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Untethered: A Rite of Passage During the Spinnaker Cup

In the December issue of Latitude 38, Brandon Mercer tells the story of his son’s rite of passage during the Spinnaker Cup aboard the Santa Cruz 37 Wildcard.

At 12:23 a.m. on that moonless night, we were 25 miles out from Monterey Harbor, pounding through heavy seas and struggling to keep things upright in winds peaking above 33 miles per hour. As the keel spun out from under the rig yet again and we lurched into another violent broach, it hit me.

Graduation day was still a week off. Senior prom wasn’t for another 12 hours and an unlikely early morning bus ride away — if the boy even made it. His Eagle Scout court of honor was a parental pipe dream at this point. Yet, at that moment, in rising seas and the howling winds of a coming squall, I realized it: My little boy was now a man.

When I finally bought our J/24 — registered in both our names — and began racing, he usually drove while I trimmed and crewed. With all the rites of passage available to a middle-class kid living on the edge of suburbia, his quintessential rite was, appropriately, during a passage.

James Mercer at helm
James Mercer takes the helm in calm conditions following the start of the Spinnaker Cup.
© 2022 Brandon Mercer

The Spinnaker Cup from San Francisco to Monterey started under the Golden Gate before transitioning into a completely foggy, cold and rainy evening. Finally, a fresh breeze and a developing gale enveloped the fleet. We reached like a bat out of hell toward the final mark, already tasting the famous chili and chocolate chip cookies awaiting us at 2 a.m. at the Monterey Peninsula Yacht Club.

boat crew in red jackets
James Mercer (far left) and his father Brandon (second from right) with the crew of Wildcard.
© 2022 Brandon Mercer

My son was mid-bow on Wildcard, a racer-cruiser — emphasis on racer. The Santa Cruz 37 was designed to fly downwind on offshore races, with a carbon fiber hull and rig, a massive sail plan, and a stiletto keel around which the boat could spin on windward broaches. I was pit. Middle of the boat. I relayed communication from the helm to the bow, ran halyards and tack lines, and played a key role in sail changes.

As the winds rose, everyone was clipped in. The skipper made sure of it. As night descended, the endurance race began wearing on us. Visibility decreased to as far as the lifelines, with just a few phantom, distant glows that might be a trawler, another racer or a reflection in our own retinas.

The best drivers were taking turns on the helm, but even then it was like keeping an avalanche under control. Jerk the wheel and throw the stern left and right. Keep the center of gravity underneath the mast and that masthead spinnaker. Don’t let the speed of surfing down the increasingly large swells turn us to windward.

There were plenty of broaches. My son expertly rigged the smaller spinnaker as I eased or tightened control lines. We peeled from the biggest A2 to the A4, a smaller, more manageable fractional downwind sail. But still, we wiped out several times. That’s normal. A broach can be slow — a few seconds before all hell breaks loose. Or it can be fast and violent. Surfing down a wave, a puff hits you, the driver pumps the wheel to leeward, but the wind spins the boat like a top, with the rudder unable to overcome the force of a massive piece of canvas pulling the yacht over.

Continue reading at Latitude38.com.

1 Comment

  1. Ken Brinkley 1 year ago

    My son and I had a similar adventure 16 years ago .It is a tremendous bonding moment ,something that will stay with both of you forever. He is a lucky son and you a luckier father .Cherish these moments together. Fair winds Ken Brinkley

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