This was the third year Geoff Edwards and I have escaped the mid-winter blahs by participating in Lake Eustis Sailing Club’s Midwinter Wayfarer regatta. Geoff picks up the boat from winter storage at Abbott’s boat works in Sarnia and takes three days over the drive to Orlando. I take the easy option and fly down on the Thursday before the regatta.

After meeting up at the Orlando airport in a torrential downpour, Geoff and I headed down to LESC. Here we met Bob and Joyce Brown and Joe and Vicki de Brincat, who suggested dinner at the Quarterdeck Restaurant. The menu looked strange to northern tastes, featuring quail and Gator Tails?! Geoff settled for pie and coffee.

This year the weather started cold and overcast. The pre-regatta briefing in the LESC marquee was filled with sniffles and sneezes. A lively discussion was held on courses and start times; finally opting for sausages and a liberal attitude on start times.

The first race started at about 11:30 with the wind variable in strength from the North. After the starting melee had cleared we saw a Wayfarer with green sail numbers 2959 in the lead. Who was he? The downwind leg had mainly spinnaker boats chasing 2959, with Gale Shoemaker and Ed Kraft in the mix. The choice, as ever, on the beat was between going left out into the lake or heading east towards the shore. Unlike some of our more gifted competitors, we merely “follow the shifts”, so that we tried both options without dramatic effect. The pack, however, succeeded in catching the mystery boat on the final leg, with Gale Shoemaker winning.

During the lunch break we sailed over and politely asked 2959: “And who are you?” A bearded fellow replied they were Michael and Niamh from Ireland. Well that explained that.

The second race featured a considerable port tack bias, the majority of the fleet barely making the pin. I believe I saw Mike Murto making a good start on port. Once again though the Irish boat was the first to the windward mark. This time though, the rest of the fleet caught them sooner, wth Bob Frick and Dr. Hart in the running instead of Joe de Brincat, who had been very late at the start. This particular crew, though, was distracted from the details of the race by having to fly the spinnaker going into the sun. Looking for the slightest curl in the luff involved staring at the sun. Moving one’s head inboard into the sail’s shadow worked, apart from the possibility of a spinnaker collapse causing blindness. Blinking a stinging mixture of sweat and sunscreen out of my eyes, I wondered why exactly I was doing this.

Saturday’s races were amongst the strangest I have ever participated in, right up there with sailing a race in splendid isolation at the Blackpool Light Craft Club regatta, where the rest of the fleet retired due to an infestation of lady-bird bugs. The first start was at 10:30, with a light wind from the North again. The fluctuation in strength and direction caused a thorough mixing of the fleet. The wind finally died at about 11 o’clock on the run. Then, just as we saw the advancing front of the wind filling in from the Northeast, we heard three honks and the crashboat made off with the leeward mark. 

The course for the next race got sorted out at about 12:30, to the East and the start sequence began. Making for the start with about 10 seconds to go, we were very surprised to hear the race officer announce “Lunch”, hoist the abandon race flag as he lifted his anchor and headed back to the shore.

Lunch was pleasantly relaxed with free beer but the first race of the day didn’t get going until about three o’clock. We were fairly happy to be up with the leaders until the leeward mark. I took the spinnaker down, being careful to keep the tension on the sheet so it didn’t drop over the bow. Mysteriously though, Geoff appeared to be sailing 30 degrees below everyone else going up the beat. He then started howling about pulling the sheet down to the foredeck, so I jumped forward and yanked it two feet down, asking if he was happy now. Evidently the tell tales had wrapped around the sheet, destroying Geoff’s upwind whiskers. We had our worst finish as a result, which shows how little it takes to lose a race.

That evening LESC put on their catered dinner in the marquee. The cuisine was baked beans, mashed potatoes and mouth-watering, tangy pork or chicken. Geoff said that it had been worth waiting a year for the peach cobbler dessert. During dinner one of the LESC members confided that previously he had been a member of a motorcycle gang but much preferred Wayfarer events because there were fewer unwarranted intrusions by the police during three-day get-togethers. I didn’t inform him that in Canada the mayor personally gives motorcycle gangs a civic welcome when they come to Toronto.

The final day’s racing was the model of efficiency, three races of 1.5 laps to the East between 9:30 and 12 o’clock. The pattern was pretty much that of the earlier races, although the single handers without spinnakers, such as Hank Dwyver and Ted Benedict, made the occasional breakthrough, they didn’t have the consistency of the conventional boats. Gale Shoemaker was the soul of consistency, though, and was never really challenged for the series lead. Richard Johnson from North Carolina, who had markedly improved since his first time in Florida last year, remarked that any one of the top five or six boats was in the running to win a race. He managed to come out ahead in the spinnaker division and made fourth overall. 

Finally at the prize giving Bob Brown asked to be excused getting a prize for coming second last, as he felt he hadn’t earned it. Being required for race officer duties on Sunday ensured that he had last place in the final races. Maybe we Northerners are too neurotically intense on winning, rig tension and fancy sails to fully appreciate the Florida style of Wayfaring.