“Plans are useless, but planning is essential.” – Dwight D. Eisenhower.

This is one of our favorite quotes. We always show up at the already busy docks early on the morning of the Three Bridge Fiasco with a working theory on how we might actually win the race. The plans are usually tossed overboard as we approach the starting line to see the actual conditions and observe the boats starting ahead of us.

This year was no different. It would be ebbing solidly all day. Wind predictions were anywhere from 2 knots to 22 knots, though we never saw that latter figure in our brief pre-race planning searches. Regardless, as we joined hundreds of boats approaching the starting area, there was some breeze from the north and some of the early starters were actually heeling. A little bit.

Naturally, that early morning breeze began to fade as the reverse-handicap starts progressed. Most boats were choosing to attempt to cross, reaching from the west against the already well-established ebb and staying close to the pin where there was a bit more breeze than along the shore. It was crowded.

We chose to cross on starboard so we could go with the flow and then button-hook back onto port tack. That left us facing dozens of port tackers trying to head across the line. Somehow we found a path through the phalanx of port tackers. In the midst of the mess we lost steerage and almost flopped to port, but were able to rush forward to hold our jib to weather and push our bow back down onto starboard. Phew!

We crossed the line and optimistically joined the 300 other boats, looking for a breeze while the current built toward max ebb at 12:10. While we sailed out to the middle looking for some of the fading flood, a large group of determined port tackers were hugging the shore to the west trying to fight the flood to start. Many never made it.

We felt hopeful as we slowly worked toward Alcatraz while seeing many boats along the Cityfront vainly hoping to start. It all fell apart from there. Occasional ripples, cat’s paws and zephyrs passed our way. The building northwesterly we’d held in our dreams remained a dream. We were getting sucked and suckered to the north looking for that breeze and closing on the ebbing river out of Raccoon Strait. Forward motion vanished and we began to hear the loud flushing sound while doing unplanned donuts near Horseshoe Cove and the North Tower.

Many boats had already been sucked (pushed?) well outside the Golden Gate. Our race ended abruptly when we fired up the engine as the rocks under the North Tower rapidly approached. Oh, well. We started the long motor against the ebb and passed many skippers determined to persevere. We tied up at the Corinthian Yacht Club, put the boat away, had a sandwich, and were all done by 12:30, pretty sure that nobody would finish. (The good news was we were home in time to get to the 7:30 showing of the Ron Holland film in Mill Valley.) Suddenly, some spinnakers appeared over the breakwater, heading down Raccoon Strait. Could it be? Sure enough a light westerly was filling in and boats were gaining on the ebb.

We saw Charles Ray and Zan Drejes sail by on the Wylie 60 C Cubed. Then noticed Andy Schwenk sailing by on his schooner Sir Edmund. (How many schooners get sailed doublehanded?) Some Moore 24s slipped by, and sure enough, binoculars showed some boats making their way to Treasure Island.

We’re not yet sure how they did it, but about 40 boats out of the 300 that started, or attempted to start, finished before the 7 p.m. cutoff. Congratulations to all of them! Patience, perseverance and some damn good sailing must have made it happen. Six or eight boats missed the 7 p.m. cutoff by minutes.

Well over 200 boats had to withdraw, and we were among those. We dutifully texted the race committee our withdrawal. That evening we were surprised to see a call from the race committee pop up on our phone while we were sitting in the Sequoia Theater watching the premiere of Oleg Harencar’s excellent documentary on Ron Holland. Then another call from the race committee popped up on the phone. We looked at the message to learn we were a problem child. They’d never received our withdrawal text and were working late to account for all the wayward sailors. We checked our phone and sure enough we’d texted at 11:24 a.m., but further investigation found that we’d fat-fingered a number and texted some stranger who’s probably wondering what “Finistere 69545 withdraws” means. We apologize to the race committee and also thank them for a great day on the water and the weeks of work and late-night hours they put in to make it go as smoothly as possible.

There’s much more to the story, which we’ll learn from some of those successful finishers. Keep an eye out for the March issue for more. You can see the heroic finishers here. (All of us DNF’ers are listed too.) It’s a good time to remind people of why so many people continue to run the Boston Marathon with no hope of winning.

Next year there will be wind and we’ll be making new plans to jettison as we start.

Do you have photos, stories, anecdotes from your 3BF experience? Email them here.