Jamie 'The Tactician' of Double Time, our racing yacht, was on the helm, well lubricated by pre-race beers in the pub, a can of XXXX lager balanced on the compass housing as we bore down on the seawall adjacent to the Cairns marina.
I was on the starboard winch ready to haul in the foresail sheet as soon as we tacked, one eye on the depth sounder. 4.0 metres, 3.5 metres, 3 metres, 2.5 metres...'maybe we should tack...' and still Jamie pressed on. Jean, the owner of Double Time started protesting in her Indiana-Australian drawl, Charlie the normally calm Australian navy man on the main sheet began tugging at his beard and the early evening strollers on the seawall, now 10 metres off the bow, raised their eyebrows in anticipation of our imminent wreck.
How did this happen? Hours before we had woken up in a tent in the ancient Daintree Rainforest at Cape Tribulation 120 km north of Cairns and now here we were manning the winches in a Cairns Yacht Club race on a boat with three skippers ploughing their way through a fridge full of beer.
Then Jamie spun the helm, Karen let go the back winded foresail, I hauled it in and we were off on the opposite tack, clearing the rocks by 5 metres and now bearing down on a forest of sailboats and mooring piles. Jean took a verbal strip off Jamie about it being her boat, rocks, burning in hell and all sorts. Jamie waved her off and promptly cracked another can of XXXX while pontificating about the need for smoother transitions on the winches when tacking to keep our speed up in the hope of catching the lead yacht.
An hour later, with a little surreptitious help from the engine, we drifted in fifth, boat and crew intact, beer fridge empty. It had been a heady day of America's Cup high drama on the seas, ducking and weaving amongst the competition, fast tacks and gybes, cutting angles, stealing wind and clashing egos all at a blistering 3 mph.
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