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The Mr. Clean Report Miami Vice
I have always wanted to be a journalist or travel writer. I never had the balls to send anything in for publication until a few months ago, when I sent an article to Sailing Anarchy while competing at the Melges 24 World Championship in Key Largo. I had no intention of reporting on the event; I just wrote about the things that interested me, because I was really writing for myself. I was surprised when Scot put that first article on the front page of SA, and even more surprised when anarchists began sending me notes about how much they liked it. I was downright shocked when random people from the sailing community sought me out to tell me the same thing. The feedback inspired me to continue to write more pieces for the website, and I’ve been enjoying it immensely. It’s not a career and I’m not getting paid, but it’s been a fun way to contribute to a community that I consider my family; both the sailing community and more importantly, the diverse group of friends and enemies that make up Sailing Anarchy. After reporting on the Strictly Sail show in Chicago last month, my fiancée and I began to toy with the idea of really “covering” an event for SA. Brainstorming with friends, family, and anarchists on the forums, we put together a list of ideas that, if we could put them together, would be fun to read about and participate in. We asked the Editor if he wanted to be involved, and he said it sounded like a good idea. So, in an impulsive move, we bought plane tickets, booked a hotel, and started working 14-hour days so we’d be allowed to miss a few and go pretend to be sailing journalists for a weekend. We had some ambitious goals. We wanted to do real time reporting on the action. We hoped to get video and post it, along with pics of the action. We thought we’d interview all the stars, get their strategies and inside stories, and shine some light on deep secrets in the fleet. Most importantly, none of this “true” journalism was allowed to get in the way of our participating in (and reporting on) the parties and mayhem that only South Beach can offer. Our preparation for the social part of the trip was just as detailed as our arrangements for the race reporting. We got some SA graphics and had them printed on wifebeaters and tank tops. We called Dune Tattoos, the guys who made the awesome tattoos for the Melges I race on, to see if they could make a thousand red Anarchy symbols in less than a week. When the owner found out that we were going to plaster South Beach with his work and take pics of it, he sent them out for free. We booked dinner at Nobu with a group of good friends so we could get in to the always hopping Shore Club next door. We researched the hottest night spots and strip clubs for when things were meant to get out of hand. We basically prepared for our version of Fear and Loathing at the SORC. By the end of the weekend, we had been through some amazing times and met hundreds of great people. We also discovered that a lot of our goals had been the wrong ones. Over the three weeks since we returned, I’ve read every story and broadcast from the regatta, trying to figure out what our little trip could add. I’ve written for hours and hours only to realize that none of what I was writing was any different than what anyone else did. After all that wasted time, I decided to just write about what I’d be interested if I had been sitting in my office during SORC. Hopefully you’ll be interested, too.
Like any last-minute trip, everything was hectic as hell as we left Detroit. We were worried that we weren’t even going to make it until Northwest averted a pilot’s strike just a day before we left. Our flight got in on time but our bags took the usual 50 minutes to get off the grungy Miami Airport carousel, and we bussed over to the Alamo office to pick up our rental car. Unfortunately the one woman behind the counter insisted on telling her moronic life story to every one of the 8 customers in front of us on the line, processing paperwork with all the speed of dripping maple syrup. We finally got our sexy navy-blue Caravan and soccer mommed our way to Miami Beach Marina, arriving around 3 am. After checking where the raceboats were berthed, we checked into our $200 a night glorified hostel to get a little sleep. The week before the regatta, Wally Cross and I had spoken about my plans. If you don’t know Wally, he’s a big fan of SA and one of the top sailmakers and boatspeed gurus around. Wally is as dedicated to the growth and progress of racing as anyone I know and that’s why I share ideas with him. One of the reasons he made the big move from North to Quantum this year (SA Story Here) was so he could free up some of his time and resources to develop his own online, all-in-one tool shop for one-design racers, at www.destinationonedesign.com. Wally was sailing MRW with Bob Hughes aboard Heartbreaker and he set up our Friday ride on the water, although we didn’t know any of the details until he woke me up with a phone call at 6:30 A.M. “Get to the dock if you want to race!” Total sleep since Thursday morning: 2 hours 25 minutes. We dragged our asses down the dock wearing the SA logo wifebeaters that we had printed up in Michigan the day before we left. I was barely awake enough to register the hellos and the “what’s up, Clean” calls from a few anarchists on the Mumms and Farrs. Neither Mer nor I was happy to be awake, but the warm trade winds were already starting to blow the cobwebs from between my ears. The sights and sounds of crews bending on sails and repairing last-minute items always invigorates me, and by the time we reached Steve Howe’s Warpath I was nearly human again. My lovely companion wasn’t there yet, and I gave it a 50/50 chance that she’d end up laying on the floor of whatever stinkpot we were going to be watching the races from. I reminded her that two days ago we had to chip the ice off of our car doors just to get them open, but it didn’t help much. I was a bit surprised to get a warm welcome from Quantum Sail Design Group co-owner Ed Reynolds and his driver, who invited me aboard a gorgeous new 27-foot Protector with Warpath emblazoned on the side. A hundred grand’s worth of boat replete with the team’s own pro photographer (www.stusart.com) and foul weather gear made it pretty clear that this was no Corinthian effort. With John Kostecki calling tactics and Ross Halcrow and David Armitage trimming sails it was obvious there was nothing bargain-basement about Howe’s program. The pile of Warpath-branded DaKine backpacks along with the crew’s top-shelf gear made some of the big-boat IMS campaigns I’d seen in Europe look like a bunch of stoners with a J/24. We helped the 40 out of its slip and got underway ourselves, threading our way through the Transpac 52s just returning from their overnight race as we got to know one another. Quantum was one of the first advertisers to support SA and they love the place. Reynolds is just as happy as the rest of us that Scot’s created a community where sailors can act like the loud, opinionated, lecherous, substance- abusing rumormongers that we are, and everyone at Quantum hopes to see SA continue to grow by leaps and bounds. When one of the owners of a top worldwide sail design company tells you “Nearly every top racer I know spends heaps of time screwing around on SA” you can probably believe it.
I guess I should have felt awed, or at least lucky, to be in this situation. I was bouncing along in the pimped out coach boat owned by one of the top programs in one of the toughest one-design fleets at one of the highest-profile regattas in the country. My companions were my gorgeous fiancée, the owner of Quantum Sails, a fun and knowledgeable race coach and a gifted nautical photographer. These guys were all sailors just like us, with the same kinds of stories that we all have. They were just as happy to trade dirty jokes and stories with Mer and me as our Tuesday night beercan buddies are. And their stories taught me some fun facts, like that Olympic medalists and winning AC trimmers get left unconscious in their own vomit on the yacht club lawn just like we weekend warriors do. Like some other sailing icons I’ve met, they made us feel anything but intimidated, and they were happy to chat with us about any subject except for the few minutes here and there when they were actually working. We followed Warpath and the chartered Norwegian Steam as they did a little two-boat testing. We had a much tougher time than they did; the luxury Protector was still no more than an inflatable 27-footer and the chop was big and steep. I had expected a top-level guy like Reynolds to be doing loads of coaching and advising to Warpath, but they didn’t seem to need any with the level of talent aboard, so we mostly took it all in, shot some pics, and enjoyed the sun. Back in January, when I had just gotten home from Key West Race Week, I found something that excited me in the SA forums, and I’m not talking about Friday porn. Steve Washburn, an anarchist, experienced racer, and Race Committee member at KW had used his laptop and broadband card to post leg-by-leg updates of the big boats racing on his course. You can see what I’m talking about at KW Day 3, KW Day 4 and KW Day 5. The SA community followed it with gusto, and there was a strong consensus that this low-tech reporting method was something people wanted to see more of. Mer and I decided to follow his lead and do the same for Miami, giving a few hours of escape to our brethren stuck behind desks during the waning weeks of the winter grind. I hooked up on the phone with Joydot, an anarchist working as a scorer on the division 3 circle, and once on the water we started a forum thread and began our anarchy-style reporting. We posted the conditions, put up the leaders at each leg, wrote about who looked fast and who didn’t, and tried to bring the race to the SA community. Anarchists at work and home chimed in, asking me to say hi to this guy or that or asking what happened to this boat or that, and we really got to enjoy the day electronically with new friends and old. It would be redundant to recap the races now, since you can read our on-the-water report HERE or read any one of dozens of reports and articles that have been written in the last two weeks. There were a few things that stood out, so I’ll tell you about them.
First, I need to confess that I haven’t been to a regatta before where I didn’t race. I’ve never volunteered to score, start, or spot for a Race Committee. I’ve never worked on a mark-set boat or coach boat, or assisted with umpires or protest administration. In fact, when it comes to doing all the things that it takes to run a successful race or regatta, I’ve been a lazy and useless bastard and I don’t have any excuses other than that it’s always been inconceivable for me not to race whenever I’ve had the opportunity. This lack of race-watching experience left me unprepared for just how difficult and uncomfortable the coaches, RC, media boats, umpires, and spectators have it when the breeze is on. You bash your way up to the windward mark and surf your way down to the leeward mark through 6-8 foot walls of water, trying to get close enough to keep an eye on the boats while staying far enough away to not interfere with other tenders or the racers themselves. Our photographer and my partner both struggled with nausea the whole time. Being the perfect woman she is, Meredith dealt with her seasickness by passing out cold belowdecks despite the fact that she was in freefall with every wave we slammed through on our way to the top mark. I also found out that it’s damned hard to take keep a steady enough hand for good photography in a rubber duck. As for the actual racing, I was amazed at the level of competition in the Farr 40 fleet. Many of the twenty boats racing were completely stacked with top-echelon sailors, and yet the distances from the front to the back of the fleet were miniscule. At one leeward mark rounding, there were only thirty-seven seconds between the first boat’s rounding and the last. THAT is competition. The slightest boathandling issue could easily cause a loss of five spots. When we were first motoring out to the course, I told Reynolds that I thought it would be interesting to be watching rather than racing. He told me I’d be bored after half a race, and I expected at a minimum to be annoyed that I was bobbing around like a duck rather than tripping a pole or setting up for a gybeset before jumping on the rail to hike my balls off. I never got bored or annoyed, because I never had time to. I was too busy concentrating on the action, posting to SA, and getting charged with adrenaline from action on the course. On one upwind leg I got to watch Russell Coutts on Mescalzone match racing with Terry Hutchinson on Barking Mad while Bill Hardesty on Heartbreaker did the same with John Kostecki on Warpath and they were all just a few yards from us. How fucking cool is that? It made it even sweeter that friends on Heartbreaker won both Friday races and were the only boat whose boatspeed really stood out. And despite Warpath’s less than perfect showing, our gracious host Ed was giddy that all the boats that switched to Quantum were kicking ass. At one rounding, Quantum boats were first, second and third, and there were only four Q-equipped boats in the class. We didn’t get to watch the other classes on our course much, as the legs were pretty long and there was lots of separation. It was a shame though, as we had anarchist friends aboard some of the Mumms, and the Melges 32’s looked like they were having a blast. We did get to nearly purée a big green sea turtle with the props on the big 225 Yamahas and we got the rush of pacing the big canting keel Stark Raving Mad for a mile or two as they charged downwind at 23 knots under a massive blue A-sail, looking like they weren’t even breaking a sweat. I don’t know how many opportunities I’ll have to see that again.
Our first day of pretend journalism was fun and successful, but on our way back to the dock I struggled with what I was going to do next. Part of me wanted to go interview the top racers, but when I put myself in their shoes it seemed like an idiotic idea. Who wants to talk to some random bald reporter after they’ve been getting pounded by wind and water for 7 hours? They wanted to debrief, take a nap, get hammered, get laid, or some combination of the four. So instead of spending hours roaming the dock and pissing off tired sailors, I figured I’d grab my girl, find the other three Midwestern hotties that we were meeting, and get sloshed. Wherever the alcohol was flowing would be a better place to get news for anarchists anyway. Once in the inner harbor, our driver proved that even professional sailing coaches with hundreds of hours’ experience in crash boats can be totally clueless sometimes. After his fifth try I had to resist the urge to tear the helm from him, but on his sixth he made it. In his defense there was lots of current, but we tied up, tidied the boat, and waited to help Warpath dock. I went to the press trailer to get some info while Mer found our friends, only to find dozens of sailing journalists and PR-types sitting in the air-conditioned single-wide, tapping away on their laptops. It took all of three seconds to decide that I would not waste my time writing when there was drinking to be done. My legs thought the ground was rising up and down 6 feet with each step, but I knew a cure for that, and I staggered into the tent and got my first Mount Gay and Coke. My sister had arrived, already attracting attention with her own design of cleavage-filled SA tube top, and I settled down with my drink to watch the girls start their own brand of Anarchy. This is my kind of journalism. It took me about three minutes to down that first drink, and by the end of it Mer and Beth had already put SA tattoos on half a dozen guys and were surrounded by a dozen more. I tried to reach them, but I couldn’t because people kept stopping me with drinks, smokes, and conversation. Some of the people I knew, but most were sailors who knew me only from SA. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the size and reach of Scot’s creation-at the last three big regattas it has seemed like almost every sailor is a member of SA. When I say member, I don’t mean just people that read the front page for news; most of these people knew me from the forums, knew what I looked like, and brought up topics that we’ve discussed on the website. They loved that we were there to report on the event from our point of view, and contributed information and booze with no prompting at all. At the same time, the line of people waiting to be tattooed by the girls was growing. It was a phenomenon that would be repeated all weekend long. I’m a little hazy about what happened next, as the rum was going down quite smoothly, but I know I looked up and the day’s awards ceremony was underway. The weird part about it was that my sister and Mer were on stage with some of the winning crew, accepting a big silver plate to massive cheers from the crowd. I got lost in another conversation before I could ask them what was going on only to look up a few minutes later when I heard an even bigger cheer. Sure enough, the girls were back up on stage picking up a first place dish alongside Pepe and the crew of the winning C&C, all of whom were emblazoned with big red Anarchy tattoos. Leave it to my crew to get two pickle dishes on the first day without ever setting foot on a sailboat. Premiere Racing does nearly everything well, and their excellent running of the regatta at least partly justifies the high costs of racing the event. The drink tent was a good example of their total understanding of their customer’s needs. The tent had an endless supply of rum and beer, and when they closed it down it took all of twenty steps to get to Monty’s, a marina fixture and big, outdoor bar. Another 5 steps took you to the attached pool. For the financially challenged or those who required a lighter for their intoxication, backpacks and coolers were still sitting on the docks another 20 feet away. Any of you who have had to hike a mile to a drink tent only to find that all the booze is gone and that the only other party is miles away in town would really appreciate this setup.
We spent some time at Monty’s chatting to friends and meeting even more anarchists. The drink was having its effect on previously tight lips, and I chuckled to hear about some excellent Farr 40 drama, including a situation where a top sailor hid belowdecks during the race to avoid punching a tactician in the face. There were some good stories about mid-level pros who couldn’t do anything but puke over the side and the usual post-race bitching about certain classes that have no regard for the rules at all and seem to have trouble seeing starboard tack boats if they’re not in the same class. Just as it was getting interesting, my gorgeous partner told me it was time to go. If we didn’t leave right away we would miss our reservation for sushi and the completely psychotic South Beach night to follow. I’ll tell that story next, but I need clearance first. More to come… Mr.
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