It may sound like a paradox, but for me, overnight racing is all about light. There are the stars, including the shooting ones, that I don’t see from Annapolis; the green glow from the boats astern and the white specks of those ahead of us; the onshore landmarks that shine extra bright in the inky night; the commanding lights of the frequent freighters and occasional Carnival Cruise ships powering through the shipping channel; and my favorite, the bioluminescence glowing on the water’s surface.
Two popular overnighters, the Governor’s Cup and the Solomons Island Race, give sailors like me who usually race windward-leeward courses a chance to travel outside their normal sailing circles and test their navigational and driving mettle at night. I also look forward to re-uniting each year with the same crew of friends on my friend Mike’s O’Day 40.
August racing can be challenging, with little to no breeze leaving sailors to feel like oven roasted birds. You know the feeling — when the unrelenting sun and oppressive humidity steal your upbeat spirits. But I’ve been lucky and usually sail the 70 miles to St. Mary’s City in the Governor’s Cup with seven to zero knots from the southwest, and little precipitation, in human-friendly temperatures.
My fellow crewmembers and I were not as lucky in an overnight race from Michigan’s west coast to Milwaukee when the winds grew to a steady 35-40 knots and competing storm cells caused 10-foot swells. Descending each trough felt like a poorly designed roller coaster that left our stomachs lurching. No one could eat or sleep, and I felt seasick for the first and only time. But, I felt marginally better than a fellow crewmember who spent the overnight hours hanging his torso over the side getting sick for 70 miles. If night racing on the Bay were like this, I would not be writing about how much I love it. And I do love it.
After the start and settling in on our chosen tack, the captain rounds us up, and we collectively discuss the fastest way to the finish. It’s all very democratic. We all contribute information: tide chart times, wind direction, where the pesky pound nets are located, and prior year’s race knowledge to form our route. I think soliciting advice from the crew makes us feel more invested in the outcome and therefore better, more vigilant racers.
After dinner and the sunset, we begin our watches. Captain Mike always mixes experienced sailors with novices and encourages everyone to take a turn at the helm. During my turn, I drive by feel and keep an eye on the compass. Driving is a challenge for me without an illuminated windex, onshore landmarks, or windward mark in sight. But at night, driving becomes more sensory with fewer distractions. After some time, I find the boat’s sweet spot where she accelerates through the dark water, and I eventually become aware of rudder movements and the pace of the waves and learn how she reacts to puffs and shifts.
A hefty dose of concentration is required for night racing. It’s easy to become too relaxed in the middle of the night, especially in light breeze and perfect temperatures in the 70s. We appoint a crewmember to watch for navigational hazards and buoys. There is increased freighter traffic at night, but with radar or AIS, or even a watchful eye, ships are easily spotted; they’re lit up like the Griswolds’ house at Christmas and can be seen miles away.
One year, during our midnight to 3 a.m. watch, the wind lightened to nothing as the stars and moon appeared. We were comforted by the green glow of the other competitor’s navigational lights, knowing we were still in the mix. More nothing. No wind. We took turns driving and checking tell-tales to no avail.
But, it was nearly perfect. We cracked open a beer, talked about all things you talk about with your close friends, counted shooting stars, watched the occasional glow of the bioluminescent algae on the water and the flickering of the red and green buoys in the distance. It would have been serene if it weren’t for the offensive lights of Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Plant and the nearby Dominion Cove Point LNG terminal to our right. In the middle of the perfectly still night, those lights taunted us for hours.
And when we woke at 6 a.m., we had made little progress. Hooper’s Island was to port, and we were between Cedar Point and Point No Point. The Bay had widened into a beautiful expanse of blue, and the only movement was from jumping schools of fish. Just as Mike passed out mugs of coffee, a pod of brown pelicans flew in front of Hooper’s Island Lighthouse with the sun rising behind it.
If the wind had held through the night, we would have been closing in on the finish by mid-morning. We could see our competition again. We had picked off a few boats, just enough to land us in the middle of our class. We talked briefly about what to improve next year before we headed to shore for some cold beer and a shower.
by Carrie Gentile Sullivan
