We love hearing first-person stories, especially those from Joe 12-pack - guys like you and me. The Bermuda 1-2 is a 635-mile, double handed race from Newport Rhode Island to Bermuda. Anyone who has done a double handed race of any distance can tell you just how bitchin' they really are. Not quite so intense as single-handing, yet certainly more involved than fully crewed, double handing is a really fun way to go sailboat racing. I'm not sure 635 miles still constitutes fun, but for some it is. Our friends Rich Ellis and Jan Brandt did it on their N/M 30, and here is their story. Enjoy.

The Bermuda 1-2 was a fantastic race right from the starting gun. Before that, those who know could tell you it was a bit trying for me: Murphy rode the whole way. As a result, the only experience I had sailing Insufferable, my aluminum N/M MORC 30 was that of delivering the boat from Annapolis to Newport for the start. I'll try to recap my experience for the way down, and let my return crew, Jan, describe the way back. (What is it like to fly to Bermuda to sail back on a boat you've never seen with someone you've never met?) He might even be able to clarify Leg 1; at times I was too tired to remember it.

Our class (Class III) was made up of boats of similar size: Two Hobie 33's, Two Quests, (30 and 33) a Tripp 33, an Olson 30, a 28 foot Pogo and Insufferable. At 6800# I was clearly the heavyweight in this crowd. I expected that if the wind went aft, I'd be tail end Charlie, but I might have a shot in a close reach in heavy air. As it turned out, we got the wind and Class III was probably the most competitive in the fleet; the boats were handicapped appropriately enough that most finished Leg 1 within minutes on corrected time. (Barrett Holby and his rocket-powered Quest 30 notwithstanding.) Boat speed was closer than expected too. In fact, on the return leg, after 150 miles we had the Pogo and Olson within sight and were exchanging positions regularly. At least as important, Class III included a fantastic group of people that really had a great time together. Much credit goes to Drew Wood for this. He really promoted the idea of a 30' Class and tried to help everyone to make it to the line, often to the detriment of his own preparations. Without his help, I would have been watching this 1-2 on his cool website race tracker.

Leg 1:

I pooched the start. With all the last-minute preparations, I figured I'd read the sailing instructions on the way out, but didn't. Not sure if I ever did read the entire thing. And I couldn't find my watch, so I just headed for the line after everyone else in my class did. It's a long race, who cares?

I was a little surprised to find that Insufferable was relatively fast in the light stuff of the first day. I was doing okay by the time the fog thickened in the afternoon. I didn't see anyone in Class III again until Bermuda. In fact I saw few boats, although the position reports showed several were within a few miles.

Day 1 was light so hand steering was the order of the day (and night). I was told that I should get rest early. I should have listened, but the night was a treat. It was completely black except for the incredibly strong luminescence causing a display of glowing dolphin antics that I'll remember the rest of my life. Also, I sailed through several shoals of fish that left an expanding ring of luminescence in their path to escape. Really cool. When I tried to show Jan this effect on the way home, the school of fish turned out to be a whale. Somewhat less cool; we just missed him.

By Monday the wind had filled in from the ENE, so I was pretty sure that I was getting killed by the lighter boats. I briefly set the chute a couple of times, but wanted to sail a more southerly course than I could hold with it. I'm not the best setting the chute solo anyway, and I really felt I'd burned myself here. At least I wasn't seasick anymore. One thing I learned in this race is that EVERYBODY has some problem that is going to slow them down, but it's a long race so you can't beat yourself up over it. I wish I knew that then; I was getting down. I was surprised later to hear I was holding my own.

I approached the Gulf Stream on Monday noon. I've never sailed through the Stream on a small boat before and admit I was more than a little worried as the most incredible wall of cloud and lightning rose in front of me.

The weather in the stream was incredible. White-out rain squalls that knocked the ocean flat and hurt my skin; winds to 30-35 knots; big, square waves running in random fashion and breaking too often. A sideways ride down a 15 foot breaking wave in a 30 foot boat is not that much fun. I took some comfort in knowing that the hull and carbon deck made for a pretty tough nut to crack, but the inline spreader rig did make me nervous. I had added an inner forestay, and running backstays for additional support and was always glad I did.

I ran most of the stream under double reefed main only. I furled the jib and planned to use the storm jib on the inner forestay, but the autopilot was useless and I couldn't get forward to set the jib. Admittedly, this was not a great set up, made worse by the fact that the tack of the second reef point was beginning to tear.

I think it was that evening I called Jan on the sat phone to ask "how long is this shit going to last." I didn't get through and hand steering in that weather made another attempt with the phone almost impossible. As a result, I didn't report my position for more than 16 hours which created some worry back home. But, I was going pretty fast and the wind was forward of the beam. I hoped the heavier boat was an advantage in the stream. I still think it was, but any illusions I had that a couple thousand extra pounds would make the ride more comfortable were plain stupid. The noise of sailing in these conditions in a small, aluminum boat is deafening.

Monday night I cleared the stream, but a few squalls were still roaming. Some had such low ceilings that they created the impression of trees near land. I was getting a little spooked and even pulled out the paper chart to confirm I was still in the middle of the Atlantic. I was over-tired and decided I needed some real sleep. For the first time on the trip I went below for my nap, setting the timer for 17 min. I never got comfortable and took my remaining naps on the cockpit floor or on the rail.

Tuesday was the day I had been waiting for. I got to take the foul weather gear off and change my underwear. Everyone should change their underwear after the Gulf Stream. Tuesday was one of those perfect sailing days of sun, 10-15 SW and small seas. I'd been plagued with engine and charging problems and was again hand steering to conserve batteries, but it was such a great day that I started to forget how tired I was.

It was really easy to remember how sore my ass was. I lost all the cushions in the Gulf Stream and carbon decks punish. It wasn't until the second leg that I discovered that the chicken chute makes a nice seat, even when wet.

I was really spent when the time came for my first-ever approach to Bermuda. I was getting continuously headed (as I'd been told I would, but failed to adequately correct for) and was much farther offshore than I wanted to be. I was unable to distinguish the lights from the background and was having trouble believing whatever I did see. Somehow I managed to grope my way to the finish line at about 1am.

Good thing for that sat phone; it was time to wake Jan for a reality check. The poor bastard must have thought I was nuts: I was waking him up in Florida to ask to confirm the characteristics of Spit Buoy! I'm a little surprised he showed up for the return trip after that. Then I called St. Georges Dingy and Sports Club to tell them I was just too tired and needed some help getting in. Their great hospitality began immediately as they came out and led me and three other recent finishers into St. Georges harbor. They even came aboard and docked and secured the boat for me. The bad news: the bar didn't open 'til 10am.