By thefluidpen

C Squared was awash in the silver light of a fat moon that descended through the clouds. The glow of the cities on the western shore disappeared astern, as she skimmed over the black ocean. Nobody on deck spoke, enjoying peace and serenity while savoring their own thoughts. All aboard the Wyliecat 44 were in good spirits because the boat lived up to its promise, even though it was new and untested in racing. The crew chemistry was positive and we had neither broken anything nor embarrassed ourselves. The squalls stayed home, so it was still T-shirt time after midnight.

"Desired course 250 degrees," Robert's voice broke the silence from the chart desk down below. As the navigator, he was cooking up the numbers, which we had to sail the boat by. "Okay guys, let's throw up the flatter kite," was boat captain Bill's response, effectively jolting the deckhands back into action.

In plain English this was a call for a sail change so we could hold the required course, a few degrees closer to the wind that now blew off the land. It also meant wrestling hundreds of square feet of the spinnaker's nylon sailcloth down through a hatch into a dark cavernous space in the bow. This place quite fittingly is called the "sewer" and quite fittingly was manned by Yours Truly.

Overnight races can be tough on a small crew like ours, because there is no chance for rest. They are too long to stay awake with ease and too short to establish a watch schedule for meaningful sleep. Therefore we had to stay wired with the help of French roast coffee and black, unsweetened Espresso, which had the consistency and effect of high-grade motor oil. Besides, during a race, the cabin space down below is anything but the Hilton.

The Wyliecat 44 is designed for lightness and speed, because her owner wants to race her. Simply put: Stuff is heavy and heavy is slow. So there is very little stuff: two bunks with lee-cloths that prevent crew from falling out if and when they can lie down; a small galley with a single-burner oven, a chart table with a battery of navigation electronics; a pretty public head forward. Even with all things properly stowed, a boat's cabin resembles organized chaos with tools and gear that has to be accessible for emergencies, wet sails that need to be repacked into their bags, and the crews' belongings flung into the bunks. As the race progresses, it tends to get messier.

We were well past the half-way point of the race that had started 12 hours earlier, and we were sailing alone, miles behind the much bigger boats and miles ahead of the smaller ones. What kept us pushing hard were numbers, and they were all around: Speed through the water, speed over ground, course over ground, distance to the next waypoint, velocity made good, distance and time to finish, and estimated time of arrival. Sailing on a competitive level is as much science as it is a sport.

The sail change was fast and went off without a hitch. Charley, the owner who was driving at the time, stared at the binnacle compass and at the orange glowing instrument readouts to confirm that the boat was on course and sailing to the target speed for that course. Then a thud and a sudden slowdown from 10 knots to 3 as if a giant octopus had caught our keel with one of its tentacles. Did we hit anything? A sea turtle, a floating object perhaps? "We snagged something, probably a crab pot," Billy calmly said. "Lets drop the chute and try to go head to wind and get it off."

Boats with one sail are difficult to sail backwards, but somehow we managed to wiggle free of whatever hampered our progress. Instantly the spinnaker went back up and we resumed on our course, but noticed that the swells were getting larger. Then the breeze freshened and our speedometer spat out numbers well above 12 knots, but the VMG was dropping. This meant we were sailing fast through the water, but not fast toward the finish. "We feel the Gulf current that runs counter to our course," Robert explained. It's like running on a treadmill that requires a lot of effort but produces little progress.

When Thursday dawned behind us, the sun remained obscured by dark squall clouds. To the south lay Cuba, straight ahead but still invisible, Key West. Two other boats, a much larger Santa Cruz 52 and a trimaran, emerged behind us. Their running lights betrayed their position during the night so we knew they were there. On the last five miles from the Key West sea buoy to the finish right outside the harbor C Squared was locked in a battle with these two competitors who were racing in different classes. A few hundred yards before we crossed the line the large boat slipped past, but we held off the trimaran.

All that barely registered as the weary crew dropped the sail, tied up in the Navy basin and put away the boat. With one race finished we already were in another one. This one had three legs: shower, beer and bed. Hemingway and the rest of Key West's pageantry will have to wait.

More about Key West, the party and the adventures of C Squared in the next episode.