On the seventh day a narrow, five-foot-long crack opened in the port hull. There was no immediate danger of sinking, but to be safe the cat slowed for two days, waiting for another sail to give them company just in case. When another racer finally hove in sight, the catamaran piled the canvas back on and aimed for the finish.
After 10 days and 15 hours, they reached Honolulu. The crew, bearded, tanned, barefoot and having lost an average of 14 pounds to the man, looked like something out of Typee. Their time, however, was quite respectable: 2 days 8 hours faster than the over-all winner Staghound, 1 day 10 hours faster than the Class C winner, 19 hours ahead of the Class B winner, and only 10 hours behind the Class A winner, which was 35 feet longer than the cat.
None of this made the keelboatmen any happier. While most were willing to concede the cat a place, that place was not necessarily full in the sun.
Said Chairman Ira Fulmor: "I don't think the cat should horn in on organized racing."
Said Class A Winner Frank Hooykaas: "There should be a class only for catamarans, and a separate award."
Said Class C Winner Peter Grant: "I wish they hadn't started this."
VOICES OF SPORT
The lean, or post-McGraw, Giant fan husbands his memories; now that the wine of victory has begun to taste of wormwood with a Brooklyn bouquet, he reflects often on the vintage years 1951 and 1954. So it is that while followers of sport generally will find much to savor in Columbia's Greatest Moments in Sports, a 12-inch LP now in record shops, addicts of the Giants should be transported beyond compare. For on this disk, along with the voices of many superstars (and a supergoat or two) of the last three decades, is preserved that quintessential fragment of Giant drama, the pennant-winning Bobby Thomson home run as described in happy delirium by Broadcaster Russ Hodges.
The Thomson nugget is a fractional part of a 40-minute record whose emphasis is on baseball and boxing, with excursions into football, horse racing, track and tennis. Here are Babe Ruth, speaking with lighthearted zest in his prime, with humility and aching difficulty when near death; Lou Gehrig in his famous farewell; Knute Rockne in a locker-room fight talk to end them all; Roger Bannister, still panting from the exertions of the first four-minute mile, gracious in victory; Roy Riegels, courageously facing the music after that wrong-way run. Here, too, are Dempsey and Tunney and Louis and a mixed bag of the Bomber's foes. The voices of these and others are linked by a running narration.
That the Thomson incident was preserved only by lucky accident (by a boy fiddling at home with a tape recorder, then thoughtfully selling the tape to Hodges' sponsor) was typical of the 13-month search for material by the producers, Bud Greenspan, former sports broadcaster, and James Hammerstein, stage manager of that other sporting venture, Broadway's Damn Yankees, and son of Oscar Hammerstein II. A sports motion picture team now, Greenspan and Hammerstein prowled network and newsreel vaults (and discovered that some potentially rich collections had been destroyed), appealed to sports personalities for leads, beamed newspaper ads at private collectors, dodged purveyors of phony re-creations. "We skipped the sound of Man o' War's hoofbeats," Greenspan said, "because people might say it could be any old dobbin."