The Blinding Race of Sully Bay
The last Sunday of October dawned deceptively bright over Sully Bay, the water mirroring a sun low in the sky, its light both alluring and blinding. It was one of those rare autumn days when the air feels thick with secrets, the sun casting long, eerie shadows across the waves, while a sense of something hidden lingered, just beneath the water’s placid surface.
Race Officer Danny Powell squinted into the blazing sun as it crested just above the horizon, its golden glare painting the bay in a surreal light that stung the eyes and seemed almost sentient, as if daring anyone to look straight at it. He and his shore crew—Rex and Bob—had to shield their faces from its intensity, while out on the patrol boat, Nic Dirr and Karl waited in a restless calm, ready for anything the bay might throw at them.
The forecast had whispered of a weak wind, barely a force 1 or 2, but there was a strange persistence to the breeze that afternoon. It played with the sails, teasing them from the west and then backing subtly southwest, like it had a mind of its own, a slow, curling hand directing the events from behind the scene.
For the first race, Powell set a triangular course, though the sun’s glare made it difficult to line up the marks precisely. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease; the first leg, intended to be an uphill struggle, seemed too easy, luring the sailors into a line too simple to challenge them. Danny, feeling the subtle push of fate, resolved to move the marks for the second race. But for now, they would race as it was.
At the start signal, four Lasers slipped out into the sun-dappled bay, the water shimmering gold around them. Steve, intense and calm as a shadow, led the way with Andrew, his silent rival, close behind. Both sailed full rigs, their boats cutting through the glare like specters. In Radials, Jake and Chris followed, glancing warily at the two ahead of them, their sails billowing in the tricky, shifting breeze.
Steve reached the first windward mark with ease, his Laser catching the light as he pulled further ahead. Behind him, Andrew fought to close the gap, each maneuver careful, calculated. Chris, leading Jake, held his position firmly, as if some invisible force commanded them all to stay in line. They followed their loops around the course—three laps in all—while the sun hung blindingly low, half-glaring at them from the sky, as if testing their resolve.
By the time the second race approached, the sun had sunk lower, dipping towards the horizon, casting a fading, golden light across the water. Shadows stretched longer, and the light took on a strange, almost haunting quality, illuminating the scene like a setting from an old ghost story. The latecomers Neil and Lawrence arrived just in time, murmuring about the odd 2 p.m. start, their excuses whispered as if to avoid disturbing the stillness settling over the bay.
With the marks now shifted, Powell called them to the line once more. The fleet surged forward, close-packed and tense, jockeying for position as they fought through the first beat. The light—no longer blinding but fading—set a strange pallor over the race, turning the sailors into dark silhouettes against the shimmering water. Steve emerged just ahead of Andrew, with Neil close behind, while Jake, with a newfound intensity, pulled ahead of Chris, reversing their order from the first race.
But fate held them all in place once more. Lap after lap, the racers remained locked in position, their courses drawn by some unseen hand, as the sun dipped closer to the horizon, casting a final amber glow over the water. Steve’s lead in the series grew as he claimed his second victory, yet there was a weight to the day’s end, as if the bay itself had borne witness to something it would not soon forget.
The sailors returned to shore, their faces obscured by the dying light, each man’s gaze drifting back to the water as the last rays vanished, leaving the bay cold and still, and just a bit darker than before.