During the 1960s, clubmember George Wayne Anderson actively campaigned his 40-ft Sparkman and Stephens designed wooden yawl named Allons. Formerly named Robin, she had once been the personal yacht of the legendary Ted Hood of Hood Sails. George flew the FBYC burgee on many high-profile ocean races with several FBYC members as regular crew sharing the glory. We are fortunate that George left a paper trail of his experiences in the Log of that era. His articles are distinguished, not only as a record of racing events, but also as a delightful commentary on the joys, frustrations, and practical aspects of racing an offshore yacht some four decades ago.
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| Allon - 1965 |
The following article on the Newport-Bermuda Race appeared in the July 22, 1964 issue of the Log and is the third and last of a trilogy written by George Wayne Anderson that we are presenting. (Your Historian is always grateful to discover stimulating prose in the annals of club history that can be published with minimal effort on his part.) The first article dealt with preparing Allons for blue water racing and his second with his experiences in the 1963 Annapolis-Newport Race. These articles have now been posted on the History section of the FBYC website for your perusal if you missed them in earlier issues of the Log.
Allons to Bermuda
George Wayne Anderson
Dawn broke Saturday, June 20, 1964, with Newport buried in a pea-soup fog. What a day to start the Bermuda race! One hundred and forty-three boats jockeyed for invisible positions. But at noon the sun came. At 1:45 P.M. the starting gun sounded. We had an excellent start with clear air, and immediately began to move past the other boats. Although we were too close for comfort to the Committee boat: the report of the 5-inch gun is still ringing in our ears. Our new Hood Main set beautifully, and as we passed Colin Ratsey (Hist. Note: then owner of Ratsey Sails) in his Golliwog, some kind member of my crew shouted over, "Get yourself some Hood sails and watch her go!" I dont know whether it was the sails or the clear air but we walked right through the Class. We were on the starboard tack with a Southwest wind of about 10 MPH, and for the next three days, the only change was in the strength of the wind. Every night we had to lower the mizzen and roll in a reef to get our rail out of the water, but we never changed from the #1 genoa.
Our tactics called for us to hit a spot 30 miles West of the rhumb line by Sunday night so that the Easterly sweep of the Gulf Stream would carry us back to our course. We only got 22 miles West and this turned out to be fortunate - - at least for the time being. The Stream swept us 20 miles East of the rhumb line and into a southerly meander that gave us a free ride of 68 miles, and by lunchtime Tuesday, we were confidently predicting that we would cross the finish line at St. Davids Head by noon Wednesday. Radio reports from Bermuda spoke of the positions of the leading Class A boats, and were close enough to save our time easily on all of them. The crew was jubilant, and Tuesday night, with only a handkerchief-size main up, we had one of the most beautiful sails I have ever experienced. A full moon was playing hide and seek among cotton clouds, and the ocean sparkled with a million diamonds. Allons was boiling when the watch changed at 2:00 a.m. Coming back on deck at 8:00 Wednesday morning, we found the breeze had lightened; by 10:00 it was non-existent. Others were having their problems too, as Bermuda radio reported Class A boats still trying for the line. At any time it is upsetting to sit in a pot of glue, but one becomes panicky when it becomes obvious that it is not universal.
As Wednesday wore on so did our nerves, for one by one specks began to appear on the horizon behind us, and five miles or more to the West of us we could see boats moving by. At 10:00 p.m. we flopped over onto the port tack for the first time in four days. Eight agonizing hours later we crossed the finish line. It had taken us 14 hours to go the last 36 miles. The crew was wonderful and, at least while the wind blew, proved that Fishing Bay can hold its head up in any major competition. We shall be back in 1966.
The sea is a great teacher and on this trip we learned three things that I would like to pass along: First, no matter how calm the sea, fix your position in the early morning and late afternoon and move your Dead Reckoning position forward between times.
Second, no matter how beautiful the weather and how lovely the sailing, keep a small radio turned to a coastal station that gives hourly marine weather forecasts. The static over the marine telephone frequencies renders them useless except under ideal conditions, and you can, as we did off of Long Island, stumble into a gale simply because we couldnt find out what had happened to our beautiful weather.
Third, make everyone on deck wear a safety belt after dark sounds repetitious, doesnt it? Over the past four years I have spent approximately 40 days at sea and during this time safety belts have been comforting, but not really necessary. On the way home we had the exception that proved the rule. From out of pitch-blackness a giant wave broke completely over the cockpit, slamming the helmsman hard against the rigging and his safety line. Had he not had on a belt, there would have been a vacancy in the membership at Fishing Bay. From now on, even when the off watch comes up for an after-dinner cigarette, they will be wearing safety belts.