The Frostbitten

To a cult of hardy sailors in the New York City area, the winter weekend is counted a happy one when the thermometer crouches in the low 20s and a breath-catching wind sweeps snow across the grey waters of Long Island Sound. This is prime sailing weather, and down to the Sound they go, heavily bundled and goggled against the cold, to race one another in frisky, flippy, 11 1/2-foot frostbite dinghies.

Among the frostbiters are some of the greatest sailors in the U.S. Perennial winner is 53-year-old Arthur Knapp Jr., a Manhattan stockbroker who has won more ocean races than he can remember, skippered the America's Cup candidate Weatherly two years ago. In the dinghy next him may be George Hinman, commodore of the New York Yacht Club; Bus Mosbacher, helmsman of Vim and one of sailing's best young skippers; or Cornelius ("Glit") Shields Jr., whose celebrated sailor father suffered a heart attack while frostbiting at the age of 61 four years ago. Fact is, sailing a dinghy is probably even trickier than sailing a twelve-meter, and a greater test of individual skill. Instead of eleven trained men ready to leap to his command, the skipper has only himself and perhaps one small shivering boy as crew. The slightest shift of weight or twitch of the tiller can make the difference between victory and defeat.

Too Cold to Hurt. "There are lots of fancy ideas about the motivation for starting frostbiting," says Knapp. "But I say it's simple. The motivation was gin. This nonsense started in 1932, at the Knickerbocker Yacht Club in Manhasset. Somebody had imported some English pram sailing dinghies. There was a big argument, after some bathtub gin, over the merits of dinghies, and we decided to have a regatta on New Year's Day. G. Colin Ratsey won the race. He's now a partner in the sailmaking firm of Ratsey

& Lapthorn. The first prize was a gallon can of grain alcohol for making gin."

To the roaring fire set, frostbiting would seem a study in self-torture. Capsized boats are routine, and on any wintry Sunday half a dozen sailors are dragged gasping from near 35DEG water, either by the crash boat or by their nearest rival, who by rule is compelled to fish them out. The salt spray often freezes, glazing the floorboards with ice, and the cold numbs the pain of injury. Knapp's index finger was badly frostbitten last year, but he cannot recall when it happened. Skipper Alex Gest noticed a pool of blood in his dinghy. "I had to take a look," he says, "to see which hand I cut."

Order of Sparta. No race has ever been canceled because of cold. Once fierce winds drove the races from the Sound to a sheltered inland pond, and there Knapp's sister was disqualified for thunking into a chicken coop. Today, the most devout followers are joined in the no-dues, no-assets Frostbite Yacht Club. The club burgee is a polar bear standing on a cake of ice, his rump raised to the wind, and after the annual regatta, awards are passed out: i.e., Upholder of the Right of the Port Tack (to the skipper with the least regard for racing rules), Order of Sparta (to the racing committee that laid out the most uncomfortable course in the worst weather), Order of the Unwashed (provisional membership for those who have stayed out of the drink for five years, full membership if they have been dry for ten).

Unlikely as it seems, frostbiting is booming. Last week dinghies put out into the chill waters from eleven different points on the Sound, scores of other spots on both coasts. "It's like hitting yourself on the head with a hammer," sums up Knapp, clasping the tiller of his dinghy Agony. "It feels great when you stop."

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