SAILING IN FORT WORTH, TEXAS
By George Moudry
In the years 1983-84 I worked in Fort Worth. Once I told my new Texas friend Marshal Dodd that I love sailing, and he invited me to a regatta at the Fort Worth Boat Club on Eagle Mountain Lake near Ft. Worth. This very prestigious and rich Boat Club held a large regatta every Sunday. Millionaires from Dallas metroplex area had their racing yachts in the Boat Club and hired crews to sail them. Most of the yachts were racing 36-foot sloops, “J” class.
The very first Sunday I was lucky to crew as substitute on a 36-foot Santana yacht named Paki II. The owner, Mr. Orwell Naught had three Santana racing yachts at the Boat Club, named Paki I, Paki II, and Paki III. Orwell manufactured many types of plastic plates and cups, many under the Paki logo, hence the names.
Our yacht had a wide cockpit and board, and small cabin. The cabin was mainly to store sails. Our captain Rick was the only paid crew, the rest of us sailed for prestige, love for sailing and free drinks after the race. Rick was a young man, muscular and tanned, with a head of black curly hair. Rick was at the helm and barked orders. He was knowledgeable and capable. Marshal and I were winch grinders; we handled the jib. Bill handled the main sail, and Marti handled the spinnaker and the running backstay. Marti was darkly tanned, sinewy blond woman, Rick’s girlfriend, and hard as nails.
The Eagle Mountain lake regattas were esteemed all over the world and sailing in it was a notable accomplishment. Some sailing enthusiasts trailered in their racing sailboats just to test their mettle in this renown regatta.
The cockpit work is hard and dangerous. All actions must be performed at the right moment, and fast, on a pitching and rolling deck, and during constant screaming from the captain.
The racecourse is a large triangle marked by big orange markers. Committee boats near the markers make sure that all boats round the markers according to rules. The first leg of the race is beating against the wind – lots of tacking. Second leg is on a broad reach, and the third leg is running downwind under a spinnaker. All boats are fighting for position and protests and collisions are commonplace. The course is sailed three or four times around, depending on the wind and type of regatta.
After the race, the sails are taken off the boat and spread on the lawn to dry. The crew goes to the Clubhouse for a few drinks, compliments of Mr. Naught. When the sails dry, they are folded and stowed in the cabin.
I did well and captain Rick even dribbled a compliment; he decided to keep me on the crew. From then on, I sailed in regattas every Sunday. There were great rivalries between the three Paki boats, as well as among other yachts. Our captain Rick was a loud cuss but a good sailor. Over the course of many regattas, we only had two incidents. On one occasion, Bill handed Marshall a winch handle, but he did not hold it by the shaft as customary, but by the handle. The boat rocked and the end of the heavy winch handle swung around and hit Marshall right between the eyes. Marshal collapsed in a pool of blood. Marti jumped in, opened the first aid box, and stemmed the bleeding. Then she dragged Marshal aside. I operated the jib sheets and winches alone.
After the race Marti drove Marshal to the hospital for stiches. Marshal was a handsome young man with blond curly hair, and after that incident he had a distinctive “V” shaped scar between his eyes. But Marshal was proud of that scar.
The second incident happened when it was blowing hard and we were rounding the upwind marker. As we rounded, the aluminum mast snapped at the spreaders during the tack, and fell in the water beside the boat, steel cables whistling through air. We were incredibly lucky that the mast did not collapse into the boat on top of us, and that nobody was injured by the deadly whipping cables. We only had a few scratches. A motorboat towed the injured vessel to dock, and the dock crew went to work cutting cables and dragging out debris. We settled our nerves by two cocktails.
The next Sunday the boat was ready to sail again with a shining brand-new mast. It set Mr. Naught back ten thousand dollars, but yacht racing is not for paupers...
The biggest Ft. Worth Boat Club event was the “Old Man and the Sea Regatta” put on every three years. Famous sailors bring their boats and crews to Eagle Mountain Lake, some from as far away as Australia and New Zealand.
Marshal and I went to the boat club almost every day the week of the “Old Man and the Sea” and watched those beautiful and colorful yachts arriving on special trailers. Many of those crossed oceans in hulls of much bigger ships. And the excitement all around! Laughing, greetings, and orders barking in many accents of the sailing tribe. It was intoxicating.
I learned that the captain of our boat Paki II will be the tactician of the America’s Cup crew Dennis Durban. Mr. Naught also recruited another America’s Cup crew member, grinder Kyle Smith to captain Paki I crew. Wow, so many famous sailors! Our captain Rick told me, that he will take the place of Bill, and our crew will sail Paki II under captain Dennis Durban. I was beside myself – such honor!
On Sunday morning, hundred yachts plowed the lake waves like so many colorful swans. They were testing the water, the wind, studying the surroundings, smelling the air. And we were among them, cruising, a part of the flock.
Captain Dennis was not a screamer, his reassuring voice was calm and measured. The start of the race was fast approaching, and tension and nervousness was rising. Starting position and timing was especially important; a good start could secure a leading position, a great advantage in the race. All boats are circling and milling around the starting line in awfully close quarters. All captains’ eyes were on the clock. The gun will sound at 9:00 exactly, and no boat can cross the line before that time, and all the boats are in motion, scrambling for position.
Dennis directed the boat straight for the starting line. Rick objected:
“We are too fast, we will disqualify”.
“We will do a bat-turn!” Dennis replied.
“What the hell is bat-turn?”
“Just hold the sail position. We will do a three sixty with sails fast!”
We barreled toward the starting line and then Dennis turned the helm hard, and the boat turned around, almost stopping. The wind spilled from the sails, and then slowly filled them again as we finished the turn. We were feet from the start line.
The canon roared, and race was on!
It was a memorable regatta. So many beautiful yachts, such sailing skills, what a fierce competition! We did well, and beat our nemesis boat Paki I.
After the race at the dock, Rick said: “Forget the sails, and let’s go to the bar or we will not get a seat!” And we did just that. The Clubhouse filled up quickly with celebrating crews, all noisy and popping champagne. Many could not get in the crowded clubhouse and sat outside on the lawn – in chars or on the grass.
On a carved post at the corner of the bar was attached a big silver bell. Sometimes, the happy regatta winner ringed that bell. This meant: All drinks are on me! The largess stops when the spent drift rings the bell again.
And so it was this time. A corpulent man fought his way to the bar and rang the bell loudly. At that instant, half a dozen bartenders emerged from the back room, ready to pour. And pour they did! Everybody was drinkin, cheering and hollering, merriment galore.
After some time, the fat man tried to get back to the bell. But the happy crowd lifted him up and above and had over hand surfed him out of the bar. The chagrinned winner sat outside on the grass and lifted his hands in resignation: Oh, what the hell…