Post by ibex on May 11, 2009 12:19:49 GMT -5
So in the never ending quest to try and push my skill level in this funny little sport we enjoy, today's objectives were two-fold. First, was to honest to goodness get locked in and comfortable in both straps on my shortboard. Second, to carve gybe. With these two objectives in mind, I coerced my good buddy Mike (from ROC) to meet me at Seneca today on his way back from visiting his family for the weekend, for some coaching in both.
The wind was hauling out of the W-WNW when I pulled in and I rigged 6.5 while waiting for Mike to show up. When he arrives he tells me about the ROC contingent who are mostly up on Lake Ontario ripping on mid-4 meter sails and sinker wave boards and we are both stoked about the promise of a great session.
We decide to play around for a bit before getting down to the nuts and bolts of focusing on technique, and after the obligatory futzing with our gear, we both drag our stuff down to the water - softly swelling with 1.5 foot waves - and head off to the south. At first I had pretty high hopes for getting in the straps today, but those were quickly dashed underneath the repeated face-first catapults into Seneca's 50 degree water, and I decide that just being happy with some planing runs was a better option. Prior to the detailed dry land discussion of carve gybes, I manage to get to about the 3/4 point on several attempts, each time I stall out in the rig flip, momentum gone, and fall in.
The real saving grace of it being a little chilly (50-ish) and Mother's Day, was that there wasn't a single boat out on the water, and we could cruise across the channel with impunity on our N-S runs down the western shore of the lake. After 20 minutes on the water, we stop to switch boards and I take Mike's 140L with 7.0 while he takes my 120L and 6.5. At first I had a murderous time trying to waterstart the thing, and finally I just uphauled the sail so as not to waste more energy than I was trying to save. It was pretty cool to see the difference between boards, as my 120L was much easier to get on plane and control. Mike's description after the swap back was that his 140L "felt like a school bus" in comparison.
After another half-hour of perfectly harmless (but a little gusty) mixed shlogging and planing, we both hop out to take a rest and play with some sail trim and talk about technique. At this point the wind picks up and using Mike's spiffy wind-o-meter we clock 24mph and we both hurriedly rig smaller sails. At this point Mike starts telling me how sweet it was to ride 3-something and 4-something sails in waist deep bath water for a week down in Hatteras, and how this "gusty cr*p" is kindof lacking in comparison. Not fully comprehending the idea of what it would be to sail on rigs that small, whose size approached ones GPA (then it strikes me that you would need a LOT of wind to sail on something the size of *my* GPA) I decide to rig 4.7 and Mike decides to wait and let me be the guinea pig to see what he should rig.
No sooner than my feet are back in the water, the wind ebbs and I can't get on plane to save my life. Upon heading back to de-rig and rig up my 5.6 Mike is still cavetching how this is nowhere near as good as it was back in Hatteras (think: "this one time... at band camp", and even though I am still having fun I can appreciate his disappointment at spending all this time rigging instead of sailing. Back on the water with a 5.6, things are intermittent, with beautiful planing in the gusts, but slowing to a near stop in the (admittedly frequent) lulls. The gusts were incredible though, with the board smoothly accelerating onto plane for a few blissful seconds of lightening fast skimming across the water.
After a good hour or two of intermittent planing and shlogging, Mike and I stop to chat in a lull at which point we reflect on the fact that we are struggling with "privileged people's problems"... both of us educated, well fed, healthy people, clad in warm neoprene, on high-tech boards, with carbon fiber masts, sails thoroughly laced with kevlar, on a beautiful lake on a clear blue sunny day - we are complaining about the "quality" of the wind. Mike adds "think of how boring this would be if it worked out perfectly every time, would you still want to do it at that point?" Laughing, I respond "no" and we both cease conversation to take advantage of the little gust of air that is upon us that moment.
After a few more runs and we are facing a gorgeous sunset across the lake and Mike has hauled out for the evening. We had been on the water for almost 4 hours at this point, and I am thoroughly beat, but the goal of having both feet in the straps and planing was still unfulfilled. The wind at this point has evened out, and smoothly blowing in the mid/upper-teens, as the air fills with orange, pink and yellow hues from the fading sun in the western sky. Like a little kid whole simply can not stop saying 'just one more run, I know I can get in the straps this time" I decide to limit myself to the waist deep water just N of the breakwall that guards the channel entrance to the marina, and I am going to either get in the straps or flame out trying, and at this point I am ready to accept whichever one comes first.
The next half hour's worth of effort succeeded only in producing catapult after catapult, as I struggle with the sequence of hooking in, front foot, then rear foot. Each time my front foot gets in the straps, the nose of the board uncontrollably dances up out of the water and I either sink the tail and fall off backwards (which is actually the better way to go) or I massively catapult (not the way to go). Mike, ever the provider of encouragement shouts something to me after a particularly vicious catapult, which I gesture back with my hand near my ear, that I can't hear him. He holds up both hands, 5 fingers extended on the right and 2 on the left, and I barely hear over the wind "I give that one a seven"
To the neophyte (me) this seems like it ought to be easy, but only after many futile attempts, I pause and ask the question "what the h*ll am I doing wrong here" and then it hits me.... Mike (and many others) have said to me LOADS of times "you need to hook in, bear off the wind, then wait for the board to accelerate, then go front foot, then when you are almost at speed, get the back foot in, then turn back upwind" and I am impatiently forgetting the whole bearing off the wind and waiting parts.
Wading my board back into the waist deep water, I force myself to focus on waiting for the acceleration before going for my rear foot on my next attempt. With Mike standing like Obi Wan Kenobi on the breakwall 100 yards away with his camera at the ready, I beachstart, hook in, pointing the board back towards the shore, my front foot goes in, I pause and wait for it to accelerate...
(eternal moments tick by, and I start to anticipate the mighty catapult that I *know* is coming. Temporal compression is in full effect and I feel like the 2nd coming ought to have happened in the time it takes to get the board to plane, with 6.5 meters of monofilm sticking dangerously straight up in the air - knowing that I am going to be landing on top of that sail if the slightest thing goes wrong, aware that my stance is nearly upright and I won't be able to counteract any sudden onset of power with my weight.)
still waiting....
come on!! this thing *has* to plane or I am going to have to intentionally ditch in order to avoid the mother of all catapults
more waiting...
hurry up d*mnit(!)...
feeling the rush of acceleration getting stronger, my back foot mercifully lands in the strap on my first attempt, I lean my weight into my harness and I am planing - locked securely in both straps - rocketing towards the 8 foot high stone wall 100yds away, and closing fast.
With gentle heel-side pressure, my board responsively carves upwind, and I clear the tip of the stone wall by just 10 feet - Mike taking evidence of the moment on his camera - only to completely lose it, and crash right in the center of the channel on the other side. I get back on my board and head back for a couple more short runs, eager to practice my newfound skill. Feeling good to finally have a tool to fight off catapults. Now instead of perilously balancing on the nose of a missile, this particular rocket now has a place to sit, a seatbelt and a roll bar.
With new confidence I set out for one last long reach to the S, carving past the end of the two breakwalls, I find myself in a lull about 1/4 mile south and hop off into the chest deep water to rest and watch the sunset. Its so peaceful out on the water by myself at that moment. Its hard to describe, but it feels like I have placed one more paving stone in the path to "figuring it out" - not altogether unlike the journey I feel that is slowly progressing in many parts of my life right now. The best part of that moment was simply the solitude to reflect on what the preceding 5 hours have brought me. As I look towards the city of Geneva across the lake, I can see the warm glow of the sunset reflecting off the nice even swells, and feel myself buoyed by each one, as my feet get pulled up off the sandy bottom and set back down with each wave. Glad that I decided to fight it out, I hop back on my board and sail back to our launch point, enjoying one last planing gust with my feet locked securely in the straps.
Its finally time to derig, say adios to Mike and head out. At the entrance to the park, we part ways, his car pointing west to Rochester and mine southeast towards Ithaca. Reflecting on the incredible sense that I felt like I could FINALLY control my board on plane, it really strikes me what a huge moment this is. With careful and patient coaching, I stumbled upon the keys to the castle (of planing at least, the carve gybe will have to wait) and it makes me realize how much I appreciate all of the people who have taken time out of their lives to teach me a piece of this sport. They all did it with no promise of reward; only hoping to have one more person share in the joy that comes from being out on the water.
Taking a quick mental inventory of the other lessons people have tried to share with me, but I wasn't ready to receive them, I stop to think - maybe there is something to that whole Hatteras thing everyone keeps talking about...
Have a great night everyone!
Shawn
The wind was hauling out of the W-WNW when I pulled in and I rigged 6.5 while waiting for Mike to show up. When he arrives he tells me about the ROC contingent who are mostly up on Lake Ontario ripping on mid-4 meter sails and sinker wave boards and we are both stoked about the promise of a great session.
We decide to play around for a bit before getting down to the nuts and bolts of focusing on technique, and after the obligatory futzing with our gear, we both drag our stuff down to the water - softly swelling with 1.5 foot waves - and head off to the south. At first I had pretty high hopes for getting in the straps today, but those were quickly dashed underneath the repeated face-first catapults into Seneca's 50 degree water, and I decide that just being happy with some planing runs was a better option. Prior to the detailed dry land discussion of carve gybes, I manage to get to about the 3/4 point on several attempts, each time I stall out in the rig flip, momentum gone, and fall in.
The real saving grace of it being a little chilly (50-ish) and Mother's Day, was that there wasn't a single boat out on the water, and we could cruise across the channel with impunity on our N-S runs down the western shore of the lake. After 20 minutes on the water, we stop to switch boards and I take Mike's 140L with 7.0 while he takes my 120L and 6.5. At first I had a murderous time trying to waterstart the thing, and finally I just uphauled the sail so as not to waste more energy than I was trying to save. It was pretty cool to see the difference between boards, as my 120L was much easier to get on plane and control. Mike's description after the swap back was that his 140L "felt like a school bus" in comparison.
After another half-hour of perfectly harmless (but a little gusty) mixed shlogging and planing, we both hop out to take a rest and play with some sail trim and talk about technique. At this point the wind picks up and using Mike's spiffy wind-o-meter we clock 24mph and we both hurriedly rig smaller sails. At this point Mike starts telling me how sweet it was to ride 3-something and 4-something sails in waist deep bath water for a week down in Hatteras, and how this "gusty cr*p" is kindof lacking in comparison. Not fully comprehending the idea of what it would be to sail on rigs that small, whose size approached ones GPA (then it strikes me that you would need a LOT of wind to sail on something the size of *my* GPA) I decide to rig 4.7 and Mike decides to wait and let me be the guinea pig to see what he should rig.
No sooner than my feet are back in the water, the wind ebbs and I can't get on plane to save my life. Upon heading back to de-rig and rig up my 5.6 Mike is still cavetching how this is nowhere near as good as it was back in Hatteras (think: "this one time... at band camp", and even though I am still having fun I can appreciate his disappointment at spending all this time rigging instead of sailing. Back on the water with a 5.6, things are intermittent, with beautiful planing in the gusts, but slowing to a near stop in the (admittedly frequent) lulls. The gusts were incredible though, with the board smoothly accelerating onto plane for a few blissful seconds of lightening fast skimming across the water.
After a good hour or two of intermittent planing and shlogging, Mike and I stop to chat in a lull at which point we reflect on the fact that we are struggling with "privileged people's problems"... both of us educated, well fed, healthy people, clad in warm neoprene, on high-tech boards, with carbon fiber masts, sails thoroughly laced with kevlar, on a beautiful lake on a clear blue sunny day - we are complaining about the "quality" of the wind. Mike adds "think of how boring this would be if it worked out perfectly every time, would you still want to do it at that point?" Laughing, I respond "no" and we both cease conversation to take advantage of the little gust of air that is upon us that moment.
After a few more runs and we are facing a gorgeous sunset across the lake and Mike has hauled out for the evening. We had been on the water for almost 4 hours at this point, and I am thoroughly beat, but the goal of having both feet in the straps and planing was still unfulfilled. The wind at this point has evened out, and smoothly blowing in the mid/upper-teens, as the air fills with orange, pink and yellow hues from the fading sun in the western sky. Like a little kid whole simply can not stop saying 'just one more run, I know I can get in the straps this time" I decide to limit myself to the waist deep water just N of the breakwall that guards the channel entrance to the marina, and I am going to either get in the straps or flame out trying, and at this point I am ready to accept whichever one comes first.
The next half hour's worth of effort succeeded only in producing catapult after catapult, as I struggle with the sequence of hooking in, front foot, then rear foot. Each time my front foot gets in the straps, the nose of the board uncontrollably dances up out of the water and I either sink the tail and fall off backwards (which is actually the better way to go) or I massively catapult (not the way to go). Mike, ever the provider of encouragement shouts something to me after a particularly vicious catapult, which I gesture back with my hand near my ear, that I can't hear him. He holds up both hands, 5 fingers extended on the right and 2 on the left, and I barely hear over the wind "I give that one a seven"
To the neophyte (me) this seems like it ought to be easy, but only after many futile attempts, I pause and ask the question "what the h*ll am I doing wrong here" and then it hits me.... Mike (and many others) have said to me LOADS of times "you need to hook in, bear off the wind, then wait for the board to accelerate, then go front foot, then when you are almost at speed, get the back foot in, then turn back upwind" and I am impatiently forgetting the whole bearing off the wind and waiting parts.
Wading my board back into the waist deep water, I force myself to focus on waiting for the acceleration before going for my rear foot on my next attempt. With Mike standing like Obi Wan Kenobi on the breakwall 100 yards away with his camera at the ready, I beachstart, hook in, pointing the board back towards the shore, my front foot goes in, I pause and wait for it to accelerate...
(eternal moments tick by, and I start to anticipate the mighty catapult that I *know* is coming. Temporal compression is in full effect and I feel like the 2nd coming ought to have happened in the time it takes to get the board to plane, with 6.5 meters of monofilm sticking dangerously straight up in the air - knowing that I am going to be landing on top of that sail if the slightest thing goes wrong, aware that my stance is nearly upright and I won't be able to counteract any sudden onset of power with my weight.)
still waiting....
come on!! this thing *has* to plane or I am going to have to intentionally ditch in order to avoid the mother of all catapults
more waiting...
hurry up d*mnit(!)...
feeling the rush of acceleration getting stronger, my back foot mercifully lands in the strap on my first attempt, I lean my weight into my harness and I am planing - locked securely in both straps - rocketing towards the 8 foot high stone wall 100yds away, and closing fast.
With gentle heel-side pressure, my board responsively carves upwind, and I clear the tip of the stone wall by just 10 feet - Mike taking evidence of the moment on his camera - only to completely lose it, and crash right in the center of the channel on the other side. I get back on my board and head back for a couple more short runs, eager to practice my newfound skill. Feeling good to finally have a tool to fight off catapults. Now instead of perilously balancing on the nose of a missile, this particular rocket now has a place to sit, a seatbelt and a roll bar.
With new confidence I set out for one last long reach to the S, carving past the end of the two breakwalls, I find myself in a lull about 1/4 mile south and hop off into the chest deep water to rest and watch the sunset. Its so peaceful out on the water by myself at that moment. Its hard to describe, but it feels like I have placed one more paving stone in the path to "figuring it out" - not altogether unlike the journey I feel that is slowly progressing in many parts of my life right now. The best part of that moment was simply the solitude to reflect on what the preceding 5 hours have brought me. As I look towards the city of Geneva across the lake, I can see the warm glow of the sunset reflecting off the nice even swells, and feel myself buoyed by each one, as my feet get pulled up off the sandy bottom and set back down with each wave. Glad that I decided to fight it out, I hop back on my board and sail back to our launch point, enjoying one last planing gust with my feet locked securely in the straps.
Its finally time to derig, say adios to Mike and head out. At the entrance to the park, we part ways, his car pointing west to Rochester and mine southeast towards Ithaca. Reflecting on the incredible sense that I felt like I could FINALLY control my board on plane, it really strikes me what a huge moment this is. With careful and patient coaching, I stumbled upon the keys to the castle (of planing at least, the carve gybe will have to wait) and it makes me realize how much I appreciate all of the people who have taken time out of their lives to teach me a piece of this sport. They all did it with no promise of reward; only hoping to have one more person share in the joy that comes from being out on the water.
Taking a quick mental inventory of the other lessons people have tried to share with me, but I wasn't ready to receive them, I stop to think - maybe there is something to that whole Hatteras thing everyone keeps talking about...
Have a great night everyone!
Shawn
Shawn did awesome considering the conditions. ;D I got a picture to prove it too! ;D I'm Pumped!