The stern faced chairman stares into the wind talking confidently into a microphone. About a mile or so to windward the mark-boat drops its load and heads back toward the gathering. There is a deafening flutter of sails before the final report. It isn't the new sails, or the custom keel job that determines the day's heroes, although every little bit helps. It is the strained lifelines, the groaning bodies, and the finesse of the helmsperson that is tested.
Victory is squeezed slowly and painfully out of every square wave, and every missed winch.
Nylon demons thin the ranks at every opportunity. The race marches on, cruelly, mercilessly, until the unruly mob finally finds order at the finish line. The flood of emotion is overwhelming. Others fight off frustration and insult, vowing to do better next time. By late afternoon the wet, and weary throng turn their bows toward the harbor, bodies draped over the lifelines like laundry.