Results

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Results

Ah, what a splendidly quaint affair was the Transom series, a spectacle in which the wind, that most elusive of companions, could scarcely be bothered to attend. With a gentle South-East to East breeze—so light one might think it simply an exhalation from some distant shore—the day commenced under the watchful, if somewhat indifferent, eye of Danny Powell. He, with the noble assistance of Dan Patterson and Chris Parr in their patrol boat, presided over the day’s theatrics with the gravitas of a general marshaling his troops into battle, albeit one conducted at a leisurely pace.

The first race, a figure-of-eight course that could only have been devised by someone with an appreciation for the poetic absurdity of chasing one’s tail, began with a flourish. Jason, eager and optimistic in his Laser, took to the inland tack, while Steve, that most confident of sailors, boldly ventured outward. The winds may have been timid, but Steve’s ambition was anything but, and by the first mark, he had secured a lead that was as unassailable as it was elegant.

Jason, undeterred, pressed on, and behind him followed Jake, ever tenacious, though he had to keep one wary eye on Lawrence, who, aboard his Comet, was dancing through the course with a quiet determination. Yet, it was poor Danny Clugston who captured the audience’s sympathies. In his Topaz, he struggled valiantly against the tide, as though battling not just the water, but the very whims of the universe itself, finishing last in a race that seemed to treat him with the same indifference as the wind.

The race committee, being of sound mind and perhaps a touch of mercy, decided to alter the course for the second race, swapping marks and shortening the legs, thereby shaping the course into a trapezoid—a rather geometrically sensible choice, though one could scarcely deny the tragic beauty of a figure-eight. The adjustment allowed for three laps to be completed by the Laser fast fleet, and oh, what a race it was!

The placings remained largely unchanged, though Jason, no doubt driven by the unspoken promise of redemption, was much closer to Steve this time. It was a contest of inches rather than miles, but in such matters, every inch carries the weight of destiny. Lawrence, ever steadfast, kept pace with Jake, proving that consistency, even in a fickle wind, is a virtue unto itself.

And thus the day concluded, not with triumph or defeat, but with the quiet satisfaction that comes from having sailed at all. For, in the end, is it not the journey, and the gentle companionship of the sea’s capriciousness, that makes such events truly worthwhile?

Results

The Tip Top T Trophy was closely fought by 4 sailors in a Topper, a Taz and 2 Topazs. After one lap Sam in the Topper was well in the lead only to sail the wrong course. Trev in the Taz would have taken the win only to think he had finished after one lap. This left Chris H and Danny C in the Topazs fighting for the lead with Danny winning out and lifting the trophy as Tip Top T Champion.

Danny, on a roll, then made the perfect start in race 2 ahead of Steve before fading to 4th as Trev sailed a blistering race to lead the slow boats home by over 4 minutes on handicap.

Steve leads the series from Danny C in second and Neil 3rd.

Results

Four lasers and one Topaz took to the water in a force four gusting to five south westerly breeze.

Race officer set a figure eight course with a dropped pin start to provide a beat, a broad reach, a beam reach and a run for each lap.
Race one saw the lasers split left and right off the start line with Andrew leading Steve, Danny and Neil at the Barry Pin. Lap two saw Steve and Andrew swapping places and duelling at the front of the pack, until on the flying downwind leg Andrew capsized and snapped his mast. Bob, who was spectating from the race control area, spotted his opportunity immediately and legged it home to get a spare mast top section from his loft. Before Andrew had even got his broken boat to the top of the ramp the deal was done and Bob made his sale!

Race two : Danny C drifted off downwind and couldn’t quite get back intime for the start, but the others split left and right again off the line. The wind and waves had picked up by now and the beat to Barry pin looked painful. This time it was Neil and Steve duelling with several lead changes. On the downwind leg of lap one it was neck and neck until Neil had his first capsize – to windward- the slap on the water could be heard from the tower as his laser inverted. Several capsizes and inversions later Neil came in across the line second to Steve followed by Danny P. Adding to the capsize tally was Dan C and credit to him for persevering and finishing the race.

Back on shore there were mutterings about the Race officer being a sadist for setting a challenging course, especially the second race, and Neil looked shattered after his capsizes. At least four windward capsizes, with added flip overs, which makes eight times at least ! Well done everyone, thanks to the depleted duty team and especially to Key for stepping in at the last minute.

Results

The day dawned bright and clear and with no sign of the usual Miracle visitors, 12 boats lined up to the start of the first race, including newcomer from CBYC, Charlie with a Supernova and Roy also from CBYC joining Jean in his West 11.
A medium sized Trapezoid course was set by race officers Bob and Rex, who placed the windward mark a good way inside the Barry Pin.

1st Race
The first start was a general recall, as several boats were over, with some confusion as to who this was. A second start saw the Supernova leading the charge upwind and then for the majority of race one, with laser sailors Danny and Jason in hot pursuit.
Danny C. in the Topaz Uno+ had a fantastic start and was looking very competitive throughout, keeping Carmel in the Radial behind him for the first upwind leg. Carmel had a troublesome start being too early to the line but struggled to back away through the fleet of boats at the start.

Danny C lost a bit of momentum towards the end as the fast fleet started catching up with him but finished in a respectable 6th on corrected time and Jean with new crew Roy who were sailing the Mirror would have been 11th but were called DNF in order to start race two.

Charlie in the Supernova managed to hold everyone off until the lasers caught up as the wind dropped off towards the last mark rounding, and everyone grappled for a finish against a tidal eddy, with El Commodore Danny taking the ribbon, followed by Jason and Charlie third. Robin kept ahead of Carmel to take 4th place in race one, Danny C 6th, Pietro in the Topper 7th, Steve 8th in the 29er lapping Trevor who was 9th in his Vago, but pleased to have flown his spinnaker for the first time and kept the boat upright!

2nd Race
Second race Neil and Corrado joined in the fun. Neil was not quite warmed up as he was second tier at the start along with Steve. Carmel just behind touched the pin end and took a penalty turn. It wasn’t Carmel’s race, as during lap 2 a role tack near the top mark went a bit awry, allowing Chris Bartho through whose steady racing and keeping the pointy end upright paid off.

3rd Race
The 3rd race saw some… interesting starts, with a Port hand for most boats in the fleet. Neil and Robin got away cleanly with Charlie. Danny was away clear at the pin end of the line, just above and ahead of both Steve and Jason who was just behind. Carmel followed tacking onto starboard narrowly making it through the line before rolling back onto port to follow the shoreline with Steve and Jason.

Jason blitzed Charlie and Danny on the second beat, by staying inshore with Steve. Both gained some good wind and used shifts in their favour to leap past the other lasers.

Jason finished in first place, well ahead of Charlie who finished fourth. Carmel from the slow fleet third and Danny who this time came in second.

In the slow fleet Pietro’s Topper sailing saw him come in second, beating dad Corrado by just two minutes! Two minutes later the second Radial came through sailed by Chris.
The next three places were hotly contested on the water by Trevor (11th), Danny C. (12th) and Roy (13th) sailing with Jean in the West 11, but all three managed to hold their positions for a near photo-finish finale to the final race of the day.

Congratulations to Danny Powell who wins the Regatta Trophy for the second year running (and for the 5th year overall).

Results