WIND AND WATER, SUN AND SAILS

Wind and Water, Sun and Sails By Bill Dawn

The world has entered the space age. A new breed of man called the astronaut has beaten a path across the heavens and the first, ever so feeble step has been taken along the road to the stars. The world is witnessing the dawn of a new era and the fulfillment of a centuries-old dream... The exploration of space.. But there have been other dreams before this-In an age when the heavens were reserved as the private domain of the gods, brave men longed to conquer a world as vast and unknown to them as the world of space appears to us. A world of demons and giant serpents. Of unknown depth and fearful expanse-The new world was called the sea. Man watched it from a point of safety upon the shore. He saw it blue and green and white-capped beeath the cloudless heavens and it was a thing of peace. Then the skies began to cloud. The gods of the heavens growled their displeasure and flashed jagged fingers of lightning from a star-studded fortress. And the sea replied... Her waters turned from a blue and green to a churning grey. The gentle lapping whitecaps became rolling walls of water that reached thirty feet into the sky and crashed against the land with a roar of thunder... And then she was calm again. Man watched, then approached the shore and hesitated. Finally, he launched a crude raft and set forth timidly to become the world's first seaman. But he had no choice, really, for the sea was a fickle woman of a thousand moods. A Helen of Troy. A Cleopatra whose beauty was surpassed only by her power and who drew brave men helplessly to her heart. A temptress who sent the salty waters of her body coursing through their veins until they could stand it no longer and set forth upon her surface. A cunning, cruel, unmerciful creature who drove them on to ultimate glory or destruction. And perhaps the great, great grandson of the world's first seaman was a man who dreamed still further. Rather than parry and thrust along the rocky shores as his ancestors had done, he longed to bring the sea to her knees in absolute surrender. Perhaps that same man watched the skies as well. Saw the white winged gull or graceful albatross glide smoothly on the gentle breeze that caressed the sea consistently. If only the two could be combined. In a moment of inspiration that altered the course of history, he rigged man's first sail and harnessed the might of the wind to drive him swiftly across the waters. He was delighted. Captivated... He learned to angle the sail until it caught the slightest wisp of air. He Man watched, then approached the shore and hesitated. Finally, he launched a crude raft and set forth timidly to become the world's first seaman. But he had no choice, really, for the sea was a fickle woman of a thousand moods. A Helen of Troy. A Cleopatra whose beauty was surpassed only by her power and who drew brave men helplessly to her heart. A temptress who sent the salty waters of her body coursing through their veins until they could stand it no longer and set forth upon her surface. A cunning, cruel, unmerciful creature who drove them on to ultimate glory or destruction. And perhaps the great, great grandson of the world's first seaman was a man who dreamed still further. Rather than parry and thrust along the rocky shores as his ancestors had done, he longed to bring the sea to her knees in absolute surrender. Perhaps that same man watched the skies as well. Saw the white winged gull or graceful albatross glide smoothly on the gentle breeze that caressed the sea consistently. If only the two could be combined. In a moment of inspiration that altered the course of history, he rigged man's first sail and harnessed the might of the wind to drive him swiftly across the waters. He was delighted. Captivated... He learned to angle the sail until it caught the slightest wisp of air. He fashioned a rudder and was further excited, for now he could steer his new craft. The time was fifteen hundred years before Christ and the humble boatman had sprouted the wings of the sailor.

The astronaut of 3,400 years ago was probably Egyptian. The space ship was a galley... But the obsession was no less demanding, the lure of adventure and the unknown no less magnetic.

In the years that followed, the sailor roamed, probed and charted the seas to their furthest reaches. He found no serpents or demons. No brink over which he might fall to tumble for infinite centuries through empty space ... And the terror of the unknown began to diminish.

The sailing ship came into her own and reigned majestically over the Seven Seas. She carved a place in history for such men as Magellan, Columbus, Leif Ericson, Jean Laffite; For such places as Actium, Chesapeake Bay and Trafalgar; For such nations as England, Spain and the United States.

But then, with the advent of steam, the sail was forced aside by the march of progress.

But the passion still lingered and the lure of sailing had become a part of man. Inherited from that first sailor of history, it is, like red hair, prone to arise from its dormant, filial state at any unexpected moment.

When that occurs, a man is lost... He becomes plagued with an ache that has no cure save for the thrill of matching skill and courage against wind and water, of seeing white sails billow against blue skies. He has to feel the wind on his face and the pitch of a rolling deck beneath his feet. He must see the splash of spray across his bow and the line of wake trailing astern...

of seeing white sails billow against blue skies. He has to feel the wind on his face and the pitch of a rolling deck beneath his feet. He must see the splash of spray across his bow and the line of wake trailing astern...

The Arizonan is only now beginning to feel the call... He's a landlocked creature, bound to his spot on earth by barren deserts and rugged mountain ranges. He has come to the great southwest because he loves the warmth of the summer months, the freshness of the dry desert or mountain air or the unparalleled beauty of the desert sunsets. He has many of those things he might desire. Now he has sailing as well.

It wasn't many years ago that the first sail sprouted, like some revived creature of extinction, from an Arizona lake. The motorized sailors watched with amusement as the sails unfurled and she began to take shape. They laughed as her skipper pushed off from shore. Then, the good natured chiding turned to awe as a wake formed around her bow and a wind they never knew existed, caught and filled her sails.

The single white triangle that contrasted so beautifully against the blue lakes and rocky shores began to multiply. One day there were two, then three, then a dozen. Now they number close to fifty. Sixteen people combined their desire to found a yacht club that now boasts over a hundred members.

They are families drawn together by the common, magnetic attraction of the sail; juniors and seniors in

various phases of learning or perfecting their skill; men, women and children who, in a short time, have become capable experts, able to handle a 22-foot sloop, 16-foot day sailer or 10-foot cat boat with equal ease. Regattas are held every other week from September to May and the rock bound Arizonan dumps the desert sand from his boots and trades them for the crepe soled shoes of the sailor. The heat of the desert is exchanged for the heat of competition, the quiet air of the city for the cooling breeze that drifts above the water. The week's tensions of profession or trade are quickly absorbed, becoming lost in the relaxed atmosphere and easy laughter of the week-end sailors.

Let's watch the first heat of the day The race is about to begin. Laughter fades and faces turn to study the wind. The first warning horn is sounded and the white pennant is run skyward to flutter in the breeze. Soon the blue pennant is hoisted and silence settles over the lake as the inland sailors prepare for battle. Skill will tell the story. The race will be won on the know-how and agility of skipper and crew, for the fleet is limited to one design class and the boats are equal. The skipper rests a hand easily on the tiller and his eyes study the course before him. He recalls the regattas of other years or weeks, compares past conditions with those he faces on the present day. Here-andthere bits of locker room or dockside advice on technique and strategy return and are re-catalogued for the race ahead. He notes the drift of smoke from a nearby cigarette or the ripple of catpaws across the water. He sees the eager eyes and spring tight bodies of his crew and knows that they too, are ready. The boats circle tightly behind the starting line, jockeying slowly for a good position at the start. Time draws down to minutes, then seconds as they sail slowly for the line. If, in their eagerness, they should cross too soon, they must re-circle and begin again and the minutes lost are not easily recouped.

The final horn bleats sharply across the water and the red pennant rises to slap the breeze. Sails cease their flutter and come to life in a gust of air. The boats of the fleet heel off on tack and are beating into the wind. Spray breaks across the bow and flecks the face of skipper and crew, forming tiny, unnoticed beads of water on sun browned skin.

The starting line is crossed and then falls behind. Ahead, a mile or better in the distance, the first marking buoy of the course can barely be seen and the fleet aims for it in unison. They come about, change tack, and are gliding in a tight pattern, stretching to catch every last bit of wind in the swan-like sails. Bows rise gracefully out of the water and the wake is a frothy trail of white and green, fading out astern... Then, the boat heels sharply and the crew moves quickly to balance as the first buoy is rounded and the second leg of the triangle begins.

They are reaching now, sailing cross wind at top speed and fighting for position. A lead forms and then widens as the even line of bows begins to stagger. Sails careen dangerously close to the lake and hulls angle at 45 degrees. Crews ride the high side, leaning far out over the water, suspended by a tight hand on line or tiller. There is a sudden lurch as the wind slackens and then gusts again. A boat heels too sharply and can't recover... Her boom plows up a furrow of white water. The mast hangs suspended for a brief moment, then grazes the lake as a plume of spray explodes about her and the keel rolls skyward.

The crew bobs to the surface around the hull and finds a hand hold. Behind them, the sailboats veer around and a power boat puts quickly out from shore. The race committee spotted the mishap at once and the crew will be out of the water within minutes. A bit damp perhaps, but they'll have no injuries other than wounded pride. They'll race again before the day is gone.

A half dozen boats remain in the lead fleet and the second buoy is coming up on the starboard bow. Commands are shouted from skipper to crew and they make ready to come about. The boats heel. Blue water comes within inches of the deck and the crew leans to balance as the buoy passes astern. The lead widens still further as they come into the final leg and see the end in sight. The first race is almost over. Another mile and the finish line will pass beneath planing hulls. There's only one winner, but the day is young. There'll be others before the sun sets And month by month, the fleet continues to grow. They don't all belong to the yacht club. They don't all race in the regattas. More often than not it's just the family, off on a quiet jaunt to some far-flung lake.

"NAM SANG" OWNED BY AN ARIZONAN First-Class-A Boat to Win Trans-Pac in Twenty-Seven Years Past Hawaii's famed Diamond Head she came, spinnaker blown full, whitewater churning furiously in her wake. An occasional bow wave curled up along her lee rail as she heeled heavily with the wind. Then, tacking smoothly, the 66 foot cutter "Nam Sang" (Good Wind) headed into Honolulu's All Wai Basin. winner of the 1961 Trans Pacific yacht race. "Nam Sang," a trim, superbly outfitted and crewed veteron of many a deep water race, thus became the first Class A boat to win the TransPac in 27 years.

couver Yacht Club in Canada, and a beautiful 69' Italian Navy training ship, Corsaro H. Weather during the race was generally mild, with light winds prevailing. Most boats took the southern route but, as weather changed, many crossed back to the great circle course. Several boats took the northern route for the last third of the race to take advantage of prevailing winds. "Nam Sang" carried a total crew of twelve, and comprising the crew were three additional Phoenicians: Mary Sherrill as cook; Chuck Sherrill, and Dr. Ash Taylor.

Owned and skippered by A. B. "Bob" Robbs, Jr., Phoenix, Arizona businessman, "Nam Sang" completed the grueling 2,225 mile run from Los Angeles to Honolulu in 10 days, 16 hours, 26 minutes and 25 seconds. She finished at night amid the glare of searchlights playing back and forth across the Basin. The victory, bringing Robbs and his exhausted but exhilarated crew the Class A and overall fleet handicap championships, came over a fleet of 41 entrants. Included in the flotilla were two square rigged Japanese training ships, two representatives from the Royal Van-A native Phoenician, Bob Robbs is President of A, B. Robbs Trust Company; Chairman of the Board of Union Title Company, and a directar on the Board of The Guaranty Bank. Built in 1936 by J. E. Graves of Marblehead, Massachusetts, "Nam Sang" was designed by Belnap and Paine, and originally rigged as a ketch. In 1957, the vessel underwent extensive overhauling and today carries approximately 4,000 square feet of sail aloft as one of the finest auxiliary sloops in the country. She calls Newport Beach, California, her home port.

Keels have given way to the removable centerboard and the new boats trailer with ease. Once at the destination it's an easy two man job to launch or load. The average 16 foot boat has a draft of only eight inches with the centerboard raised and weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 pounds. Add this to the natural or man-made sites of almost all available lakes and the summation equals child's play.

Perhaps the target of the week is Roosevelt, the largest of our chain of lakes. It stretches for almost twenty-five miles across the Arizona high country, sparkling like a fiery blue stone beneath the sun-filled skies. The white wakes of only a very few boats break the smoothness of its surface.

A hundred and ten miles from the hustle and bustle of Phoenix, the paved roads are easily covered in two and a half or three hours. The tent is pitched on the sloping shores, the refreshments anchored in the cool waters and you're ready to go.

A wind chases fleecy puffs of cloud across the mountains and then, sweeps in off low banks and sends the sailboat skimming gracefully over the water. The whole family is aboard and busy every minute. Dad takes command because they're in his element now. Mom handles the jib like a seasoned veteran of the Spanish Main and the kids fight imaginary battles with captains Kidd and Bligh. The air conditioning is nature's own and the wind and spray fight the healthy warmth of the sun to a pleasant standstill.

Suddenly, the day is gone with amazing speed and the coolness of the night air drives the sailor closer about the camp fire. The pleasant aroma of simmering coffee and sizzling steaks waters his mouth and causes him to recall the empty state of his stomach. There's plenty of food and a good bed, with an overhead field of a million stars to ponder lazily. Then, it's the best night's sleep he's had in ages, an early breakfast and back to the sail before the sun's an hour high in the heavens.

But he doesn't have to go to Roosevelt... At Apache, the bass and lake trout sometimes stand in line to nibble his bait. He'll hove into a secluded cove, drop anchor, lower the sails and wet a line. There might not be much of a chance to sleep between bites if he's lazy that day, but then, he doesn't have to bait the hook either.

And there are more. Saguaro Lake is thirty minutes from the edge of Phoenix and Canyon Lake thirty minutes farther. Facilities are ideal. Refreshments, man made ramps and plenty of companionship should he so desire. Countless friendships are renewed from the week before and the day's sail or the joke of the week is hashed and re-hashed over a cup of steaming coffee.

"SAILS AND SAGUARO" BY STUART WEINER. Photograph taken in cove at the southeast end of Saguaro Lake. Saguaro Lake is one of the popular boating centers along the Salt. Hasselblad 1600F camera; Ektachrome; Kaligar 52mm f3.5 lens; early summer; late afternoon, bright sunlight; ASA rating 64.

"MOUNTAIN SAILS" BY CHARLES W. HERBERT. Taken at Hawley Lake on the Fort Apache Indian Reservation. The photographer explains: "This was shot at 100th second to stop any movement of sail boat going directly across the line of sight. Focus on 50 feet gave good depth from foreground to infinity. For effective framing, waited until boat was in clear space framed between two trees." 4x5 Speed Graphic camera; Ektachrome daylight; f.16 at 1/100th sec.; August; good direct light; GE direct F. stop meter reading; ASA rating 64.

"READY FOR THE RACE" BY IGOR LOBANOV. Photograph taken at Canyon Lake. This is the fleet championship race for winners of the fall and spring series of sixteen races. Four different classes of boats are started off at five minute intervals, but due to individual skipper's skill or luck, boats in a later starting class may catch up to those ahead of them. Here boats racing in different classes are grouped closely on the lake. Rolleiflex camera; Ektachrome E-3, 120 size; f.10 at 1/100th sec.; Tessar lens; April; 400 Weston meter reading.

"SAILING CHOPPY WATERS" BY IGOR LOBANOV. Taken at Canyon Lake. Tom and Carol Preuss sail their twelve-foot Lehman. Actually they are in the middle of a race, but are trying another part of the lake for more wind in the sails. Rolleiflex camera; Ektachrome E-3 120; f.10 at 1/100th sec.; f3.5 Tessar lens; April; 400 West meter reading.

"WIND, WATER AND SAILS" BY PETE BALESTRERO. Photograph taken at Canyon Lake, eleven miles north of Apache Junction. A bright, sunny day with a hatful of wind set the pace for the running of the First Arizona Invitational Regatta at Canyon Lake, Sunday, January 15th, 1961, as 40 to 50 skippers from Arizona and California matched their sailing skills at the event sponsored by the Arizona Yacht Club. Classes included were Lido 14's, Blue Jay's, Lehman 12's, Penguins, and Interlakes. During the first race the wind was so strong that eight of the contestants were knocked down. Two went down in the second race, andone in the third, and from some of the skippers' comments, the dunking was chilly and real snappy. All races were run under NAYRU (North American Yacht Racing Union) rules with crews, ballast, and related requirements governed by class regulations. 4x5 Speed Graphic camera; daylight Ektachrome; f.16 at 1/100th sec.; 4.7 Ektar 127mm. lens; January; bright early afternoon; West 300 meter reading.

"SAILING-LAKE MEAD" BY CLIFF SEGERBLOM. Photograph shows view of Lake Mead Marina as seen from the National Park Service dock. The sailboat is an eight-foot Sabot class. Sailing on Lake Mead can be both exciting and also hazardous when winds sweep in over the lake from the Nevada desert. Rolleiflex camera; Ektachrome; f.11 at 1/125th sec.; 3.5 Xenotar lens; April; clear sunny day; ASA rating 50.

"NECK AND NECK" BY STUART WEINER. This photograph was taken from the judging Committee boat at start of one race during the A.Y.C. 1961 Invitational Regatta. Of the Arizona Yacht Club, Robert B. Corby, Commodore says: "The Arizona Yacht Club is a group of people who are interested in sailing and in promoting the sport here in the desert. Although sparked originally by people who had sailed elsewhere, you'd be surprised how many of our present members had never been in a boat before one of these 'crazy desert sailors' invited them aboard. Like so many other things here in Arizona, this is a family activity, and it doesn't require a boat to participate. Not quite three years ago some sixteen or seventeen people bonded together 'to promote the art of sailing' and incidentally, I am sure, to share the wonderful spirit so universal among sailors. Since then the Club has grown to a membership of about fifty families, representing a total of over a hundred capable sailors and an even greater number of juniors in various stages of learning." Photograph taken at Canyon Lake. Hasselblad 1600F camera; Ektachrome; Zeiss Sonnar 135mm f3.5 lens; January; brilliant sunlight; ASA rating 64.

"SAILING A MOUNTAIN LAKE" Photograph taken at Woods Canyon Lake on the Mogollon Rim, near Payson. Boat is a Blue Jay Boat (13.5 ft. long). The boat was donated to a Phoenix Mariner Scout Troop for them to learn sailing. Two members of the Arizona Yacht Club towed it up to the lake for a weekend of sailing instruction. Here some of the girls are learning to use the colorful red and white spinnaker for added speed. 4x5 Graphic View II camera; Ektachrome; f12.7 at 1/50th sec.; F7.7 Ektar lens; July; bright sunlight; 400 Weston meter reading.

Then he's off and there's plenty of room to wander where the wind might take him. Plenty to do and plenty to see during the day's voyage... A hundred hidden harbors to explore; dozens of isolated beaches to spread the family picnic cloth; warm waters that invite the world for a cooling dip and rugged, mysterious cliffs that rise for hundreds of feet from the water's edge; here-and-there remains of an Indian civilization that might not have felt the tread of human foot for a hunHundred years or better... A new, and yet old world, waiting to be visited at a leisurely pace set by the fancy of the wind. On the Agua Fria, the sloping shores and shallow waves of Lake Pleasant beckon temptingly. More difficult to reach, it's just that much more deserted for the adventurous sailor who doesn't mind a few rough roads.

And still more... A three day weekend gives the Arizona sailor time to languish in the sunny Gulf of California and a two week vacation is even more ideal. The mañana land of old Mexico extends a hand in greeting and the welcoming hand is a helping hand if need be.

The sailor is back to the sea. He sails slowly along the miles of deserted beaches with nothing to disturb him except the sound of the waves breaking against the bow and the squawk of the gulls passing overhead. He leans back on the jib sheet and relaxes completely, because he's just gone back 3,400 years in time.

The hull of his new craft might be fiber glass and his sails might be dacron, but nothing else has changed. The wind has the same caressing motion and the sea against the hull has the same lulling hiss that it had at the time of our first sailor. There might be a few trails of vapor crossing the heavens, but he pays no heed. All he cares about are the wind and the waves and the gleaming sand that passes slowly off the quarter. He's a man alive...