International Moth Lowriders "Burton Rinse Cycle" Inland Championship at Burton Sailing Club

by John Edwards 8 Nov 06:31 UTC 26-27 October 2024

A catalogue of error codes even before the washing gets wet

No, the Lowriders have not succeeded in gaining sponsorship from a 1970's twin tub manufacturer, although the Magnum 6 twins did mop the floor on handicap. The "Rinse Cycle" was conceived at the end of a highly successful year for the International Moth Lowriders in the UK, as an opportunity for all those competing at the successful class events on the sea to rinse the salt water from their sails, control lines and sou'westers, before the winter recess. And so it was that 20 colourful craft assembled for an autumnal fresh water dunking at the favourite venue of Burton Sailing Club. Little did the wonderful club volunteer stalwarts know what would be in store for their merriment.

Indeed, the club alarm bells started sounding on Friday evening with the arrival of most of the Magnificent Seven. On Saturday morning, barely had the customary breakfast cobs been consumed before the recording of the calamities commenced, courtesy of Mr W. He claimed that his chandler had fashioned new shrouds to match the forestay in not just diameter but length and, in the world of Moths, length matters. There is a great deal of difference between 11 feet and 11 feet with 500mm overhangs. And so it was that his rig flopped forwards to a degree of negative rake that was daring in its originality, even in the most developed of development classes. Despite Wally's Jumper flying limp from the clubhouse pole, there was no time to fly to Hartley's, fishing for a solution. Thankfully, Mr G's Tiger was lurking undercover in the boat park, and Mr W urged himself to beg forgiveness rather than seek permission, in the Mr G's absence. Except that absence did not last long, with Mr G arriving and admiring Mr W's black and orange steed before the latter realised the owner of the commandeered prodder and stays was standing right next to him.

But, there was more to come. Who knew that a toolbox placed in a car boot could come to rest on a key fob and deadlock the car doors? Or that a Fiesta was like Ford Knox in its security features? Or that it could take three genuinely ingenious engineers over an hour to fail to regain entry? All manner of contraptions were slid into all orifices but to no avail. The second AA in the phone Contacts List was dialled out of desperation, but the call out fee deemed excessive compared to that of glass replacement. A debate enraged about which pane would be cheapest but still allow boot access. A hammer was borrowed. Who would have thunk that the rear window glass was stronger than that of a Tesla Cybertruck? Blow after blow rained until the implement passed to Uncle Nige, who let rip and the deed was finally done. With tears barely dry, Wally's Jumper started to stir, so the fleet were adorned in PPE, ready to rinse away salty residues.

Finally afloat, there were significant changes from the year's previous events, with the eagerly awaited return of the once talented teenager Mr H riding a bright lime green Prowler, matched by the other still talented Mr H in another recommissioned Prowler. Legendary for their lightness and stiffness, how would they fare against the four Tigers? And with Dr H now in a Tiger, would she lead Messers E, J and W? You would have to seek out the results to find out. But she seemed to the capacious cockpit deck curve of her former Skippy in the way that she collected souvenirs from the water. We all know that, like Skols, the best things come in threes. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before Mr W's next misdemeanour would occur. Well, only he can explain how Dr H managed to catch his masthead burgee as it tumbled into her boat. We may never know if Tiger masthead tips touched or if turns were deserved.

Ah, turns, I hear you say. Like both the young Mr H and Dr H took in formation on the final short leg to the finish of Race 4, after a glance of the last mark at the head of the fleet? Or the two sail and wetsuit rinsing turns on a horizontal axis by Mr J before the first mark of Race 1? When the wind is light, expletives travel as far over the water as the fleet-wide guffaws echo back. There was plenty of Burton Banter amongst the closely bunched fleet.

Back to the absent Skippy. How Uncle Nige's rudder T foil floated to the surface like Excalibur beneath her wing is a mystery: she oh so nearly managed to catch it whilst her sail remained salty - but not quite. Safely stowed as a repurposed trophy, it was carried as a spare whilst Nige dreaded the breeze filling in. With the Magnum Twins on front in handicap, the Hayling Mr H was close behind in his magnificent 7. Yet Race 3 started and finished without him: the cacophony of alphabet spaghetti heard as his tiller snapped on launching matching the letters in his race score. Being able to rummage successfully in his car boot, he found a fine piece of mahogany and fastenings to fashion a repair, albeit without countersinking the screw holes.

What else? A delicious curry order for 16 with huge trays of radioactive poppadum sauce, the daylight saving hour spent laughing rather than sleeping, Vaseline on bung holes and squeaky Skol mast steps, synchronised burgees rotating anticlockwise, shady deals cut on morning ibuprofen, a Gruffalow showing promise, three competitive parent and child battles, three successive nailed port tack flyers, logoed lime green class towels, stickers and mugs, and a supply of pens with the most precious detail of all - Uncle Nige's phone number. Sails rinsed, and memory banks full. Oh - and five great races, apparently.