Rum do at the Regatta

Move your cars, don't stand around, take hold, give a lift, clear the decks, make way make way, brush, sweep, clean and polish, the gigs are coming Clovelly is humming, tractors are rolling up and down the steep wooded hill, calls of 'slow' calls of 'go'. Set up the barbecue, start up the hogroast, stand up the barrels, fix up the raffle. The gigs are arriving. From Bristol to Salcombe, from Ilfracombe to Weymouth, fine fettered, thundering thighed crews carry and jostle the precious gigs across the pebbled expanse of the tide drained Quay pool. Someone turned the music on, music to march to, music to rave to, too loud. Multi-coloured teams of T-shirts gather, declaring their allegiance, a varnished forest of oars line up along the wall. The gigs are here.

Cast off, haul on the halyard, lean on the tiller, not too heavy. Course set, compass corrected, around the Capstone, passing the outfalls, keep the coast to port. Ilfracombe drops away as the Bristol Channel widens to the slumbering Atlantic. There's Brandy Cove, goodbye Lee Bay. Happy handicapped sailors, full and by and bound for Clovelly. Old Bull watches them pass, soon be crossing Rockham ready to round the feared Morte Stone, the Rum Race is on.

A hum of noise fills the salt tanged air as keen and expectant crews talk tactics and strokes and cox. Gaggling groups set up their seperate camps keeping a watchful eye upon the placcid sea and spy the distant course, waiting for the racing. 'Buy a burger, only a pound a strip', for the raffle.' Support the gig club,' More people fill the empty spaces, more people wander in wonder, more people shuffle about the harbour. Giggers are called to man their boats, giggers are called to their oars, giggers are called to say farewell to their friends and off upon the mighty ocean, so they might pull for glory or forlorn.

There's Barricane, there's Woolacombe, Baggy stands out, a sheltering arm for surfing Croyde. Entering the great Bideford Bay, Lundy lies sentry off to starboard, far away. White, dotted, washed cliff cottages of Clovelly stand ahead waiting. Kathleen and May moors off, the perfect back drop for a busy day.

'To your boats,' 'Ship your oars' Crews lean to the task, bending their backs, 'Pull away nicely,' ' pull away together,' the harbour wall fills with watchers, fills with crowds, fills with pride. Commentators announce the order of positions, spectators cheer the boats along.

White sails bear down across the bay, gaining seconds waiting to tack, looking for breezes no matter how light. Haze battles bravely, Eliannes in flight, Shamaras coming on strong, Gracies making it a fight. Sails up helm down, time for a cuppa, break open the biscuits, we'll be in time for tea.

Around the buoys, pulling strong, oars in the thole pins, leather on the gunnel, bows lick the salt, rudder makes the wake, cox shouts encouragement, screaming at the crews, sweating, aching, faster along the straight.

Kathleen and May watches them coming, leader crosses the line, honours to the victor, Wierd Fish back a mile, Haze takes the glory, nothing unusual there, sails dropped and anchors, the Rum is won the race is done. Congratulations to them all.

There's nothing now between them they're all pulling hard and strong the horns are soon to blast as the winner comes along. The first of many races, many prizes to be won, a long day of fun and shouting, of cheering, drinks and Rum.