To Manningtree! …early on Sunday morning - or actually To the Sailing Club first. The occasion was the first race of the Harker’s Yard winter season. It’s been a while for me.
I’m not sure why but I did put my name forward to be considered as part of the race crew for both Manningtree and then Rowhedge in a couple of weeks' time. I kinda of stopped racing a few years ago. It just wasn’t doing anything for me. There was an awful lot of faffing around, eating into your valuable Sunday time.
But here we are again, with a rendezvous down at the Sailing Club at 7:50 am. As ever. I was rushing. I surprised myself by being on time. Out of around a crew of 15 or so people, I was one of only three rowers on time. Oh well, time and tide and all that.
What became very clear was that there was plenty of nervous energy down at the Sailing Club even before we had left. I get nervous about many things, many stupid little things that really shouldn’t bother me. But when it comes to racing, you just get in a boat and fucking do it, right?
I thought it best to stay clear of those who knew what they were doing rather than me bumbling through. There was an awful lot of organising and packing as we prepared two gig boats to hit the road and make the short journey over towards Manningtree.
The journey over there was simple. We parked up and took a look out over at the estuary water in front of us.
Hang on, where the fuck is the water? We’re going to need some of that if we’re going to race, right?
I then realised that it may have only been 9 am but the first race wasn’t until midday. Like I said there’s an awful lot of faffing and waiting around whilst race rowing.
I looked around at the scene and who else I could see. Most of the other dozen or so rowing clubs had many new faces who I’ve not raced against before. SHOUT OUT to the dude who was wearing a pair of Wham-style badminton shorts and then the most ridiculous chunky pair of wellies.
All this nervous energy led to some pretty bat shit crazy conversations. We spoke for around ten minutes or so about the possibilities of breaking a thole pin and what to do if you find yourself in the exact same situation.
We then made our way over towards the race HQ. This involved navigating our way around a game of beach rugby taking place on what the locals in Manningtree optimistically call a beach.
It was reassuring but also a little scary to see a sizeable team from St John’s Ambulance on show. I was reminded of the Round Mersea race, where we ended up being rescued.
Whoops.
The situation then became extremely surreal as one of our experienced crew members unpacked out of his sailing bag half a dozen small cardboard cutouts of gig boats. But it didn’t end there. There were also various obstacles that we might find on the course, such as buoys and other boats.
I was actually enthused by all of this. I loved the idea and it triggered something of the obsessive within me about planning for these events.
I was all set to role-play out a race with the cornflake packet cardboard cutouts were put away as didn’t want to give away the race tactics to other crews who were lingering nearby.
Time passed rather slowly; and then some more time, even slower.
Finally it was time to get prepared. I had one last toilet pit stop. I had made the basic error of wearing a pair of cycling bib shorts. You try standing in a busy gents' urinal as you take off your rowing vest and then strip down the straps for the bib shorts. How to alienate other rowers, etc.
“This must be where the big cox hang out.”
No one laughed.
We then had a brief race prep with our cox. I was racing in the men’s race for our second crew. The cox was talking about how we were going to handle the turn. She then mentioned she wanted to feel the water and also feel you. Blimey I don’t think it was that kind of race.
Twenty or so gig boats then needed to be taken off their trolleys and placed on the water that was finally starting to arrive. There were some incredibly tight manoeuvres launching on Manningtree hard.
Best of all was the washing line pulley system that you had to use in order to go from the hard over to the jetty where the boats were now moored up.
Our men’s crew then took to the water with around 40 minutes or so before the race started. I think we went a little too early. I was all for keeping warm but I didn’t want to use up too much energy.
Some pretty random bird spotting took place, with one of our crew members being something of an expert. He pointed out a whole bank of godwits who did look rather resplendent.
The Manningtree course, on paper, looked really simple but it didn’t really take into account the number of moored boats which have to be navigated.
The race started. Soon we found ourselves in the centre of a boat sandwich. There was some tricky rowing taking place and it’s quite a miracle that we had no major clash of oars.
The instructions then came from the cox:
“Row like fuck.”
I don’t think you’ll find that motivational training in the British Rowing manual but it did seem to work.
I thought we got off to a half-decent start. We were certainly in the race for the first 5 minutes or so but then the other fleet of boats managed to push ahead. We had our own little private race with another boat as we pushed ahead of each other and tried to compete not to pick up the wooden spoon.
I didn’t hang around for the results but I think we might have picked up the wooden spoon.
It all then got a little argy-bargy with some of our other crews. An official complaint was put in after a rival club allegedly blocked the course and crashed into our boat. It was like waiting outside the headmaster’s office as we prepared to submit our evidence.
Eight hours later I was back at base. I had rowed for around 20 minutes. You have to be very committed to take part in gig race days.
Apologies but I am most definitely a non-committal type of guy
