Chapter 62

“What are Nationals?”

“Competitive shooting on the world stage. A nation’s best shooters compete against the best the world has to offer.”

“You are putting me in that bracket?”

“Nope ... this target is.”

“That’s left hand shooting ... the right hand target is tighter.”

There was a look of, ‘OH SHIT!’

He said, “Not two hand grip?”

“No,” Abby said.

“Just one?”

“First target, right hand. Second target, left.”

“Please please please ... consider it. The National team would love you.”

“I’ll think about it.” She turned to me, “Can we go ... now?”

The next day, the Captain picked us up and drove out to the Club. The Lightning was derigged and on its trailer ... we had to rig it. Complicated. Considerably more complicated than a 3.7 Farr. By rule the mast and boom were oval aluminum. Three sails, main, jib and spinnaker.

I had seldom delt with a spin. They weren’t illegal on a Farr per se ... but they required a bowsprit ... and that required a severe modification to the bow ... and a considerable length adjustment. Overall length increased to 17 feet.

A Lightning is a real racing sailboat. the mast is ‘stayed’ (standing rigging) jib, back, two shrouds and traveler ... outhaul, downhaul are all required by class rules. Running rigging is all adjustable and it’s something best learned starting at age 7.

We are not seven ... it made for a long hot day.

The club measurement dictator (not kidding) watched us as we came in ... docking we can do ... the rest of it? maybe.

Crewing is not free... $10 bucks each per year paid to the ILCA (International Lightning Class Association). Captain Kidd paid ... believe me ... he earned our respect. Patience is not my middle name ... his should be.

(Kidd is not his name ... he just acted like it.)

We were quized as to our qualifications. I had plenty of experience ... I owned several boats of various lengths and construction ... and used them, Abby? she never. Bathurst is singularly lacking in big water ... and, as a supposed New Zealander ... she never there either. Pilot? You bet ... sailor ... nope. “I’m from the mountains,” she said.

“Well, Jake,” said the dictator, “I wish you luck ... at the very least ... they have good gear. You ladies know, you’re signing on for the season? No? Jake...” disparaging words were spoken ... and disaproving looks too.