Stardate 11463.8

Captain's Log: Stardate 11463.8
Last night's conditions could not have been better. 70's temperatures, clear skies, and a steady breeze from the South-southwest direction, giving the racers a great variety of courses. And how does EBYRA respond to this? With another postponement, of course. For what seems like the thirtieth time in a row (this was race 12) we all bounced around waiting for the committee boat to get its act together.

Usually it's because the crew doesn't show up on time. Last night it was because the boat stalled, couldn't be restarted, and they were drifting downwind through the J-24 fleet. I called Chaika to suggest they go out there and tow them to the starting area before they ran ashore at Bronx's Co-Op City and were either killed for their wallet contents or converted to crack whores.

Why didn't I go out and tow them? Fuck that. I did two decades of work for this organization. I'm EBYRetired!

Besides, there's a far better way to deal with this situation. Red alert. Shields up. Arm photon torpedoes.



Missing from the crew last night was Commander Richard, who was stuck in New Mexico (at an art show, not Area 51) and Lt. Kurt, who texted me from a Friendly's Restaurant in Albany blaming his kids for not getting to City Island in the afternoon as originally planned.

So, naturally, we replaced Kurt with a 70ish year-old woman named Elizabeth. Naturally.

Handling the main, however, became a new challenge for us, so it was determined that Dave would handle both the foredeck and the mainsail.

That was when my wife said "Well, we don't want Dave running all around the boat doing all that work tonight."

"We"?? Speak for yourself woman. Run, Dave, Run!

And despite what we all thought would be disastrous results, it all actually worked -- and worked really, really well. It worked so well that a new adjective has been assigned to my father, one that I'm sure that every man past the age of 70 dreads to hear.

Obsolete.

Our start went well, our tacks went well and, get this, even Ceaser grinded the winch well.

That one needs to be repeated: Even. Ceaser. Grinded. The. Winch. Well.

Holy hell -- it was like yacht racing in the Twilight Zone. We crossed the finish line in second place, admiring our performance and joyfully leaving behind the crippled committee boat at anchor in the middle of the bay.

We finished the night with Tostitos Tortilla Chips, Diet Pepsi and Golden Oreo Cookies. You know, just to make sure we're all vitamin-fortified and healthy for the next race.