by Bugs Baer

At 1327:00 UTC, Tempest crossed the finish at the Needles, an elapsed time of fourteen days, eighteen hours, and fifty-seven minutes. But it was a tough finish. By 0700 the wind was dying. We carried our lightest spinnaker and moved at less than six knots. By 0800 it was almost dead. The wind shifted around to the east, forcing us to switch to our windward sails and tack toward the finish. It was the first time since the start of the race that we had been hard on the wind. Things began to go wrong. The lightest jib tore on a takedown, and Ashley Perrin and her team set to work pasting on patches. The new jib jammed on the way up. Will Hubbard hitched on his harness and went up the forestay. He found that the forestay tracks for the jibs had broken. Two pieces no longer lined up. Tomas Mark figured out how to twist the grooved pieces to make them line up, and the jib slid into its groove. Slowly we sailed toward the Needles. With ten miles to go, our navigator was asked how long it would take. *Three hours.” As so it was. We were sailing slowly. We were tacking upwind, and the current was soon to turn foul. We were fewer than seven miles from the finish when the wind finally expired. We were making what we thought was the final approach to the finish line when the wind dropped to a whisper. Our GPS told us that we were now being pushed backward faster than we were sailing forward. The tide had turned, and we now had four more hours of foul current to fight. Our navigator, Michael Lawson, pronounced the word of doom: ”Anchor.” It took us ten minutes to sort it out, but at 1225, 4.8 miles from the finish line, we set the anchor and took down our jib. Tempest turned her nose toward the current and hung on the bar-tight line. We found that the light jib had torn again, and again the repair team went to work. On the horizon ahead, we saw the surface of the water darken with ripples. Wind. It is coming toward us. At 1230, no wind. At 1235, no wind. At 1240, a breath of breeze, and we start to set the sail. The patching gang is still frantically sticking strips of sticky back onto the tired old sail. A press boat comes by for glamour shots of the division winner, but instead of glamour, they see a frenzy of repairs. Will Hubbard it up the forestay again. The patchers are sticking tape on sails. The anchor crew is lowering a halyard to pull up the anchor. Five minutes later, the patched sail comes down, and the heavy jib goes up to handle the fresh new breeze. At 1247 were are going again. Now is it just a walk in the woods, an easy sail for the last four miles. We’re getting nearer. Tomas Mark is on the bow calling the finish. Two fingers, one finger, one half finger. We’re over. Our air horn goes off. We shout and scream. We pound each on the on the back and shake every hand. It’s over. We did it. And by a margin of ten hours, we won.