Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!

I think I know what happened: Somewhere out on the water on day two of our spring regatta, aliens implanted the spirits of the Three Stooges into our bodies. At least, when I woke up the next morning I felt as if my body had been used badly (I admit — the post-race tequila may account for that), and when I recalled the racing it seemed like slapstick humor.

Actually, the first race went fine. Ross arrive late-ish, as he had let me know beforehand that he would, but he made up for it by bringing Kyle with him. For my part, I had talked to the race committee beforehand, and he (a committee of one?) was kind enough to stall things a bit until we got out there.

So, we had a good start and went off to the right; Clay had a good start and went off to the left; about two-thirds of the way up the first leg we met in the middle of the course — Clay on port and we on starboard — and it was just close enough that he had to duck us. We probably should have tacked on top of him, but didn’t, and so at the next crossing (we were now on port, Clay on starboard), we had gained some, but not quite enough, and we needed to duck Clay. After a little more sailing, he reached the mark first, but we were only half a boat length behind.

But then he went left and we went right, and left was the way to go. He gained about five boat lengths before we realized our error and jibed, but he stayed those five boat lengths ahead until the finish line, and we were second.

We sailed that first race in bright sunshine, but as we waited for the second race to begin, a dense cloud cover overcame Point Loma and moved in from the west. I now know these were not clouds at all, but rather camouflage in which the alien mother ship lurked.

We were in position for a good start to the second race, at the right end of the line, approaching on starboard, when I saw Clay coming in on the left side, on port. It was as if he had put up a sign reading, “Hit Me!” I thought, “Why Not?” I altered course. It was then that Moe took the helm from me. At the same time, Kyle’s page-boy hair turned dark and, suddenly, he was Shemp! Ross’s hair turned frizzy and…Larry sat where Ross had sat before! And Moe (I) let Clay get by, flopped over onto port, realized he (I) would soon run afoul of other boats, flopped back onto starboard, by this time had almost no speed, and got a horrible start near the back of the fleet. I’m not sure but I think someone tried to poke him (me) in the eyes.

We recovered. I exorcised the spirit of Moe. Shemp and Larry resolved themselves back into Kyle and Ross. And we sailed a fine upwind leg reaching the mark third (out of eight boats). Clay was in first and, by this time, untouchable. The other boat ran down the middle of the course while we reached off to the right, he hit a dead spot while we flew along, and although we closed the gap between us hugely, we had necessarily sailed a longer course and finished, perhaps, two feet behind him. Clay first, us third.

Exorcism, it turns out, does not come cheaply. The Stooges returned in full force for race three. Moe had another horrible start and we crossed the start line in — dare I say it? — last place. We crossed the start line — dare I say it? — minutes after the race started. By this time we were poking eyes and wielding truncheons, and Curly wasn’t even there but he was slapping his head anyway.

And the wind was dying. And the current was strong, and against us. And there wasn’t going to be any repeat of the second-race comeback. We did finally reach the upwind mark, but we almost died of old age before it happened. At one point we were to the left of the “upwind” mark, about twenty yards away, and the wind was no longer so much dying as RIP, but the current was robust and, I swear, it was what pulled us off to the right and around the mark.

Of course, no one else was going anywhere either, apart from where the current was taking them. Except that damn Clay, who by the time we were midway down the “downwind” leg had rounded the downwind mark and was making his way to the finish, when…the race committee canceled the race for lack of wind.

Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!

So, with one day left to sail, we’re now three and a half points out of first. Wish us luck!

P.S. After pretty much every Aikido class, the Aikidoko repair to a local pub — the Bull Pen — for a few beers and a little conversation. Last night, a few tables away, a young woman was wearing an LBI sweatshirt. My camera was in the car. I was thinking — HUGE POINTS!! Alas, I’m cursed with the ability to imagine what other people might think. So the idea of a middle-aged man walking up to a young woman, unknown to him, and saying, “Hey, could I take your picture an put it on my blog?” seemed too open to misunderstanding. I expect no points, but nevertheless, Emma’s my witness — we encountered an LBI sweatshirt in Encinitas!