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WHITBY FREF PRESS, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 29, 1986 PAGE 5 "I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man." - Thomas Jefferson There were a couple of unusual things about the sto- ry. Somehow I didn't expect a world-class yacht design- er to be working. in a small office in a small Ontario village. And I certainly didn't expect to see somebody designing a huge sailing yacht by computer! But on Southern Georgian Bay shores in a home he built himself near Port McNicol, 35-year-old Steve Kill- ing turns out magnificent sailing yacht designs - more recently, using a computer. He was one of the designers of Canada I which raced for the America's Cup in '83. He designed True North 1 last year, and is now working on True North Il, sched- uled to be launched in April. I watched the birth of a Canadian contender in the 1987 America's Cup race - the ultimate trophy in sail- boat racing. The race is to be held in Australia. Killing's stylus traced a few lines on a blank sheet. They appeared on a screen. He pressed a computer key and part of a hull appeared. He pressed a few more keys and the shape of the hull changed. "The computer can even predict the boat's perfor- mance under different conditions of wave and water," explained Killing. "It can actually sail a hypothetical boat", he added. This month Steve leaves for Australia for consulta- tion about True North's design with the crew of 11 and 20 support personnel. "Design is only about one third of what's required to be a winner," he told me. "It's really a race for ex- cellence in design, along with excellent sails and ex- cellent sailors. Every aspect has to be considered. Every angle has to be superb," he said. Since 1851 the America's Cup has represented the absolute pinnacle in sailing. That was the year when the U.S. sailboat "America" beat Britain's best and sailed away with their trophy cup. Since then the rules of the race, which became known as the America's Cup, have specified that each boat be built in the country issuing or defending the challenge, and that the designer be a citizen of that country. By the way, it will cost a cool sixteen million dollars to get True North ready for the exotic event. Hardly a dinghy race. THE CROW'S NEST by Michael Knell Willreturn next week WITH OUR FEET UP By Bill Swan "Fingers" Tom is tickling a ragtime tune out of the rickety piano under the stairs and Gertie and Garter stands by the door, welcoming one and all. It's usually like this at the Lone Star Beaver Saloon, the change jingling, the mugs clinking, the voices a babble, the cigar smoke a blue haze. But tonight the tension weighs on everyone. Johnny Cannuck shuffles the cards in the corner table, deftly palming four aces; the small crowd tit- ters with nervous laughter. "Old Sam's gonna find you too hard to deal with, Johnny," one says. "Yer gonna get us a right good deal..." Just then the batwings swing open and who comes in but Sam himself, a tall lean dude, his face chiseled like Mount Rushmore, his knees so high you could swear he stands on stilts. He wears a suit of funny stars and stripes, but under his morning coat the butts of his twin .45s showed. Big guns those, heavy enough to shoot through the tobacco haze. He strides across the room, pulls up a chair op- posite Johnny, turns it so the chairback is closest to the table. "Deal," he says. "But first take those aces out of your shirt pocket." Johnny Cannuck blushs and adds the aces to the deck. "Just a little card tri...,".he says, but the visitor's eyes are cold, hard around the edges, humorless. "Deal," he repeats. Johnny deals. The regulars gather around the table. These are the free trade poker stakes. Whatever the outcome, life in the small town will change. Sheriff Shiringe is still smarting from that time that Sam and his boys drove a herd of cattle and an army division right clear across the north end of town without a by- your-leave. Sam still insists that the north end of the town belongs to the open range. Just watch him, though, if Ivan the Bear tries driving a herd through there. The first hand sets the tone. Sam holds the cards tight, close to his chest; Johnny Cannuck, his broad chin smiling, passes his cards around to the right andjeft, high enough for all but San to see. "Jobs," says Johnny. "Just by playing this game, we'll all be better off and there will be more jobs." He laughs. Sam grunts. "First let's set some rules. Free trade will corne only if the rules are fair." Johnny is nothing if not fair. "Rules," he says. "First," says Sam, counting out five aces, "you've got to stop paying your fishermen down by the creek for not catching fish all winter." "But..." "Them's the rules. Second, I'd feel a darn sight better if you'd make your townsfolk pay for their own doctor bills. Down our way folks learn to pay their own way, you kin bet on that." "That'll..." "But more important than'that. Folks from down our way, from the town of Ewessofeh, they've got to feel more welcome here. They've got to be free to come up here and do business. Maybe buy a store, or whatever. Johnny Cannuck tossed his cards on the table. "Five aces," he says. "I've got you covered." Sam strokes his short beard. "Well, seems like there should be some more here." He sorts through his cards, tosses out two more aces. Johnny rubs his thick chin. "Gee, I didn't know you could do that. I'd packed a few more myself." "I'da shot ya fer cheatin'," says Sam. "Well, I guess that would be only fair. I didn't know you felt so tough about owning stuff up here in Great North." "Go anywhere we kin hornswoggle a buck." "But if that's all you want - I mean along with that doctor bill stuff and fishing - why then we could easily work it out. Why don't you deal one more hand?" "The stakes?" asks Sam. "Thesaloon." Sam lifts an eyebrow. "And al the businesses on the south side of main street." Sam smiles. "Makes it worth playing, anyway. UnIess you have some more airplane factories to throw in." Johnny shrugs. "Next week." SEE PG. 12