How racing made me a better sailor

by Andrew Parkinson
There is a photograph somewhere in a box in my mother’s closet of a skinny teenager in a borrowed life jacket, sitting on the rail of a Flying Junior on the Thames River in New London, Connecticut, looking absolutely terrified. That would be me, circa 1991, racing for the East Lyme High School sailing club at a qualifying regatta hosted by the United States Coast Guard Academy.

I had been recruited (well, conscripted, really) to serve as crew, which in a two-person FJ means you’re either hiking out on the rail, trimming the jib, or doing some panicked combination of both. My dad calls it railmeat. I called it the most confusing afternoon of my young life.

The Thames is not a forgiving classroom. Strong tidal currents run hard against the breeze, the wind shifts without warning or apology, and the competition (read: kids from programs with actual coaching and budgets) seemed to possess knowledge that simply was not transmitted to us. They bore away in the puffs. They pinched in the headers. They crossed us, and crossed us again. We did not cross them.

We also capsized. Repeatedly. – Full report