Downwind action on the s/v Cuidado. Once the wind filled in, the jets went on.

What does it take to win a race? I’ve been giving that matter a lot of thought of late; most recently two weeks ago, at the beginning of the Santa Barbara to King Harbor race. I had a fair amount of time to ponder the question as I sat, along with the skipper and crew, bobbing along in light airs, watching the rest of our fleet pass us, then the following fleet, and the one after that. We’d had a successful start—first across the line, but as the wind lightened, the boats carrying 155% genoas quickly overtook us, and before long, we looked back to see that the only boat behind us was a Catalina 38 with baggy sails. And she was gaining on us. We looked at the Catalina, then out at the dozens of boats skipping along ahead of us, scattered like confetti across the passage to Anacapa Island, and started laughing. "Well," said Tom, the skipper, "We should at least be able to stay ahead of them." Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?

Tom’s boat, a sleek 11-metre One Design named Cuidado, is a pretty fast boat downwind. (In 1999, with Tom as skipper and a different crew, she took first in class on the King Harbor race and set the course record, which still stands.) Our trouble for the first two hours of this race was that we were not headed downwind. Our eyes fixed on the wind angle, waiting for the shift that would allow us to fly the chute (and one eye on that Catalina, still blessedly to our stern), we played every little puff of wind we got, and kept our crew weight centered. The second our angle was right, we threw up the spinnaker, and got just enough of a breath of air to pull us along. We all held our breath as we pulled up and passed our first boat. "One down!" said Curt, on the helm. Tom, whose positive effect on morale was invaluable, said enthusiastically, "Now, let’s go reel in some boats!" I’m not going to state outright that I thought, "Unlikely…" but it was something similar.

As the wind picked up slightly, we sailed our angles, and the spinnaker started to work its magic. I worked the sheet while the other crew members ground the winch, trimming the sail in concert with the helmsman, playing it to capture each puff of wind and ride the surface of each swell. We started to pick up significantly in speed, counting off boat after boat as we went sailing past. To maximize our speed, we relied on clear communication between the helmsman and the crew—each subtle shift in the wind required attention, and when the boat felt overpowered or hit a velocity header, collapsing the chute, the crew worked together to balance it out by tuning the spinnaker.

Morale had improved notably by the time we approached Anacapa Island, which we had to round to port. The wind slowed at the entrance to the passage, and the water was glassy. From our vantage point in the middle of the fleet, we could see which boats had wind, and which were struggling. We had a clear view of the kelp poles coming out in the other boats as their crews tried to get the weeds off the hull, as well, which gave us an idea of where the kelp beds were, even before we approached them. The brisk run to Anacapa had slowed considerably, and we found ourselves among fifty or more boats, sometimes at close quarters, but by watching for wind shifts and jibing frequently, we picked our way across the passage, making steady progress. The journey was nearly silent, as we slipped through the water in the fog, turning occasionally to see an increasing number of brilliant sails glowing behind us. "Um, guys…?" Curt called from the helm, "I think I feel some kelp on the keel." Patrick moved to swipe off the offending weeds, and we continued on for another quarter mile or so, when we heard again, "Um, guys…?" Curt became our resident kelp detector, earning him the nickname "Kelpy." Every time he spoke up, we’d all groan good-naturedly, and take a swipe at the keel, to prevent kelp from slowing us down.

The race stretched on, and we exited the passage between Anacapa and Santa Cruz islands at dusk, in a lull, still managing to stay a little wind channel and zig-zag through it. The crew switched off at the helm, competing to see who could pass more boats, and as we entered the shipping lanes, Patrick stood on the stern and counted fifty or more boats that he could see. Our closest competition was a Hobie 33 and a pair of Olson 30s we dubbed the Olson Twins. We stayed even with the Olsons through the shipping lanes, with Curt tirelessly grinding the spinnaker sheet.

On the road to the finish line. Just as important as the condition of the sails, hull, and other sail handling gear, and arguably even more so, is how the crew interacts.

We crossed the shipping lanes as the sun was setting, and set out to our next mark, still many miles ahead. Tom took the helm, continually quizzing us on our angle, our course, and whether there was any smoked salmon left in the cooler. The light finally died, until our only company were running lights of other boats—some ahead, some behind. The waves glowed phosphorescent green, and dolphins zoomed past beneath us, undulating tubes of electric green light. There was no moon at all, but the stars and the lights on the boats in the distance gave us enough to look at, and we passed boat after boat after boat. Every time we'd see a stern light ahead, Curt would growl, "There's someone AHEAD of us!" indignantly, and add, "I HATE that!" With no real perspective on where we sat in the fleet, we moved on, finding the wind where we could. With Patrick, on foredeck; me in the pit; Tom on the helm; and Curt flying the chute, we worked together to jibe in the dark, feeling better and more of a team with every jibe.

The wind began to drop around 11:00 p.m., when we'd made Santa Monica Bay, requiring us to jibe frequently and find new directions, still moving forward, but a little more slowly. Tom took a much-deserved turn resting, but Patrick and Curt stayed awake, still reeling in boats. I finally crashed at 3:00, and slept for almost an hour, waking twice, once to jump in and help with a jibe that sounded problematic, and once to pull down the spinnaker as we came around the final mark. Just before we reached the harbor entrance, making about 3 knots, a Hobie 33 came zipping past at 6 or 7 knots, having caught a puff we never even felt. We heard the gun as they crossed the line, and made our way in, hearing the sweet sound of the horn at our finish. It was 3:50 a.m., and we’d raced for fifteen and a half hours.

To the victors go the spoils. The boat and crew after sixteen hours of racing.

We were all tired, but we tied up, stowed gear, and trudged off the boat to a hotel down the street. We went to sleep at 6:30 a.m., waking at noon to go get breakfast and head back to close up the boat. No one had checked the results, but we figured maybe we'd gotten third place, not really daring to hope for second. We were pleased to have sailed well, to discover that we were a compatible crew, and Tom was especially happy about the teamwork and crew spirit.

The awards ceremony was to begin at 4:00, and at 3:30 or so, Tom realized that none of us had bothered to check where we had finished. He went up into the clubhouse to look at the results. We were stowing the lifelines when Franklin came striding back down the dock, looking concerned. "Guys? We're in trouble." We all froze, and all I could think was that we'd flubbed the start and been disqualified. "We took first in class," Tom said, and while our jaws dropped, added, "this is going to WRECK our rating!" The race had taken us fifteen and a half hours, and we'd won by less than two minutes. We could have lost two minutes to anything—inattention to sail trim, or being lax on swiping for kelp. It was a close call, but we had done it.

What does it take to win a race? A mix of teamwork, good equipment, attention to sail trim, the blessing of the wind gods, and an eye for kelp on the keel.