No Fear of Flying
Veteran sailor David Vann finds himself humbled by, and then addicted to, the mighty moth
IF BATS GREW TO 11 FEET LONG and you could ride on the back of one, it would feel like this. Erratic flight, low over the water. A balancing trick. No sound of water against a hull, no resistance. A quick touch of the rudder and you can dart to the side; a light tug at the sail and you tilt; shift a few inches forward and the boat accelerates. This is nothing like sailing. It’s like a human flying machine.
The Bladerider and other hydrofoil moths are the hottest, fastest sailboats you can buy. They go 26 knots. That’s waterskiing speed, faster than a wakeboard, more nimble than a windsurfer. Even racing catamarans are dull by comparison, says Rohan Veal, two-time world champion and rep for Bladerider. “This is the dinghy you never have to leave,” he raves. And you can get one for only $12,000, store it easily, and use it almost anywhere.
I arrive to test-sail one in Trieste, Italy, near the borders of Slovenia and Croatia. It’s a perfect summer’s day in the Adriatic, bright sun and warm water. I imagine skimming past seaside villas and olive groves. Franco Ferluga is my teacher, just back from the international moth-sailing championships in Weymouth, England. He looks like a gymnast, short and muscled, and he asks about my experience with moths. That would be none. He looks worried and asks what experience I have with racing dinghies. Uh, also none. I’m a big-boat sailor: 90-foot monohulls, a 52-foot trimaran, and even one ride on Roy Disney’s racing yacht, Pyewacket. But none of that will help today.
Franco smiles. “OK,” he says, patting me on the back and shaking his head. Then someone in his sailing shop suits me up with shorts, booties, a life vest, and a tight white shirt that reveals my recent training regimen of gelato and more gelato.
Time to launch, and Franco lets me pick up the boat. It’s light, only 70 pounds, and easy to carry toward the water. We have a chase boat, a hard-bottom inflatable with a 40-horse, so we hang a wing of the moth over the side and motor into the bay. In open water, Franco hops onto the Bladerider, making it look easy, then hands over the reins. The problem today is that there’s almost no wind, and that’s the most difficult way to sail a moth. Ten knots would be perfect; it takes five for the craft to rise up on its foils. Right now we have three. So I climb on this trampoline that’s sinking and tilting and has a mind of its own. It’s not a boat. It has a sail and a rudder, and it moves quickly in almost no wind, so technically I’m sailing. But I’m always dragging one trampoline in the water. First one, then the other. Flip-flop. I’m scrambling back and forth to learn the balance, and I can tell that sailing this boat is a leg workout. Franco assures me that in higher winds it would be more stable, easier. Right now it feels like ballet. Or wrestling.
What I like is that the moth doesn’t give in easily. It’s as skittish as a racehorse. The smallest movement in any direction has an effect. It’s a full-body, full-attention sport, the kind of thing you can get lost in easily, and those are among the best things in life.
“Tack?” Franco asks me from the chase boat. He doesn’t speak much English, and I don’t know any Italian, so the instructions are minimal, but this one is clear. I turn the boat into the wind, and as I come around, I scramble to the other trampoline. It works. I’m sailing in the opposite direction. But it was far from graceful: I’ve already skinned both knees.
Next I learn to jibe, turning downwind, and that’s easier. Then I focus on gaining speed in a straight line by not letting either trampoline drag. I’m getting better. But there’s not enough wind, so Franco takes over.
We search up and down shore for wind, and later in the afternoon we find a bit more. Franco is able to rise up on the foils, and it’s awesome to watch. Bill Beaver, of Annapolis, Maryland, who built his own moth, the Hungry Beaver, puts it this way: “The acceleration is huge, and it gets eerily quiet up on the foils, unlike most boats, which have wave slap and noise. On a moth, it’s a cross between sailing and flying—it’s a huge rush.”
Franco hands over the reins again, since we have about five to seven knots of wind, and the boat really is more stable. It feels good, and I finally fly. The moth rises up bow-first, then the hind legs, a horse getting up off its haunches, and then it transforms into a bat. A shape-shifter with two natures. Suddenly a slight rudder movement makes the boat dart right, and I dart back. I feel a swooping sensation like when a small plane catches an updraft. I feel pitch and roll. I’ve never felt anything like this. Then I pull in the sail a bit too much and tilt upward. The foils catch, the bow plunges, and I’m somersaulting into the water.
My couple of flights up on the foils are short but very sweet. I need the candy now. The next day, I discover I’ve sprained or broken one of my toes, I have those skinned-up knees, and I can hardly move—my legs, my back, everything hurts—but I’m hooked. The bat is out there, in impossible flight, and I want another ride.
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