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Follow the Belgians!
By Karen Soltero
In 1999, curious to experience sailing in other parts of
the world, my father broke out his passport and with the
help of the internet, secured a loaner boat and a crew
to sail in a small local regatta in Cazau, in the south of
France. Enthralled by the new challenges sailing in a
foreign county presented, from language barriers to entirely
new weather and water conditions, he decided that he should
go again, and that this time, I should come with him. We made
two trips to France together in the decade that has just fallen
behind us, to sail in the Snipe Open de France, their national
championships. It was a wholly different world of sailing.
From wine flowing like water, to topless sunbathing sailors, to
those Belgians, who inspired the catchphrase that now resides
permanently in the Soltero family sailing lexicon, and is
invoked frequently. Usually by me.
In August of 2003, we made our way, with the help of a
rental car and my stellar map-reading abilities, from the bustle
of Paris to Annecy, a tiny town nestled in the Alps, near the
Swiss border. The first thing that is different about sailing in
Europe, I noted immediately upon check-in. The local inn was
a far cry from even your average Best Western. I’d elaborate,
but then we’d run out of room for the stuff this story’s really
about. The first morning of the regatta, still suffering from
a mild case of jet lag, we readied our boat, borrowed from
the lovely Romain family, and met our competition. Sailors
from all over France, the UK and of course, Belgium. Yes, the
Belgians. A married couple, who also happened to be retired
professional ballet dancers. Yes, you read that right. And yes, I
underestimated them, but not for long.
The weather started out calm, and the biggest challenge
was remembering that when it came to sailing terms, we
had to yet again, learn a new language. Starboard was now
“tribord,” a word that was yelled with increasing gusto by a
number of skippers as an unscheduled storm rolled in, as I
now know they are wont to do on little mountain lakes, and
the calm waters were replaced by some serious chop. By now,
those Belgian ballerinas were well ensconced in the first place
position and we were somewhere points south and east of the
middle of the pack. We had taken a flyer. It did not pay off.
Not to mention the fact that amidst the fray, we mistook a horn
for a cancellation signal and accidentally abandoned the race
before crossing the finish. Hello, DNF. The Belgians won.
The rest of the day was called off and we had to drop
sails as we came in too fast to the dock, crew after crew,
unfortunately me included, jumping off their boats into the
cold water to guide their vessels safely in. After a hot shower,
we headed to the dinner. The French drink wine, good wine,
quite literally by the box. There was no soda, no water. We
might have forgotten that our American tolerance might not be
up to snuff. And hey, we’d had a rough day. The next morning
brought back the sun, much to the delight of some of the
female French crews, who were making ample use of it before
Karen and Gene Soltero race at the French Nationals.
the races began, as they stretched out on the dock, topless. You
don’t see that everyday.
And as the races began, so did my new battle cry. “Follow
the Belgians!” I said it, or possibly yelled it so many times
it probably drove my father something akin to insane. But it
worked, and since they were so good that there was no way to
beat them, that second place was just fine with me. Needless
to say, our mixed performance evened out and we finished
the regatta somewhere in the middle of the pack, a lackluster
performance if there ever was one. But the allure of shouting
sailing terms in foreign languages, the thrill of crazy weather
and heck, all that wine, had us ready to come back for more.
We didn’t make it back to the Snipe Open de France until
2006 and by then, we were ready for victory. Our second tour
of duty together took us to another little town, this one in a
basin on the southwest coast of France. Archachon was home
to slightly better lodging than our last locale, not to mention
a definite beach vacation vibe. It was August again, and the
weather was balmy. We would be sailing on the ocean, on the
outside edge of the basin. There was just one caveat. When
the tide cleared out of the basin each day, it really cleared out.
Leaving boats heaving on their sides in the wet sand. That first
day, we had to wait until early evening, when a small river
would appear, just wide enough and deep enough for us to sail
on as we made our way out to sea.
Cue the crazy weather patterns. While it was balmy and
barely breezy at the beach, the conditions where we were
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