"Corinthianism," meaning only amateurs could race, ruled the waves from post WWII to the early 1990's. Even at the top of my game in the 1960's-80's, it was illegal to be a "professional" and get paid for what I did best: sail a boat safe and fast.
I might be given a room and airfare. But even joining a yacht club was out-of-bounds, and I was blackballed from membership in such clubs as my home town Santa Cruz Yacht Club, as well as the Royal Hawaiian Ocean Racing Assoc.
One of the most ignominious results of having the appearance of being a professional sailor happened in 1983 aboard SCARLETT O'HARA.
As top boat in the '83 SORC SCARLETT O'HARA had won the right to go to England and represent the USA in the prestigious Admiral's Cup. I was designated tactician, navigator, and downwind helmsman. At the last minute, JBK flew into town, saw my name on the crew list, and as self designated "Team Captain" gave SCARLETT's owner an ultimatum that I was to be excused from the crew. Pissed and without recourse for the innuendo I was a "pro," I spent the Series stranded in Cowes, walking the beach, unable to sail with my teammates.
So how did I make not very much money in those days? Like WMT Jr., we delivered boats back from races for the princely sum of $1.00/mile. I was also good at varnishing, rigging, and wet sanding bottoms.
The first remunerative prize I won was 44 years ago in the Capitola Begonia Festival Rowboat Races of 1975. Competition was in orange, heavy duty, well thrashed, wooden fishing skiffs launched by hoist from the Wharf. These skiffs were never meant to be rowed, just to fish and drink beer, and most Row Boat Race competitors spent the race going in circles as their 2 person crews sat side-by-side, each pulling an oar.
We figured early on that the best way to row these orange slugs was for my crew lady to pull, and me to row standing, facing forward, pushing on the oars like a Gloucester doryman. Our course out and back was 200 yards, and we finished before most of the competition crossed the start line, thereby winning donated coupons for two free dinners at a local upscale restaurant.
Was my Corinthian status in jeopardy?
After a long tradition, the Capitola Begonia Festival ended 2 years ago when the last begonia field became condominiums. But the Rowboat Races continue. Yesterday I rode my bike down to Soquel Creek to spectate the action. The RC had two aluminum skiffs, one with longer oars than the other, and were timing two boat heats from the Stockton Ave. bridge, up and under the RR Trestle to a buoy anchored nearby. Then return to the finish line.
There were 4 age categories: Under 11 years, 11-15, 16-35, and the "Masters," over 35. Each boat had a rower and a passenger, and most competitors figured early on the best passenger was a youngster weighing less than 50 pounds.
Like the Begonia Festival Race which we'd won 44 years ago, it seemed rowers still hadn't mastered the use of oars. Maybe because most small boats are now days powered by outboard motors. Some rowers even ended up tangled in shoreline vegetation.
I reckoned I could still row OK, and decided to enter for kicks, even though lacking a crew. Just before my start was called, I found a young lady willing to go along for the row. Knowing these aluminum skiffs rowed stern heavy, I requested my lady crew to please sit in the bow. This caused some consternation, and the lone RC told me through his loudspeaker to get my crew in the back. WTF? Unwillingly, we complied with this arbitrary rule.
At the RC's command, off we went. I was confident we could win our heat until I saw the competition: a big strong guy half my age with his young son as passenger. Not only that, Big Guy had a powerful stroke, and the longer oars to boot.
We got the jump at the start, and halfway to the turning mark held a 2 length lead. With the shorter oars, my stroke rate was about double his. Slowly Big Guy overhauled us from behind and to port. I could see that by the turning mark we'd be even and he'd likely have a stronger stroke against the wind on the last leg.
Measures needed to be taken to preserve our lead. 3 lengths from the turning mark I hailed "were gonna need room at the mark!" I doubt he knew that was sailboat racing jargon. We arrived at the turning mark bows even. The RC at the finish line on the loud speaker could see the water churning as we began our turns. But the buoy was lost from his sight.
I knew where the buoy was as I backwatered with my port oar and pulled hard with the starboard oar to spin around the buoy, leaving it to port. The Big Guy was confused, and left the buoy to starboard (there was no requirement for rounding protocol.)
We met bow to bow and I used my best tugboat imitation to gain the inside as the aluminum hulls went "boing."
Pushing him to the outside of the turn gained us 3 lengths for the return. Again my strokes were fast, and I wasn't sure I had the wind and heart to make it all the way.
But here came the Big Guy was his strong stroke overtaking again from behind. Spectators were cheering as the Big Guy's bow pulled even with our stern. I figured I had a dozen strokes left in me, and if we didn't cross the finish soon, I was done.
Beep, beep went the RC finish horn. We'd won by 2 seconds, fastest time of the day. Hurray for old farts and their knowledge of sailing rules.
Dang, no free restaurant coupons this year. Just a blue ribbon. I rode my bike back to the CBC, hungry, but satisfied I'd preserved my Corinthianism.
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