was okay. Wilfred, at the tiller, stared
ahead through knife slits, with jaw set. Our youngest crew member, Shane, had eyes so wide
that it looked like they were going to pop out of his head and roll off the deck. Lynn, possibly
my most experienced crewmember, was looking at Shane and smiling broadly. Lucky Mike, who
had been below trying to get into his foul weather gear when it hit, was dry, warm, and snapping
pictures through the half-boarded companionway. Actually, we were all having a ball! We were
having a ball because even though it caught us by surprise, we were properly rigged, with a
sturdy boat, good equipment, and competent crew.
The boat behind us was not as lucky. They were caught trying to get their spinnaker
down, and the squall proved too much for their rigging. The heavy metal masthead had become
separated from the mast, and they had lost their forestay. Wave Dancer had finished its dance
card for this race. We could see them a few hundred yards to starboard, all sails down and the
crew in a huddle on deck, as if they were tending a fallen comrade. We were worried that they
had serious trouble, and turned up the radio to hear the end of what appeared to be a call for
help. We immediately noted the time in the log, started the engine, and headed over to see if we
could be of any help. When we got there, they said that everyone was fine, but that they were
dropping out of the race. The huddle had actually been a pow-wow to decide whether to
continue. We wished them well and motored back to the spot where we had started our engine.
Noting the time in the log, we cut the engine and began the race again. We had lost twelve
minutes. (The skipper later called me and told me the story and thanked me for offering help
during the race.) The problem was that in the space of a half of an hour it had gone from serious
squall to nothing. We were becalmed. For the next three frustrating hours we floated aimlessly,
unable even to keep the boat pointing in the direction of the now gem-studded bridge off in the
distance. Gradually, a light breeze pushed us slowly beneath the bridge and across the finish line
at two seconds past midnight. It had been a great race. In spite of filing an incident report, we
never gained back those precious minutes we spent checking on our competitor and we finished,
of course, in the middle of the pack.
The thousands of sailors who have raced The Mac over the last hundred years all have their own motives. Many, no doubt, do it for the excitement of the competition. A few probably do it for the notoriety winning this race can bring. I suspect that most do it for the feeling of adventure and peace brought by experiencing nature's beauty and power first hand. I enjoy these things too, but for me, I love to see regular people, such as us, leave our sedentary lives in the real world and gradually evolve from individuals, into a small team that cooperates, coordinates, and finally achieves an end with unanimity, good will and esprit de corps. Something good is born that was not there before, and we each take a part of it home with us. For me, it is all encapsulated in a shared smile between friends and the brief wink of an eye.