Haul hard! Cleat that halyard and watch the luff.”
Dad’s nautical commands were the soundtrack of my adolescence. But at 21, I wasn’t a kid anymore, and my mandatory crewing days on the Lightning were over. I had returned to the family cottage on Wellesley Island in upstate New York for Labor Day weekend and much-needed R&R from a demanding newspaper job in Manhattan. Dad had other plans for me, and on race day, I found myself back on board.
“Pay attention,” he ordered.
“I am.” But I wasn’t. I was waving to friends on shore when the Committee boat’s hand-held horn announced the midday start of the final race for
