The King is in the all-together
by Dougal Henshall 11 Oct 04:00 PDT
Luna Rossa Prada Pirelli – Louis Vuitton Cup – Final – Race Day 6 – October 2, 2024 © Ricardo Pinto / America’s Cup
A counterpoint to the endless summer of sports or as the French might say, "C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la voile!"
It’s remarkable how quickly we’ve all adapted. After receiving our vaccinations and easing the fears surrounding Covid, it was uplifting to witness the swift return to normalcy, with sailing prominently leading the way. Participation surged, boat ownership flourished post-Covid, and the sun seemed to shine favorably on sailing.
Like many boat owners, I spent those long lockdown months dreaming of embarking on one of those exhilarating extended journeys.
Yet, my dreams were driven by a strong reality check. We were eagerly anticipating an Olympic Regatta in the Mediterranean at Marseille, followed closely by the kick-off of the America’s Cup just 300 sea miles south-west.
What a chance for both a journalist and an avid sailor with a boat… could it be realized?
The answer was that not only was the journey feasible, and while it could become one of the great adventures by boat, it wouldn’t be one of the ‘blue water’ missions but rather a 900-mile trek through the French canals starting at Le Havre on the Channel coast and finally reaching the Med at Port St Louis.
I had recently replaced the engine on my classic Fairey powerboat. This well-known vessel had been a familiar sight at championships along the UK’s South Coast, and for this trip, I had switched to a pair of new diesels from a French supplier.
Other essentials were added: a full refrigerator instead of a mere cooler, and a holding tank for the toilet. So, once Europe reopened, I was all set to go… except in the end, I didn’t.
I had all the documentation, the funding, everything necessary, but to my disappointment, my boat remained in the Solent.
It would be easy to blame Brexit for this situation and the complications of the ‘maximum 90 days in any 180’ rule regarding our stay in the Schengen Zone (it would have required taking my boat down before leaving and then returning to the UK). I could have counted down the days, only to return to the South of France to repeat the entire exercise after the AC concluded.
It was a tough choice, yet ultimately, my decision came down to the plethora of captivating local events taking place along the South Coast, where I could fill an entire summer schedule without being more than a day’s boat ride from home.
For example, over five weeks surrounding Weymouth and Portland, the WPNSA hosted the Musto Skiff Worlds, followed by an impressive championship for the International Moths.
As that event was wrapping up, a significant gathering of Scorpions was gearing up for a fantastic week at the remarkable Castle Cove Sailing Club, followed by the Academy championships for the Topper and ILCAs.
Before long, various spots in Torbay were buzzing with the Int 14s, Contenders, and Wayfarers; Chichester Harbour was celebrating its 60th edition of Fed Week (an event that drew around 400 boats), and Poole joined the festivities with the Ospreys…
For anyone seeking a reflection of the vitality of the British domestic sailing scene, the central South Coast was the place to be. If I wanted to venture further afield, the Merlin Rockets headed west, the Solos east, and the Phantoms north—all without crossing the Channel, I found myself spoiled for choice.
I must clarify that although I was perpetually busy and logged an impressive number of sea miles, I didn’t attend every event; however, the ones I did visit, along with first-hand reports from others, revealed a noticeable trend of close, competitive racing, excitement on the water, and plenty of enjoyment off it.
Even better, I could enjoy all this while still immersing myself in the wonders of Marseille and Barcelona, or at least that was my plan.
First on the agenda was the Five Ring Circus, previously known as the ‘Yachting Olympics,’ where medals were contested in yachts with just a token single-hander among the dinghies. Over time, the focus shifted to two-man dinghies (sorry ladies, this wasn’t an event for you), and at the peak of sailing’s Golden Era, boats like the 5.5 Metre and Soling welcomed the 470, Tornado, Laser, and 49er into the realm of the ‘Sailing Olympics.’
With the enduring Finn leading the charge, the Olympics held significant meaning for the majority of those racing small sailboats. Even when World Sailing compromised the sport’s integrity for television demand (who can forget forcing placement of the top mark right up under Nothe Fort at Weymouth), we could all still connect to it!
After some undeniable negatives, Weymouth’s media coverage was quite good, showcasing how impressive modern sailing can be to a global audience.
Then came Rio, where the gains from 2012 rapidly diminished due to poor media decision-making, focusing on a race in inshore conditions with unpredictable winds, while on the outer course, the Finns and 470s engaged in a classic contest under bright skies with ample waves, allowing for stunning visuals of Olympic sailing… yet no television coverage.
When World Sailing conducted a post-Games analysis, sport administrators concluded to ‘go all in’ on transforming sailing into a fully televisual sport. The Finn was ousted, and the mantra of ‘foiling is the future’ became prominent, with a search for ways to integrate foils into various sailing platforms.
The critical oversight by decision-makers was failing to recognize that decent wind is the most crucial requirement for good sailing—without it, events become lackluster, regardless of camera presence. Changing the lineup of ‘platforms’ (many of which no longer qualify as boats) matters little without a strong breeze; the situation worsens when, seeking more on-screen ‘engineered excitement,’ scoring systems are flipped on their head, diminishing the significance of results throughout a series in favor of one final race.
While it would be unjust to undermine the brilliance of individual performances produced in Marseille, the atmosphere only grew more frustrating as the program became increasingly skewed by persistent light winds (light winds on the Southern French coast in August… who would have guessed!).
The overall reaction to the Regatta was largely apathetic! Our domestic television service featured scant coverage, as rights went to a US media giant, but viewers could subscribe for a monthly fee (hopefully those who subscribed have now remembered to cancel).
For those sailors who were lured into paying for a month or two of streamed coverage, it wasn’t merely that the reporting was subpar (and that’s being generous by Olympic standards); it was that the coverage lacked excitement, as no amount of enthusiastic hype from presenters could transform listsless flags and medal races held in conditions that would have kept most of us in the bar into an engaging viewing experience, no matter what World Sailing tried to make us believe.
This was before Team GBR’s efforts began to falter, leading to waning interest levels as medal prospects continued to diminish.
The overwhelming disinterest led me to happily spend the money I’d saved by not subscribing on pints at a local sailing club (let’s see… Olympic coverage or a Doombar or two… I’ll take a pint, please) while also realizing that maybe I dodged a costly bullet by staying in the UK.
Instead, I enjoyed the delights of Portland Harbour amidst some of the best weather of a generally miserable summer. Yes, the breezes were light; just like the Olympics, the racing was hindered by a lack of wind—but Castle Cove, bathed in sunshine, was laid-back yet still yielded impressive racing.
With light breezes, the event RO Simon Hawkes (anyone familiar with Simon knows he requires quite a breeze to get moving) moved the fleet back inside the harbour where wind was more favorable, managing to execute excellent gate starts and good-sized beats. The Scorpion fleet fiercely competed for every position, with boats often overlapped: in one race, I was perched at the windward mark, and estimated that 75% of the fleet rounded before any gaps appeared.
New boats, old boats, fiberglass, and woodies came together to celebrate domestic one-design dinghy sailing.
Classes with fleets under 25 boats (a good benchmark since it is half of the traditional Y&Y measure for the ’50+ Club’) would benefit from observing fleets like the Scorpion and Europe, as they’ve demonstrated that long-term decline is not an unavoidable facet of aging. Kudos to the Scorpion Class for seeing the long grass at the rear of the dinghy park and producing an impressive response, raising them to the big leagues, with the RS200 (in terms of two-person boats) leading the pack.
Regrettably for the Scorpions, who (like their RO) thrive in stronger winds, the best weather in Portland Harbour had been enjoyed a few days earlier by the Lowrider Moths, including some captivating semi-circular hulled light-air flyers from France. One afternoon, when the harbor weather station recorded over 25 knots, one might have anticipated that some of these tippy older boats would retreat to the Academy slipway, but this fleet too is defying several current negative trends.
With the sight of the new FRP Magnum 6 hulls from Ian Ridge on display, the Lowriders took a calculated risk by heading to Portland, putting themselves on firmer footing moving forward.
Observing these classes, along with the Musto Skiffs, Toppers, and ILCAs that also descended upon Weymouth, provided a wonderful feeling of the ongoing vibrancy in domestic sailing, highlighting the relevance of well-organized championships to our sport.
This relevance hit home hard as the coverage began of the summer’s second media-centric water event, the America’s Cup in beautiful Barcelona.
I must confess a personal bias; I know the city a bit—I worked there for a while and loved it—so the notion of witnessing the AC yachts there stirred feelings of regret, leaving me thinking I could have been there, indeed, that I should have been there.
Then the racing commenced, leading to the dawning realization that, to paraphrase a seasoned General Bosquet observing the Charge of the Light Brigade, "C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la voile" (or in journalistic terms, "it’s magnificent but it isn’t sailing"). In essence, it was a remarkable effort but ultimately without purpose!
Once again, we can lay blame on the weather—when 50-knot foiling boats are glued to the water’s surface, that’s a media failure and for interested spectators, as the wind lightened, the vessels that can foil in lighter air ended up desperately crisscrossing the computer-controlled box, from boundary to boundary, just to maintain the speed required for foiling and execute turns.
At numerous points, the tactical match racing premise fell to a distant second to the urgent need to avoid ‘falling off the foils’ (but come on, this is the AC; I thought there was no second in this setup). And don’t even get me started on the powerboats towing the vessels to get them foiling before releasing them.
Then, hallelujah, some breeze kicked in—even if it was a feeble breeze. One must concede the boats were indeed impressive, yet the Bosquet quote resurfaced during a lackluster attempt at what knowledgeable viewers would recognize as match racing. Two boats sped in from opposite sides of the ‘box’, set for a classic port-starboard scenario, which caught my interest, as I savored the pleasure of racing regulations when boat A, marginally ahead, executed a bold tack almost directly on boat B’s course line.
Given that both vessels were exceeding 35 knots before the maneuver, exquisite timing and execution were demanded. Either second could result in a penalty for a close tack or a costly collision that could have led to court disputes as much as being contested in the protest room.
Shortly after, thrilling excitement unfolded when the trailing boat executed a classic defense against this move. They eased the sheets a touch and dove down to the leeward position, utilizing the speed boost for a powerful lee bow maneuver… only for the on-water umpires to penalize this action. The fragility of these AC boats necessitated an exclusion zone around them, effectively nullifying any close-action that could resemble match racing.
Aside from that fleeting moment, the rest of the spectacle became a snoozefest. All boats needed to do was secure the start, reach the favored side, dominate the first beat, and avoid falling off the foils.
The coverage was further hindered by some pretty uninspiring commentary, particularly when INEOS Britannia relinquished a potentially winning position. "They’re now the hunters," we were breathlessly informed; "Ben’s hunting down the opposition," all while the gate timings showcased a widening gap and the on-screen graphics indicated increasing distance instead of the decrease that comes from being ‘hunted down.’
The only genuine excitement stemmed from a thunderstorm traversing the course, unleashing an enormous lightning bolt into the water ahead of one competitor. My only query was how one of the helms limited his response to just one single word—a mild breach of broadcasting standards; had I been at the helm, the commentators would be scrambling to apologize for the stream of expletives I’d unleash!
The racing is tedious, and the boats themselves are even worse. There’s nothing and no one visible except the tops of some crash helmets; everything else occurs out of sight.
There’s little action in sail changes, and even the astute viewers might struggle to notice trim adjustments as the mainsail’s shape changes to produce more low-end power (falling off the foils is drawing near). To put it bluntly, there is nothing to observe.
I kept recalling the 1987 AC series in Perth, where in fierce winds and massive waves, the crews exerted themselves intensely to push their boats to the limit. You could see the grinders at their pedestal winches, and the crew desperately hauling sheets to manage a flapping spinnaker during challenging gybes.
The whole point is that these were actions we could all relate to, from the helm, keenly observing the space between the main and genoa, to the foredeck crew clinging on while preparing to hoist or drop sails or change foresails.
Even someone who has never sailed anything larger than a GP14 could watch, comprehend, and thank their lucky stars they sail (like many today) on an inland stretch of water where a 300-meter beat is considered a long one!
At this point, I experienced my epiphany—the reality struck hard amidst the debris-laden waters of Barcelona. I had missed nothing at all; instead, I witnessed event after event back home that showcased the sheer enjoyment available (often at modest expense) in grassroots sailboat racing.
Had I traveled to Marseille, then onward to Barcelona, I would have faced disappointment and boredom at two uninspiring events that only catered to a selective interest while disregarding the majority. Yet there’s a more vital aspect to all of this.
The relevance to our sport is essentially nonexistent, apart from how these two global media extravaganzas siphon interest and resources away from local activities, which have historically been about inclusive participation.
It wasn’t about the finances behind feelings that I would have resented a Mediterranean trip, but rather about how I would have been presented with two events that would offer little to write about, alongside missing out on vital domestic seasons, which, even in the predominantly dreary summer we’ve faced in 2024, have shown the heart of our domestic scene remains robust.
The best news is that next year looks even more promising, with events from Cornwall to Essex already lined up, a World Championship at Weymouth (the Flying 15s), and strong hints that the glory days might continue in 2026, with rumors of the 5o5s returning to the revered waters of Hayling for their World Championship.
Meanwhile, speculation persists regarding sailing’s long-term position in the Olympics, with media demands driving it further from the type of boats most of us sail on weekends.
One must also be wary that after Team GBR’s relatively lackluster performance (in terms of investment versus returns, as measured by cost per medals) our domestic sport could face further marginalization, with the RYA prioritizing elite programs at the expense of crucial grassroots sailing.
And as for the AC, how much longer can the massive investments necessary to even participate in the event be sustained, given that ultimately these are questionable media spectacles? Together, these two so-called ‘headline events’ resemble the Hans Christian Andersen tale of the Emperor’s New Clothes, where an elite group promotes fanciful claims about how extraordinary things are, when, in reality, they are not; they exemplify a triumph of marketing over tangible truths that even the most naïve sailors can see.
The conclusion must be that sailing will never truly translate to television, so let’s set aside the monotonous antics of a select few and not only spectate but actively participate on whatever stretch of water brings us joy. Ultimately, it’s far more enjoyable, authentic, and you don’t have to trek all the way to the Mediterranean to experience it!
One ongoing theme in my articles focuses on how the costs associated with sailing are outpacing inflation seen elsewhere, and indeed, in a little over a month, over half a billion pounds’ worth of exquisite craft will be found wanting. So here’s a radical proposal: remove sailing from the Olympics, scrap the AC, and return boating to what it ought to be—a leisure activity accessible to all.
As of October 2024, as I finalize this article, INEOS Britannia has just secured their position against the Italians, making history by competing for the Cup for the first time in 64 years. This achievement is incredible and a deserved payoff for years of dedication and training; I genuinely hope that Ainslie’s team reaches the ultimate success they have rightfully earned.
However, this doesn’t alter the views expressed here! Remember: "C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la voile."