oh for fuck's sake. And - Sailing with Dad.

Today was not a great day - while Ethan's battling a terrible cold (and I feel myself starting to get it) my car was broken into AGAIN in the parking lot beside work. The buggers (and I say that politely) broke my driver's window and stole the warm mist vapourizer I had just purchased for $25 for Ethan's sleep tonight. I'm so mad - not so much for what they stole - but for a broken window I don't have insurance for (my fault) but we have no garage, and its cold and RAINING RAINING RAINING and no alternate car for the baby's carseat. I really, really really don't need this right now. Troy's on the case and I'm sure he'll figure out a temporary solution for our commute tomorrow morning with Ethan - but really. I feel we're being tested with one thing after another, and one of these days I'm gonna lose my shit. Thank god there was 2 glasses of wine left in the fridge. Once E is in bed in about an hour, I'm going to chug those and then have a bath.

Anyway.

You're in for a treat today. My dad, a sailboat racing veteran and Vic-Maui two-time pro, will guest blog what its like being on watch in the ocean at night on a sailboat during the race. I hope you enjoy.

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It's chilly now, even with the sleeping bag laid over me. Off watch, about 500 miles off the mid-Oregon coast. Our second night in a particularly rough storm. My watch has been off for about three hours; one hour to go. It's about midnight. Jimmy, next to me on the other side of the lee berth canvas, hasn't been sleeping much either. The water rushing past the hull in the dark, boat creaking in the waves, and the on watch talking quietly, discussing the weather reports, and monitoring our progress. Both watches know that we're all well into our sleep deprivation, and extra care is taken to try not to disturb the off watch.

The computer hums and glows. Constantly being used for weather gribs ( sat reports ) and boat performance. Turning slightly to ease my hip a bit. Laying my leg against Werner's bag. Like me, he has his sleeping bag and pillow in it. He's the other watch captain, which is on now. We are " hot bunking " the berth. When I go on watch, he gets the berth. At the each change, we put our own stuff away, and put the other's stuff out ready for your hot bunk mate.

Still cold. Stiff. But, smiling, feeling alive. This is truly the life. I can do this, again and again, in a heart beat. I smile, thinking back to '84 Vic-Maui and '87 LA-Puerto Vallarta, and countless overnight legs in over thirty years of racing. And, as always, I think of my family, I always feel so far away, in so many ways.

Soon, I know what will happen. One of the on watch, about a half hour before the change, will come down into the dark boat, and put the coffee on. In a few minutes, he'll say " Ron, your watch; 15 minutes." Got it, I'll say. Thinking how different a life I lead, and so glad that I do, I'll mentally start to think about where I left everything in the dark four hours ago. I move my hand and grab my small personal light, and jam it into a corner of the berth so as not to splash the light around. Night vision is carefully guarded; once you lose your dark adaptation, it takes about thirty minutes to get it back. Just in case the boat bounces the flashlight and splashes light, I use the old sea trick of keeping one eye shut for a minute or so, knowing that at least one eye is protected. Knowing exactly where I've wedged my safety harness and tether, sea boots, foul weather jacket and pants, gloves, toque, even in the almost dark, I'm almost up in a few minutes. Off watch, resting fully dressed, except for outer gear, means I can be up on deck in an instant if there's an " all hands on deck " call. In these conditions we've had for a few days, we're all ready.

My watch is up now in the cabin, putting on our last gear. They know that I insist that they put all their safety gear on before they go on deck. They also know how important that is. Coffee's ready, mugs filled. Good natured banter. We assure the other watch that we'll make up all the lost time that they lost, etc. Laughter, camaraderie, a sharing of this life, this adventure, and this stormy night.

One last check of gear. Grab my water bottle. Up I go. It's, pure and simple, another bitch of a night. But, a job to do, one I feel confident in doing. Werner's driving the 30,000 pound beast, hurtling through the night. I go back and clap his shoulder. I know what he's thinking and he knows what I'm thinking. We've done this before. A quiet minute discussion on the boat's rhythm, wave pattern, wind range, compass course trying to be steered, all the while I'm watching him rotate the wheel, trying to get my mind in sync with what " Kinetic " wants to do, and keep her fast, and safe. I'm standing beside Werner now, resting my hand lightly on the wheel as he keeps driving. We're both waiting to sense the boat slip into a split second neutral mode, when the wheel, and 30,000 pounds of boat racing through the stormy night can be safely passed to the new driver.

Got it, I say. I grip the wheel hard, Werner backs away. The power and exhilaration can't be described. Eight other people on board are trusting the transfer to be safe. But, they know us, and have confidence.

It is black out. No stars to steer by. Spinnaker up and surfing down some good size waves. Wave pattern is mixed up with a previous storm, so no consistency there. The instruments show the boat's performance that second, not the next many seconds ahead, which is what you desperately want. The compass shows where you were a second ago. So, you're tying to sail by feel, and checking the instruments also. It must be like trying to snowboard fast by looking at the mogul below your board, in the dark.

The wheel feels great. The boat's power is awesome. The guys have settled into their positions, grinding, adjusting, checking weather, feeling good, quiet laughter, quieter when " Kinetic " power loads down a big wave and surfs, white water pouring off the transom. Hurtling...

I always take the first driving stint on each watch so I can sense the boat and the sea and weather. Too soon, my hour stint is up. I pass off to the next driver for these conditions. Hip's stiff so I sit in the cockpit for a few minutes. Then, after I'm sure things are okay in the cockpit, I'm down below checking the weather gribs, talking quietly with the navigator on my watch. Boat's dark except for the eerie light from the monitor. Just as noisy as when my watch was off. Like our watch, this off watch will be trying to rest and cat nap, but also listening to the quiet discussions of the on watch. Listening for a different rhythm to the boat, the waves, and for any concerns in the on watch chatter. Ready to blast out if they had to. Hoping never to hear " Man Overboard ".

Soon, time for the last driving stint on my watch. I always take the first and last stints. Not just because I love to drive, but because that's what I was brought on board to do. Each of us has some special skills; mine's driving.

Half hour to go before watch change. Peter goes below to boil water. It's about 5 am. Very slight lightening of the eastern horizon, but it's so cloudy, it'll be a long time before daybreak. Still almost pitch-black. Peter says "Werner, your watch-15" . "Got it", Werner will say. He'll find his things in the dark pitching boat, and put his stuff in his bag, and pull my sleeping bag and stuff out of my bag, and come up. He'll stand by me and we'll smile and he'll say " How's it going? ". I'll say " winds staying about 30-35 knots, backed slightly to about 35-40 degrees, waves pattern still varied, steering about 210 degrees, the loom from the nav light from the ocean tug over the horizon has stayed constant ( for the second night running ), big chute still up, put a radar lock on a freighter about an hour ago, but we're not converging anymore ". He'll be watching my hands rotating the wheel as we surf down the waves, now standing beside me, resting his hand lightly on the wheel, now both of us sensing for the neutral transfer moment, " it's yours". "Got it ". "Have a good watch". "Get some rest". My guys transfer as each new guy comes up.

We go below. We're pumped. We kicked some real ass that watch. Laughter. Adrenalin fades. I take off my harness, tether, foul weather gear, boots, and place everything in their places in the dark. Crawl under my bag and find my pillow. Prop my leg and hip against the side of the haul, wish Jimmy next to me some sleep. Close my eyes...

I can feel the boat hurtling through the night, creaking, waves rushing by inches from my head in the dark.

And on we raced, for sixteen days and sixteen night...

Love to all. You have no idea how much you are all on my mind when I'm out there