A man, a sailboat and a very busy shipping channel

NORFOLK

Until I found myself overboard, the first Hampton Roads Long Distance Sunfish Challenge seemed like such a good idea. Possibly dangerous, but zany and irresistible.

On the eight-mile course, we'd sail out of Willoughby Bay, round Sewells Point and hang a left into the Elizabeth River to the finish line at Old Dominion University's sailing center.

"We're looking for people who have a Sunfish sitting in the backyard on its side," race co-organizer Jimmy Schools told me when I called him, intrigued by the odd contest. "It's a celebration of the Sunfish."

Perfect, I thought.

I started sailing three years ago after moving to Hampton Roads. I bought my Sunfish for $400 - new ones retail at around $3,000 - from a Virginia Beach businessman who marveled at its simplicity while he showed me how to set it up in his front yard.

"This is the boat Jesus sailed!" he exclaimed, hoisting the single blue-and-white- striped sail.

I can't verify that, but Sunfish are sailboats stripped to their essence: a 13-foot, 9-inch hull, a mast, a sail and boom, two lines, a rudder and a centerboard, or keel.

They're the most popular recreational sailboats ever built, with an estimated 500,000 sold since the early 1950s. Lightweight - about 130 pounds - and easy to transport, Sunfish helped demo-cratize sailing, expanding the sport beyond yacht clubs to public beaches.

Mine was built sometime before 1971, probably the late '60s. I patched holes in the sail with duct tape and named it Trial and Error, my method for learning to sail.

Until a week before the race, several gallons of water sloshed inside the chalky blue hull. I drilled holes in the fiberglass to drain it. I'd raced it twice before. Last place both times.

"Just don't sue us if you get hurt, or die, or anything else," co-organizer Jonathan Romero said, wrapping up a quick review of the race rules.

Twenty of us skippers were riding in an orange school bus from ODU back to the starting line at Willoughby Bay after we'd dropped off our empty boat trailers.

"One more thing, this is very important - let's see, how did I phrase that?" Romero unfolded a copy of the race rules and read, "It's very important that you don't impede commercial traffic. Any questions?"

The bus lurched north on Hampton Boulevard. A financial adviser named Mike spoke up.

"More of a comment," he said, issuing a warning about the danger of tugboats and their giant wakes. "If you see one, stay away because they are not going to move."

A bearded racer sitting behind Mike mentioned he was a tugboat captain. He wore a floppy canvas hat with a pencil stuck through the grommets. His name was Steve.

I asked him how tugboat captains feel about sailboats in their path.

"Depends," he said. "Some guys are very respectable. Some guys will squash you like a grape."

An east wind was blowing at 16 knots and gusting up to 22 knots, or 25 mph, a heavy breeze for small sailboats. I hoisted my sail and eased Trial and Error into Willoughby Bay to join the other boats milling around the starting line.

On my first tack, I stalled out. Sailboats can travel any direction except directly into the wind. A sailor who finds himself pointed into the wind is said to be stuck "in irons." Unfortunately, I excel at getting into this frustrating situation. The fleet crossed the starting line; I was dead in the water, cursing under my breath and feeling another last-place finish coming on.

Disgusted, I jumped into the bay. I'd use my hands to turn the boat downwind and hop back in.

Waves crashed into my face and the boat's unmanned boom slammed back and forth over my head. I rotated Trial and Error. Suddenly, a gust grabbed the sail and slammed it forward. The red and white line that controls the sail shot out of its ratchet block and into the choppy water.

I swam to where I thought it should be. Salt water filled my mouth. I spit and flailed my hands in the brown water, searching for the line. It's over, I thought. Then I remembered the line also connects to the back of the boat. It was trailing behind. I swam to grab it.

"Everything OK?" yelled a man pulling up in a power boat. It was the race safety boat driver, a retired junior ROTC program leader everyone called Gump.

"Yeah!" I yelled back, treading water. "I lost my mainsheet line!"

I swam to the flailing boom and threaded the line through one of the two blocks.

"Put it through the other one first!" Gump yelled over his idling motor.

He's right, I thought. Then I doubted him.

"No, no, no!" I said.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he said.

Of course Gump was right. I fixed the line, hopped back onto the boat and sailed after the fleet, mercifully downwind, a direction in which getting stuck in irons is impossible. I never crossed the starting line, a certain disqualification, but damned if I wasn't sailing the course.

With the wind at my back, I flew out of Willoughby Bay after the fleet, surfing down waves, a first for me. My frustration evaporated in the wild ride.

Once I was in the Elizabeth, the waves died, but the wind held strong out of the east. Ahead of me, the colorful sails of the Sunfish fleet were dwarfed by the aircraft carrier Harry S. Truman, docked at Norfolk Naval Station.

A ship taking tourists to the base cruised past. A tugboat loomed briefly behind me, a foamy wake rushing off its bow, before turning off. A container ship loaded with colorful boxes passed, heading for the open ocean.

The green hump of the Lambert's Point golf course appeared. I sailed past the mouth of the Lafayette River and crossed the finish line.

"Name?" a race official yelled from the dock.

"Applegate! But I didn't cross the starting line!"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "You're the last Sunfish anyway."

Aaron Applegate, (757) 222-5122, aaron.applegate@pilotonline.com