With the US Naval Academy a stone’s throw from log canoe central, with all its research and tank testing facilities, it was inevitable that attention would turn to improving on designs that have been little changed since the beginning of the last century. As a result of tank testing at the Academy several of the canoes have been comprehensively ‘refaired’ – while other changes have been made based on gut feel. With a surfeit of sailpower straight line speed remains primarily a function of length and beam so most experiments focus on improving manoeuvrability of determinedly directionally stable craft
tacked near the fore. This angle takes us towards shallow water and soon we hear our deep centreboard ticking oysters on the bottom. Time to gybe. Staysail is lowered. This is the trickiest
with the possibility of just continuing on over. All 13 crew aboard, instinctively and in unison, sway to their own pendulum motion in counterpoint to that inevitably slow roll period. It becomes second nature surprisingly quickly. Like trapezing on a howling reach, going aloft under sail or gybing a Star in a blow, it’s better just not to think about what you are actually doing. Even without sails up Blossom could roll over in an instant. She is like a living crea- ture that needs her human crew to function. We paddled away from the dock and
took a tow behind Metropolitain, our support boat. As we tow, the 15ft hiking boards are set transversely across the hull (with the sound of stacking lumber) to help balance. Tentatively, the tall foresail is hoisted. Far more complex than a typical Bermudian rig, the truncated clew has a vertical spar (fore club) along its aft edge and a beautifully recurved sprit (pro- nounced ‘spreet’) to hold it out. This effi- cient but cumbersome rig is assembled as it is hoisted, the sprit pinning into its vertical club. Tension on the sprit not only controls the draft of the big foresail but acts as a vang, keeping the sail from twisting. Blossomis now a little more stable with
some sail to balance against. We cast off and, now underway, I’m immediately struck by the silence of a canoe-sterned, slim-waisted vessel moving through the water with only the hiss of bubbles along- side. Turning a bend in the river gives Blossom a bit of heel and the boardmen instinctively slide to windward. The jib is set flying from the end of the
bowsprit. It’s a balanced rig like those on model yachts, resembling a nautical Alexander Calder sculpture with its varnished jib-boom, topping lift, sheets and luff tensioned by leech tension. The main, a miniature version of the fore, is set. We skip setting the kite, rather
like an absurd-looking jackyard topsail, as a few whitecaps fleck the river. Away from the dock the first beers are
cracked and Blossom’s close-knit crew loosen up. The banter is largely incompre- hensible and unrepeatable. The division of labour aboard becomes apparent as the ‘blue collar’ boardmen fondly belittle their more diminutive squelchers. Executives are the skipper, jib trimmer forward, me as nominal ‘tactician’ (squeezed aft into the helmsman’s tiny cockpit where I can do the least harm) and our attractive lass perched regally aft on the stern outrigger where she trims the mainsheet. Altogether there are 13 crew on this narrow boat, her live ballast nearly half her overall displacement. We approach the start and are moving
fast – 7kt is easily achieved in any decent breeze – and the long springboards are planted and manned. Some crawl out, others knee-walk or slide out to the ends. Some use a single leg-wrap around the board and some pull feet up into a foetal position, gripping on with their hands. The jib trimmer uses hand motions to the
skipper who can hardly see the jib luff at all (the bane of narrow-sterned boats) and I call distance to the line and time. We start in clean air but are soon approaching the lay- line to the first mark. Tacking is slow in these long boats with so many moving parts so we overstand slightly as we wait for the boats to windward to tack off first. In a tack the sound is a cross between a
bowling alley and a lumberyard as the boards are thrown across with surprising violence. The early tackers are headed and we find ourselves on a shy layline. We tack again at the mark, just ahead, and drive down onto a long reach up the river, boiling along. The fine stern sinks and the main trimmer aft finds herself immersed in the quarter wave. The midships crew set the fuller running staysail from the main,
manoeuvre for a canoe with a high risk of capsize and even this experienced crew do it with care, first centring two boards across the boat while the aft boardman stays tentatively hiked. Around we go, over come the sprits and out go the boards. As power comes on, the crew slides out the board but now gingerly as we are running deep and starting to roll. The staysail set helps and we fly, now bow up with no hope of planing but mimicking the act as the stern sinks deeper. Far upriver we douse at the marker and
return to windward in a shifty, strong breeze. The momentum of the turn heeling us sharply pours a stream of water in over the rail and the youngster in the bilge bails furiously. The larger canoe Jay Dee starts to move on us but loses in her tacks as she has four springboards to cross. But on a long tack across the river she slides through our lee and is ahead. Her call for water makes us both tack and now it’s all in whether we can fetch the finish. Jay Dee crosses ahead to the horns of a good-sized spectator fleet (these boats are exciting to watch and the races are a popular destina- tion for cruisers) and we cross a minute later… but winning easily on handicap. Canoes are rated at six seconds per foot
of length differential, per mile. A simple rule, sometimes modified, having evolved through off-season lobbying and persuasion. Getting sails down is tedious and done
carefully as some crews ‘have’ to do most operations with a can in one hand while bal- ancing the boat. A support boat tows us to the dock while we enjoy a sandwich and the late afternoon sun, tension of the race gone. Masts are lowered and sails folded.
A formal trophy party (tie and jacket required) awaits at Harleigh – a beautiful estate on the river where our crew mix with unconsciously stunning, sunburnt women in light party dresses, junior regatta kids red faced with their ties askew and serious Star boat sailors. Distant approaching thunderstorms
over the western shore of the Chesapeake rise, pulling in the hot breeze and muting the lowering sun. Time to head home with the radio on and windows down, while I can, after a full summer day.
SEAHORSE 51
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