I look around the moonlit camp to take the emotional temperature of my fellow sailors who are variously wringing out their clothes, effecting boat repairs, or trying to get some badly needed sleep in their cockpits. The mood is somber and I don’t get the sense anybody is particularly enjoying themselves, but these rugged bastards don’t appear ready to quit. As honcho Chuck Pierce said to our group of 13 in the meeting before the start, “I don’t think any of you guys will quit; I know each of you by reputation.”
Well, maybe my reputation is about to change.
It’s 10 p.m. on the second night of my first Texas 200 when I think about dropping out. Maybe I don’t really consider dropping—after all, where would I go from here—the geographical center of nowhere—but I do think about how nice it would be to put an end to this nightmare.
The days have been physically demanding—as long as 14 hours at the helm—but my problems are mostly between my ears. Two days of trying to keep an 8-foot sailboat upright—dodging tugboats and barges—fighting to stay off shallow, razor-sharp lee shores, and racing to keep up with other boats whose sailors seem to have some clue where they’re going, have pushed me to my limits.
The unknowns about what the next day will bring add tension, but even worse are the knowns. Every day down here on the Laguna Madre seems to include a small craft advisory and heat index warning. I preach prudence and seamanship, so how can I ever justify what I’m about to do: set off again in a tiny open boat in rough weather into waters with which I’m not at all familiar?
And my boat is very literally coming apart—the aft deck is breaking away from the hull and constant oil-canning is opening up cracks. I fantasize briefly about kicking my foot through the bottom. That would put an end to my problems, wouldn’t it? I can’t sail if I don’t have a boat. I’d be forced to drop out or at least to hitch a ride on something bigger than a child’s pool toy.
Once a day, don't you wanna throw the towel in?
When you arrive in South Texas the first thing you notice is the heat—or rather it demands your attention. Down here in the fishing village of Port Mansfield, where the Texas 200 starts, a hostile, oppressive, third-world sun lords over everything. God help you if you leave any part of your skin uncovered long. The barren landscape offers little relief. They say you can always spot the Texan; he’s the one standing in the shade of a telephone pole.
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