If let him choke, he would like me more...

Here's my favorite irony thus far: The rarefied, cash-oodled, large-bucketed world of ocean racing runs mostly on donations and the generosity of others. My leverage is my meager charm, my ample hair, not much else. But no matter how compelling my pitch, or how fine the finer selling points - an aggregate 800,000 people will gaze upon the logos on our boat, including 200,000 or more on start day - a company's decision to donate cash or equipment is determined as much or more by emotion than by numbers.

The day after I arrived in Barcelona I met with a creaky old fellow named John Audabran. He is French, but quite sweet nonetheless, and when we sat at the table at the Royal Boat Club, the other club members called out to him warmly. Audabran is the principal of a new marina in Barcelona, called Port Forum, and I'm trying my damnedest to sell the space on Polarity's boom to him. Before our food arrived, Audabran swilled vermouth cassis ("a taxi driver's drink," he said), and when he choked mildly on a mussel I patted his back. Charm in action: a pat and a wink. Sales is not my strong point (that would be sailing: sailing is my strong point).

At the end of the lunch, he walked unsteadily to his Smart Car. It's hard to tell if I had found the proper emotional response. Shit, I might have saved his life when he choked on that mussel, but he was more embarrassed than grateful.