The only thing better than the sound of new sails is the sound of your friends cheering from the shoreline…

or at least, that’s what I wanted this year’s High Sierra Regatta to be about. But like most good sailing stories, things didn’t quite go according to plan.

It was a beautiful morning—the kind where the sun stretches lazily across camp, slowly peeling back the chill that settled in overnight. The lake lay still, with rowers gliding like whispers across its glassy surface as the low haze began to lift. One by one, our crew emerged from their sleeping bags, except for Max—already lizarding on a warm rock like the solar-powered being he is—and Mitch and Quincey, the ever-reliable early risers.

Spirits were high. We had the Lusty crew from Mexico and the Sitkas by our side, cheering us on as we prepared to race alongside Mitch and Quincey, who now officially owned Little Blue Boat (formerly Sniper One). It felt like things were really shaping up to be a great weekend.

The day before had been spent reacquainting ourselves with all things sailing—it had been over a year since Geronimo had danced with the wind. We were extra excited to hoist our brand-new sails from Precision Sails, convinced they’d give us that extra edge. Maybe we were a bit overconfident, still riding the high of Max’s jaw-dropping performance the night before at Lakeshore Saloon, where he belted out Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” and earned a full standing ovation. If confidence could win regattas, we were already on the podium just by association. 

Saturday on the Water

After breakfast, Chris and I rigged Geronimo and made our way out to the start line, tacking alongside our fleet and weaving between the other classes that dotted the lake like confetti. That familiar hum of adrenaline settled into my stomach as I managed the sheets under Chris’s calm (but focused) commands. At the sound of the gun, we were off—third over the line, our new  sails filling beautifully as we charged up the course. Max, Karen, Jay and Kenna buzzed by, aboard the pontoon boat they rented, cheering “GERONIMO!” as we so often hear echoing from friends and family on the shoreline. 

We finished sixth, but it was a tight race—one of those finishes where you’re still grinning, knowing you fought for every inch. Spirits were high.

Then came the second start.

We were forced to tack early to avoid a couple of rogue kayakers who had paddled right into the starting area, throwing off our timing and positioning. Still, we clawed our way back, picking off boats one by one. It was shaping up to be a decent recovery… until we rounded the second downwind mark. That’s when we collided with Red Eye.

For those unfamiliar, The Red Eye Special (aka Red Eye) is the legendary boat owned by Chris’s Uncle Scooter—the godfather of the Victory 21 fleet, and quite literally the reason we’re all here. For the first time in over two decades, Scooter wasn’t at the helm. Instead, he passed the tiller to his fraternity brother and longtime crew, Chuck Phillips—known to us as Uncle Chuck.

Red Eye is notorious for always landing on the podium. Their crew never reveals their secrets—black magic, we joke—but we’ve spent years trying to beat them. We just never imagined it would happen like this.

“You see Red Eye coming up?” I asked from the bow, bracing to douse the whisker pole. We were on a downwind port tack about to round the mark, while Red Eye was on an upwind starboard tack.

“Yeah, I see them,” Chris replied—right as Chuck’s “STARBOARD!” cut through the wind. In a blink, our boom was against their cap shroud, pulling them from their course and breaking their mast in half. 

I jumped out of the way and hauled the whisker pole in, followed by the jib sheet. The air went still in my lungs as I turned to see Red Eye’s sails crumpling over what remained of her mast. Chris’s face had gone pale—wide-eyed and shaken—as he dropped his head into his hands, trying to process what had just happened.

“I’ll call it in,” I said, reaching for the radio. Chris shook his head, and said he would do it. He repeated my words into the radio “Race Committee, race committee, race committee, this is Victory sail number 553. We collided with Victory sail number 00. Both crews are uninjured. Chase Boat 2 is on the scene. 553 is retiring from the race.”

Chris nodded and followed suit. What should have been a spirited downwind leg turned into a quiet, somber sail back to the dock, where Red Eye was already under tow. Chris was devastated. Embarrassed. Heartbroken. Of all the boats on the water, we had to hit Red Eye—the boat. The patriarch of Victory 21 sailing.

I jumped off at the launch ramp to fend Geronimo off while Chris made his way to Chuck and his crew, who had just stepped off their wounded vessel. Scooter wasn’t far behind, climbing off the boat he’d been watching the race from.

“I’m not gonna hit you, son,” Scooter said with a half-smile, pulling Chris into a hug. 

From my side of the ramp I watched both “Uncles” embrace Chris, steadying him with their quiet understanding. No yelling. No blame. Just a shared weight of unfortunate circumstance, softened by decades of camaraderie. I watched as they rolled up Red Eye’s sails—those iconic double zeroes with red pupils—carefully stowing them away like a wounded flag. Our original plan had been to offer Geronimo to Chuck and the crew so they could race in Red Eye’s place, but Chuck declined. Instead, he offered up another solution. Everyone was okay. Boats can be fixed. Family? That’s forever.

I sailed Geronimo back to the dock with Jon while Chris helped Red Eye regroup. Mitch and Quincey had halyard issues aboard Little Blue Boat, so when Chris returned, we dropped their mast to sort it out. Then, our floating friends arrived via pontoon boat and the real therapy began: Sunsetter cocktails from the China Peak Boathouse, baby snuggles from 5-month-old Obi, and laughter so hard it left our abs sore.

But… what happened? It happened so quickly it is hard to really decide what went wrong. The easy answer: Chris thought he had room. He didn’t see their boom on starboard tack.

That night, we cozied up and displayed our annual viewing of Wind—the sailing movie that inspired us to name Geronimo. We usually watch it before the regatta. This time, the universe demanded a post-incident viewing. Considering a similar incident occurred in the movie, we couldn’t help but feel like we were fulfilling some prophecy…talk about poetic timing.

Sunday: From the Shoreline

The last time I watched a regatta from the shore, I was 14 and clueless. Chris was still “just a friend” and had invited me to watch him race his boat on Huntington lake — the lake I seldom visited because it was far too cold and windy in comparison to Shaver. Nothing made sense as the boats went back and forth, but now, with some seasons under my belt, I watched with intent. It was much more than boats just going “back and forth” … they were playing the wind, strategically pushing each other over the start line early, and calling starboard whenever they could. Chris was crewing aboard Geronimo, with Uncle Chuck at the tiller—a solution to Red Eye’s retirement from the regatta and a unique learning opportunity for Chris. 

Geronimo looked stunning. Our crimson Victory 21, now donning new sails from Precision Sails with the “Geronimo” logo displayed on the headsail danced across the lake with elegance. She held her own, finishing fourth in the first race. “It’s not just me!” I joked from shore, realizing Geronimo may just be comfy in fourth no matter who’s steering.

The second race saw a better start, and they crossed the finish in third. While Chris derigged the boat, I helped pack camp and toasted with our friends to a weekend well-lived with shots of Jameson and boozy watermelon. We gave Chris a round of applause as he rejoined us, filling his hands with a solo cup and a fork full of watermelon. “Crewing is hard,” he said, collapsing into the camper. “I have a newfound appreciation for you” he said to me with tired eyes. 

After awards on the beach, we ended the day with our annual fleet photo, this year bigger than ever. New babies, new boats, familiar faces, and growing traditions—it’s what makes this regatta more than a race. It’s a reunion. 

Before we parted ways, Uncle Chuck—ever the mentor—had a list of notes for me. Rigging suggestions, tuning tips, racing strategies… each one delivered like a nugget of gold passed down from a master craftsman. It wasn’t criticism—it was legacy. He was sharing the secrets that have made Red Eye a legend, handing them to us not as a consolation, but as a challenge. We have the tools. We have the tribe. And with every lesson learned, we’re one step closer to seeing Geronimo on that podium.

And we won’t stop chasing it.

We returned to Runaground Ranch full of memories, laughter, and maybe a few new bruises (emotional and physical). But what happened next? You’ll have to wait for the next post on svavocet.com 😉

Until then… fair winds and fast starts,

Marissa (and Chris and Cleo)