Results / GUL Grand Prix Brightlingsea SC - 23/06/2012

In 1798 the Republic of Switzerland was formed and Nelson defeated the French at the Battle of the Nile. More pertinent to us, however, was the publication in the same year of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I am reminded of this on my return from the RS300 Gul Grand Prix meeting at Brightlingsea due to local RS300 sailor and skiff guru Mike Bees who was, I believe, born in the same year as Coleridge penned his romantic epic. Quite how Coleridge foresaw the 300’s tendency to nosedive when he wrote ‘with sloping masts and dipping prow’ we may never know. However, with this in mind here follows the racing report as written by Coleridge himself.

Part I

Mike Bees the ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three

Racing in the Gul event

Down at Brightlingsea.

He holds me with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
`Hold off! unhand me, was it perchance
On the Colne Estuary?’

The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we sail
Out to the starting area,
In wind and rain and hail.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;

It was Bolland, Bees and Sutton

In places 1, then 2, then 3.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on
Yet never a breeze up blew;
But luckily it came back in time

As we started in race 2.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And Bees flew out into the lead
If I may be so bold.

The wind was here, the wind was there,
The wind was all around:
It roared and howled, we cheered and smiled
As we chased that Bees boy down.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow                            
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And foward bends his head,
Bees drove fast, loud roared the blast,
But then it was Bolland who led.

The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he,

And before we knew it there we were

Lining up for the start of race three.

At length did cross an Albatross,
from West Mersea it came;
As it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in Bees’ name.

And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
Sutton sprang into the lead

Leaving the rest of us to wallow.

The sun then came upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And Bolland came past Sam Sutton
By sailing through his lee.

But Bees had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, he had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
As we were struck by 30 knots
The fat lady sang her song.

Part II

The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
We all head off into the bar
The boats in the dinghy park.

Water, water everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink,

But luckily the SC bar

Was stocked with beer, I think.

Their lips were wet, their throat was cold,
Their garments all were dank;
Sure they had drunken in their dreams,
And still their body drank.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;

But in Braintree, Chelmsford, Basildon

White van man did appear.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:

But this is Essex and the local girls

Will soon be out I’m told.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
Were forgotten when the girls appeared

In stilettos and ankle chains.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life in Death was she

On a night out in Brightlingsea!

Part III

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
For Sunday morning had arrived,
Like ghostly spectres in the mist

You’ll see the undead rise.

And I looked o'er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray -
That I won’t be sailing here again
Not ‘til next year anyway.

For the Sunday wind did roar more loud                   
And there was no more race
So counting Saturday’s results alone
Left poor Bees in second place.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.