Pestovo greeted us with a fresh breeze. We would be racing. I felt a little nervous, but Dmitry reassured us: ‘I need to bring on a new generation of sailors who’ll charter my yachts. Take your time and practise your skills.’
Then the bell rang, and the kindly grandfather became a stern racing sailor. He kept shouting: ‘The genoa isn’t sheeted in!’ ‘Igor, where are you? They can’t manage!’ ‘Lads, we won’t win like this!’ ‘No, I can’t do this. I’m going to get up and go home.’ ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Four starts. We finished first and second in the first two races. Then the wind died, and twice we heard the finish whistle in fourth place. The skipper was disappointed. After a simple snack of cold cuts and vegetables, we headed home.
An unexpected call while we were berthing summoned us to the prize-giving. We had a faint hope of third. How disappointed we were when third wasn’t us. And how delighted to discover we were second, out of about ten boats. I’m proud of that regatta and what I learnt.