Spinnaker tale

To fly or not to fly, that is the question.

The spinnaker of course. I'd never deployed one and here I was, on my own, singlehanded, Around (the bay) Alone. As I sailed westward towards the windward side of the bay I gave the matter some thought. The previous owner of my yacht told me he'd had the spinnaker up during his yacht club's annual single handed race. He said it had been a bit of a caper and as he hadn't had enough hands he had held ropes in his teeth. But this proved it could be done.

At least I had handled the thing; I'd pulled half an acre of multicoloured tissue paper out of its bag and spread it around the garage. And I'd read the books and watched the yachts in the bay and seen photographs of various yachts in spectacular crisis as their spinnaker's took charge. I could see the latter wouldn't be a problem as I watched the gentle south west breeze dapple the water into a glorious sparkle of sun kissed wavelets. No excuse there.

I hove to in sight of the Manacles Buoy and had a spot of lunch. As I munched I planned each hoisting maneuver in a way that would have made a Squadron Leader proud (ok chaps, there's a bit of a flap on), and decided to go for it. I assembled the equipment in the cockpit; sheets, pole, spinnaker brooding silently in its custom built launch bucket and, after a quick look round for nearby yachts (didn't want anybody to witness this potential fiasco), sprang into action. But not before I put on my lifejacket prior to venturing onto the wildly exposed foredeck comforted by the fact that although I'd just made sure there were no other yachts within half a mile, at least the search would find a body.

I dropped the genoa to give myself some room and eased the main sheet so that she lay to nicely, and began to get organized. It was a bit like that song, the shinbone connected to the - knee bone, the knee bone connected to the - thighbone etc, and soon everything was in order, even with a double check. The cockpit had turned into a snake pit like they have on those big racing yachts, so I must have got that right. Another quick scan, nobody near, and then it was helm up to bear away and time for a few deep breaths.

The books said to cheat the guy so I did, and there was a rustle of lightweight sailcloth that meant I was committed. So, I grabbed the halyard and hoisted as quickly as I could. If the guy cheating had been the whisp of smoke the hoist was indeed the enormous genie springing forth. It wasn't half an acre, it was three. A quick trim on the sheet and it filled magnificently, a mighty Mercedesesque white star, the spaces at its sides and bottom trimmed with dark blue and white. Nice.

The aim was, as I remembered, to keep the tack and clew level, the pole horizontal and at right angles to the apparent wind, then ease the sheet until the luff curls and trim a bit. Of course sitting in the cockpit meant I couldn't see the leech or the height of the clew as they were hidden by the mainsail, so now I know why the trimmer stands somewhere up by the mast on those racers, at least in lighter winds.

The wind vane at the masthead made getting the correct pole angle easyish, and fortunately it was horizontal in spite of the arbitrary position of the slider on the mast. Or should that be pole track car on the mast? Either way it was a relief as I'd decided that whether it pointed to sea or sky I was not going to leave the helm and wrestle with it. Far too silly what with being on my own. I was quite prepared to blow across the bay with the pole at a jaunty angle looking like a complete cowboy.

So with a couple of tweaks we were on our way, accompanied by a satisfying burble from the wake astern. I made sure the breeze was on the starboard quarter and steered east north east so that we would have cleared the Dodman, some ten miles distant, had we been going that far. There were a couple of collapses in the early stages as the kite (could I call it that now I'd lost my spinnaker virginity?) slewed into the lee of the main and hung there crumpled, waiting for me to do something about it. A gentle luff seemed to do the trick, or a tweak on the guy, or the sheet, or all three, and we soon looked fabulous again.

I soon realized I was not fully prepared for downwind spinnaker work, as now that we were going at the same speed as the wind the four layers I had on for the chilly beat to the west, and the lifejacket adding an extra thick layer of insulation, meant that I began to cook. Leaving the boat to wander off into an accidental gybe while I disrobed was not an option, so cook I did. I was relieved by a gentle tickle on the back of my neck as the wind picked up and shifted slightly towards the south. With the accompanying acceleration of the boat my overheating was forgotten.

We made a splendid sight, Zethar and I, as we sliced across the bay, the crew's on the many other yachts inshore deeply envious of the graceful curve of the kite as it flew, driving us across the deep water under complete control. I was snatched from my reverie by another partial collapse and another tickle on the neck, revealing that the wind had backed a bit more and freshened, almost to a force two. In the next few moments I discovered spinnaker reaching, and it was a revelation.

I brought her on to the wind a bit more and with the pole eased until about two feet off the forestay and the sheet trimmed she accelerated smartly. I trimmed the main until the telltales flew and we were off. So this was what it was about. We fair cracked along, the surf hissing along the side and a marvelous roll left astern in our wake.

We quickly crossed the bay and began to close Falmouth harbour. Limitations of time meant I couldn't go much further could I? I could if the sailing stayed like it was. I could go much, much further. A quick look at the watch and I allowed myself another fifteen minutes which would take us plenty far enough from home, that would by then be a good reach if the breeze held. At least the ebb would be helping.

There was, of course, one more looming problem. I had read in the books about all sorts of variations on the spinnaker drop, some with exotic sounding names. I thought I would try a couple of my own. The Shitwottatangle drop seemed likeliest, or the Letsavawrap. I thought I might even try the Gozunderthebote in a desperate attempt to get extra points for artistic impression. Far too soon it was time to bite the proverbial and face the inevitable. What goes up must come down.

The books had told me to ease the pole forward (it already was - phew), ease the main sheet and ease off the wind until the kite collapses, windless and impotent behind said main, and grab the blighter. All the easing paid off perfectly and as the halyard ran I bundled the hundreds of hectares of limp spinnaker into the companionway, hauling it out from under the boom like a real pro. How was that Lawrie Smith I thought as I looked at it laying there twitching. Ha! Not bad for a beginner. And there was nobody around to admire my expert sail handling. I know 'cos I checked to make sure before I started the drop.

So that was it. A few minutes lying to while I dismantled the apparatus and then up genoa and back across the bay. I managed to repack the kite in its bucket as I went, and even more impressively managed to fight off the temptation to set it again to see if I'd packed it right. But there'll be another day.

Geoff Marks - 25th July 2001.

Disclaimer.

The publication of the article above in no way endorses the actions of the individual (me) described therein. Such behavior might be considered a bit daft and risky. Some fun though ;-)

The observant will have noticed that in the picture above Zethar is on port tack while in the spinnaker tale she was on starboard. This is because the photo was taken at a later date when fully crewed and extra sane. Single handed spinnaker sailing is one thing, but single handed spinnaker sailing while trying to take photographs from the foredeck? Not me.

Achilles 24