East Coast Piers Race Weekend 2025 – Capsizes, Currents, and Classic Chaos
- Steve Harvey
- Sep 21
- 5 min read
A Wētā Sailor’s Perspective
The East Coast Piers Race is always unpredictable — but 2025? It went full Jekyll and Hyde. Two days, two totally different personalities. Saturday was pure chaos: spray, screaming hulls, and a survival-of-the-fittest vibe. Sunday, by contrast, turned into a slow-burn chess match with the tide.
And while the big cats tend to hog the headlines while doing the ful distance race up to the Walton Pier and back, the smaller cats and dinghy sailors got stuck in too — hammering around the inshore courses on Saturday and lining up for the Colne Point dash on Sunday. By the end, there were bruises, broken bits, and some legendary bar stories. Classic ECPR.
One noticeable difference was the lack of dinghies this year compared to the last couple of years. This may have been due to holding the event later in the season when there are a lot of classes holding their’nationals’ or maybe being only a week or two after summer holidays finished so people didn’t have a the ability to attend.
Whatever the reason, there were only four of us for the two days - 2x Musto Skiffs, 1x RS800 and a single Wētā. How would this play out for handicap….?
Saturday – “Hold My Beer (and My Righting Line)”
The pre-race briefing was the usual mix of optimism and nervous laughter. “Might be a bit breezy,” someone quipped. Translation: we might get absolutely sent.
The river course was set for two back-to-back races, all fleets starting together — cats, dinghies, Wētās, you name it. Launching off the beach, it felt manageable at first: a punchy 15 knots, sunshine, a bit lively but fun. But once we hit the race area? Oh boy. “Fruity” gusts up top had everyone wide-eyed and hanging on.
Race one kicked off and the big cats vanished into the distance like they’d been shot out of a cannon. The rest of us chased hard, each fleet battling its own private war. With such a mixed handicap spread, it was anyones guess how the numbers would shake out. Meanwhile, capsizes started piling up. Some boats retired with damage, others with the sensible idea of saving themselves for Sunday.
By race two the breeze had cranked up another notch. Now it was wind-over-tide chop, the kind that stops you dead if you stuff the bow in. Tacking the Wētā through the tide was a tactical workout, but the real game was just keeping the boat upright. Normally I’d be buzzing to crack the gennaker on a juicy broad reach. Not this time. I stayed hiked on the frame, happy to go warp speed without adding extra drama.
By the final laps, gusts were punching into 25–30 knots. The course looked like a washing machine — whitecaps appearing, spray stinging like hail, hulls slamming, sailors swearing (and occasionally swimming), and the Wētā just got wetter.
The safety crews earned their keep, buzzing around like Saturday-night Uber drivers. But between the chaos, there were moments of sheer brilliance: skimming downwind, hull flying, eyes watering, launching from wave to wave when possible and that “this is why we do it” grin plastered across your face.
One highlight? A Musto Skiff stealing the show. Top speed of the day? Not a big cat — a Skiff clocking 20.9 knots. Word is it was one glorious second of trapeze + kite + gust + wave launch = full airborne flight. The landing? Less graceful. Bow stuffed, stern overtook, and the whole thing ended in a hazy spray filled pitchpole. It did look awesome from behind, until I realised I had yet to navigate that same stretch of the course immanently and now had to avoid an upturned boat while doing so.
To end the day we had the race briefing for the next days long distance races which was followed by the legendary ECPR BBQ, a few beers (our bit to support the charity the event supports courtesy of ‘medicinal’ suppliers The Mighty Oak Brewery) and plenty of banter.
Sunday – From Rodeo to Chess Match
Tradition has it that Neil Diamond wakes everyone on Sunday morning at ECPR weekend and right on cue he belted out a tune at some ungodly hour. Race start for the full ECPR was to be 8am sharp, followed 15 minutes later by the Colne Point race start.
Thanks to Mr Diamond most entrants were through pre race scruitineering (got to have all the safety gear) and ready to hoist sails in preparation for launch when race control said “go”.
After Saturday’s rodeo ride, Sunday felt almost suspiciously calm. The sea had smoothed out, the breeze dropped to “polite,” and you could almost hear sailors muttering: “Did we dream all that carnage yesterday?”
The Colne Point long-distance race is legendary — out from the river, a sniff of North Sea air, round the gate, and back. With less wind, the real enemy wasn’t the breeze but the Blackwater tide.
Suddenly, the boats that had been white-knuckling survival were now tiptoeing around like chess pieces. Hug the banks? Head out wide for pressure? Pray your rival hadn’t just picked the magic line? Choices, choices.
Local knowledge definitely paid dividends, but the shifting breeze kept everyone guessing. Connecting the dots between puffs was like trying to win a pub quiz after three pints: half skill, half luck, and a lot of muttering under your breath.
Unfortunately the breeze didn’t swing in favour of the Wētā and while there were some tasty 3 sail sections on the way out it was a tight fetch all the way back so the gennaker stayed furled on the return trip, bar one moment when I thought it was worth a try but it was short lived.
The pace might have been slower, but the tension was real. One bad call and you’d find yourself sliding backwards while your mate sailed serenely past. A few sailors were still grinning at the finish, others just looked relieved they’d simply got back to the ramp.
The Weekend in a Word? Epic.
Saturday was all adrenaline: capsizes, carnage, big bruises, and bigger grins. Sunday was all about patience, cunning, and sweet tactical wins against the tide. Together, they captured the full madness and magic of the East Coast Piers Race Weekend.
Some will remember the pitchpoles. Others, the perfect layline. Everyone will remember the sheer variety packed into one weekend.
Unpredictable? Always. Unforgettable? Absolutely. Bring on 2026 — we’ll get it posted to our calendar once the dates are announced. Hope to see you at Marconi Sailing Club for next edition........
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