Three gallant sailors, ‘gainst the tempest bold,
Didst brave the wind, the waves, the rain untold.
The wind, a force of four, but rain more fierce,
With Steve and Neil in Lasers, Nigel’s pierce.
Steve from the start didst lead the valiant race,
Till Neil’s wind hole didst change his fateful chase.
The Lasers both, by handicap, prevailed,
But not the Topper’s sailor’s grip assailed.
In second contest Neil didst first depart,
With Nigel next, and Steve with troubled art.
Though Steve pursued, by third lap’s windward trail,
Again, his mainsheet’s knot did him assail.
Yet undeterred, he Neil chased, force five’s gust,
Till Neil’s capsize did grant him chance in trust.
Freed mainsheet’s snare, but Neil too swift did rise,
Steve’s narrow mark round did him there apprise.
And Nigel’s gain by handicap was known,
The frozen crew’s thanks shone as they had shown.
Thus ended Steve’s first run, yet series led,
With Neil and Andrew trailing in his stead.

Results

The Shifting Tides of the Transom Series
As narrated by David Attenborough

On this brisk November morning, where the tides had shifted the very plans of the fleet, the sailors assembled earlier than anticipated. The air hummed with an eager energy, a balmy 8°C and a modest breeze flirting with 10 knots, whispering promises of stronger gusts to come. Nature’s drama was poised to unfold in two riveting acts of the Transom Series.

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Race 1: A Quiet Awakening

As the clock struck 9:45, the fleet ventured into the watery arena. Among them: a Comet, two Lasers, and the ever-enthusiastic Topaz sailors, Danny and Chris. The race commenced with a tentative opening. Steve, with a hunter’s precision, seized the lead from the start, leaving others scrambling in his wake.

Danny, ever the adventurer, decided to stir the waters with an unexpected capsize, introducing a ripple of excitement. Lawrence, seizing the opportunity, surged ahead while Chris crept closer, emboldened by the chaos.

By the second lap, the fleet had tightened. Steve, the alpha of this particular pod, exchanged words of wisdom with Carmel as she valiantly fought to close the gap. Despite her spirited efforts, Steve’s dominance remained unchallenged. Over four laps, his lead stretched like the wings of a gliding albatross, securing him a decisive victory, with Carmel trailing valiantly behind.

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Race 2: A Battle of Wits and Will

The second act began with a flourish. Despite a surprise plunge into the chilly waters during the start sequence, Carmel emerged undeterred, her resolve burning brightly. The fleet gathered at the start line like creatures vying for space at a watering hole, each plotting their course with calculated intent.

Lawrence, bold as a lion, attempted a Port flyer but found himself wrestling with Steve on Starboard. Meanwhile, Carmel, like a cunning fox, exploited the distraction to sneak past, snapping at Steve’s heels and forcing him to divert his course.

Danny, lurking inshore with the patience of a crocodile, pursued Lawrence with steady determination. Chris, charting a different course, found himself entangled in the winds and tides, overstanding his mark and allowing Danny to slither ahead.

Downwind, Carmel closed in on Steve, their battle akin to predator and prey, separated by mere seconds. Yet the shifty breeze and fickle tides demanded constant vigilance. As Danny played his part in the drama with yet another capsize—this time swimming after a rogue boat cap—Lawrence and Chris gained ground. Chris, beleaguered by capsizes and a drifting bung, conceded to the elements.

In the end, it was Steve and Carmel who showcased the wisdom of the ages: slow, steady, and error-free wins the race. Carmel’s perseverance nearly unseated the reigning champion, but Steve’s seasoned tactics secured him another victory. Lawrence followed in third, with Danny, bruised but unbowed, bringing up the rear.

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Epilogue

And so, the morning’s races concluded. The fleet disbanded, their spirits buoyed by the camaraderie of competition and the ever-changing drama of wind and tide. In this watery wilderness, every sailor played their part, each a vital thread in the intricate tapestry of the day. For now, the waters rest, until they are stirred once more by the call of the next race.

Results

A tale of whispered promises, languid breezes, and the slow, inevitable passage of time.

In the still and misted silence of an autumn afternoon, a group of sailors gathered by the water’s edge, their voices hushed as if aware that nature itself did not favor their designs. The wind, barely perceptible, seemed to mock the very notion of movement. Nevertheless, after much debate, Neil and Andrew, with a resigned nobility, resolved to honor the sea with their presence. It was high water at 13:06, but nature had dealt them neap tides and winds reluctant to fill the sails.

Four Lasers, a Comet, and a Varga took to the starting line, a silent flotilla entrusted to Nick Speller, the Officer of the Day, who bore the gravity of a man presiding over fate itself. With Alan and Dave Brennan watching from the safety launch, they laid a modest course—a triangle pointing like a futile spear towards the Barry pin. The wind, SSE at a mere 4 knots, wavered like the final breath of a dying giant.

Lawrence, aboard the noble Comet, was the first to break free, moving at the stroke of the clock with a fragile optimism. But the rumors of a back eddy, whispered like old folktales around the shore, soon proved illusory. Lawrence, clutching at a specter of promised currents, found himself swept inexorably westward, his progress doomed to merge with the memories of other ill-fated voyagers.

Behind him, the remaining fleet made a slow and solemn advance, a determined drift more than a sail. Their attempt to hug the shore became a tentative waltz of pirouettes and desperate tacks, each sailor wrestling with sails that seemed to taunt them in their silent defiance. Neil, with grim determination, took an arc long and wide, his strategy rewarded only by reaching the first mark with a barely noticeable grace, punctuated by a curious on-deck limbo—a feat worthy of myth had there been any speed to it.

But time, that relentless master, showed no mercy. As the clock drew closer to the dreaded finish, there was a sense among those onshore, and perhaps on the water itself, of dreams dying. Positions were tallied: Neil first, then Andrew, Trevor, Jason, and lastly, Lawrence, left to ponder the cruel fate of unfounded rumors.

The second race commenced with a course shortened even further, a silent admission of mortal helplessness in the face of the day’s whims. Paint might have dried faster than the boats’ progress, had the sea but permitted any movement at all. Jason’s miscalculation of the back tide led him to drift behind the start line, a slip that did not go unnoticed by the wry smile of the race officer, as he recalled the errant sailor with a wave that felt more like a benediction than a reproach.

As the fleet inched, crept, and lingered toward the first mark, there came an unexpected spectacle, as improbable as a mirage in the desert. Jason, who had thus far seemed a model of quiet perseverance, found himself drawn into an inexplicable turn of fate. At the windward mark—where the air was as still as a forgotten dream—his boat tilted, wobbled, and then, as if some ghostly hand had taken hold, slowly capsized. In the stunned silence that followed, only the faintest ripple marked this descent, as though the water itself were reluctant to record such an absurdity. Jason later confessed he hoped his mishap might remain unspoken, a secret between sailor and sea, and Nick, the Officer of the Day, replied with a distant gaze, admitting he wasn’t entirely certain if he’d witnessed the event at all or had perhaps slipped into some strange hallucination induced by the endless calm.

Neil took the lead once more, resolute and unyielding, his form dark and steadfast against the stillness of the water, maintaining this course for what felt an eternity.

And at last, as the minutes stretched, the second race ground to a reluctant halt, Neil victorious and Lawrence—tireless, undaunted—bringing up the rear.

And so the day drew to a close, its spirit lingering like the sigh of an ancient poet. The sailors returned, silent and stoic, each bearing the mark of a race that asked of them patience and fortitude far beyond the measure of mere endurance. It was a tale to be told around firesides, a fable of slow waters and fleeting hope—a tragedy in every sense.

“November’s Drift and Dream: The Transom Series, Two Races Run”

To begin at the beginning: it is the third of November, the sky thick as slate and the air salted with the damp breath of late autumn. Out on the water, the sailing club folk shake off their landside weariness, readying their boats as the gloomy gray gathers over the bay. It’s mild but melancholy, a November day soft as a sailor’s lullaby, with a light easterly wind tugging at the sails and the buoys bobbing in anticipation.

Today was to be Steve’s turn as Officer of the Day, the steady hand guiding the race. But from shore came a timely step-in: Bob, captain of the clipboard, taking his place so that Steve could sail and chase his standing in the series. And so, with a fleet of seven gathered under Bob’s watchful eye, and a handful of marks nudged here and there to appease the mutterings from the shop floor, the first race stirred to life.

Danny took the lead at the gun, cutting a clean path on Starboard as Steve and Andrew pressed in close, a trio of bright sails straining towards the first mark. On they swept, each tack keen and quick, with Danny ahead, his hull slicing through the slate-gray ripples. But as they rounded the leeward mark, Danny’s mainsheet tangled in a snarl, and in that breath of bad luck, Steve and Andrew slipped through, quick as shadows. The Lasers held their line for three laps, each boat dancing to the wind’s whisper, while Danny trailed back, his early promise stilled by a capsize at the gybe mark. Andy T made his rare crossing from the far shore to take fourth in the Laser fleet, followed by the Topazes, with Teilo and Mike, steady and close, keeping pace.

Meanwhile, capsizing in his Vago, one-man wild on the wire, Trev fought a losing battle with the gusts, a sailor’s waltz of rise and fall, a one-man tide rolling to and fro.

After another round of course tweaks, the second race surged to life, and this time Steve flew to the front, Andrew and Danny trailing in his wake. By the second leg, Andrew had found his way ahead, his upwind tactics clever and sharp, but soon Steve closed the gap on the reach, overtaking with the tide at his back. As Andrew tacked out to clear his wind, Steve hugged the shore, sailing with a sailor’s cunning, skimming the water where the current lay low. When they met again, Steve’s lead had stretched like a long, thin thread, strong and sure, marking his hold on the series.

Amid the swift pursuit, Teilo’s Topaz flew its spinnaker, a defiant flag unfurled to the sullen sky, catching the air in a bright, brave sweep, trailing his path like a single stroke of color against the gray. And there was Danny, brimming with frustration, taking his final fall near the windward mark. Only on shore did he uncover the cause of his struggle—a missing bung, and a hull heavy with water.

At last, as the tide edged further out and the day’s dim light began to falter, each boat drifted past the yellow mark, bearing the quiet pride of a race run well. Steve, sailing strong, had widened his lead in the Transom Series, with Bob watching from the shore, his tally of finishes etched in ink and salt.

And so, as November’s dusk settled over the sea, the fleet drifted back to harbour, the water growing still and dark, while the wind whispered of races yet to come.

Results