Yesterday I made a remark, about the absurdity and senselessness of ocean racing, which—without context—may have seemed a little harsh. Here is some context (for context about the context, I wrote this about fifteen years ago on some other social media platform, if that matters).

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It is 1979. Imagine you are ten. I don't think it's necessary to imagine you are male, because at no point do you get to pee standing up. If you think it helps explain the senselessness of it all, however, go right ahead. You are on a 36-foot sailboat that has just crossed the starting-line of a multi-day, open-ocean sailing race from Massachusetts to Bermuda. Within an hour of the race's start, you become seasick for the first time in your life. You descend into a seasickness which could possibly be described as Homeric, had Homer not had much better things to write about. Everything in your stomach goes over the side in 41°N latitude, not to be replaced until about 32°45'N. You are given a canvas bucket and relegated to a bunk in the main cabin. At one end is a leaky overhead vent. At the other end is a storage locker containing a leaky, stinking bottle of rum. Complaining that bottle stinks and is leaking will do no good, because you are apparently no longer speaking English.

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