Third Time Unlucky: Julie, the Unnecessary Rig Change and the Great Upwind Meltdown

There are certain things you should never do five minutes before launching a Zephyr.

Forget your lunch? Fine. Lose a glove? Annoying, but survivable. Realise you haven’t been to the toilet before putting your wetsuit on? Well… That’s just a girl sailor thing that you learn to control. Kind of… Completely change the rig because the bloke who keeps winning has his set up differently?

Absolutely not.

But naturally, that is exactly what I did.

This was my third time racing Julie, Zephyr #65, and I arrived to the Point Chevalier Sailing Club boat ramp feeling reasonably confident (because part of me was also learning the ins and outs of reversing a trailer). I know how to sail. I know how to race. I can get off a start line, spot a shift and make a boat go in roughly the intended direction.

What I clearly do not yet know is how to tune a Zephyr named Julie.

I’ve been learning her ways: what makes her go, what makes her sulk and which pieces of string are best left alone unless you have a proper adult supervision present. We were beginning to build trust. Then, just before launching, I noticed that the fast guy’s rig looked different.

A sensible sailor would have thought, “Interesting. I’ll ask him about that later.” I thought, “Excellent. I shall immediately copy something I don’t understand.”

What could possibly go wrong? Well, as it turns out, quite a lot…

There is, of course, another explanation. Was it really innocent advice I received from a fellow sailor, or an expertly executed act of sabotage by a guy who was determined to beat me?

Could that happen in the friendly world of Zephyr sailing? Surely not. Probably not. Although if I ever start winning, I’ll be checking my rig every time he walks past it. (Nah, it wouldn’t happen… I’m being dramatic. Zephyr guys are actually some of the best people on the sailing planet.)

“Me Julie” and me headed out for our third day of racing, blissfully unaware that our upwind performance had already been murdered in the boat park.

Things started promisingly enough. I got some decent starts, spotted a few good shifts and occasionally gave the convincing impression that I knew what I was doing. Unfortunately, Julie had other ideas. She simply would not point.

Every time I tried to sail higher, she looked at me as if I’d suggested we drive home with the handbrake on. When the breeze kicked in, things became even stranger. Instead of feeling settled and powerful, she went soft and wobbly, less racing Zephyr, more lightly chilled unflavoured jelly.

Nothing was vibing!

The frustrating part was that I was doing some things right. The starts weren’t terrible. I picked several shifts correctly (and there where more shifts to pick than noses). There were brief moments when my brain and the racecourse appeared to be on speaking terms.

But Julie was slowly having a meltdown. Or perhaps that was me…

It can be difficult to tell when you’re both surrounded by water and making unhappy grunting noises.

Downwind, she was fast. Very fast at times. She lifted her skirt, flirted with the conditions, took off and reminded everyone that beneath the drama, she is still a fiery redhead with plenty of pace.

Upwind, however, she felt like she was nursing a savage hangover. Head down, deeply unhappy and absolutely unwilling to do anything productive.

Being on the water is always a great feeling. The breeze, the movement, the competition and that little flash of excitement when you nail a start or hook into the right shift. It’s magic.

But sucking on the water? That makes you want to cry, especially when you know you can do better. Somewhere underneath the terrible rig settings and increasingly desperate helm movements was a boat capable of going fast. The boat knew it. I knew it. Everyone sailing past us probably knew it.

Me sailing Julie on a good day! Photo: Brian Peet

Unfortunately, the only person who had touched the rig and made unnecessary changes, was me.

After my final attempted start, the whole operation fell apart. Whatever fragile peace treaty Julie and I had maintained finally expired, and I decided it was time to bail.

I sent myself home with my tell-tales between my legs, like a puppy who had just lost its chew toy.

Still, I did manage one victory. I was first to derig.

That’s right: while everyone else was still out there doing ridiculous things like finishing races, I had Julie back on her trailer in record time. Polished, tidied and gently patted, she received the sort of encouragement reserved for someone going through a difficult phase.

“It’s all right, Julie. This isn’t who we are. We can do better.”

Julie and me are still on speaking terms.

Yes, she may be a fiery redhead. Yes, she has mood swings more temperamental that wind shifts. Yes, our relationship is complicated. But we’re in this for the long haul.

Julie is the boat. I am the sailor. Together, we are one. We are one slightly dysfunctional racing unit currently in need of counselling, rig-tuning lessons and a little less confidence in the boat park – but one nonetheless.

Like any good relationship, ours will require patience, understanding and the occasional apology. Mostly from me…

We share one true love and passion: sailing. We’re going the distance, even if some days we go there slowly, sideways and several boat lengths lower than everyone else.

This outing taught me something important. I may know how to sail and I may know how to race, but learning to make a Zephyr go properly is a different game. Julie has her own language, and at the moment I’m the idiot tourist shouting at her in a version of unrecognisable sailor speak hoping volume will create understanding. It won’t, and I learnt a valuable lesson.

I need more time in the boat. More time learning what each adjustment does. More time understanding how she feels in different conditions, and considerably less time copying the winner five minutes before launch. What was I thinking!

I also learnt that Julie does not like change.

One terrible day doesn’t mean Julie and I are finished. It just means we’ve identified an area for improvement.

That area is clearly the nut at the end of the tiller. Me.

I put the rig back back where it was before the change, I’ll learn what the controls actually do and return slightly wiser, and hopefully considerably faster.

Even a shocker of a race day is still a good day on the water.

Julie and me are coming back for redemption – on Sunday 2nd August, and our plan is to do better than Race Day 3, provided nobody offers me any last-minute rigging advice!

Want to get into Zephyr sailing?! Take it from me, you should. Regardless of the bad day, this is the best sailing I’ve done in years.

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