Had we heeded the forecaster’s gloomy wind warnings, we would not have started the race, but 20 sailboats slipped over the line at 18:30 and inched up the 21-mile course. An hour—and two tedious miles—later, a red sun set leaving a starless sky. Two hours and barely four miles in, the fog came down like a black velour lining a coffin. Wet. Dark. Deadly.

 I think I take disappointments fairly well. When I found there was no Santa Claus, I managed to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and move on. Same with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. I was going to start this column by shouting, like the crazed newscaster Howard Beale played by Peter Finch in the movie “Network,” that “I’m mad as hell and not going to take this anymore.” But then I had an epiphany. I’m not mad at US Sailing, the U.S. Olympic Committee, the International Sailing Federation, or the International Olympic Committee. I’m just disillusioned. I thought they set a higher standard to protect sailors. I was wrong.

 Ten years ago we had an Excel-jockey crewmember; a numbers whiz-kid so proficient with a spreadsheet that he’s since left sailing for a high-powered banking gig.

For shoreside spectators, it had all the makings of an epic race. The two dinghies were side by side, their masts flexing in unison as dark blue wind lines danced across the water from the tree-lined shore. Both skippers were focused intently on the luff of their sails, neither looking at the other and neither giving an inch. It was clearly a well-established rivalry reminiscent of great races fought during the Olympics or the America’s Cup.

I’ve been diagnosed with OCD, or Outboard Cheapskate Disorder. It’s a malady that owners of sportboats seem predisposed to. The symptoms are clear. 

I’ll tell you right now what this column is about: Don’t do as I did, do as I say. As She Who Must Be Obeyed would happily agree, I’ve been a complete idiot many times in my life and I now realize I’m very lucky to be alive.

Sailing ranks among country churches, Amish barns and potlucks as institutions substantially built and shaped by volunteers. Their work is all around us and it is mighty impressive. 

 As a kid, I had a conversation with my mother almost every weekend after I departed in the morning, not to return until dinner time.  

When steam came to transport, commercial sailing was decimated, and what was left was the recreational kind. I’m hoping the second coming of steam won’t be as bad for sailing. 

Let’s just let Larry keep the America’s Cup. Really, if it means so much to him that he’s willing to buy a yacht club, rewrite the rules to gain a huge advantage and even create a team willing to cheat, well, just let him have it. 

When we reached the man in the water and made eye contact, it was clear to the entire crew that we would only have one chance and a few minutes at rescue. He was still treading water and aware of his

Sailors competing in the 2016 Olympics in Brazil are going to have an excellent chance of not only bringing home lifetime treasures such as gold, silver and bronze medals, bu

There are competing philosophies at sailing schools. Some teach almost exclusively through racing, while others reject racing altogether. Only a few straddle a racing middle ground. Advocates on eithe

Over the past few years, there has been a groundswell of fretting about the future of sailing. The number of participants is dwindling, some say, and produce statistics to prove their point.