THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 17, 1994 TAG: 9407170068
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY DEBRA GORDON, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: PORTSMOUTH LENGTH: Long : 101 lines
The crew of Impetuous One knew it was going to be a rough day when the cock crowed at 4:45 a.m. And kept crowing.
They couldn't shoot him, or throw him overboard or even suffocate him with a pillowcase, because this was the cock, the mascot, for Saturday's seventh annual Cock Island Race, sanctioned by the Cruising Club of Virginia.
Say hello to Commodore Crawford, 8-month-old Cochin rooster from Portsmouth.
He's about the size of a Frank Perdue oven stuffer, with russet feathers, blood-red comb and wattle, and two black feathers in the back for interest. He replaced Sir Clifford, race mascot for two years, who died of a heart attack in January.
Before Sir Clifford, there was a rubber rooster.
So Crawford was excited about his first race. The sun was rising and he wanted his captain, Mark Goodbrand, and his co-owners, Ursula Webb and Louis Goodman, to get up and get going.
Cock-a-doooodle-dooooo, he crowed.
``Shut that damn bird up,'' came the call from the boat docked next door. ``Or I'm going to fry him.''
Lucky for Crawford, the sleepy sailor never made good on his threat. By 10 a.m., loaded with beer and sandwiches (and dried corn and iced water for Crawford), purple flag tied to the stern, the 37-foot cruiser was ready to go, joining 312 other yachts in the Elizabeth River race, prelude to the party that would follow back at Portside.
The area of Portsmouth the racers sail to takes its colloquial name from history. But unlike his ancestors, who were carried to Cock Island on the sailing vessels of the 18th and early 19th centuries for cock fighting, Crawford had nothing to worry about. As long as he could keep his sea feet steady, not get seasick and avoid falling overboard, he was in chicken heaven.
Bang! As the gun sounded the start Crawford stood oblivious. He stared out the port side of the boat, blinking his eyes, ignoring Webb's clucking, her voice imploring him to crow.
``You crowed at sunup this morning, why won't you crow now?'' she asked.
But Crawford, never one to be talked into crowing when he just didn't feel like it, kept staring.
The race started out true to form - hot, hazy and humid, without a breath of wind. An hour later, the breeze quickened and the boat gathered speed, passing other yachts, even cutting a small wake.
Suddenly, there was a beeping sound, then a grinding noise and then no noise - or movement - at all. Impetuous One was aground on Lively Point.
It could have been that no one was watching the depth gauge. Or maybe the shallows just weren't marked well enough on the map. Or maybe no one was reading the map.
An hour of rocking and pushing, of pulling ropes and switching sides on the mainsail, and the boat finally floated off the sandbar.
Everyone cheered.
Except Crawford. He'd gone to sleep.
And the wind had died.
``Take that chicken off,'' Goodman said. ``He's a useless mascot.''
Off on the horizon, though, the sky darkened. Then a slight wind kicked in.
Suddenly, there was a real wind, and for the first time in the 3-hour-old race, the boat was sailing, really sailing, its port side dipping so low into the water that the deck was wet. Crawford tried to stand as his cage dipped toward the water, then he gave up and sat down again.
Under the strong wind power, soon joined by rain, thunder and lightening, the crew sailed to the midpoint buoy, turned around, realized they'd gone to the wrong buoy, sailed to the right buoy, turned around, and started back home - to Cock Island, the finish line and cold beer.
They passed one boat with a purple flag flying from its stern and cheered. ``At least we won't be the last in the class,'' Webb said.
As it turned out, about half a dozen boats in Impetuous One's class were still in the river by the time Goodbrand motored into Portside at 3 p.m. Of course, 250 other boats were already waiting there.
And then the crew saw him. The other mascot of the Race to Cock Island. The man who sailed the race naked. ILLUSTRATION: Color photos
D. KEVIN ELLIOTT/Staff
Ursula Webb holds Commodore Crawford, the mascot of the seventh
annual Cock Island Race.
PAUL AIKEN/Staff
The Cock Island Race fleet of sailboats spreads out over the
Elizabeth River as sailors compete in the racing part of the annual
event. A party, which some feel is the more important part of the
race, awaited the sailors at the finish line.
Photo
D. KEVIN ELLIOTT/Staff
Sailboats try to get the ghosty wind to fill their spinnakers
Saturday during the Cock Island Race. Hot and hazy weather gave way
to thunderstorm - with plenty of wind.
by CNB