Sometimes you know right from the start how a thing's going to turn out.
But more often, life is like the Three Bridge Fiasco.
The Three Bridge Fiasco is a mid-winter single and double-handed sailboat race on San Francisco Bay. There are good reasons to call it the "Fiasco": Unpredictable winter weather that might include sun or rain, calm winds or stormy conditions; a high turn-out, typically about 300 boats; a wide range of boat types -- everything from cruisers with PHRF handicap ratings above 250 to extreme racers measuring in as low as -84. A unique feature of this race is that participants may circle the course in any direction, can round each mark clockwise or counter-clockwise, and can cross the start and finish line sailing west to east or east to west. Two years ago, the Three Bridge Fiasco was the first sailboat race I'd ever attempted. I'd owned "Horizon", my 1975 Islander 28, for the better part of a year, and felt ready to push my limits a little, so I signed up in the single-handed division, non-spinnaker class. I'd been sailing for the better part of 30 years; how hard could it be to race? Hard, it turns out. I knew how to keep the boat upright and pointed in the right direction, but I didn't know the fine points of sail trim. I didn't understand then the importance of having just the right head stay and halyard tension, the correct depth of sail, the right amount of twist. I didn't realize how important it is to keep weight out of the bow and stern, to concentrate it low and in the center, or to get it off the boat entirely. There were a thousand little things I didn't know then and didn't even know I didn't know. I ended that race after dark, with a vicious squall blowing through, the last boat anywhere in sight, and still many miles from the finish line. The time had run out; I called in my resignation, started the engine, and limped home. The next year I tried again, with a new main and a year's accumulation of racing knowledge, but the tides were contrary and the wind was light. A gentle breath of air was enough to nudge me across the start! , but wi thin a hundred yards or so I was stalled out again, facing into the current and making no progress at all. The whole fleet spread out beside me, 300 sailboats looking more like a still photograph than a live race. A little behind and to starboard one boat seemed to be gaining on the pack; my binoculars revealed that her crew had deployed an anchor. For the next two hours I drifted helplessly backward until I reached the starting line again, then I had to concede that the race was over for me.
But this year would be different. This year the one predictable element of the race was in our favor: The tide was just about perfect. With the start staggered according to PHRF rating, I'd be taking off almost exactly at slack tide, then the flood would carry me into the Bay. Whether I took an overall clockwise or counter-clockwise route around the course, the incoming tide would help me reach the first mark and the outgoing tide would help me get back to the finish. The weather in the days leading up to the race was different this time, too. It was stormy, rainy and cold. I didn't mind it raining, and I didn't mind it being cold. I worried a little that there would be too much wind, and I agonized over whether or not to change down to my smallest jib. For a week it rained every day and the wind blew hard and people who knew my weekend plans shook their heads and cast worried glances my way. For a week I studied the weather reports, and, especially, the wind forecasts. Let it rain! Let it blow! With weather like this and a favorable tide, I'd surely finish this time! The only question was: Should I take the course clockwise or counter-clockwise? Early Saturday morning, January 26, well before daylight, I pulled on my foul weather gear, snapped on my PFD, set the jacklines in place, eased Horizon out of her slip and started the long motorsail to the City. I was apprehensive about the weather but optimistic about the race. There was wind aplenty but no rain. It was going to be good. It was going to be great! The wind was still blowing when my starting time arrived, and I crossed the line in good shape and ran off toward the first mark at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge. I still hadn't decided which way I would go when I reached that mark -- back past the start and eastward to Treasure Island, taking the counter-clockwise route, or north and east to Raccoon Strait and onward to Red Rock,clockwise around the course. I watched the handful of boats just ahead, studied the direction of the wind at the mark and out in the central bay. Clockwise or counter-clockwise? Treasure Island or Red Rock? It was a choice that would make all the difference.
I chose counter-clockwise. With the wind steady from the east at about 15 knots I had a nice reach north toward Sausalito and into Raccoon Strait, and I decided it was best to go with it, rather than tack back against it early and hope it would still be there later. Just after 10 o'clock, as I pushed for the best possible speed north across the Golden Gate I kept a nervous eye out to sea. The race committee had cautioned us that they'd received word a tanker would be entering the Bay and moving through the race course around 10:00, and I could see it out there charging toward us, a heavy surge of foam at its bow, its tugboats in attendance. These ships move fast -- 12 to 15 knots at a minimum, just to maintain steerage, and this one wasn't at minimum speed. My knot meter read just over 6, a pretty good pace for my little Islander, and enough to get me beyond the tanker's path in plenty of time. Things were going well! In Raccoon Strait, the wind was deflected by Angel Island and became fluky, gusty, and unpredictable. Suddenly, I was close hauled, then running before the wind, then close hauled on the opposite side. I tacked. I jibed. The Horizon plunged onward through the strait and toward Red Rock. The spinnaker sailors were catching up now, and several passed as we approached the mark, and then the spinnakers came down as we rounded, and I felt like we were on a level playing field again, headed into the wind. The wind! Where had the wind gone? We drifted, a score or more sailboats desperate for just a little air, enough to counter the 1 knot or so of current. There it was, from the east, and then it was gone. Another breath, this time from the west, and gone. The current tugged us northward, our next mark was to the south. To the east was the commercial port of Richmond, where a high speed coast guard inflatable with a machine gun mounted on the bow zipped between the racers and the moored ships. "You are entering a restricted zone!", they told us. "Move away from the restricted zone!" We wanted nothing more, but we were all but helpless. Would the tide finally carry us too close? Would the coasties demand that we start our engines, disqualifying us from the race? One by one, we eventually began to move. A barely perceptible breeze appeared from the north, and the spinnakers came out, many of them limp, but filling and dropping, filling and dropping, filling... Without a spinnaker, I put out my biggest jib and poled it out, and I pulled the main out to the other side, rigging a preventer to hold it there while the boat slatted from side to side on waves that rolled through from the west. The knot meter was showing fractions, the GPS showed our speed at 0. The wind eased to port, then to starboard, then disappeared. The GPS read fractions, but in the wrong direction, then the sails lifted again and we moved forward ever so slowly. Point one. Point two. Zero. Point 5!
Five hours later it was completely dark and we were becalmed again, this time behind Treasure Island, the last mark, but still many miles from the finish. I knew that even under the best of conditions I wouldn't be able to get that far before the clock ran out. It was time to face reality. "Race committee, this is Horizon, sail 6375, retiring from the race." It was nice to have a good, reliable engine to carry me home.
