Windward legs bring reduced visibility. It’s a conscious effort that needs to be taken to look out for boats below yours.

We’d had a decent start. It wasn’t one of our best--some our starts that season had been of the text book superb caliber, but neither had the start left us at the back of the pack. We emerged somewhere in the middle, and with a little work and luck, there was the thinking that we could make it up. The adrenaline subsided as we left the starting line. Hulls, sails, grinding winches and yelling crew opened up to a vista of palm tree lined cliffs and blue ocean in the late afternoon sun. The fleet split on its way to the top mark. Some boats opted to head in to smoother waters along the shore, while others, like ourselves were looking for more breeze further offshore. The wind blew at 10-12 knots and an evening of perfect conditions stretched out before us. On a port tack, we settled into a groove, trying to avoid the kelp patches while playing the shifts. Suddenly, as if materializing from thin air, a boat appeared directly in front of the bow. There was no call of "Starboard!" only a boat directly and unavoidably in front of us. Before anyone had a chance to even yell a warning, we were bracing for the coming collision.

Our skipper tried to duck behind the transom of the boat, but as soon as I saw the boat I knew it there was neither the room or the time for it. There wasn’t time to blow the runners for the main or loosen the mainsheet. Our bow was aimed at the middle of the boat. Impact. The bow simply glided and lifted up into their cockpit. Their boat was a much smaller boat and heeled over on starboard tack made a natural ramp for our bow to slide up. Its crew of three intuitively parted, wide eyed, scrambling out of the way. Then the yelling of a too-late warning began and our bow slid out of the cockpit, the rigging and sails became tangled, with one bow pointed one way, one bow pointed another and seven suddenly delicate sailors left to untangle the banging hulls and still drawing sails. There was about half a heartbeat break to look around at the truly remarkable sight. Their boat’s spreader had punctured our new mainsail, while our spreader was stuck at the top of their forestay and the chop was bumping the hulls together.

Collisions while racing are rare, but can and do happen. There are no hard and fast rules that will cover all collisions, but there are a number of immediate concerns. First and foremost is to make sure that everyone aboard is all right and that no one requires any major first aid. Second, is to make sure that no one will be injured trying to untangle two boats stuck together. It’s easy to go into super adrenaline mode, but far better to at least try to remain calm. One crew was trying to keep the hulls from bumping together. Even though we were talking about light race boats here, it’s still several thousand pounds bumping together, several thousand pounds of bone crushing capability. No paint job in the world is worth a mangled hand. Let the hulls bump--or grab a fender and carefully place it in between. Once the impact is over, the main physics of the equation have played out and it’s time to go into damage assessment mode.

What’s wrong with this picture? It’s not the rake, or the halyard or outhaul tension. The new sail came with no window to look through, despite class rules calling for it.

Our next step was making sure the hull was still intact. The collision wasn’t of the fiberglass splitting kind. While we were probably sailing every bit of six knots or above, their boat’s angle of heel offered a speed slowing ramp of sorts. Had we hit head on, there could have been some more serious damage. But the other important thing besides no one being hurt, is to keep the boat floating. Had we put a hole in the bow, there would have been a number of strategies to enact--everything from plugging the hole with whatever was at hand, lifejackets and duct tape, to moving all the weight to one side of the boat to keep the hole out of the water, but thankfully all the boat had were a few scratches.

Untangling two bouncing boats is a bit trickier. We decided that we needed to take the sails down. There are some instances, however, where you might need to keep the sails up such as a failed backstay in which the mainsail and sheet are supporting the mast. No two collisions will be the same. We were concerned about the rig of the little boat coming down. One outer shroud had jumped the spreader, and it was being supported by the lowers. On the outset it doesn’t look like there’s a lot one can do to steady a wounded rig, but a halyard fastened to the deck and run taught can act like a stay. In our case, sails that usually come down easier, once loaded and pinched against other rigging, can be a bit more reluctant. The jib came down first, relatively easily. The main proved a bit more unwilling. With two pairs of hands pulling on the luff, it finally came down and eventually, the boats parted. These were light displacement boats--larger boats obviously have more heft and risk associated with them. The boat we hit sailed away toward the harbor on jib alone, lifting a red lifejacket to their rigging as a protest flag. We put the outboard on and motored after them, eventually catching up and giving them a tow into the harbor.

The collision left a hole in the new main, a hole in the new jib, a tweaked spreader and pride.

Seven people--four on our boat and three on theirs--managed to miss the moments leading up to the collision. What went wrong? Hindsight is 20/20. For starters, our mainsail was new to the boat. It had been cut without a window in it--despite that being a class rule for this type of boat. Being low to the water, the boat had minimal freeboard. When heeling, it was difficult to see boats below, and without the window, we were essentially flying blind. Their boat had also had its share of compounding factors. In the moments leading up to the collision, they had been trying to free kelp off of the keel and were just as surprised as we were. Mariners need to keep a sharp lookout. Both boats could have been keener.

Was it our fault? According to the rules, it was. Starboard tack boat has the right of way, case closed. And while there were fleeting moments to entertain why-didn’t-they-call-starboard-tack lines of reasoning, the rules exist for a reason; even if starboard tack is an arbitrary qualification in discerning which vessel has the right of way, it is the rule sailing vessels have when they meet. And so it was that our boat admitted being in the wrong, insurance information was exchanged, and we went on our slightly shaken ways to have a libation in the club. "That was the first collision I’ve had in 26 years of racing," our skipper and owner said. Each time we head out on to the water is a new time, it’s why we do it. And while there have been several weeks of downtime getting the boat sorted out, we’ll be on the starting line again this week. When the horse bucks you, you have to get right back on. But we won’t be doing it without a window in the sail.