The Pilot Gig World Champs one…

The boat rose and fell in the gentle swell of the shallow and mercilessly calm Atlantic waters that surrounded the tiny Isles of Scilly. It was a crystal clear morning and the sun, having lazily chased away much of the cloud, was now gazing down upon us.

As I sat looking down the boat at the rest of the crew, the callouses on my hands were a very real reminder of the toil it had taken to get here. Here being the start line of the Cornish Pilot Gig World Championships.

The river-based training sessions, the desperate search for a boat, the regattas and practice races, the scramble to find accommodation - even the forming of an official club 6 months before. They were all behind us now. And we were here. Racing proper.

We were 3 plus hours south west of mainland Britain, having survived the vomit-inducing journey from Penzance to St Mary’s on the Scillonian. It’s a boat so shallow of draught that you feel queasy just by looking at it. It’s almost unbelievable that this is a royal ship…

Back on the water and the view was spectacular. A beautiful kaleidoscope of colour as gigs bobbed up and down on an emerald blue vastness. Collectively, we were nervously excited of what was to come.

As we waited, my breathing slowed a little as I looked at the others in the boat. “We’re here for a good time, not a fast time” went the crew motto. And yet a few nervous jokes made mention of the wooden spoon. Surely not?!

I noticed how my arms ached a little and my legs felt a tad wobbly. We had just completed the 2 mile "warm up", starting from Town Beach in Hugh Town, St Mary's and rowed out towards St Agnes from where the race would start and all 170 boats would turn around and race back.

That's right,  I could already feel the sense of effort and we'd only just completed the warm up.

If I didn't understand it fully there and then, I would soon come to realise just how technique matters when trying to row a gig at speed. Poor form could not simply be compensated by determination or land loper fitness. The beers from the The Mermaid Inn the evening before had likely not helped either, though I took mild consolation that a thousand other gig rowers had seemed to be in the pub too.

On the water, the atmosphere was now tense, the only sound were the waves lapping against the sides of the boats. A vague line had formed, each cox trying to time their crew’s start perfectly. It was at about this time we were desperately trying to face the right way. Each time the race seemed destined to start, a crew or other was told to back up, having nudged ahead of the rest. It resembled the runners and riders of the Grand National jockeying for position as they awaited the starters orders.

And then the horn blew.

I can only attempt to describe what happened next.

Shouting. White water. And a lot of frantic effort.

Momentarily forgetting this was a 2 mile race, I went full guns while adrenaline pumped through my veins.

I can imagine that far off in the distance, it looked glorious. An army of boats suddenly sent into battle, full of energy and gusto. The narrow leaf Elm of our borrowed gig ‘Fear Not’ strained as we entered what felt like the world's biggest bubble bath. A cacophony of noise erupted as the coxs' of the lead boats shouted at their crews, desperate to find the calm, and therefore quicker, waters which would lead them back to the harbour wall, and the finish line.

Safe to say, we found ourselves in a place where the water was less than calm and time itself seemed to slow down almost to a stop. My perception of how fast we were moving and the distance we'd travelled didn't hold with reality as the lead boats leapt ahead and gigs past us in frenzied fashion.

I distinctly remember taking a stroke and not making any contact with water whatsoever.

Suddenly we found ourselves in that hallowed calm water. I dared to take a glance over my shoulder and realised this was because most of the other gigs were so far out in front, even the bow waves were subsiding by the time they reached us.

Still, we gritted our collective teeth and persevered like the virgin sea racing Cornish pilot gig racers we were.

When the Atlantic's equivalent of the dust had settled, I figured we were in 169th place. Not through any special mathematical ability, but because there were only 170 boats in the race.

And yet, I've never felt such adrenaline or expended so much effort in a bid to simply avoid finishing last.

The next 2 miles seemed to take an eternity, which judging by our finish time was almost a precise technical term for just how slow and laboured our poor little gig had been.

But we finished. We crossed the finish line and, with the oars momentarily suspended high in the air, we wore proud smiles. The London Cornish Pilot Gig Club had arrived.

Our first competitive (in the broadest sense of the word) sea race was over.  The crowds lining the beach and harbour wall made us feel part of this incredible event, as the cheering and festival atmosphere spilled out of every nook and every cranny. We gently rowed back to Town beach. 

We finished in 168th place, having gained a position on the run in to home. We'd made it. We were part of the club. And our performance could only improve. Literally.

Later that evening we were sat in another of St Mary's overflowing pubs, reflecting on the day and how the race had gone. The emotions were a mix of relief, pride and excitement for what lay ahead (and the subsequent day's racing).

I forget exactly when it was we found out, but boats 169 and 170 in the race had been the visually impaired and super vets boat. No matter - as we sang sea shanties and quaffed the local ale, you couldn't tell who'd come where. In fact, it seemed like the rowing of a pilot gig was perhaps just a pretence to having a damn good knees up in a bewilderingly beautiful place.

Training for Lands' End to John O'Groats

The celebrations went on, and on. Let's just say I left the pub at some point before the next day's racing. I was told, for I had little to no idea, that to get back to my lodgings at somewhere called "the Moos", I had to follow the road and bear right at the fork.

It didn't occur to me to ask such simple questions as ‘how far?’ or even, ‘which road?’ Such trivialities were not forefront of my mind when leaving the pub.

I started walking along the road (which I found out later was pretty much the only road) and had barely reached the end of the street when I heard a bicycle coming up behind me. I couldn't see it, or its rider, so I jumped to the side of the road.

The bicycle stopped.

"Where you going?" - said a voice in the dark.

"A place called the Moos?" - I said, slightly bewildered.

"Ah. I live next door. Want a lift?"

"Sure" - I said, feeling anything but sure that a) I wanted a lift and b) that the rider or his bike could take the extra weight.

My bike taxi driver and I arranged ourselves on to the bike so that he was stood up doing the hard work and I was sat on the slightly uncomfortable pannier rack at the back.

At least, I think that's what the two of us were doing as it was so dark, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. How he kept the bike on the road I simply couldn't guess.

A short while later, I discovered he was a local, out to enjoy a beer or three at the very same pub I'd frequented. Our paths up to this point hadn't crossed.

I mumbled a vague question about him having enjoyed the day's gig racing, to which he replied, "didn't see it. I was training for LEJOG all day".

Now, I may not have been firing on all cognitive cylinders but even I knew that St Mary's was a tiny island with very few roads and wouldn't lend itself well to preparing for one of the UK's longest bike events.

"Oh I just did laps"

"How many" - I asked.

"About 150. I think" - said the voice.

Silence followed.

And with that the bike stopped. We'd reached our destination. I was stood outside of the Moos. 

Standing bleary eyed, I wasn't quite sure what to say. Was I more impressed we'd made it back in one piece or by the scale of the man's ambition in the face of such obvious training limitations.  I wished my bike taxi rider well on his LEJOG preparation as he disappeared into the night.

I never did catch his name or find out whether he completed LEJOG. I like to think he might still be doing laps of St Mary's, busy preparing for another “off island” event and giving others a backy on the way back from the pub.