(Author’s Note: This column first appeared in the September 2016 edition of Freshwater News.  If you’ve ever wondered what makes those guys on the pointy end tick, well, this may not answer the question.  But hopefully it will bring a little entertainment to your day.  Because that’s what those crazies up there do for me.  Bowmen (and women) of the sailing world, I salute you!

I’ll be the first to admit that I work the foredeck when I’m required to, not because I’m all that good at it.  Ask most of my boating buddies, and they’ll tell you that my skills at sail trim, helming and bringing fresh beers to the crew don’t necessarily translate into nice, crisp spinnaker sets and douses.  Our chute might go up, but I make no guarantees that it will go up in the right configuration or attitude.  That mass of foreguys, topping lifts, afterguys, sheets and halyards makes perfect sense to me…back in the cockpit.  Put me up at the pointy end however, and at least when it comes to more complicated rigs, that whole thing starts to look like a plate of spaghetti, without the fork and marinara sauce.

Maybe that’s why I harbor a quiet respect for bowmen who can work in a small area, get that whole conglomeration rigged and ready, and do it without going over the lifelines.  Usually.  Case in point is the somewhat famous story of Greg Prussia, who’s worked for Dennis Conner and John Kolius, among others.  It was in the ’92 Admiral’s Cup regatta with Kolius that Prussia probably cemented his reputation as a little crazy (probably) and very unflappable (most certainly).

“In the Fastnet Race it was between us and an English 50-footer, and we were more or less match racing them to Fastnet Rock. It was really blowing…and we’re out there bashing around with our No. 2s up.  But it was one of those deals where it’s so close that you don’t want to change your headsail unless the other guy does. So we got ready, and the next thing you know the other guy’s jib just rips in half. So I run up to change our jib, with the halyard in my right hand and the new jib in my left, and all of a sudden we come off a wave and crash down to the bottom. The bow’s dropping faster than I am, so I’m kind of up in the air for a while, and when I land on deck my hand just touches the No. 2, and it explodes. I go flying out through the shreds, still with the jib and halyard, and I figure, ‘Well, better leave the jib on the boat.’ So I let go of that, reach up and grab the halyard with my other hand, swing back, drag through the water, and just unzip the rest of the jib all the way back. Now I’m hanging there like Tarzan, thinking ‘Here comes the transom.’ So I let go and catch the stern pulpit with both hands, and all of a sudden I’m just standing on the stern, outside the lifelines. Up on the rail, everybody’s eyes are all over the place, trying to see where I am.  Kolius turns around and sees me and says, ‘Prussia, what the hell are you doing there? Get back on the bow and put that jib up.’ ”

Or the story of former America’s Cup bowman Jerry Kirby who, having arrived late to the docks for a race in Newport, Rhode Island, had his girlfriend drive him to the Newport Bridge.  His boat had already left for the starting line, and as it steamed under the bridge, Kirby jumped into Narragansett Bay, fortunately close to his ride and fellow crew members, who were kind enough to pick him up.  I’m assuming Kirby didn’t jump from the highest point of the bridge, which looks awfully suicidal to me.  Nevertheless, as I’ve said more than once in this column, “It’s a story too good to fact check.”

This gift of incredible physical balance, paired with a healthy dose of emotional unbalance, isn’t reserved for the rock stars, either.  I’ve worked with a handful of men and women who call the front of the boat home.  Pretty much every one of them seems to stay calm in the face of impending disaster while being able to sort out a labyrinth of lines, Kevlar and nylon.  They can re-pack a chute in a cramped space below decks, and do it in the time it takes us to get from the windward mark to the leeward mark (and to my amazement, those re-packed sails USUALLY go up the right way).  They also seem (at least from my viewpoint) to be able to work diligently on their craft even when the afterguard is questioning their every move.  Heck, Sailing Anarchy’s ‘Foredeck Union’ tee shirt even had a special website dedicated solely to frequently asked questions coming from the dry end of the boat.  This being more of a PG-rated blog, decorum prohibits me from sharing the address, but you get the idea.

I know one bowman who insists on working barefoot, despite all the interesting deck fittings seemingly designed to peel back toenails and break that little toe on the end.  Or the foredeck master who still works at the point, even though he’s several (and I mean many several) years older than me.  I even know one eccentric bowman who can carry out all his foredeck duties while smoking a cigarette…and never lose his smoke overboard.

Bowmen.  They’re just playing with a whole different set of clubs.