Fat Boy

"So much effort to go so slow."

That was the put-down about Laser sailing that I heard at lunch one day in Menorca. The guy dissing Laser sailors was a somewhat overweight guy who had been sailing in the advanced asymmetric group all week. We had started chatting over a beer one lunchtime and when I told him that I was in the Laser group that was his response.

Hmmm. I suppose he has a point. The Laser is a boat that demands a fair degree of athleticism if you want to sail it well and, judging by the Portsmouth Yardstick handicap ratings, most of the asymmetric classes at Menorca Sailing are nominally faster than a Laser. At this point in the holiday I haven't yet tried out any of the asymmetrics so I have to assume that the comment is correct.

I'm not sure at first whether to be annoyed or proud. I'm sure my obese friend means the observation to communicate his superiority in choosing to sail a boat that goes a little faster with a lot less work. On the other hand, one reason I choose to sail a Laser is that I actually enjoy the physical demands of the boat and maintaining the fitness level that is required to sail the boat well.

I look again at my drinking companion. Hmmm, this guy is seriously overweight. Reminds me of the fat boy in our class at school. Probably couldn't sail a Laser even if he wanted to. You don't see many overweight people racing Lasers regularly even thought there is an annual regatta in Bristol, Rhode Island called Fat Boys.

Wonder what this guy does for a living? Being British we haven't yet asked the question that Americans would ask in the first ten seconds of an encounter with a stranger, "What do you do?" Brits don't do that. Poor guy has a face that just drips with arrogance and contempt. Probably can't help it but that's just the way he looks. Supercilious. I can just see him in one of those old-fashioned judge's wigs. Do they still wear them in British courts? Yeah that's it, he must be a judge. I can just imagine myself quaking in my shoes in the dock as he wags his finger at me and in a solemn voice pronounces, "You have been found guilty of the despicable crime of sailing a slow boat. I sentence you to thirty years of penal servitude. Bailiff take him away."

I snap out of my daydream. Geeze, this beer is stronger than I thought.

Out on the racecourse that afternoon it's blowing 20-25 knots with gusts in the 30's. The asymmetrics start 3 minutes before the Lasers but by the end of the first lap I'm catching up with the tailenders of the asymmetric fleet. Man, it feels good to be sailing a Laser in this weather. On the second lap I catch up with Fat Boy sailing an RS Vareo near the end of the second reach. He's struggling to keep the boat flat in the gusts and he hasn't even dared to hoist the spinnaker. He broaches and almost capsizes. Another gust and he's over. Ha.

He's wallowing in the water like a neoprene-clad blubbery whale. Shall I say it? Would it be rude? Ah, what the hell. As I scoot past him I shout out loud enough to be heard over the wind and the waves...

"So much effort to go so slow."