In one of those email conversations one has, Adam asks me why I think a yacht is naked without a heavy machine gun. Here we go… Somewhere in the Baltic. I am second mate on a big steel ketch delivering it to the Tall Ships Races. We’re barely three months into the commission and already the skipper and first mate loathe each other. Still, it’s light winds so we’ve got the asymmetrics up: cruising chute, full main and mizzen staysail. My mate Mike is on the helm. At the time, he doesn’t have much sailing experience, but has hangliding, windsurfing and dinghy time. He’s wind aware, knows his collision regulations, is calm and, well, he’s a good helm. We’re on starboard tack, the downwind boat and we’ve got hard to tack sails up. The black-hulled schooner is on a converging course and a steady bearing. We’re stand on, by every...
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