Their tactics are simple: cover the fleet. The wind gods, however, can be fickle. Ocean racing is never so black and white. After jibing the asymmetric spinnaker, Rob Windsor clambers back into the cockpit, unclips his harness, and casually examines his raw and calloused hands. In his right hand burns a damp, smoldering, filter less cigarette. “Well, this is keeping us on our toes,” he grumbles to his skipper, Micah Davis. Windsor is a classic New England sailing character, raucous and salty with a thick Long Island accent. He doesn’t pull any punches, especially when surfing along at 10 knots in cold and squally conditions.
With this jibe in the middle of the night off the coast of Nantucket, they’ve separated from the fleet. It’s the second night of the…