My wife Kathy and our daughter Tory were at just about every stop during the last race. They were a huge part of it, especially having a 12-year-old learning her sixth-grade subjects while trotting around the globe. They both thrived on the travel and the arrivals, but we were all really bad at the departures.

Each departure starts with the sailors, team by team, parading down the dock. Each stopover has some sort of unique ceremony and blessing of the fleet, which concludes with all the teams at their boats, surrounded only by their families. This is where the tears really start to flow. The funny thing is, as professional sailors, we have been forever leaving our families to do our job. Why is this so hard?

Well, there is the clear danger that is rarely talked about within the family unit. And there is the fact that Dad is leaving for about 21 days for an average leg. And the fact that quite a number of us in the race have young families that try to be at as many of the legs as practical. And when one wife or kid starts the tears—look out. The dam breaks and everybody goes at once. Not cool for a bunch of round-the-world sailing studs.

When it’s our turn to cast off our lines, there’s one last round of hugs, a squeeze or two of my daughter’s little hand, and I step onboard the boat wondering what the heck ever made me sign up to do this. The team’s theme song plays for the umpteenth time and you’re off. Toss the dock lines and the bumpers (because they’re going in the air freight with my briefcase and suitcase) and away we go. Sometimes I breathe deeply, exhale, and think to myself, “Man, this sucks.”

At the end of the day, the only thing that gets me through all of this is the knowledge that there’s one constant in it all: the starting gun. My beaten body is going to forget everything except the competition. There is a leg to win. Do I want the pin end or the boat end of the start? Make sure the first sail call is the right one.

Bang! The starting gun explodes, and I’m officially in my new home, back with my buddies, and trying to get every ounce of speed out of the boat. Thank goodness for competitive juices taking over, because without it, “leaving day” would be that much worse. The first freeze-dried meal gets brewed, night comes, and we’re over the horizon while the loved ones back on shore start their own pack and move project—heading back home or on to the next stop.

We all have our reminders from the family though: little somethings stuffed in our bags, which we find at random times. Mine is always one of those battery-powered greeting cards with some corny song that sticks with me for about a week. My girls get me every time. But the songs and the cards are what this is all about, reminders of what’s really most important, and why it’s so critical to be safe, get to the next port, and do it all over again.