The Newport Bermuda Race, widely known as the Bermuda Race is a sailing yacht race from Newport, Rhode Island to the island of Bermuda sailed in even-numbered years. The sailing distance is 635 nautical miles (1175 km) across open ocean and the Gulf Stream.
The first Bermuda race was run in 1906 by Thomas Fleming Day, editor of The Rudder magazine, and started at the Brooklyn Yacht Club at Gravesend Bay, N.Y. with three entries, all under 40 feet. Two boats finished at St. David's Head, Bermuda. The winner of that first race was the 38-foot yawl Tammerlane, commanded by Day.
After World War I the race was revived by the Cruising Club of America and the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club, with 22 competitors starting at New London, Connecticut. In 1936 the start was moved to Newport. The CCA and RBYC continue to run the race though the Bermuda Race Organizing Committee, consisting of volunteers from both clubs. Over the past 100 years, some 4,500 boats and 46,000 men and women have raced to Bermuda. Founder Tom Day identified the reason so many men and women sail when he said that they are seizing the opportunity “to get a smell of the sea and forget for the time being that there is such a thing as God’s green earth in the universe.”
Coordinates: 32°20′N 64°45′W / 32.333°N 64.750°W / 32.333; -64.750
Bermuda /bɜːrˈmjuːdə/, also referred to in legal documents as, fully, "the Bermudas or Somers Isles", is a British Overseas Territory in the North Atlantic Ocean, located off the east coast of North America. Its nearest landmass is Cape Hatteras, United States, about 1,070 km (665 mi) to the west-northwest. It is about 1,236 km (768 mi) south of Cape Sable Island, Canada, and 1,578 km (981 mi) north of Puerto Rico. Its capital city is Hamilton.
The first known European explorer to reach Bermuda was Spanish sea captain Juan de Bermúdez in 1503, after whom the islands are named. He claimed the apparently uninhabited islands for the Spanish Empire. Paying two visits to the archipelago, Bermúdez never landed on the islands, but did create a recognisable map of the archipelago. Shipwrecked Portuguese mariners are now thought to have been responsible for the 1543 inscription in Portuguese Rock (previously called Spanish Rock). Subsequent Spanish or other European parties are believed to have released pigs there, which had become feral and abundant on the island by the time European settlement began. In 1609, the English Virginia Company, which had established Jamestown in Virginia (a term originally applied to all of the North American continent) two years earlier, permanently settled Bermuda in the aftermath of a hurricane, when the crew and passengers of the Sea Venture steered the ship onto the surrounding reef to prevent its sinking, then landed ashore.
Bermuda, Islands of Bermuda, or The Somers Isles is an Atlantic archipelago, a British Overseas Territory, and formerly part of Virginia.
Bermuda may also refer to:
Bermuda II was a bilateral air transport agreement between the governments of the United Kingdom and the United States signed on 23 July 1977 as a renegotiation of the original 1946 Bermuda air services agreement. A new "open skies" agreement was signed by the United States and the European Union (EU) (of which the United Kingdom is part) on 30 April 2007 and came into effect on 30 March 2008, thus replacing Bermuda II.
The original 1946 Bermuda agreement took its name from the island where UK and US transport officials met to negotiate a new, inter-governmental air services agreement between Britain and the United States. That agreement, which was highly restrictive at the insistence of the British negotiators who feared that "giving in" to US demands for a "free-for-all" would lead to the then financially and operationally superior US airlines' total domination of the global air transport industry, was the world's first bilateral air services agreement. It became a blueprint for all subsequent air services agreements.
Thirty-three years go by
And not once do you come home
To find a man sitting in your bedroom
That is
A man you don't know
Who came a long way to deliver one very specific message:
Lock your back door, you idiot
However invincible you imagine yourself to be
You are wrong
Thirty-three years go by
And you loosen the momentum of teenage nightmares
Your breasts hang like a woman's
And you don't jump at shadows anymore
Instead you may simply pause to admire
Those that move with the grace of trees
Dancing past streetlights
And you walk through your house without turning on lamps
Sure of the angle from door to table
From table to staircase
Sure of the number of steps
Seven to the landing
Two to turn right
Then seven more
Sure you will stroll serenely on the moving walkway of memory
Across your bedroom
And collapse with a sigh onto your bed
Shoes falling
Thunk thunk
Onto the floor
And there will be no strange man
Suddenly all that time sitting there
Sitting there on what must be the prize chair
In your collection of uncomfortable chairs
With a wild look in his eyes
And hands that you cannot see
Holding what?
You do not know
So sure are you of the endless drumming rhythm of your isolation
That you are painfully slow to adjust
If only because
Yours is not that genre of story
Still and again, life cannot muster the stuff of movies
No bullets shattering glass
Instead fear sits patiently
Fear almost smiles when you finally see him
Though you have kept him waiting for thirty-three years
And now he has let himself in
And he has brought you fistfuls of teenage nightmares
Though you think you see, in your naivete
That he is empty handed
And this brings you great relief
At the time
New as you are, really, to the idea that
Even after you've long since gotten used to the parameters
They can all change
While you're out one night having a drink with a friend
Some big hand may be turning a big dial
Switching channels on your dreams
Until you find yourself lost in them
And watching your daily life with the sound off
And of course having cautiously turned down the flame under your eyes
There are more shadows around everything
Your vision a dim flashlight that you have to shake all the way to the outhouse
Your solitude elevating itself like the spirit of the dead
Presiding over your supposed repose
Not really sleep at all
Just a sleeping position and a series of suspicious sounds
A clanking pipe
A creaking branch
The footfalls of a cat
All of this and maybe
The swish of the soft leather of your intruder's coat
As you walk him step by step back to the door
Having talked him down off the ledge of a very bad idea
Soft leather, big feet, almond eyes
The kinds of details the police officer would ask for later
With his clipboard
And his pistol