We always hear the winners’ stories. Now, Joe Coughlan gives the flavour of life at the other end …
The Coleraine Kid is hibernating. A text from new crew, Ryaner, sent at 2.27am confirms he is in great nick and raring to go in the morning. Yes!
I’m up early and have the boat rigged and launched ready to go at 10. No messing round with the rig tension this year: max. setting 27. No 28.5, thank you very much Mr Dunleary.
The crew appears through a slight mist and comes on like the King of Denmark stepping aboard his Dragon in St Tropez. All is well with the world, and we’re off.
Good chat and banter on the way out to the start. The crew’s night out is the main topic. A few early pints in Goggin’s. A bite to eat in Valparaiso’s. Back to the gaff for copious amounts of wine and homemade cider. Perish the thought.
The description of the main course has me all jittery. I need to steady the ship. Concentrate on sailing. Got to work my way up the fleet. The crew points out the committee boat and all thoughts of the food are banished.
We smile and wave at Ian on Lima, who casts a concerned look in our direction. The look a father might cast to a boy child entering the deep end in Blackrock Baths, circa 1965.
The crew informs me that the tacktick won’t come on. Meant to sort that out last week. No worries. “When the blue flag with a white square drops, we have one minute to go,” I inform him with great pride. Bang goes the gun, and we are only five seconds off the line. Not bad – usually it’s 10.
The bendy mast is gone and the boat is flying. I have resisted tweaking, i.e. making a dog’s dinner of the settings since Alan & Ben kindly intervened some months ago. The boys and girls in the gold fleet are out in front but not by a lot and there are a few silver boyos behind. Yes, oh yes.
The crew suggests a tack and I ask why. “It’s because,” he replies, and I tack, and it works. The Cronins look a little pale as we nudge in front. Conor looks like he has forgotten his lines again. The Bankers are having a ‘mare and are in dire need of help this year. Unfortunately, Anthony Clare is no longer with us.
Adrian the master mariner is ahead as usual. Valerie crosses in front by inches, looking like she just received an RIAI award. John & Mike look like they have lost a tenner and found a fiver as we leave them in our wake. We don’t worry about High Fibre as they are imposters in bronze, but are relieved as they pass without incident. We’re suckin’ diesel now, boy.
Where is Fraser? We look anxiously over our shoulders, but no sign. The crew informs me he is not entered and is probably in bed. Grand!
A blue boat is under our bow and for one glorious moment we think it’s Ken. Alas, Robin smiles as we pass. We round the mark mid-fleet … well, nearly. A quick look over the shoulder reveals a sight I can only dream of … a fleet, nay, an armada, of spinnies behind. Yes. It doesn’t get much better that this.
The downwind company is wonderful and our heads are dizzy in awe. Look, says the crew, it’s Greener, Pooler, Benny et al. Jaysus, says I, never having been this close before. Yes, oh yes, we have finally arrived. I can die happy.
We round the gate third last. Our brief moment of joy is replaced with total despair. We fight our way back as best we can, finishing happy and contented in a respectable position.
The competition is fierce in the fleet, from top to bottom. Putting the boat away will be difficult after a most enjoyable year’s sailing.
Look out you gold and silver buckos, we bronze boys and girls have you in our sights.
