When someone invites you to the 37th America’s World Cup, there’s little reason to hesitate. It’s the oldest international sports trophy competition operating since 1851. The race was being held this year in Barcelona, another good reason to say yes. I went with my Kiwi friend, meaning that he hails from New Zealand, a country that has held the cup for two consecutive competitions.
I knew nothing about sailing or the America’s Cup, other than the 34th Cup was held in San Francisco. Oracle’s CEO Larry Ellison had then bankrolled Oracle Team USA which won the match after lagging behind New Zealand. 8-1. Factoid: Challengers have to win seven our of thirteen races to walk away with the coveted silver cup, useful for drinking large amounts of champagne and requiring the winning country to keep the trophy safe until next time. The 2013 race was the first one that used foiling.
Foiling in a highly engineered technique that allows a 75-foot long boat to fly over the water like a pelican seeking its fish, like a water spider skating over a pond, and to do so, it has wing-like hydrofoils, sails, and no keel. Amid all this sophisticated technology there’s also four grunts, or cyclors who pedal stationary bicycles that power the hydraulic system which trims the sails. They laugh about their pain and suffering producing copious pools of sweat that roll off their arms and backs in hurricane-like fury. The total crew size is eight people, four cyclors, two captains of the ship, (a skipper and a helmsman) and two trimmers.
Now prepared for my America’s Cup adventure, on the first day we walked along the main drag, La Rambla, which can be its own physical sport, dodging hundreds of people who at any time may gash you with their backpacks, families pushing strollers, oldsters walking with canes, but mostly, hundreds checking cellphones for the latest update about something. The odor smells from the combined perfume of many women and also sewerage— the city is widening the street to create the “New La Rambla.” Odd pipes are exposed, twisted metal hammered into the ground and appearing snake-like before your feet. People are dressed mostly in jeans and T-shirts.
We finally made it down to the La Rambla passing a giant man costumed as an enormous bat-like creature with huge claws who promises to hug you beneath his wings for a small contribution. There was Don Quixote, standing silver on his platform and holding a lancet to take out the heart of any windmill. Finally, we made it to “Race Village,” greeted by the smell of hamburguesas, fries, and for the more adventurous, sardine sandwiches. Others looked to obtain a Fan Pass allowing a chance at being a cyclor; others like myself, looked for the bathroom.
Our next stop was the merch tent where we dropped a bunch of money on a sweat shirt, T-shirts, hats, and an umbrella. There are the folks back home who want a piece of the America’s Cup to call their own. Finally, we found a seat, hunting around the plaza asking people if their chairs were taken, and finally sat before one of the Jumbotrons, listening to commentators speak in a Kiwi accented English and a Catalan accented Spanish about the teams, the race, the course, the wind, and the waves. There a lot of factors when you are sailing on the water. But after winning the first four races against the INEOS Britannia team, and losing the next two, I wondered if Emirates New Zealand were going to make me and my man proud. There was speculation. Kiwis and Brits waved their flags on the plaza all drinking beer and sitting in different corners of the Jumbotrons, proudly displaying team colors. On the last day, we waited breathlessly for the winds to to pick up to at least six knots, until we heard the fateful words, “This race is now live.” Each AC75 sailed to the starting line and we were off to the races.
Emirates won! And for the third time in a row, the New Zealand took home the cup. See it here. IMG_3047. Way to go mates!