admin Date , September 8, 2024 Sailing Previous Blog Comments (0)
This past Sunday, the Upper Thames Sailing Club played host to the Merlin Rocket Association for one of their big annual events. Crews gathered for two prestigious competitions: the Thames Series and the Silver Tiller Series. And where were Paul and I? Dutifully on the water, stationed on the safety/camera boat Whaly Coyote ready for action—or so we thought.
When we arrived, the air was still. And by “still,” I mean utterly motionless. Not a whisper of wind to be felt, not a ripple on the river—just an eerie calm that seemed to suggest the Thames had taken the day off. Our first task was to remove the goose netting from the river banks, which, let’s be honest, was the most action we saw for quite a while. We launched the safety boats and our delightfully named "Whaly Coyote" camera boat into the glassy waters, our movements barely disturbing the mirror-like surface. The flag, usually full of life, was draped sadly around the flagpole, as if even it couldn’t muster the enthusiasm. Across the water, the trees on the opposite bank cast shimmering reflections, the kind of scene you'd expect to find in a nature documentary rather than at the start of a high-octane sailing event.
One by one, the Merlin Rockets began to appear on the club’s grassy banks, their polished hulls glistening in the still air, ready to slice through the water at the first sign of wind. The teams, however, were less confident. As they gazed up at the limp flag, they wore expressions that ranged from mildly concerned to outright skeptical.
You could almost hear the collective sigh: "We came here to race...but race where, exactly?"
Now, I’ve heard that waiting for wind is an integral part of sailing life, but it’s something else entirely when you're surrounded by eager competitors and... no wind. As we sat in the safety boat, poised to spring into action at a moment's notice, it became clear that Mother Nature had other plans. The flag gave the occasional half-hearted flutter, just enough to make us think the wind might pick up, but not quite enough to actually start the races.
At one point, I leaned over to Paul and whispered, "Do you think if we all start blowing in the same direction, it’ll help?" He didn’t dignify that with a response, but I could see the gears turning in his head. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.
Whaly Coyote and the Camera Crew
Meanwhile, Whaly Coyote, our trusty camera boat, was doing its best to document the event—or lack thereof. It gracefully glided across the Thames, capturing the rare beauty of the scene. I’m sure the footage will be stunning, but I can’t help but imagine the commentary will include something like, “Here we have the Merlin Rockets... not sailing, but sitting. Quite majestically, I must say.”
An Optimistic End
Eventually, the breeze did make a cameo appearance, teasing the teams just enough to give them hope. The races started on time, and the spirit remained high, but the first race was cut short and the second abandoned as the wind abandoned the Merlin's. And while the morning didn’t go quite as planned, by lunch time the flag was moving and there were some Merlin owners who thought the race might be on in the afternoon.
The last race of the day was where the real excitement kicked off. After lazily watching the start from behind the line (downstream of the clubhouse, naturally, because why not add a little chaos to the proceedings?), we observed the Merlins jockey for position like a bunch of toddlers fighting over the last slice of cake. Then, feeling a pang of responsibility—or maybe just wanting to get a better view—we followed them upstream, eventually mooring behind what can only be described as a "house pontoon thing." Yes, that’s the technical term, obviously. We were safely out of the way but still close enough to feel like part of the action—without any of the risks of actually, you know, being in the race.
And boy, was there action. The boats stayed surprisingly close, like a tightly knit school of very competitive fish. As they rounded the marks, some crews showed off by hoisting their spinnakers, hoping to gain a slight edge in the barely-there breeze. A few of them managed to look like they knew exactly what they were doing—sails billowing elegantly, boats gliding smoothly. Others... well, let’s just say their spinnakers seemed more intent on becoming colourful flags of surrender. It was like watching someone try to fold a fitted sheet while moving at 5 knots.
The real fun came when the wind decided to play a game of hide and seek. Some Merlins caught a whisper of it and took off, their crews looking smug as they left their rivals behind. Meanwhile, others were left wondering whether they'd accidentally anchored themselves to the riverbed or if they’d simply angered the wind gods. At one point, a boat that had been sitting pretty in third place seemed to make a strategic decision to go sightseeing instead of following the course. It’s always nice to get to know the local riverbanks, I suppose.
But through this battle emerged some unlikely heroes, as Mark Stockbridge and Tre Jacob’s in 3727, a Winder Mk4 no less, showed their handling prowess to out-tack their vintage counterparts. They took visual line honours, but no gun was heard due to them being called early on the start. Thus it was Andy and Sara in 607 who took home all the silverware with some silky light airs sailing, with Ollie Meadowcroft and Dan Cocks sliding through in to 2nd on a chaotic last beat in 799, with Pete and Debs Walker taking 3rd in 1700.
The full race captured from the Camera Boat
