It’s not money but sailing experiences that make you rich. Just ask Paul

I can remember the day that I first saw him as clearly as if it were yesterday.

A tall, gangly kid with the beginnings of a faint moustache. He was a teenager at that “been-shaving-for-a-year-but-cut-myself-both-times” stage. He was kind of shy, at least until he stepped into his Laser, but then it was as if man and machine had morphed into one flowing and graceful being.

It was the early 1970s and I was sailing in the Laser Slaloms off St. Francis Yacht Club on San Francisco Bay. The slalom seemed a simple enough premise—lay out two rows of fairly closely spaced buoys next to each other and aimed into the wind. Two Lasers start together at the lower end and tack between each buoy. When they reach the most windward buoy, they turn and jibe between each buoy back to the start-finish line.

As I said, it seems a simple concept but, in reality, it is incredibly difficult. First, you have the normally breezy San Francisco Bay so the winds are usually in the 20s and gusty. Then there is that damn bay current, which floods and ebbs with ferocious speed.

The Laser Slalom quickly became renowned as a spectator sport, since you could stand ashore and watch the racers slam around the course right in front of you, with spectacular crash-and-burn sequences being the norm. The tacking upwind was tough enough, but the run—oh, man, was it scary.

In a breeze, the buoys came up so fast you barely had time to recover from one jibe when you had to make another. Add in a current to speed things up, and it’s like hitting the fast-forward button: jibe, jibe, jibe … CRASH! In many cases, the winner was determined by whoever could right their Laser fastest and still finish.

Anyway, this kid shows up, and the word is that he’s a hot El Toro sailor from a lake across the bay. Yeah, yeah, but this is the big leagues.

On one of my early passes through the slalom I realized two things: one, it’s almost impossible to slam-tack a Laser in a breeze with the board up, and second, it has all the stability of a stack of beach balls. Returning to the club, I was soggy, beat-up, weary and rethinking the whole weekend.

I joined the other racers at the club railing to watch the action and, my God, this kid was unbelievable! He’s tall, but he seemed to slither from side to side on the tacks effortlessly. Where he really came into his own, however, was on the wild run. While most of us were wobbling wildly on the jibes, with the boom first pointing at the sky and then skipping in the water, he simply grabbed the sheet and slammed it across. The boat barely heeled. Then he banged off another jibe and another. We all looked at each other. Time for the showers, because there’s just no competing with this level of talent.

Paul Cayard is still tall, but now he’s not a skinny kid and his moustache has filled out to become a trademark under those crinkly eyes. He’s not so shy, either, but he’s kept an innocence and a charm that belies the many trophies he’s won since those slalom days. In victory or defeat, he has always been a gracious spokesman for our sport. He is one of the last of the gentleman yachtsmen and, if I had a son, I’d hope he’d pick Paul as a role model.

He’s sailed a lot since that Laser Slalom: America’s Cup, Olympics, Whitbread Round The World and Volvo Ocean Race. He’s won the Star Worlds, the Louis Vuitton Cup and the Citizen Cup, several world championships, and was awarded Rolex Yachtsman of the Year a while back.

He came to mind recently because, after being the first American to win the Whitbread Round The World Race in 1998, he had just skippered the Disney entry, Pirates of the Caribbean, to second place in the Volvo round-the-worlder.

He then wrote an open letter to the sailing world after finishing the Volvo race, not to explain or justify their second place but to celebrate his crew and their effort. Pirates of the Caribbean was built at the last minute, and had to withdraw from the first leg with keel problems. But, under Paul’s leadership, they came back for 11 podium finishes in 16 races to put them in second place.

In his letter, he points out how the effort could have been a big flop for both Disney and Paul Cayard, and he freely admits the part that luck played in the team’s race. But he passes all the credit to his crew, saying they exceeded anything he asked of them.

Aside from the flair and elegance of his letter, the ending is what really caught my attention. He said that he had closed this great adventure with satisfaction, pride and a touch of sadness, adding that it was the best ride of his life.

But he ends with the comment, “Remember, the richest people on the planet are the ones with the best experiences.”

It’s such a simple concept but one that is so elusive. As they say, he who dies with the most toys still dies. But it is experiences and adventures that power the human spirit, not material goods.

I was sitting between two guys at a bar in the Exumas recently, and both were talking about what a great time they were having in the clear waters and warm breezes. They snorkeled among fleets of brilliant tropical fish by day, and looked at millions of stars overhead at night. I finished my Kalik beer and walked away, only learning afterward who they were.

One had a glittering 150-foot megayacht with a dozen crew, while the other had a scuffed Out Island 41 with only his girlfriend aboard. Both were supremely happy. Both were equally rich in experiences.

Thanks for reminding us of this simple truth, Paul.