Racing: Shooting the Tiger

So much goes into preparing for a big regatta: finding reliable crew, boat repairs and maintenance, practice, time, money. But often it’s the simplest things that make or break a great day on the racecourse, as I learned recently at St. Augustine Race Week.

Normally I’m on the race committee boat for this event, snapping away on my Nikon. But as a change of pace, I signed up to crew on a friend’s Beneteau 361. Georges and Erna had recently purchased the boat, christening her Paloma, and entered the cruiser, non-spin class.

As the date approached, we spent time practicing, getting to know the nuances of the boat and gelling as a team. Georges did a great job organizing the crew and soliciting suggestions for improving our chances of winning some hardware. The crew trained rigorously, going through every point of sail, grinding winches, taking turns at the helm, and carefully reading the notice of race instructions until we were ready. And off we went to the Old City.

Day one greeted everyone with cold, blustery winds and large, unruly waves that frequently washed the deck. Heading through the Bridge of Lions we put a reef in the main, confident that we’d planned for every contingency and that we would come through with a solid performance.

Boy, were we wrong. But it wasn’t for the reasons you might think.

Paloma zigged and zagged among the many boats trying to get a read on the best way to approach the line and when to really go for it. But soon it was apparent that something was not right; not with the boat, mind you, but with us.

I was at the wheel, and the crew appeared to go into a torpor, like a film in slo-mo. Up to now, the phrase, “prepare to come about” would prompt a well-orchestrated dash of asses and elbows until everyone was in position and ready to tack and grind. But this day, the snap was not there.

The horn sounded and we made the start, but the sail trim was awful, and soon we fell behind the pack. Before making the windward mark, the boat looked like Sunday morning in a frat house: slumped shoulders with minimal conversation, everyone staring at the sole or the horizon. A disconcerting lassitude prevailed.

Then the trips to the wailing rail began.

Georges, who is from South Africa, said he needed to “shoot the tiger,” which evidently is how they say, “I gotta hurl.” (Strange expression, as there are no tigers in Africa.) I’m prone to mal de mer, so I always take nausea meds before heading out, but it looked like I was the only person onboard who’d done so.

For the balance of the race, I stood watch and kept us on course, leaving the helm for precious seconds to trim sails. I felt bad for the rest of the crew. I knew well what they were going through. They felt bad for me, having to wear all the hats.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Been where you are, many times, shooting the tiger.” Somehow, we finished and got a fifth for the day.

At the awards tent that night, lighthearted stories of prone and disabled crews raced through the crowd. I was astonished at how many seasoned racers had neglected to do the simplest thing to ensure that the effects of nausea would be minimized.

And though days two and three brought more strong winds and sloppy seas, there were far fewer tales of sick crew or shooting tigers. My guess is that there had been a run on local pharmacies for every bottle of anti-nausea medication in the city.

As for Paloma’s team, after that first day, we got our mojo (and our mal de mer meds) working, finishing the regatta in fourth place, well-reminded that it’s the simple things that sometimes make all the difference.

Robert Beringer holds a Merchant Mariner credential and will again be racing on Paloma in the 2023 St. Augustine Race Week.

June/July 2023