At the bitter end of three minutes of signals, however, I’m early, exposed, and running out starting line. I bail before the inevitable OCS, round the pin, jibe clumsily and sail through a parade of transoms. With the benefit of clear air and the fleet herding out to the left side, however, I have an open racecourse to tack on the shifts as I please. I’m second at the weather mark, I take the lead at the leeward mark, and sail the second beat with a lump in my through. Am I actually winning this race? I will find a way to screw up, I’m sure. Capsize and sink? Get stuck in irons?