I’ve never met a sailor who would prefer to be running a race than racing a race.

Competition is the nature of those who love racing, not setting a course and counting down the seconds to the start. And far worse, as the boats cover the course, the race committee bobs at anchor waiting for everyone to finish. The final chores include retrieving the marks and, of course, scoring the fleet. It’s a job for organizers, not true-blue sailors who want to match their skills against like-minded sailors. Surely, even finishing in last place is better than working race committee, or so I thought.

I got a different perspective Thursday evening, which goes to prove until you try someone else’s job, it’s best not to make judgments.

Narragansett Terrace Yacht Club races are held Thursday evenings for as long as I’ve lived in Rhode Island, or close to 50 years. The races include two divisions – the PHRF boats that are scored on the basis of their ratings, length of the course, and the time it takes to sail the course, and a one-design class of boats, the Rhodes 19, where the first boat over the line wins. Racing PHRF carries its own set of challenges; the most frustrating being you can be well ahead of the fleet and end up last because of your rating. Conversely, being last and finishing first is a thrill.

There’s no question who the winner is when the boats are evenly matched as are the Rhodes 19s.

At one time there was as many as 20 of the 19-foot day sailors on the starting line, making for hot competition and requiring a good knowledge of the rules and concentration. Today the Rhodes fleet has shrunk to five or six steady racers and eight or nine boats on a good evening. They’re a strong bunch of competitive sailors, a diehard group with each looking for the bragging rights as top boat at the end of the season.

With decline in the ranks of racers has also come a drop in the numbers of club members taking on the task of race committee. Fortunately, there are a couple of diehards like Pat O’Shea and Peter Erkkinen. But the pair can always use help, so the rule that a skipper is required to work race committee once during the season was implemented.

Thursday was my turn, and I showed up at the clubhouse with a cold pack of beers and a bag of pretzels – proper ingredients, it seemed, to bide our time as the boats covered the course.

Bullocks Cove in Riverside was as smooth as a millpond. There wasn’t a ripple. A few sailors were already on their boats, removing covers and making ready to head out to the course that is north of Conimicut Point. The majority along with Pat and Peter were on the clubhouse deck checking their phones for forecasts and questioning whether there would be enough wind to get off a race. It didn’t look promising. Weather monitors were reporting winds of one and two knots across the bay.

Pat wasn’t going to let that stop him. We went out to the committee boat, a round bottom harbor launch that rolls like a Rocky Point ride in the slightest sea. Peter knew the routine and the ride and appropriated a couple of plastic chairs to ensure we won’t get too banged up waiting the fleet’s return. He carried along some cushions and some paper bags that all helped to change my opinion of being on the race committee. As skippers and crew realized that, in fact, Pat was going to give it a try, they hustled to get to their boats – with the exception of Fred Bieberbach, who with the wisdom of a sage declared he had no intention of drifting around a race course.

Three Rhodes 19s were towed out in the vicinity of the starting line while another four of the PHRF racers – all larger boats – motored out.

Peter tossed out the buoy with flag for the pin end of the line, and then Pat shut off the engine and looked for the direction of the wind. Races usually start into the wind, so he wanted the line perpendicular to the wind. There was nothing. The bay was a mirror as far as you could see. Usually there’s something, a dark patch in the distance where a local zephyr causes the water to dance or a line advancing as a breeze builds.

Pat sounded the horn several times and announced the start would be delayed. We drove into our supplies, toasted the wind gods, and nibbled on pretzels and cheese that Peter had thoughtfully bought along. He was wearing a T-shirt featuring a Citroen, which prompted me to ask what he knew about the French car. He is an owner of two of the cars and a trove of information about the vehicles known for innovative design and engineering.

Pat eyed the fleet that drifted nearby and anxious to have least held one race, started up the engine and headed about 400 yards from the pin to drop an orange buoy. This was to be the single mark of the race for both classes. Sail to the buoy, leave it to starboard, and return. Under conditions experienced this summer, that would have been a 10-minute race, if that.

Pat blew the horn to start the sequence. I raised and lowered flags as instructed. The fleet was being carried down on the race committee boat by the incoming tide. We fended off a couple of boats, cause for a foul under racing rules but acceptable under the circumstances. Peter dug into one of the bags and produced roast beef sandwiches. We chewed, talked cars, admired the sunset, and after 20 minutes, when only one boat had floated across the starting line, did Pat do something he has never done for lack of wind – he canceled the race.

We pulled in the starting line and the marker and then tossed out a line to tow the Rhodes back to harbor.

This was one race where I really lucked out. Being on the committee boat and in company of Pat and Peter was undecidedly the winning spot. So much for being a diehard racer.