What luck! Saturday evening after the concert, we were visiting Belto at The Delicate Bar. “Day rasin dee botes tumarrow,” he said.

“Really?” I asked excitedly. The boats he was talking about are hand-crafted open beauties, built of wood in Anguilla. They race class A 28-footers and class B 21-footers numerous times during the season. Racing began decades ago, when the boats carrying men to other islands to cut sugar cane spiced up the long, boring trip with a bit of competition. Back home, fishermen competed against each other to get out to and from the fishing grounds. Now, it’s the national sport of Anguilla. Tens of thousands of dollars are poured into building and maintaining these gorgeous boats and local businesses sponsor them. More money pumps out as serious betting begins before each designated event.

Years ago, on our second visit to the island, we arrived a few days before the Easter weekend. In our wanderings around the island we’d admired a dry-docked 21-foot boat near Blowing Point. The owner and captain, Beau, saw us and came over to answer our questions about how the boats are built and raced. The name of his freshly painted red, white and blue vessel, Press On, was missing, so Bruce volunteered to paint it on the sides of the boat for him. Beau accepted and after getting to know Bruce, invited him to join as crew.

On Easter Monday, one of the biggest race days of the year, the boats began to appear. Some were tailored down to Sandy Ground from all over the island; others were towed there by sea. The beach turned into a party of festive colors, with hulls painted bright blue, yellow, orange, red and green and names blazoned on the sides: Natalie, Warrior, Wasp, UFO, Lady Love, De Tree … and a dozen others, including, of course, Press On.

Each boat needs 8 to 20 crew members, depending on the size. Many of the crews sported team shirts and everyone displayed a unity of spirit. The boats sit in shallow water while crews work frantically to load in ballast of painted boulders, lead or sand bags; the rudder, the mast, the main sail and the jib. As the excitement builds, the friendly yelling crescendos (verbal sparring is part of the sport).

Out of the hundreds of crew on the beach that day, Bruce was the only non-local, but he fit right in with the Press On crew. When the gun fired signaling the start, almost everyone was onboard, except for a few stragglers running down the beach. Each boat keeps one or two people in the water to push off. Jibs are snapped open and the boats fly downwind, looking like giant butterflies with pristine white wings.

On Press On, as in the other boats, there came a time in the race when it was necessary to lose some weight. Beau instructed the crew, “Cut de sand open!” Their bags were heavy plastic sacks filled with sand, stitched closed. The fellows were having a hard time opening the bags when Bruce, who’d been working quietly the whole time, said, “Do you need a knife?”

“You gotta knife, mon?” they asked, incredulously. A quick slice got the job done. Bruce couldn’t believe they didn’t routinely carry knives and they couldn’t believe he had one.

The race ended that day in Crocus Bay on the north side of the island. Drink and barbeque shacks lined the beach, each surrounded by tall, black pulsing speakers playing reggae and dance hall music. Everyone was recounting the event, blow by blow (a few boats had broken down, one sank and one just split in half).

Through our many visits to Anguilla, we’ve lucked out and witnessed half a dozen races. Now here we were on our first visit to the island in seven years watching one again … and on Opening Day, no less! A tent on the beach directly in front of us was set up with a microphone, speakers and three jumbo trophies. A dignitary welcomed everyone, the National Anthem of Anguilla was sung by a young girl, followed by a song written just for race days. Bruce was sailing his Petite Martinique sailing skiff, Funny World, cruising the shore where the action was happening. I stayed aboard Woody to photograph the start.

As Bruce tacked close to one of the boats, his rudder caught its poly-propylene anchor line. He snapped his rudder off, pulled the line out and apologized. “No problem, mon. Everyting good,” replied one of the crew. After beaching Funny World to get a look and photograph the shore-side frenzy, Bruce ran into some visitors from St. Croix we’d met the night before. One was carrying on about how he’d love to have a chance to crew on one of the boats. Bruce left, walking further down the beach where the race boat R.O.B.B. was being rigged and heard the captain say, “Whay de udda fella? We’re one short. Whay de fella?”

Bruce asked, “You need a crew?”

“You wan go?” asked.

Bruce answered, “There’s a fellow down the beach who wants to go.”

“Make it quick,” replied the captain.

Bruce found the guy at Elvis’ Bar, but when he heard his wishes had been granted, he hemmed and hawed, complained about the rail-to-rail motion of the boats and the fact that he might get wet. “I’ll go,” Bruce told him, leaving quickly to stash his things in Funny World, except for his knife, and headed back to R.O.B.B. He told the captain, “The other fellow wants to spend time with his drink but I’ll go.”

Ten minutes passed, giving Bruce a chance to check out the boat. Rugged and real, built with wood frames and glued wooden planks, it had a spattering of modern blocks. Inside were three sandbags of sewn plastic vinyl cloth with webbed handles and zippered closures. Under them sat 500 pounds of lead. A fellow nearby yelled a $100 bet to Beggar, the captain. “No, no, not dis time,” he responded.

Bruce added, “You’d have to give him odds, ’cause I’m onboard.”

Finally Beggar announced, “Come, come, we jump on de boat.” He looked at Bruce and asked, “Dis ya first time?”

“No, I sailed before.”

Beggar pointed and directed him, “So, when we’re out today, you sit here and ova here. Dat’s all you do.” The whole crew then yelled a bunch of stuff to each other and they set off for a quick practice run, downwind and back up. In Anguilla racing, there is no starboard or port tacks; only north tack and south tack. No one has right of way, as in American yacht racing. When one boat tacks, the other nearby boat must tack, too.

Their practice run brought them past Woodwind. One of their crew gave me a friendly wave and I waved back. Busy snapping photos, I didn’t see that it was Bruce!

After the practice run, the boat was in shallow water and the fellows were laying on the rail. Then, for no apparent reason, everyone jumped up, yelling, “Jib! Jib!” One fellow gave a tug on the stern anchor to turn the boat around, then passed the line toward the bow, where another man gave an extra pull to shoot them forward. Beggar yelled, “Check stay,” and someone untied the jib. They flew toward Woodwind, where I was snapping away, still unaware that Bruce was on the boat.

The first boat to round the downwind stake makes the choice of rounding it to starboard or port. Whatever they choose, every other boat must do the same. Being in first place, Beggar faked out the boat behind them at the stake, giving them a few more feet of lead. The main sheet was wrapped tight on a chalk for the first tack to windward. “Here come someting. We got them now. Gentlemen, let’s press on now.”

Seeing that the boats were on the upwind leg, I rowed ashore to get the digital camera from Bruce to photograph the finish. I checked at Elvis’ Bar, Johnno’s and on down the beach. He wasn’t at Belto’s. He was nowhere to be found and everyone I asked hadn’t seen him.

R.O.B.B. was entering the bay. They had been in first place the whole race, but lost ground and the race to Storm on the last tack. They touched the finishing buoy and congratulated each other. “We did good, mon.” “Yeah, mon, good race.”

I was just nearing them and recognized Bruce’s hat. I ran to get the digital camera from Funny World and began clicking as they untied the jib, stripped the rig and emptied the boat of ballast. I asked one of the crew what R.O.B.B. stands for. “Return of Bluebird” he announced. Bluebird was a famous 28-foot boat that had been sized down.

After collecting the second-place prize, Beggar waved to Bruce and gave him his business card and a T-shirt. “Dis me bizness. I’m a boat builder.” They talked about R.O.B.B. and Beggar explained that his father and grandfather were both well known boat builders on Anguilla. Bluebird had been their boat.

Just as we were turning to leave, Beggar shook Bruce’s hand and gave him the biggest compliment. “If ya around on Easter Monday, you sail with us on da 28-footer.” That would have been sweet, but, as usual, it’s time for us to “press on.”

Jan