Masters Poetry

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Full Rig Fever by Grand Master John D-E        The Man from Sydney Harbour by Grand Master Mark Bethwaite

Full Rig Fever (by John D-E with apologies to John Masefield)

 I must down to the seas again to the lonely sea and the sky
And all I ask is a full rig and some carbon to steer her by
And the tillerís kick and the windís song and the North sails shaking
And a big lift and a season without my top mast breaking

I must down to the seas again but for the call of Rule 42
Could be a wild call or a clear call that may cause a DSQ
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying
And a straight mast, a tight leach and flat out reaching 

I must down to the seas again for the (Grand) Masters life
Is the best way, and the mateís way where the wit is like a knife
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow master
But most of all, to sail the full rig when I'm 65 -- and after



The Man from Sydney Harbour (by Mark Bethwaite)

 There was movement in the boat park, for the word had passed around
That the Meltem was going to blow that day.
For the elders of the Squadron had gathered there at Bodrum
To join the Masters who had gathered to the fray. 

All the tried and noted sailors had come to stake their claims
They had mustered at that venue for the Worlds
For the Aussies love hard sailing, when the dogs are blown off chains
And some of them had even brought their girls.

There was old Flakelar, who made his pile when Lohnro won the Cup
With Nina there to help when he was spent.
There was Colin Cain and Reddie, to add some further glamour
And there of course, was Robert Lowndes who mainly added clamour. 

So out we went on Bodrum Sound, to face the might and fury
Of the Meltem and the water, and not the least the Jury.
We raced away into the wind, with hearts and muscles straining
And carved out a useful margin, thanks to all that solid training.

When we reached the first work summit, even Bethwaite took a pull
It well might make the boldest hold their breath.
The Meltem blew more fiercely, the hidden course was full
Of crest and troughs a plenty, and any slip was death.

But the Man from Sydney Harbour, he let his Laser have its head
He swung his tiller round and gave a cheer.
He raced it down the run leg like a torrent down its bed
While the others paused and watched in very fear.

He sent the spindrift flying, but the Laser kept its feet
He cleared the falling water in his stride.
And the Man from Sydney Harbour never shifted in his seat
It was grand to see that Laser sailor slide.

Through Apprentices and Masters, on the rough and broken Sound
Down the run leg at a fearful pace he went.
And he never drew the mainsheet, till he landed safe and sound
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He turned the mark in style, and then he looked around
To find himself the only one afloat.
And alone and unassisted, on sailed Robert Lowndes
To win the race Ö in that gallant little boat.


but with apologies to Banjo Paterson