This is the first segment of a two-part story by Jonathan “Bird” Livingston about his and Gary Clifford’s shakedown of the newly built Express 27 Light’n Up in the 1984 Pacific Cup Race.

In 1984, when men were men, boats were light, and liability waivers were written on cocktail napkins, a brand-new design slid quietly into the water: the Express 27. Carl Schumacher drew it, which is to say, a naval-architecture Jedi calmly merged the ghost of Nathanael Herreshoff with the DNA of Sparkman & Stephens, then sprinkled in modern ULDB witchcraft and walked away as if it was no big deal.

The Express 27 wasn’t just a boat. It was a haiku about speed. It was the nautical equivalent of a perfectly fitted leather jacket — nothing extra, nothing missing. Hull No. 3 belonged to my goofy friend Gary Clifford and me. We sailed her hard in the Gulf of the Farallones and coastal races, including the San Diego race from San Francisco, where conditions range from “sporty” to “why do we do this, again?”

Somewhere — almost certainly at a yacht club bar, lubricated by optimism and beer — we were shanghaied into helping organize a new ocean race to Hawaii. Few rules. Big fun. Questionable judgment. Because Gary and I were on the organizing committee (which sounds more official than it was), we created our own division so we could race the Express 27. We called the boat Light’n Up, which in hindsight should have been a warning label.

We also decided to sail doublehanded, and accidentally, the Doublehanded Pacific Cup was born. History is often made this way: not with intention, but because someone says, “Sure. What the hell?”

When we started, the westerlies were cranking — the kind of breeze that takes a ULDB and asks politely whether it would like to remain in the water. We were double-reefed with a storm jib, reaching offshore, the boat already twitchy and alive, like a caffeinated ferret. Gary, a true Santa Cruz ULDB barfly philosopher, invoked the sacred words of Bill Lee: “Fast is fun.” Then he added, “Bird, what do you think about having more fun?” After a beer — because, seamanship — we hoisted the 1.5-ounce kite. Bore off. Lit the afterburners. Friends, we had no idea this little boat could go that fast.

The reefed main kept her glued down just enough, and the Express 27 simply accelerated. And kept accelerating. Seventeen knots. Twenty. Wind building to 35. Seas stacked like apartment buildings. White water everywhere. The bow wave shot past our ears and physically assaulted our faces. The rooster tail behind us looked illegal.

At this point, survival became the adhesive holding the program together. There was no turning back. No reducing sail. Mostly because we couldn’t figure out how to get the kite down without someone being launched into a different time zone. So we did the only logical thing: We kept driving. Then came the surfing. Real surfing. The kind where you drop into the trough like a pro, carve up the face, feel the whiplash of acceleration punch you, bear off again — and suddenly you realize the boat is not merely fast, it is offended by the laws of physics.

Then it happened. We went so fast that we sailed up the backside of a swell, punched through the crest, and left the water entirely. You could tell. The noise stopped. No rushing water. Just silence. For a second. Maybe two. Then … BOOM. We landed. And did it again. Crest to crest. Gary named it immediately: the Crest-to-Crest Leap. Which is how sailors process trauma — by branding it.

That night, because the ocean enjoys plot twists, we hit a whale. Its tail smacked the rudder so hard it ripped the tiller out of our hands.

Continue reading Part 1 here. Then look out for Part 2 in the July issue, out tomorrow, June 30.