NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #31/NN_1992_31.iso/spool/rec/windsurf/4447

Internet Message Format | 1992-12-30 | 8.7 KB

Path: sparky!uunet!spool.mu.edu!agate!paris.CS.Berkeley.EDU!luigi
From: [e-mail] (Luigi Semenzato)
Newsgroups: rec.windsurfing
Subject: The Point Isabel Winter Open
Date: 30 Dec 1992 23:48:31 GMT
Organization: University of California, Berkeley
Lines: 172
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
NNTP-Posting-Host: paris.cs.berkeley.edu

The Point Isabel Winter Open          Copyright (C) 1992, Luigi Semenzato

This Christmas we took a skiing vacation.  The day before Christmas we
skied downhill; on Christmas day, I tried snowboarding; the next day,
we went cross-country.  I am not trying to impress you with a list of
my athletic accomplishments (although you are quite welcome to be
impressed); I simply want to point out that I am in particularly fit
conditions, if you ignore bruises and scratches and a few slightly
dislocated joints (no obstacle to windsurfing).  This could explain
the pretty good 3-3 score in today's races with Klaus.

On this particular occasion we didn't have TV coverage, but if we did,
this is how it would have been:

[Bird's eye view of the southwest section of Richmond, California,
from the Goodyear blimp.  You recognize the Safeway Truck Depot, with
hundreds of trucks; highways 580 and 880; the parking lots and
warehouses of Price Club and Costco.  There are several more ugly
buildings, a marsh, a few houses, the coastline of the Bay, Brook's
Island, and wind-swept grey-brownish waters.  Your trained eye spots
the whitecaps even from this height.  The camera pans over the water
towards south-west, the horizon widens, and suddenly the San Francisco
skyline appears in its white perfection, under massive dark clouds.]

`Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this morning for the
final of the Point Isabel Winter Open.  This is Eric Stanford, and
here with me is Dave Berry.  Say hello, Dave.'

`Leave me alone.'

`Sorry about that, Dave is a little gruffy as usual.  This very
exciting windsurfing event features the foremost Italian sailor, Luigi
Smenzhoff... ehm...  Smetanzum... oh heck I hate these foreign names,
and I am sure you do too---just call him Luigi---he is competing
against the famous German sailor Klaus Schauser.  As you can see, the
conditions are perfect for this kind of match.  There are occasional
brief showers but overall the visibility is quite good and the sun may
even come out.  The water is cold and appears muddy but this is a
quite natural form of pollution...'

`Natural!  Ha!  When it rains this hard, all the sewage treatment
plants overflow into the Bay!'

`Thanks for setting me straight on that, Dave... Here, the camera is
now pointed towards the starting line, near the shore opposite Point
Isabel.  The line is between those two poles sticking out of the
water.  The water is shallow there, about three feet, and the bottom
is 50/50 sand/mud, not too squishy.'

`I would not go in that murk for a million dollars.'

`But's that one of the spectacular aspects of windsurfing, Dave, these
people are incredibly rugged, completely fearless.'

`I don't even see why they call it windsurfing.  They should call it
mud sailing.  Or crash sailing.'

`Those are good suggestions, Dave... OK, now we are seeing the other
end of the course.  We'll call it the buoy, but it really is a wooden
platform, built for some unknown purpose, sitting there in the middle
of the Bay.  It's about a half-mile reach from the starting line.
Each race is one leg out, a left jibe around the platform, one leg in.
And there they are!  The contestants are sailing towards the start.
The German is fast, he is very fast.  The Italian has better
equipment, but the German has more experience and in the past he has
always won against the Italian, isn't that right Dave?'

`Who cares.'

`Good question Dave.  They are off!  The Italian crosses the line
first... but what's he doing?  He is sheeting out!  Perhaps the wind
is too strong and he is afraid of cavitating.  What a mistake! The
German has caught up and he is leading now by a tiny margin.  They are
moving FAST!  The Italian is pulling upwind so he can get a better
angle for the jibe.  They are almost at the buoy.  The Italian takes
the back foot out of the strap.  The German is too close to the buoy
and starts the transition too late!  The Italian can cut him on the
inside!  He is about to unhook.  AGH!  Did you see that gust!'

`No.'

`An enormous gust has slammed the Italian down!  What a face-plant!
He is down and he is directly upwind of the buoy!  The German has
completed a perfect jibe and is on his way to the finish line.  The
Italian has to swim aside before he can waterstart.  It's Germany 1,
Italy 0.'

[Commercial break.  An Eskimo shows a pair of Nike shoes and says, in
a rarely used Eskimo dialect: `After a week of use with same socks,
these make excellent seal bait.']

`We are back just in time for the beginning of the second race.  The
Italian starts first again and maintains an advantage.  But he is
pointing upwind too much!  The German is on a straight-line path to
the buoy.  The Italian corrects his course and now aims for the buoy.
They are almost there---and they are arriving together!  The German
has the right of way.  The Italian pulls up and delays his transition.
The German jibes but he does not make it!  The Italian is jibing now.
He also falls!  LOOK AT THAT!  In the hurry to get into position he
has gulped down a large mouthful of seriously polluted water!'

`Serves him right.'

`Now the German has restarted but the Italian is stuck in the wind
shadow of the platform!  He cannot possibly recover the time he has
lost.  It's Germany 2, Italy 0.'

[Commercial break.  Inside a fancy residence, a smartly-dressed fellow
with a British accent tells his American-looking girlfriend: `I am
sick of that ``Uh-huh!''  If you say ``Uh-huh'' one more time, you are
out of here, for good!'  The woman: `Uh-huh.'  Outside, on the lawn,
an open suitcase and female apparel are strewn everywhere.  A few more
clothes and shoes are flying out of the window.  The woman is picking
up her belongings.  She looks up and says: `Asshole!'  She rummages
through the clothes, finds a can of Diet Pepsi, opens it.  Her face
and hair get drenched from the high-pressure jet.  Zoom out, voice
over: `This would not have happened if she had chosen Coke.']

`Welcome back, we are in the middle of race 3.  The German is way
behind, slogging in a wind hole.  The Italian has managed to remain
on a plane and he is gaining a tremendous advantage.  Look how hard he
is working to keep that plane!  He is shifting is weight, squirming,
turning in and out of the wind to exploit every little puff, and
praying a multitude of saints---this is an advantage for the Italian,
I think they have a lot more saints than the Germans, isn't that right
Dave?'

`Certainly.  They have San Puffo who brings wind to the sailors, San
Cioppo who smoothes the waters, San Salvatore who prevents
face-plants, and then for this particular contestant there is Santa
Ermenegilda of Forlimpopoli.'

`Ah, that's great... and what does this last saint do?'

`Oh, she is just a generic saint, but she is an aunt of his
great-grandmother.  It's family, you know.  And she has got
connections.'

`That's good research, Dave.  There, San Puffo did his job and the
Italian is on his way to winning the third race.  Germany 2, Italy 1.'

[Very long commercial break.]

`Well folks, I am sorry but you have just missed the two most exciting
races so far.  The score is now Germany 3, Italy 2, and the sixth
race is about halfway... this looks like a repeat of race 3.  The
Italian is way ahead, he has rounded the buoy and is reaching the
finish line for a 3-3.  But what's the German doing?  He is not even
bothering to finish the race.  He is slowly sailing back to Point
Isabel.  The wind seems to have gone.  This is it, folks.  Dave will
now go down there and interview the finalists.'

`No he won't!  It's raining!'

`Come on Dave, go, go, go, go.'

`Hey!  Don't push!  OK, I'll go.  Hand me the parachute.  When I am
down, I will disguise myself as a dog.'

That's what it would have been like.  As I approached Point Isabel, a
dog on the shore was barking at me, quite worried.  I got out of the
water and the dog came to greet me.  He was visibly relieved, and
jumped all over me with muddy paws.  I let him do it.  That's what
wetsuits are for.

I took the rig up and gently put it down on the grass.  For once I was
going to stow a clean sail in the bag.  The dog returned.  He would
not step on the sail, would he?  `HEY!  Get out of there!  OUT!  OUT!
SHOO!'  Oh, this dog liked me so much, it took him a while to
understand I was angry at him.  Klaus's face was laughing from the
van's window.  The owner called his dog back: `Here, Dave.  Come here,
Dave.'  Dave?  A dog named Dave?