Courtesy Bauer Family

Jack Bauer-pictured with his son, Fred (left), and fellow Thistle sailor Steve White (middle)-coached generations of young racers at Cleveland YC.

For my stack of plastic boxes-labeled "car cleaning," "rags," "misc. cables," etc.-I hold Jack Bauer personally responsible.

Jack was a perennial champion in the Thistle and Highlander classes, one of the best sailors with whom I've ever shared a racecourse, but what I admired most about him was his mastery of cleanliness and organization. As I get older, I aspire to Jack's pinnacle of neatness. It's a summit I know I'll never achieve.

The epicenter of Jack's carefully controlled universe was his red Ford Econoline van. He called it the Redford. As in, "Where you staying tonight, Jack?" "Oh, over at the Redford." At a place like Pennsylvania's Pymatuning YC, the Redford boasted the finest accommodations in town. I know because I stayed at the Blueford. I thought the plywood bed my dad built for the back of our van was nice until I saw Jack's setup. His bed was topped by a thick, plush mattress that didn't smell like shop dust-thanks to the Dustbuster vacuum stationed near the side doors-and the hatches opened upon rows of tightly rolled sails, canvas duffels, and toolboxes. I once made the mistake of jumping into the back of the Redford without removing my shoes. I never saw a nicer guy look more distressed.

The van was only part of the ensemble. Jack kept his Thistle so clean you could drink the bilge water. At his house in Lakewood, Ohio, the carpets smelled like baby powder. He carried a clean rag in his back pocket, so nothing in his possession ever had time to get truly dirty. The proudest I ever saw Jack was when his son, Fred, maybe four years old at the time, began parading around the living room with the push sweeper.

They say the sailor who wins is the one who's best prepared, which explains part of Jack's success on the racecourse. But he was as crafty as he was clean. No matter how lousy his start, he'd always battle back, finessing his way up the beat by patiently playing the shifts. (When I read Ken Read's recent From the Experts story, "Staging a Comeback in Shifty Conditions," I couldn't help but think of Jack.) In blustery conditions that would see the majority of the fleet capsize at the jibe mark, you'd look up from your bailing bucket to see Jack, all 145 pounds of him, planing downhill with his mesmerized crew-often his wife, Cherie, and fellow Cleveland YC member Kevin Carroll-peering out through the spray.