There was a moment about two hours into Friday's race, when we'd gone about six miles and had 75 more to go, when we looked behind us and saw that of the 150 or so boats in the race, only one remained behind us. It was an old Catalina 30--not a race boat by any means--with old, blown-out sails trimmed with a careless hand. Our crew looked at the Catalina, then out at the dozens of boats skipping along ahead of us, scattered like confetti across the passage to Anacapa Island, and started laughing. "Well," said Franklin, our skipper, "We should at least be able to stay ahead of THAT boat." We were, needless to say, a little disheartened by the turn of events.

To rewind a little: We started out that afternoon in good but typically last-minute fashion, tossing our gear and equipment aboard. Our new sails had arrived without battens, and the old battens weren't exactly the same size, so Franklin took a hacksaw to them while I stowed the provisions and the rest of the crew checked lifelines, attached the jib, and put on our new, brilliant-white crew shirts embroidered in the team colors with the name and make of the boat. With my hair in pigtails and the oversized white shirt, I looked like an extra from "Riding the Bus with my Sister," but the rest of the guys looked crisp and professional. The Keelhauler strutted purposefully around the dock, trying to intimidate the crews of the other boats with his suddenly yachty appearance. (This actually seemed to work in a couple of cases, and someone asked him politely if he was paid to crew for the race.)

I had written the name of my Danish Viking possible-ancestor Harald Bluetooth on the underside of the bill of the great, free TV Guide hat I got from Shandy. (She got it as swag from a convention, and gave it to me.) The previous night, on my own, I had a little impromptu ceremony to call on Blatand (That's Harald's Danish last name, and there should be a little circle over the first A) for wind, smooth seas, and good visibility.

I was really counting on the Viking contingent because in consulting the tarot deck before the race, I got the Death card. I decided I didn't really like that card, and so I shuffled the deck again and fanned out the cards, and picked another card. Death, again. I decided not to share the news with the rest of the crew because although the Death card doesn't signify actual death (generally), it also doesn't foster great team spirit. (In a nutshell, the Death card indicates that something is coming to its natural end, but can also indicate loss.)

Anyway, back in the boat, we pushed off from the dock and headed out to the starting line offshore, where as we put up the mainsail, we discovered that it was missing a tab at the bottom that would attach the foot of the sail to the mast. Our skipper improvised, lashing the sail to the mast with a sail tie, and we focused on the starting sequence. The wind was lessening, but we crossed the starting line first, only to be passed by every boat in our class and then every boat (except one) in the three classes that started after we did. That's where I started this story, bobbing along and thinking about the long night ahead, with 75 more miles to go and four knots of wind. "Well, let's go catch some boats!" said Franklin cheerfully, to boost morale. I agreed, but thought, "Unlikely..."

We watched the boats disappear in front of us, and knew we'd have to come up with a better strategy. First, we rigged an extra, temporary sheet on the spinnaker, which picked up our boat speed significantly. We watched the boats ahead of us, seeing who had wind and who didn't, and we took a guess that heading high would serve us well. As we made way, and passed our first boat, morale improved slightly. "One down!" called Kent, on the helm. One down, 148 to go. Give or take a boat.

And yet, one by one, we reeled in the boats, watching the wind shifts and judging the current. When we could, we let go the temporary sheet and flew the spinnaker, with me trimming the sheet, and the rest of the crew taking turns grinding the winch. It's a delicate endeavor, requiring that the crew be in synch with one another. A too-tight spinnaker sheet will knock the boat down, and holding it too loose will slow the boat. We devised a series of commands by which I could direct the grinder: the Keelhauler wanted "GRIND" and "STOP." Kent seemed fine with "SHEET!" and "OK." By the time Anthony took over on the winch, I'd degenerated to "WORD" and "DY-NO-MITE!" and by then, we were zooming by boats one after the other.

The race stretched on, and we passed between Anacapa and Santa Cruz islands at dusk, in a lull, managing to find a little wind channel and zig-zag through it, passing fifty or more boats in that little passage. We crossed the shipping lanes as the sun was setting, and set out to our next mark, still many miles ahead.

The waves glowed phosphorescent green, and dolphins zoomed past beneath us, undulating tubes of electric green light. There was no moon at all, but the stars and the lights on the boats in the distance gave us enough to look at, and we passed boat after boat after boat. Every time we'd see a stern light ahead, Kent would growl, "There's someone AHEAD of us!" indignantly, and add, "I HATE that!"

The wind began to drop around 11:00 p.m., when we'd made Santa Monica Bay, requiring us to jibe and find new directions, still moving forward, but a little more slowly. The Keelhauler is our foredeck man, and each jibe put him on the bow of the boat in the dark, wrestling with the giant spinnaker. Franklin and Anthony took turns resting, but the Keelhauler and Kent stayed awake, reeling in boats. I finally crashed at 2:30, and slept for almost an hour, waking only twice, once to jump in and help with a jibe, and once to pull down the spinnaker as we came around the final mark. I have never been so painfully tired in my life, and as we crossed the finish line at 3:50, I knew we still had a lot of work ahead before we could sleep.

We were all tired, but we tied up next to the Profligate, a huge catamaran owned by the guys who run sailing magazine Latitude 38, and trudged off the boat to a hotel down the street. We went to sleep at around 6:30 a.m., waking at noon to go get breakfast and head back to close up the boat. No one had checked the results, but we figured maybe we'd gotten third place if we were lucky. We were pleased to have sailed well, and Franklin was especially happy about the teamwork and crew spirit.

The awards ceremony was to begin at 4:00, and at 3:30 or so, Franklin realized that none of us had bothered to check where we had finished, so he went up into the clubhouse. We were stowing the lifelines when Franklin came striding back down the dock, looking concerned. "Guys? We're in trouble." We all froze, and all I could think was that we'd flubbed the start and been disqualified. "We took first in class," Franklin said, and while our jaws dropped, added, "this is going to WRECK our rating!" The race had taken us fourteen and a half hours, and we'd won by less than two minutes.

I didn't think there was any way we could actually win the race; we started out so far behind. I'm still processing the experience, so this account is sketchy and disjointed. I'm not sure how to write about it all yet, or what to think about the Death card signified, or why I was meant to see it.

One last thing: when I got in to work this morning, I opened a drawer and came upon another deck of tarot cards. With only the general question "what can I expect"? in my head, I reached in and pulled out a card without looking. Turning it over, I saw the skull-headed figure on the white horse, the symbol of the Death card. There is something ending in my life, something I don't need any more. I don't know what it is, but I have a feeling I won't miss it.

Star of the day. . .Harald Bluetooth