The Ultimate Jib Bunny

"Not looking for a conversation, Eliot," Hutchinson snapped.

Such frankness, I've been told, is de rigueur during races, a tradition that harks back, I suppose, to the days of Blackbeard, when it was the captain's way or the plank. In this instance, however, it was the captain's way, or maybe I'll go snorkeling tomorrow instead. Thus Day 2 dawned, and several of the boats found themselves short-handed. A number of guests were asked to double-shift, me included, which is how I found myself on Harold Cudmore's boat.

"Crazy Harold." That's how Coutts had referred to him the day before, when we raced against him. Tall and lean, with frizzy hair and wild Irish eyes, Cudmore, who is nearing 70, has been known to run opposing boats over shoals during prestart maneuvering, or even to dismast them. No captain was more aggressive than Crazy Harold, who was spoiling for a fight after losing four of his first five races. The other skippers didn't know whether to fear his cantankerous ways or laugh at them. Fear would have been the proper course. In my first race aboard Cudmore's yacht, we were facing Read. Early in the prestart maneuvering, Cudmore was called for a foul, which meant we'd have to do a 360-degree turn after the race began. That's a huge disadvantage, almost insurmountable. Our best hope, then, was to induce Read to foul in return.

We began stalking him. It is at this point that things get a little fuzzy, because Cudmore doesn't believe in keeping his crew informed of his intentions, many of which are spontaneous and sometimes unintentional. One second we were tacking, the next second we were jibing. I think. The boom, I remember, was flying back and forth without warning, threatening to brain anyone in its path. It was while ducking it that I fell headfirst down the cabin hatch.

When I reemerged I saw that we were bearing down on Read's boat at what appeared to be ramming speed. We were close enough for me to see terror flood into Read's eyes as he tried to turn his boat out of our path—too late. Our bow crashed into his stern, and Read, clinging to the helm, went tumbling to the deck. "He's trying to kill me!" Read yelled to the umpire, his legs tangled in the lifelines. "That sonofabitch is trying to kill me!"

Cudmore squealed in glee. "You've got to hit them," he told us. "That's the only way these umpires will call the foul." Sure enough, Read was charged with the foul. Both boats now had to do a 360-degree penalty turn, and Crazy Harold ended up winning the race.

Unfortunately, Coutts's boat—which I sailed on that afternoon—did not enjoy similar success. After starting out 3-1, we were beaten in three straight races and failed to qualify for the semifinals. Coutts was somewhat less than crestfallen. During our loss to the Islers, Coutts surveyed the situation and announced: He's ahead, guys, and we're on a pig [of a boat]. I'd say it's over. There's a close race behind us that you might want to watch. That's what I'd do."

His disappointment was further assuaged by the arrival of Heidi, who came aboard and took the helm from Coutts for a casual sail in the fading light. She was pretty easy to look at. I, on the other hand, made a vile picture. The blister count, even with my new gloves, was up to seven, and my knee had been bleeding all over the deck from its run-in with a winch.

Truth be told, everyone's hands were torn; everyone's arms and legs were battered and scraped. Jib bunny Maria was limping around with what appeared to be a broken foot. During one violent maneuver she had been knocked over the rail while at her post and then dangled with her feet in the lifelines and her head in the sea until one of her fellow crewmen hauled her back aboard.

Was this any place for Heidi Klum, dubbed The Body by the New York Post for her work in the Victoria's Secret catalog? It's one thing for a middle-aged writer to look as if he has been attacked with a ball peen hammer, and quite another for a lass who makes a living by having her likeness taped to locker room walls.