Reflections on the Vineyard — Beth Santa

When asked to reflect on the last 10 Vineyard Races I have participated in, I was surprised to learn that most of my memories seem to mesh into one.  I was having difficulty remembering the nuances of each Labor Day event – almost all of them seemed to blend into one terrific movie.  The scenes in my mind include late night sail changes, frontal passages along the CT shore, the eerie groan of the buzzard’s bay tower, sleepless off watches, salty, but delicious, bowls of lasagna on Sat. evening, nail biting hours of little to no wind, and the awe inspiring moments of screaming past Bridgeport under spinnaker, thrilled that the Cowes rounding was minutes, not hours away.

In truth, these are the scenes from 9 of my 10 races – one, however is remarkably lucid– one stands out to me as particularly special.

The year was 1991 and a friend of mine asked if I wanted to do the Vineyard Race aboard James McAllister’s J/35 Alacrity II.  I accepted.  This was my first overnight race – my first Vineyard Race.

I hardly knew what I was doing on the boat – I was rail meat – a novice in the true sense of the word.  I remember being in awe of the amount of chocolate chip cookies and candy that the owner had managed to hide in each nook and cranny of his 35 ft boat.  Once I got over my snack fascination, I soon was enchanted by the siren song (or buzzard honk) that is the Vineyard Race.  Conditions were perfect – unbeknownst to a rookie like me.  It was a reach out to the Tower and back.  I remember being curious about the stressful conversations taking place near the nav station – Race or Gut – what did this mean? – of course I hadn’t any idea the gravity of this decision on overall performance.  Ignorance was bliss.

As the race progressed, I became mesmerized by each maneuver.  The mechanics of the boat seemed so complicated and awesome to me.  I wanted to know what was going on- why certain lines were being pulled and why we kept adjusting the sails.

Soaking wet after a Genoa change, I remember my friend sitting next to me and asking– “So do you like this?”  As I sat on the rail, I felt alive, content, and whole.  I was falling in love.

At the time I didn’t realize that I was hiking out next to the man who would be my future husband – but I knew something seemed right.  Devin, however, wasn’t my only suitor during that race.  I was also being courted by the wind and the waves of Long Island and Block Island Sounds.  As it turns out, I gladly accepted both proposals – destined to be Mrs. Devin Santa – a Vineyard Race Buzzard.

The Buzzard — Ron Weiss’ adaptation of The Raven

The Buzzard

Inspired by “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe.

On stormy watches, dark and dreary,

I often ponder, weak and weary,

On why I do this race,

a race I’ve done so many times before.
There I am, cold and soggy,

can’t see a thing it’s so damn foggy.

And we know we’ll be there hours more.

Hours more.

Invariably I must compare,

there entombed in humid air,

other Vineyards that were worse

(at least this current’s not reverse!),

like the time when it was steamy,

and we were drifting off Coekoenie,

By the Norwalk Islands,

those Islands I abhor.

Another Vineyard back a score,

I heard the wind’s victorious roar,

as it destroyed our Number Four,

and yet that was just the start of it,

the pounding made the fuel tank split.

And there was diesel sloshing,

washing over the cabin  floor.

The air acquired a certain thickness,

which leads of course to quick sea sickness.

Five guys lost it in their bunks,

which only added to the funk,

and yes there was even more we had in store.

Five guys were down below half dead,

and one them goes to the head,

And emerges from the rank latrine,

with a quart of Mr Clean.

He pours it out around the mast,

and then things happened really fast.

like mad wasps swarming from a nest,

that’s how one can describe it best,

Into the night the six emerged,

as even more of their meals were purged,

and right then is when the reef gear blew,

and tore right through the mainsail’s clew,

and now we were in the Gut

and in very deep,  deep doo-doo.

Without an engine or a sail,

and it still blowing quite a gale,

there was no other better choice,

the storm jib was then quickly hoist.

We ground it up and got it set,

but the story is not over yet.

The turning block for the halyard snapped,

the storm jib flogged and the sheets got wrapped,

It was at that very moment that I swore,

I swore it to my very core,

that I would do the Vineyard nevermore.

Nevermore.

But every Buzzard has these stories,

tales of woe and tales of glories,

and other things we’ve never, ever seen before.

So raise your drinks or hoist your beer,

because to the Vineyard Race we’ll cheer.

“Quoth the Buzzard.  Evermore.

Quoth the Buzzard. Evermore.