Race Report WHITEHEAD 1 & 2 | Etchells Class Series | 21st February 2026

Morning light on Etchells waiting for Whitehead 1 & 2

Whitehead Races 1 & 2

They called it the Whitehead Series, named for a guy who used to light up the fleet like a neon sign on a rain‑slicked street — Mark Whitehead. Good sailor. Good company. The sort of Jardine Johnny who’d walk into a bar and have the place smiling before he reached the counter. Only shorter.

The races were out in the Lamma Channel — tough water, the kind that remembers things. The sort of place the 1997 Worlds were held, back when the wind had more bite, and the sailors had less money. But Race 1 wasn’t out there. It went out there. A passage race from Causeway Bay. A journey. A story. And stories never end the way you think.

About a dozen boats lined up in an easterly breeze that felt better than it looked. Off the line, 912 Shrub tucked in low like a gumshoe keeping to the shadows, while 1463 Incoming strutted high, out where the streetlights hit you, and everyone can take a shot. 1476 Bloody Brilliant and 1458 Madness came on strong — crews who knew their business and didn’t mind letting the world know it. Those four fought their way up the north shore, slipping in and out of the tide like they were bargaining with a crooked cop. Nobody could hold a lead for long. 1502 Gunga Din stayed close like they were wearing a wire.

Then came Lei Yue Mun, where the bay narrows, and the air changes its mind. The racing stayed tight, too tight. You could count the lead changes on two hands, maybe three, if you had them.

Junk Bay was where the breeze got shy. That’s when 1458 and 912 took the south side, the risky side — the one with the promise of early ebb and the reputation for lighter air. A lousy combination unless the gods were smiling. And for once, they were. The tide and wind turned sweet, and just like that, 1476 and 1463 were the ones looking like yesterday’s news. 1463 clawed its way back into daylight. 1458 muscled in front of 912 around the corner.

The east coast was a long grind — trimmers working the sheets like back‑alley surgeons, cutting, twisting, adjusting, hoping to find a pulse. Just past Shek O Rock, 1476, sitting back in fourth, decided patience was for priests. Up went the kite. 912 followed suit. 1458 and 1463 stayed on the jib, betting height over horsepower.

Bad bet.

By Cape d’Aguilar, 912 had danced past them like a thief in the fog.

Down Beaufort Channel, 1476 broke off for some time alone, the kind of tactical soul‑searching you do when the race starts looking like your ex-wife’s lawyer. That left 1458 to slide down inside 912, showing off downwind pace that bordered on rude. 912 answered with a hard, mean gybe — the kind that leaves the other guy blinking. 1458 couldn’t get clear and had to go spin off their sins.

By Bluff Head, 912 tried to play it safe and nearly paid the price. 1458 cut the corner like a burglar fitting through a window, and they almost rolled the leader. Almost. One faint breath of wind at the mouth of Stanley Bay saved 912, who heated up, crossed their bow, and held that slim, jealous lead all the way to Round Island. 1463 slipped in for third.

Race 2 came after sandwiches. Sailors like to pretend strategy runs the show, but hunger tells its own story.

Light air, 8 knots from 120 degrees. The left had more ebb, but the breeze was supposed to go right. The kind of tactical puzzle that ruins marriages.

912 took the pin but had to grind uphill to get anywhere near 1458, who came off the line like a Buick with new tires. Those two split from the pack. 1458 went right, looking for the promised land, but the promise evaporated. The wind slid left, fifteen degrees and then some. A cheap move by a cheap breeze.

When 912 tacked, they were practically laying the mark, fat and fast, and sitting on 1458 like a grudge. Out left, 1476 and 1051 Five5Five were running out of runway and hope.

The run didn’t have much to write home about — except for the kind of spinnaker work that makes grown men blush, and committee boats take notes. 1458 rounded the bottom mark clean, lifted off 912’s hip, and lingered there, trying to make life complicated. The others went left, looking for the magic they’d tasted on the first beat. Magic wasn’t serving seconds.

Second top mark: positions unchanged.

Final run: a gybing duel with knives out and nerves frayed.

1476 stole bronze by two seconds. Two seconds can change everything, in racing and in life.

Final tally:

912 Shrub — first and first.

1458 Madness — second and second.

1476 Bloody Brilliant and 1463 Incoming — a shared mess of thirds and fourths.

And no one’s going to talk about the trawl, the committee boat, or the kite that wrapped itself into a cautionary tale. Not tonight. But the stories are filed away. They always are.

Three more races on Sunday.

"Lamma doesn’t forget. And it doesn’t forgive either."