“Bermuda was a paradise but one had to go through hell to get there” – sailing an American classic

The Newport Bermuda Race is the oldest ocean race in the world. Will Sofrin took part in this year’s 636-mile bluewater classic

I’ve been hiking out on the windward rail for over eight hours without a break as we battle our way upwind on a 600-mile starboard tack. With just 30 more miles to the finish line of the 53rd Newport Bermuda Race, the end is finally in sight. Exhausted, I’ve intentionally slowed down my digestive system after the seat of the boat’s head was sheared off on day two. But I don’t think I’ve been missing much in the way of culinary delights as I watch the rest of the crew load their freeze-dried food pouches with an ungodly amount of hot sauce to make it palatable.

We’re sailing on Final Final, an IRC41 racer designed by Mark Mills, and owned by Jon Desmond. I met Jon over 20 years ago, and we formed a lasting friendship on one of the best sails of my life when we delivered a Swan 48 from Antigua to Newport, Rhode Island.

It’s been a long time since we last sailed together and I was excited to join him for my first Newport Bermuda Race. Desmond is no stranger to this event, having completed five previous races – but this was his first time competing on his own boat. Despite the lack of sleep and relentless beating, intensity and morale is high. We’re in position to take 3rd in class, but if we can push harder, we might be able to squeeze out a 2nd place.

Thrash to the onion patch

Thomas Day, editor of The Rudder magazine, organised the first Bermuda Race in 1906 as an act of rebellion against established sentiment, to prove that amateur sailors could successfully race offshore. Crews were rumoured to have been given funeral wreaths for their own burials at sea, but two of the three starting boats successfully finished (the boat in 2nd crossed the finish line with a woman at the helm).

As John Rousmaniere notes in his book A Berth to Bermuda (celebrating the race’s centenary), the race was a pioneering event which went on to inspire other major long distance races such as the Rolex Fastnet Race and the Bayview Mackinac Race. The Newport Bermuda is often referred to as the ‘Thrash to the Onion Patch’ because of the historical importance of onions to Bermuda as a major export crop in the 19th century. The island’s semi-tropical soil proved perfect for cultivating sweet and mild onions that could endure long ocean journeys, helping seafarers prevent scurvy.

The Newport Bermuda Race is still organised and managed by volunteers from the Cruising Club of America and the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. Boats undergo rigorous inspections, and sailors must complete comprehensive safety courses ahead of the 636-mile offshore course, much of which is completed out of sight of land.

This is another factor that makes the Newport Bermuda almost unique: unlike the Fastnet, Rolex Middle Sea Race, or newer RORC Caribbean 600, the Newport Bermuda and Rolex Sydney Hobart Races stand alone among the 600-mile offshores where boats race in open ocean. This year’s race welcomed 162 boats from eight countries: USA, Canada, Bermuda, New Zealand, Switzerland, China, Sweden, and the Netherlands.

Another factor in the race’s enduring appeal is its continuous adaptation. This year the course was extended by one mile to start in Narragansett Bay off Fort Adams, allowing the public better viewing of the start. Additionally, the race replaced the performance curve scoring (PCS) method with the forecast-time correction factor (F-TCF) method for scoring the boats.

Hours before the race, predicted finish times for each boat are determined using weather data, GRIB files, and each boat’s polar file via Expedition. A F-TCF within each division is calculated, representing the ratio of a scratch boat’s predicted finish time to that of each boat in the division.

The F-TCF for every boat is announced the morning before the start. Corrected finish times are calculated by multiplying the boat’s F-TCF by its elapsed time (including any penalties). The order of finish for each class and division is based on the rank of corrected finish times and your rating will fluctuate depending on how much of the race is forecasted to be upwind vs downwind. T-FTC also makes it easier to calculate your standing as the race is unfolding.

I flew in from California two days before the race start to familiarise myself with the boat and meet the team. There was English sailing extraordinaire Russell, followed by Matt, the glue who held everything together. Then came Joey, Jimmy Buffet’s former captain. There was Andy, our ever-so-diligent navigator. Running bow was Irishman Will, who was supported by Kevin, a hydro surveyor, and Luke, a 19-year-old college student. Lastly, Craig, the head engineer from Australia, completes the crew.

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Our class, the St David’s Lighthouse Division, SDL8, was set to start at 1430. A cool breeze had begun filling in, bringing welcomed relief to the growing crowd of spectators making their way to watch the start. Motoring out of the harbour towards the starting area in Narragansett Bay, despite the helicopters buzzing above and powerboats zigzagging around, we were mostly quiet on board, with game faces on while we tidied up loose lines and made sure our headsail inventory was in order.

Despite blue sky overhead, ominous thunderheads lined the western horizon, promising to kill the sea breeze Narragansett Bay is famous for. Our strategy was simple: sail fast and get out of the bay before the wind died. The main was hoisted, followed by a jib, and I took my place on the rail as we sailed to the starting line for a wind check.

We entered the starting box 10 minutes before our start. Jon luffed the boat for a few seconds before choosing his slot, running the line on starboard tack he positioned us nicely for a full throttle charge. Three, two, one, boom; the starting gun went off and we were beating south towards Castle Hill, sticking to the bay’s eastern side.

We had about 45 minutes of great pressure until the breeze began to fade away near the R2 buoy, south of Castle Hill. Frustrated, we grumbled that we might have beaten the wind hole had we started 10 minutes earlier. Instead, tiptoeing on deck like ballerinas, we began a series of headsail changes as we drifted south towards Block Island, first changing out our J1 for the A1, then peeling to the J0. We put up the A2 an hour later but had to switch to the FR0 because of the sloppy seas. We then set the A2 again before settling on a starboard tack with the J0 and the GS inside.

Fading breeze

Our four-hour watch rotation started at 1800, paired off into five watch groups which were staggered every two hours to ensure four hands were always on watch. Pressing south as darkness set in, we sailed through a series of intermittent squall lines before the sky began clearing and the wind stabilised.

We set a course a few degrees west of the rhumb line, sailing through Block Island’s offshore wind farm, coming within five boat lengths of one of the massive 600ft wind turbines. The surrounding fleet thinned out as we began picking up speed. I could see a large red moon rising, backlighting the thinning clouds to the east.

My first watch ended at 2200, and I knew the best thing I could do was get some sleep; I went below, pulled off my foulies, and climbed into a mesh-lined pipe berth, starting the hot bunking of the starboard berths to keep our weight to windward.

The wind began building at midnight as we pressed south with the low passing to our north. Deep asleep, I was jolted awake at 0130 by a loud explosion over my head. The boat suddenly stood upright, and there was shouting and feet pounding the deck above me. I sprinted up on deck, fearing the worst.

Fortunately, our rig was intact, but our nav lights and electronics were out. The bang was the result of a cam cleat failing when the GS furled, causing a massive load increase on the J0 halyard. The call was made to send Will, the bowman, up the mast to inspect the top of the rig for damage. He reported that all was well, while Matt restored the instruments and running lights.

Day two began with a beautiful sunrise, a clear sky, and a great breeze. I was thrilled to take a crack at the wheel for the last hour of my morning watch. Final Final was in a groove, powering along like a freight train on a close reach with relatively flat seas. The helm was perfectly balanced, making my job all the more enjoyable as I focused on keeping our SOG above 9 knots and occasionally hitting 10+.

Making miles

We basked in the sun, making the most of the first half of the day, knowing we planned to enter the Gulf Stream later that afternoon, which meant our ride would get rough. Our strategy was to position ourselves to capture the filling south-westerly breeze first and crack off if needed as we closed on the finish. It would be a long, hard beat for the next two days, and we wanted to bank some miles.

As anticipated, the sea state deteriorated when we entered the Gulf Stream eddy we were hoping for, but the tradeoff favourable current gave us a 4-5 knot boost, averaging 13 knots SOG. By now, we had been at sea for over 24 hours and were settled into our routine.

That night the moon shone brightly, illuminating the cresting tops of the ripping seas as we pounded our way upwind, wave after wave. It was under this same light that JV72, Proteus was dismasted, and the crew from the J/122 Alliance was being rescued after having to abandon their vessel due to water ingress.

By day three, we were out of the Gulf Stream and managing a solid 8-9 knots SOG. The exhaustion and body odour caused by three days of hard racing began to dampen our mood. We were beating hard, and there was little to do other than set or shake reefs in our mainsail. Never losing sight of our mission, everyone on board pitched in, giving more than was asked. For some, that meant cooking a meal for another watch or taking an extra shift at the wheel. I spent a good amount of time hopping on the grinders when shaking reefs.

Every second counts

Night three and day four blended together as our pounding through the seas became relentless. Nobody was sleeping as we beat through the intermittent 3-5ft seas with occasional frothy eight-footers, which were less than ideal for a boat that prefers a broad reach with the kite up. We were in a tight position, and every second counted.

The watch system ended for good at 1000 when all hands joined the rail. Exhausted and uncomfortable, the crew’s mood was becoming sombre, prompting Russell to bring up the Fat Snack Pack, a large resealable bag filled with fruit gums and candy bars. The sack had the desired effect as we enjoyed the ensuing sugar rush and a break from freeze-dried meal pouches.

Sitting on the rail and surveying the horizon, I thought about what we were accomplishing. We’d set out to sail as fast as we could through the open ocean. This meant forsaking the comforts of a freshly cooked meal or a clean bed. Despite these sacrifices, we committed to support one another. I’d got my chances to drive and trim but, at that moment, I knew the best contribution I could make was to hike out with all my strength, allowing the most skilled trimmers and helmsmen to guide us to the finish.

As we approached the last 14 miles, we discussed hypothetical drills to prepare us for any foreseeable problems. We were aware of a potential issue with the J2 being set on the fractional halyard and formed a plan in case it broke. Loads were maxed out as we pushed our boat to breaking point.

When the fractional halyard did explode, we executed our plan and had the jib back up in under 90 seconds. Running between squall lines in a heavily overcast grey sky, we shook and took reefs in the main and tweaked our jib, never letting our intensity drop. We made our final run for the finish, tacking as darkness set in, and crossed the finish line at 20:47:08.

There were smiles and cheers on board as we hugged and shook hands. We were a team, and every person gave their best, and then some. In the end, Final Final placed 3rd in class. For the crew, happiness at the result was tinged with nostalgia as we knew this was the last race of a successful two-year campaign on the Mills 41. Jon had recently acquired the Pac52 Warrior Won and has ambitious plans for the coming years.

We docked at St George’s Dinghy & Sports Club where Jon’s wife, Sarah, cheered us in with freshly poured Dark ‘n’ Stormys. Of the boats that started, 15 had to retire including one dismasting, two boats abandoned, one hitting a reef. Every Newport Bermuda Race is different, which is why it continues to draw world-class sailors.

Mark Twain once said: “Bermuda was a paradise but one had to go through hell to get there.” For 20 years I’ve dreamed of racing there, and look forward to my next thrash to the Onion Patch.

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