The TwoSTAR is sailed every 4 years, alternating with the C-STAR (Formerly the OSTAR). The Observer Singlehanded Trans-Atlantic Race is very prestigious, but I think that I could not take the stress. At sea, I could sleep, but coming in to Newport in the wee hours of the morning with all the infinitely rude fishermen would be too much of a strain. The TwoSTAR has the same course (Plymouth, England to Newport, Rhode Island) but there are two people on each boat. It must be much less stressful, though it was bad enough!

How did I get asked to do something like this? I will never know. How did I fit it in? That is knowable, though it is a painful memory. I had an exam on the evening of June 24, an exam on the morning of the 25th, and a flight to Lymington on the afternoon of the 25th. My parents actually came down and packed for me while I was taking the exam, so most of my stuff got lost. I was very stressed, and I had a cold, and the packing did not help. I had to leave on the 25th because we had to get to the Plymouth Yacht Club a week before the race started, and because we had to do a 500 mile qualifying trip! Well, I felt like this. But when I got out on the water, my cold cleared up. It's amazing what a little sailing can do for you!

There were a total of 19 boats registered, but one did not turn up. This was disappointing, as it was a boat that I would have loved to see (a Dick Newick-designed trimaran). As we started the race there were only 3 (of 5 registered) boats in our class. The main action was in class I, where the beautiful and heavily sponsored French 60' multihulls were competing.

Curlew is a much-modified J/35. Her transom was cut back a few inches to make her really less than 35' long; her rigging is all extra-strength, and she has been fitted with four water-ballast tanks. They allow excellent weight distribution for all sailing conditions, though if they are full of cold water and you sail into a region of warm, moist air, condensation forms on them. Lots of it. My bunk was right next to the port forward tank, so I know!

I cannot describe adequately the feeling of sitting all alone on deck, with the sun setting and a gentle breeze blowing, thousands of miles from the nearest land, with stars starting to appear and the moon on the water. We did not get much sun, though we got more than the competitors have historically gotten. This was fortunate, because I steadfastly refused to wash my hair if it was too cold. There is little appeal in sitting outside pouring cold salt water over my head in the rain. The best thing about getting home was just lying in the bathtub for an hour!

"Ben. Time to get up." I cannot move. Or rather, I cannot lie still, because I do not have the willpower to tell my muscles to fight the motion of the boat. There is a huge, invisible hand holding me down. Finally, I managed to grab my flashlight and start stumbling about, bracing myself against odd parts of the boat as I pull on my clothes. Warm pants. Net shirt. Pile shirt. Wool sweater. Foul weather gear, still damp. All those layers protect me from the damp, though. Boots. Safety harness. Strobe light. And I stick my head out the hatch, and see stars. There are no lights 1000 miles from shore. We don't keep the running lights on because they just drain the battery, and there is no-one else out here. The compass lights are two dim red LEDs, and the B&G provides as little light. Not much moon, either, so the stars are unbelievable. The wind is a bit chilling, but I am dressed for it. Later on during my watch, the sun will rise. A little later than last time, because we are travelling west. Eventually, my watch will end before dawn. Is that the Graveyard Watch? I think so. Wonderful names sailors have for things. But tonight is clear, and I will enjoy it.

Racing in to the finish line on the last day, our batteries were very very low. We had next to no gas in the tank, so we did not dare to run the motor to recharge the batteries more than was absolutely necessary. But we were close reaching in a steady breeze, so we were able to lash the helm. When we fell off, heel and weather helm increased, and we came up again. In this way we screamed in at about 7 or 7.5 knots. In the evening, under a full moon, we came into Newport Harbor. We were within about 5 miles, or under an hour, of the finish line when the wind died.

It was just not fair. From screaming along at almost 8 knots to ghosting at 1 in a matter of a few minutes, almost. We filled the leeward water tanks to heel the boat and keep the sails in the right shape, and tried to warn about a million rude fishing boats and tugs that we were there. Needless to say, we had to keep the nav lights on, which did our batteries no good. It was a long night.

By dawn, we had drifted about 2 miles closer to the finish. Our families, who had come out to see us for the expected 2am finish, had spent the night in the living room of a kind member of the race committee, and were now informed that we were drifting in. A heavy fog had settled in, which was nice in a way: the fishing boats could not see that we were just a little 35-foot sailboat. What they saw was a massive blip from our radar reflector, and they did not really bother us, except once or twice.

The water was no longer flat. Tiny ripples were beginning to form. Our 150% genoa filled and started pulling, and slowly boatspeed climbed to about 3 or 4 knots. We emptied the ballast tanks.

Our families had come out to the dock expecting us to finish at about 1:00. When the thought of this became ridiculous they had been offered the living room of a kind member of the race committee, which they gladly accepted. Everyone was informed that we would be finishing soon, so the race committee launch came out to try to escort us over the line. We played fog-tag with them with the aid of many silly, though helpful, antics on the foghorn. At one point they chased the echo of it right up to the shore, but eventually they found the real us. My father's trusty camera managed to capture us as we materialized out of the featureless greyness (above). Just before crossing the line, we turned the engine on to recharge the batteries. There was some waving of hands and shouting from the committee boat; they thought that we thought that we had finished and were going to motor in, which would have meant our disqualification! But we were just charging the batteries, and we crossed the line with the committee launch next to us. A man boarded and unwired our engine, so we could again use the propeller. After what seemed like eternity (a rather warm one; the sun had sort of come out) we docked, and there was much rejoicing.

By the way, Curlew is for sale. She is not the ideal cruiser, but is a very fast and sturdy racer. If you are interested, you can email me and I can tell you how to get in contact with Ted.

Sometime I will have to finish writing this up. It was a really wonderful experience. I hope to do some more ocean races in the future, though I have concluded that on a boat that small the race was just too long. 3 or 4 days would have been perfect.

Thanks, Ted!