“The Internet Made Me Do It.” How I became a Zephyr sailor.

When you tell the world you’re going to do something, especially on a video that’s watched by thousands of people, you’d better follow through. Otherwise, you’re just another person who’s big on words and a little light on action.

Back in March, on the final day of the 70th Zephyr Nationals, I wrapped up my regatta video by confidently announcing that I’d be finding myself a Zephyr – a 3.3-metre one-design dinghy designed by Des Townson – and I’d be on the start line for the 71st Nationals in Nelson.

70th Zephyr National Championship. Day 4. Sunday 15 March. Photo: Suellen Hurling / Live Sail Die

At the time, it seemed like a harmless thing to say, but it turns out… people were actually listening and the messages started rolling in.

“When are you getting a boat?”

“When are you starting racing?”

“Come on Suellen… are you all talk, or are you actually going to do this?”

Boom.

That last one stung.

Apparently I was now being held accountable by the internet. Wonderful – just what I needed in my life…

The thing about Zephyrs in New Zealand is everybody knows somebody who owns one. If they aren’t racing it, there’s a good chance it’s sitting in a garage under a tarp, waiting patiently for another salt water day.

70th Zephyr National Championship. Day 4. Sunday 15 March. Photo: Suellen Hurling / Live Sail Die

More than 60 Zephyrs lined up at Nationals this year. Olympic medallists. America’s Cup sailors. People who raced around the world with Sir Peter Blake. The class isn’t just iconic, the people who sail them are too. So naturally, I thought it’d be a great idea to announce I’d be joining them.

70th Zephyr National Championship. Day 4. Sunday 15 March. Photo: Suellen Hurling / Live Sail Die

What on earth was I thinking?

Fast forward to my (age withheld) birthday dinner. Over a few wines, my mate Mark Cole listened to me explaining that I now had the rather inconvenient problem of actually needing a boat.

As luck would have it, Mark was one of those people with a Zephyr sitting in his garage.

Not only that, but it was the boat his father Brian ordered from Des Townson himself, for the princely sum of £65. She’d been beautifully restored in 2018 but hadn’t seen a drop of water since then.

“The deal is,” Mark said, “you’ve got to be at my place at 7am tomorrow morning if you want to have a look.”

Brilliant… Why exactly had we ordered that extra bottle of wine to celebrate another lap around the sun?

The next morning I found myself driving to Coatesville to meet Zephyr No. 65.

Her name was Julie. It was love at first sight.

Julie is everything a traditional wooden Zephyr should be. Wooden mast. Wooden boom. Wooden centreboard. Wooden rudder. Even a feather wind vane sitting proudly on top of the mast.

Julie and her feather wind vane

Every rope was white or grey because, quite frankly, they were never intended to be used. Julie was furniture. Artwork. A showpiece. And somehow, Mark decided I was the person who should race her.

That was a pretty overwhelming moment.

Then everything escalated before I had any chance of changing my mind…

A new rig was ordered.

A new boom.

A new sail.

A road trailer.

Battens.

Centreboard.

Rudder.

Before I’d really processed what was happening, there was absolutely no turning back. This was actually happening. And I was terrified.

Julie

Being handed such a beautiful boat comes with responsibility. Add a fiercely competitive personality into the mix, and suddenly the pressure starts building.

Maybe I could just say I’m too busy…

Maybe I could volunteer to photograph Nationals instead…

Maybe…

Maybe I just needed to suck it up, stop making excuses and take whatever hiding the fleet was about to hand me. Who knows… Maybe I’d even enjoy it.

Those closest to me know I’m already up to my eyeballs keeping Live Sail Die alive, so naturally I decided the perfect way to spend my spare time was restoring another sailing addiction.

Julie and her new road trailer looking good behind my Hyundai

Getting Julie race-ready turned into a massive team effort, and honestly, I wouldn’t have made my first start line without some incredibly generous people.

Mark Cole, for trusting me with his father’s pride and joy.

Brian Peet(who literally wrote the book on Des Townson) for transforming Julie from museum piece into race boat. Julie spent a couple of weeks in Brian’s garage while he fitted the new mast and boom, organised for a custom rudder stock to be made, pressure-tested battens, tweaked just about everything imaginable, and somehow found enough patience to encourage me through the whole process.

Bruce Craies, who became my road-trip companion between Coatesville and Eastern Beach and who continues to attempt to teach me how to reverse a trailer… I still can’t do that by the way…

Tony Miller, who sorted the rig, boom, sail, centreboard and rudder from orders into reality.

Cameron Thorpe, despite not even sailing Zephyrs, for measuring rope and producing some very tidy splices.

Andrew McFarlane from Nautilus Braids for supplying every new rope Julie could possibly need, including what has to be the sexiest tapered mainsheet known to mankind.

The sexy tapered mainsheet thanks to Andrew at Nautilus Braids

Mark Orams for loaning me a centreboard until mine arrives, along with plenty of encouragement.

Glen Sowry and Carla Bennett for continuing to remind me that this was, apparently, a good idea.

Ross Bannan for giving Julie a loving home, because apartment living doesn’t really work for being a single-handed single lady sailor!

And finally, my late friend Matty Mitchell. Matty was the first person who introduced me to the Zephyr class and showed me what it was all about. Mate… I know you’d be proud of me. You’d also be laughing hysterically.

Eventually Julie was ready.

I joined the Zephyr Association.

I joined Point Chevalier Sailing Club.

I pointed Julie towards the start line.

Julie

What nobody bothered to tell me, however, was that whoever finishes third overall on a race day gets the privilege of writing the race report for the fleet.

So… if you’ve made it this far through my ramblings, buckle up.

Here’s how my very first day racing Julie unfolded.

Warts and all.

Zephyr Race Report – Sunday 21 June 2026

So, it’s my job to write the race report, because somebody came up with a rule that the jockey who finishes third overall on the day has to write the lies. When getting into the class, I didn’t know this was a “thing.”

With a scorecard of 3, 3, 3 once racing had wrapped for the day, even batting my eyelashes wasn’t going to negotiate my way out of this one.

So, here we go…

The morning started with bluebirds singing on the windowsill as the sun glistened across the Waitemata Harbour. A gentle zephyr casually fluttered the flags atop the Auckland Harbour Bridge. The roads were empty. People where with their dogs, sipped coffee and held hands as they walked on the beach, soaked in the goodness of a winter morning and lived, if only briefly, in a world free of roadworks, road cones and taxes.

For a fleeting moment, everyone forgot that in just 24 hours’ time the working week would resume (for those that still had to go to work – I understand now why the majority of Zephyr sailors are retired!)

A group Zephyr sailors answered the call for race day and made their way down to the pristine Point Chevalier Sailing Club ramp, ready for a relaxing afternoon of casual racing amongst friends, where the beers were cold, the banter golden, and the need to rush home non-existent.

A new (vintage) Zephyr was to be launched that morning.

Julie, #65, hadn’t seen a splash of water since her extensive refurbishment back in 2018. After months of preparation, and under the skilful guidance of class stalwart Brian Peet, encouragement from Auckland President Bruce Craies, negotiation support from Tony Miller, splicing expertise from non-Zephyr sailor Cameron Thorpe, rope supplied by Andrew McFarlane from Nautilus Braids, and emotional support from Mark Orams, Glen Sowry and Carla Bennett, it was finally time for some of the finest French champagne a single income could afford to be poured over Julie’s magnificent bow.

A crowd gathered and cheered as Julie was welcomed back into the Zephyr community.

Mark Cole & Suellen. Photo: Rhonda Cole

Lightheaded after too many swigs of Champagne, it was time to launch.

The gentle breeze guided the fleet across the bay and onto the waiting race course for what promised to be three magical races on a Sunday afternoon, without a worry in the world.

The horn sounded for the first start and, in perfect sequence, the Zephyrs sailed in complete synchrony up the course, gracefully rounding the top mark, wing mark, bottom mark, back to the top, before a final run to the finish line.

This perfect sequence of tacks and gybes was repeated for the next two races before the fleet graciously thanked the volunteers and peacefully made their way back to the ramp, closing out what truly was a perfect day enjoying Mother Nature at her finest.

OK. That’s what the Disney-script version of today looked like, and how my imagination intended things to unfold.

Most of the above is complete rubbish, expect for the bit about the amazing people who helped me get to the start line.

Here are the actual cold, hard, salty facts.

(The Real) Zephyr Race Report – Sunday 21 June

It was overcast. It was cold. It was windy. It was shiftier than your neighbour’s cat on a midnight prowl.

Yes, a vintage Zephyr named Julie was launched, complete with two bottles of bubbles being opened and swigs taken directly from each like inexperienced teenagers trying the beverage for the first time – yes, bubbles burst out of my nose. Tears were shed in the hope of not f*&%ing up a boat that belonged to somebody else.

Mark Cole & Suellen, shedding tears. Photo: Rhonda Cole

Come launch time, waves were crashing into the ramp and, while I watched the more mature and experienced yachties launch with ease. I looked like a Learn to Sail kid attempting the sport for the very first time. The anxiety, fuelled by a severe lack of sleep due to nervousness, was rushing through my veins faster than a foiler on steroids.

Getting launched. The waves felt bigger… Photo: Rhonda Cole

My watch wasn’t working. It was guesswork from the get-go. Great. All this talk leading into the day and I wasn’t even going to make the start line on time. But hey, at least I’d make the second row look like a worthy option.

Off the blocks and it was Colin Maddren (#301) who gave us all a starting lesson firing off the line like the legend he is – and with a reefed main! That man read the forecast! #respect (oh, and he’s in his 80’s…)

Colin owning the start line. Photo: Brian Peet

Eventually Grant Beck (#715) took the lead. I tacked onto what I thought was a shift and, as luck would have it, it was a shift in the right direction.

“Thank the Lord! I’m not going to look like a total pleb!”

Feeling muscles where I didn’t know muscles existed, I hiked like a lunatic, effectively using all my energy up the first beat. As the top mark approached, I looked around.

Heck. What the hell just happened? Am I second around the top mark?

Yes.. Yes, you are. Now don’t be a hero. Don’t do anything stupid. Ride the wave, don’t fall out, don’t die.

Me sailing Julie. Photo: Brian Peet

Rob Nealy (#253) was hot on my tail and eventually boosted past me looking like Usain Bolt on a gold medal-winning sprint. With every cell in my body screaming bloody murder, and questioning all the life choices that had led me to this moment, I pushed on.

Who would’ve thought a 20-minute race could feel like a decathlon?

After what felt like an eternity, it was finally time to cross the finish line.

Third. How on earth did I pull that off? Take it. Beginner’s luck is a thing after all.

Grant left the rest of us in his wake, taking the bullet. Rob was second, I was third, Bruce fourth, fellow newcomer Grant Mincher, who was borrowing Brian Peet’s #701, fifth and Colin sixth.

Race 2.

Once again, my smartwatch failed to be smart, so I stayed with the fleet, doing everything in my power not to crash into anyone. By this stage, my hair was starting to hurt, and I’d broken a finger nail.

The start horn sounded and we were off. Actually, the rest of the fleet were off. I seemed to be stuck with the handbrake on, which took me back to the days of learning how to drive a manual car. Clutch left? Brake right? Accelerator? Where is the accelerator?! I should have had learner plates on the transom of Julie.

Me sailing Julie – last across the line in the start. Photo: Brian Peet

At this point I wasn’t even looking for other Zephyrs because I couldn’t see anything. The rain was stinging my face and the course had turned a deep Fifty Shades of Unsexy Grey.

With one contact lens preparing to eject itself from my eyeball and make a break for freedom, I pushed on. The fluorescent yellow highlighter that was Bruce (#144 – his boat is yellow) appeared to have rounded first, but beyond that I couldn’t define anything that was happening.

Eventually I rounded the top mark and somewhere through the murk I spotted other boats. Whether they were competitors, scout boats or hallucinations brought on by lack of oxygen and excessive hiking, I couldn’t be entirely sure. What I did know was that Grant (#715) had overtaken Bruce and was disappearing into the distance like he had an appointment elsewhere, while Rob was hot on Bruce’s heels in the battle for second. The rest of us were engaged in what could best be described as a wet wrestling match with Mother Nature.

Me sailing Julie. Photo: Brian Peet

The second beat was less about tactics and more about survival. Every gust arrived with the subtlety of a freight train. Every wave seemed personally offended by my presence. Several times I considered easing the mainsheet, but pride and stupidity continued their long-standing partnership. Eventually the finish line appeared out of the gloom.

Is that Bruce I see? Is that a shift that went my way? It was hard to tell as the breeze had become a fickle mistress and, to my complete surprise, I crossed in third again.

At this stage I was beginning to suspect either a scoring error or divine intervention.

Grant took another win, Rob climbed into second, and somehow Julie and I managed to hold onto third despite looking about as coordinated as a shopping trolley with a broken wheel. Bruce was fourth, newcomer Grant in #701 was fifth, and Colin rounded out the scoreboard.

By now the fleet was thoroughly soaked. Hands were numb. Faces were frozen. Everyone had adopted that thousand-mile stare familiar to sailors who have spent too long questioning their own life choices in cold water.

Naturally, this meant we were all looking forward to Race 3.

The final race started in conditions that can only be described as “character building” – which is sailor-speak for absolutely miserable, but we were still frothing to get going (or frothing from a seizure due to ridiculous body pain…)

The breeze had no interest in consistency, arriving from different directions whenever it felt like it. One moment you were overpowered, the next you were searching for pressure and wondering whether somebody had switched the wind off.

Me sailing Julie. Photo: Brian Peet

By this point I had abandoned any aspirations of sailing intelligently and adopted a much simpler strategy: Follow somebody who knows what they’re doing and hope for the best. Remarkably, it worked.

The fleet charged around the course for one final lap of punishment.

Grant continued his reign of terror at the front of the fleet. Rob was consistently second. Somehow, I managed another third. Colin and his much-respected reefed mainsail climbed into fourth, with Bruce fifth and newcomer Grant sixth. You could tell that new Grant was loving it despite doing a few laps in the pool. Expect to see him back out there again once the peer pressure of buying his own Zephyr fully takes hold. At this point we need to thank Brian for lending #701 to Grant for the day so he could experience the class.

As for me, I was hanging on, although by this stage I’d lost all feeling in my hands. Every tack required a written risk assessment. Every gybe felt like a negotiation with fate. Yet somehow, when the rain settled, the scorecard read: 3, 3, 3.

The mathematical consistency was impressive. The sailing was considerably less so. But I survived my first ever official day of Zephyr racing. And I loved it!

Back ashore, fingers slowly regained circulation while stories grew taller with every passing minute.

A massive thank you to the race management team and volunteers who braved the conditions so the rest of us could dance (race) on a Sunday. Thanks also to everyone who helped get Julieback on the water. Getting a classic Zephyr back into the fleet was one of my highlights of the day as well as having six boats complete the races.

Julie survived her return to the water. Nobody required medical attention. All things considered, that’s a successful day of winter racing.

And so ends my mandatory race report, written solely because a cruel and unjust rule dictates that third overall must write the lies. But truth be told, it’s actually a pretty cool tradition. These reports tell the story of the fleet through a variety of eyes and I’ve enjoyed reading the reports that have arrived to my inbox since joining you all.

Based on today’s evidence, I’ll be doing everything possible to finish either better or worse next time, because no one has time to read more of my storytelling!

If you didn’t turn up, you missed a great day! So we will see you on Sunday 5th July, hopefully with even more Zephyrs on the start line.

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