I went sailing yesterday...

It was Port Albert Yacht Club's Around Sunday Island race, held every year on the Saturday of the weekend before Melbourne Cup day. Can you see the irony?

From Wikipedia:

Sunday Island is a low-lying, sandy, 16.2 km² barrier island on the coast of Victoria, Australia. It is about 8 km long by 3 km wide and rises to a maximum height of no more than 15 m asl. It lies in Corner Inlet, South Gippsland, 4 km south-west of Port Albert and 215 km south-east of Melbourne. Although the island is surrounded by the Nooramunga Marine and Coastal Park, it is private freehold property, a game reserve owned by the Para Park Cooperative.^[1] It contains an airstrip and a jetty as well as accommodation buildings for a resident manager and visiting members.

So there we were, me (and my two crew) in my Ultimate 18 trailer sailer, Scooch, along with twelve other competitors in trailer sailer yachts that ranged from 16-25ft. It was raining and cold, and we were as happy as pigs in mud. (Come to think of it, the parkland surrounding the yacht club was very muddy.)

The 16 nautical mile passage race started at 10:30am and we finished at 3 pm, mid fleet, a respectable 7th on corrected time.

This was just my second passage race as skipper. I bought Scooch (then named Bitter Sweet) in February 2010, just in time for the Marlay Point Overnight  Race. The Marlay is Australia's premier race for trailerable yachts and traverses the Gippsland Lakes from the western to the eastern end, from Marlay Point on Lake Wellington to Paynesville, Lake King.

See below for a description of that first race, posted by me on that fantastic web forum, Trailer Sailer Place, http://www.trailersailerplace.com.au/

It was to be my second Marlay Point, my first as Skipper of my own boat – an Ultimate 18 drop keel I had purchased a month before the race and christened Scooch. In case you’re wondering about the name: to scooch, is to slide small distances at a time, mostly on one’s behind. So as well as being a term I use each night when tucking my young son into bed, it’s a fairly apt description of my sailing style.

The day of the race dawned clear and still, with a light north-easterly forecast for the evening. The weather may have been calm but I was not. Excitement and nerves mingled as we made the last few adjustments to rigging and gear before heading to Marlay Point.

We were a crew of three; yours truly, first mate Michael - an experienced sailor with an uncanny ability to sniff out the wind - and six year old Regan, the aforementioned young son who was crewing in his first race. The race started well for Regan when, during the pre-race briefing, he was presented with a prize for being the youngest crew member at age 6 – a bag of lollies. Great. Every kid stuck on a small boat for hours on end needs a large supply of sugar. Not!

Getting out of the marina to the start line was the first challenge. For those that know Marlay Point, the ‘marina’ is actually a shallow creek that runs from Lake Wellington into the nearby morass. It’s reedy and shallow. A great place to shelter but a navigational nightmare when scores of boats are attempting to motor out at the same time. Boat after boat ran aground on the boggy north side as others reversed from the opposite bank without warning. It was entertaining to watch.

Once in clear water, we hoisted the sails – main and genoa – and headed for the start line. With one minute to the start we were in a great position on the eastern end of the line. I had one eye on the traffic and one on the sky, watching intently for the green flare, when my concentration was broken by my son’s voice. Mum, I need the toilet.

Amazingly, I was back on the helm in time for the start. Truth be told, none of us saw the flare but we followed as the boats around us surged over the line.

Light, fluky winds prevailed across Lake Wellington. After a couple of hours, contrary to all forecasts, we detected a slight breeze from across the port stern quarter. We quietly set the spinnaker and, much to our delight, passed several boats in quick succession. Time for a celebratory coffee and milo. The dreaded question came soon after.

How much further Mum?

I explained that the trip to Paynesville was a hop, skip and a jump and that we were halfway through the hop. This seemed to satisfy Regan, who settled into his bunk for the first of his cat naps. An hour later, he reappeared bleary eyed and looked around.

Where are we now Mum?

Still on the hop honey,  I said, beginning to feel a little tense. He sat down beside me in the cockpit and soon fell asleep again, snoring quietly. I left him there until we needed to tack, and then put him in his bunk while Michael sailed solo for a few minutes.

When Regan was next to reappear we were in McLennan Straits. It was one in the morning. I decided to pre-empt the question.

Hi honey, we’re on the skip! The little boy smiled and looked around. His face quickly took on a puzzled expression.

Why has everybody stopped? His voice was loud in the stillness.

Not stopped, I explained quickly, just going very slowly.

Better than going backwards, I joked. Little did I know what was to come.

One of the things I love most about the race is the camaraderie between yachts. Even when on top of each other in the narrow Straits, most people are calm and courteous when advising of their need for water. Of course, there’s always an exception to the rule. I won’t mention any names. Suffice to say it was serendipitous when, after repeatedly screeching at us to move down (I would have obliged had we not been becalmed and without steerage, just like the other dozen boats that were with us), one fellow rudely fended us off with a kick, only to propel us forwards and his boat backwards by quite a few feet.

Further along the straits, an all-male crew was demonstrating their superior knowledge of aerodynamics. The skipper was on the helm with a flashlight trained on the sails as he shouted his instructions in a terse voice. One of his crew stood on the cabin top and scrunched the main sail into an odd shape. The other was doing the same with the jib, his silhouette invoking the crucifixion as he stood silently, arms outstretched. The skipper continued to shout instructions as we slid silently past.

How is that woman passing us? The question came from the prone bowman, who sounded a little put out.

Well, obviously, I don’t know everything! The affronted skipper turned off his flashlight and we lost sight of them in the dark.

Our race was progressing well, if slowly. We had passed many larger and faster boats, thanks to Michael’s keen wind sense, and were in good spirits. But after another couple of hours I noticed something disturbing.

Mike, I think we’re going backwards!

The tide had changed and the current was slowly and surely pulling us back the way we had come. Boats began throwing out their anchors to hold position. Some people began to wash down their boats. Others took the opportunity to have some refreshments. We thought we felt a light wind over the stern and raised the spinnaker.

Nice anchor! shouted someone, beer in hand.

I like the colour!  I called back, as we continued backwards.

We soon joined the others in throwing out out the anchor, made coffee and fended off the swarm of mossies that had arrived with the dawn.

Not too long after we were off again but after more than sixteen hours, my youngest crew member was losing enthusiasm. We discussed our options and decided to drop Regan off at Holland’s Landing, where I knew his father was waiting to wave us past. I quickly sent my husband a text message outlining the plan.

For the next hour or so we sang nursery rhymes as we tacked back and forth across the Straits, inching ever closer to Holland’s Landing. Row Row Row Your Boat garnered some laughs from other boats as we approached the drop off point. We managed to tack in near to the jetty and threw Regan to his father. A helpful bystander neatly took the catch and passed Regan to his grateful Dad.

We waved goodbye and took off again, Lake Victoria in sight, determined to finish the race. We knew we had disqualified ourselves by losing a crewman overboard and not attempting to retrieve him, but we didn’t care. We were racing against ourselves and the 3pm cut-off, after which any boat not home would technically be a DNF-Did Not Finish.

Scooch lifted her skirts in the freshening breeze and we enjoyed an exhilarating reach down the Lake towards Storm Point, finally on ‘the jump’ after 11 hours in the Straits. We were mostly close hauled with the occasional shy run with the multi-coloured anchor as the fickle wind kept shifting. We had just reached a race record speed of 5 knots when there was a loud twang. A shackle on the backstay had given way.

Our speed dropped to a bit over 3 knots as we made a hasty repair. Every girl worth her salt carries a spare D shackle in her handbag.

We were soon back up to speed and enjoying a close tussle with a Farr 6000 as we approached Wattle Point. We were just 3 nautical miles from Paynesville when the clock struck 3pm. We toasted ourselves and Scooch with a swig of warm water – and kept sailing.

We had been racing for 19 hours. Technically we were a DNF, or Did Not Finish. I prefer to think of it as Did Not Fail. We didn’t hit anyone, we sailed further and faster than many larger, quicker boats, and we had a ball doing it. Regan is already talking about next year.

The Marlay Point Overnight Race is a trailer-sailer institution. Sometimes it’s a magical run across the Gippsland Lakes under moon and stars, other times it’s an epic slog to windward, punctuated by squalls and mossies. But it’s always a privilege; to sail in the wake of the 13,000+ boats that have attempted the race since 1969, in the company of like-minded souls who love the wind.