A couple of blogs ago, I wrote about our rescue teams in powerboat racing—“Angels on the Water.” Little did I know then what would happen to three people within our rescue family on the weekend of July 4th at the Madison, Ind., Governor’s Cup regatta, the first race in the 2011 H1 Unlimited Air National Guard Series.

During a heat of Unlimited racing, in which I was a competitor, the U-21 driven by Brian Perkins missed a buoy and came through the infield to pick up the missed buoy. In a split second, the boat hit a rescue team barge. While at some point—fault may be allocated—this was an accident. At this time, it appears as though no one was doing anything wrong. We have clearly marked DMZs, which are parts of the racecourse that a racing boat will not enter. Generally it’s a box shape in the center section at the start/finish line and at each turn in a line across the course from the entry to the exit.

Nonetheless, three rescue team members were injured, two severely. Chris, Angel and Mike were there to save us as drivers, not to be injured themselves. As drivers, we know we undertake a risk, but our rescue squads are to help us, to save our lives. The heat was red flagged immediately and I shut down the Oh Boy! Oberto and awaited word. A tow boat took me back to the pits with three other members of the rescue team. Their physical presence reflected a fear that was indescribable. At that time, we didn’t know if anyone had made it. While being towed back, I heard fans on the beach applauding our hometown boat, as they didn’t realize what had happened in Turn 1.

The moment was surreal. At one end of the course, lives were in jeopardy. At the other end, there was excitement about the racing. I could only pray about the injured—I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge the fans, although I deeply appreciated their support. When life hangs in the balance, the very nature of our sport changes dramatically. It goes from pegging the fun meter to altering the deepest reaches of our souls.

As I write this on July 20, two of the injured rescue squad are doing pretty well. The third is still in a battle for life. The Madison Regatta has set up a medical fund for these folks, and if you are so inclined any amount would be helpful. These folks are the heart and soul of what allows racing to happen in a controlled, safe-as-possible environment.

Next time you’re at a race, whether as a crewmember, spectator or competitor, please, take a moment to thank those who watch over us. They ask nothing in return but a smile. You just never know what the next moment may bring.

No matter where I go boating, whether it's racing the Oh Boy! Oberto/Miss Madison Unlimited hydroplane, docked at a Marina in our Sea Ray, poker runs, you name it, I find a common bond amongst boaters. Whether you have a Boston Whaler or a tricked-out cat with twin 1,500s or a 112-foot Westport, boaters in general, love life.

The passion of being on the water, the love/hate relationship when things don't work right and the joy and satisfaction of reaching a far off destination is shared by all of us.

You can feel it personally as you participate, or sense the energy and enthusiasm through the pages of this magazine and website, or websites like Offshoreonly, Serious Offshore, Scream and Fly, BoaterEd, Boatdiesel, ClubSeaRay and so forth. There is a unique willingness amongst boaters to offer help, guidance, or sometimes just argue about which brand is better.

The fact is, I get about as much joy snorkeling in the Bahamas off our 11-foot Whaler as I do racing. The mere fact of being on the water brings a certain serenity, and a camaraderie with other boaters.

High-performance boating, in particular, creates a bond that lasts a lifetime. Whether it's seeing a buddy you met at last year's poker run or one from 10 years ago, or it's the start of another racing saeason, the common bond is palpable.

And that is not only good for the soul, it's essential for the survival of performance boating specifically and recreational boating in general. Whether it's environmental issues, the cost of fuel, noise restrictions, new speed limits,  etc., we've got a lot of folks on the other side of boating that would like to curtail what you and I do. Together, however, we can help to insure our boating futures.

So, if you're ever at one of our races or you see our boat Grateful at a dock or waterway near you, please stop by, say hi and share some time together.

I think we are all blessed to have the opportunity to do what we do and meet some really cool people along the way.

There are a lot of unsung heroes who make boat racing possible. Timers, scorers, registrars, patrol boats, divers, officials, you name it. And without them, organized racing wouldn’t happen. Every one of them is essential to make what we do possible. In almost every instance they do it for little more than the joy of being a part of it all.

There is one group of people who are particularly special to me, as they have saved my life on several occasions. I know they also have saved the countless lives of others. In some cases, sadly, they were unable to save a life, but rather recover the body of a colleague from a tragic accident.

These are the men and women of the safety teams.

In 1984 I blew over a 2.5 Litre stock hydro—Bob and Diane Field’s Little General C (there were no safety cells back then)—at the Southland Regatta in St. Petersburg, Fla. Within a minute they were there to pull me out. I just had the wind knocked out of me, but they were there holding me, assuring me all was OK.

The next day, I blew over a 2.5 Litre modified hydro (A-122 owned by Dick Kelly) at 130 mph. The boat shattered as it did two and half 360s. My helmet came off, strap in tact, and was 100 feet from my body. The rescue crew went to the helmet first, and found no body. From 50 feet away I saw the blood drain from their faces. Dennis Gleaton, one of the rescue guys, looked over and saw me floating. They were there in a second and gently lifted me into their rescue boat and accompanied me to the hospital. Dennis later sent me a lacquered piece of the boat—about 12 inches square; it was the largest part left—with his name on the back.

In 1987 it was a stock 1 Litre in Cambridge, Md., owned by Bill Tetro. Going into the first turn, I stuffed it and was thrown out face first (no cockpit). Less than 15 seconds later, there was Lou Jordan and his Region 4 safety boat pulling me out of the water. Lou is a retired firefighter in Maryland and his rescue squad is made of EMTs, MDs, firefighters and guys and gals who just love boat racing.

In 1988 it was in Lake Cumberland, Ky. Mark Tate and I had a great duel going in the 7 Litre class and at about 150 mph, I slid the Steeler J-146 into his roostertail and blew over landing upside down. Without a safety cell, I went face first thru the steering wheel and dash. This time the Box 21 rescue squad from Ohio was there as quickly as the water settled and had me to the hospital within 10 minutes. They reassured me the entire time that my boat would be taken care of and so would I. More important, they watched my daughter, who was 4 at the time, and kept her entertained and assured that Dad would be OK.

1989 it was a stock 1 Litre in Greenwood Lake, N.J., in the T-22 owned by Frank and Ronald Smith. Going into Turn 1 at about 90 mph, I blew it over and was thrown free of the debris, with just the wind knocked out of me. Within seconds there was Lou Jordan (again) and his team to pull me to safety. Now, I’m glad it was Lou again, but you have to meet this guy. Ornery, bearded, though I was choking from water ingestion and not breathing well, Lou is not my preference for mouth to mouth. He gave me a simple option, die or fall in love with him.

1993 or so it was in Portsmout, Va. I was driving the Cahoots 2.5 Litre modified hydro into Turn 1 in the lead and was thrown out, again face first. Yes, Lou Jordan and his rescue team again. Oh yeah, Lou.

In 1995 I blew over the T Plus Unlimited owned by Jim Harvey. This happened at about 190 mph just before Turn 1 in Madison, Ind. I was under water in the cockpit for about a minute when I heard the rescue team boat touch my upside down hull. Within seconds Eric Stileau had the bottom hatch off and me out of the cockpit and breathing. The rescue team onshore was made up of miracle workers—within seconds I was stabilized and at the hospital. My nurse (Cathy) is still the race nurse, and still jokes about cutting my uniform off. I remind her every year the water was real cold when I crashed.

1998 same deal in Seattle in Turn 3 near the I-90 bridge. Once again, Eric Stileau and his team were there to extract me. They knew my daughter Emma was onshore, about 14 years old now. They made sure she was OK, put her in the ambulance with me and stayed with us the entire time reassuring her that her Dad was OK. I think she likes them better than me?

2000 Nigel Hook and I ran his 43 Scarab the first time in San Diego. While leading in Super Vee, we high-sided under the Coronado Bridge and did a barrel roll. In less than 30 seconds, Jim Poplin and the Stars rescue team was there. First a diver from the helicopter and then the rescue boats. Jim and his Stars rescue team were mainly firefighters from Chattanooga, Tenn. Jim taught me the acronym BRACE, which means Brace for the impact, Reach for an opening, Access your air, stay Calm and Escape. Jim’s calm approach and learned style has saved my life and others several times since then.

July of 2009 at Madison Ind., this time it wasn’t me, but my friend Jean Theoret driving the U-37 in the heat just before me. Going into Turn 1 he did a violent blow over and apparently his breathing mask separated upon impact. When the divers got to him, Jean wasn’t breathing. However, the hydroplane medical team led by Dennis Olsen and crewed that weekend by Pat McQuaid, Charlie Farmer, Joe Mayerle and the Madison rescue squad didn’t give up. As Jean was brought to shore, Charlie and Joe kept CPR going and less than 24 hours later, Jean was back in the pits, a bit weaker than before, but alive. Both Jean and the rescue members believed that God put them there at that time and that place for that purpose. I have no doubt of that truth.

2009 in Doha, Qatar I blew over the U-1 Oh Boy! Oberto and landed right side up. Thinking all was OK, I motored slowly to the dock, followed closely by the H1 Unlimited rescue team like mother hens following their baby. They wouldn’t stop until they knew I was somewhat OK. My leg was broken, but still together enough to run the final heat and win the national championship. These guys and gals have a way of “being there” after an accident, just watching, checking, but not hovering in a noticeable way.

Through all the years of watching racing and racing myself, there have been literally hundreds of crashes where these folks and others have saved lives and comforted families thru tragedy.

Never once, have they asked for anything. Nope, instead it’s them asking if we’re OK, if our families are OK, is there anyone they can call, and where they can take us. We know there are risks in racing, but these men and women give me and my colleagues the confidence to race as hard as we can, knowing that skilled people are standing by ready should something go wrong.

So, to each of you who watch out for us, who dive into the midst of danger, who put yourselves at risk to save us, thank you. Thank you in so many ways that simply can’t be expressed in words. I have no doubt that those who have saved us were the “angels unaware” my parents told me about.

I am writing this month’s blog about my wife, Sabrina, but I think it’s about any spouse of anyone with a passion for what they do. In my case, and the readers of Powerboat, it’s likely boats.

Those of us competing as drivers and crew see what we do as either exhilarating, inspiring or just really fun; for some, it’s even a job. Our spouses, for the most part, see what we do as dangerous and maybe not way up there on the scale of “things that will save the world.” And therein is the enduring strength of a great relationship. They appreciate our enthusiasm.

Racing also is selfish. While it’s our passion, it may not be theirs. Nonetheless, they support us, smile when we talk about the sport, wish us well and listen as we explain why we lost (you ever notice how discussions on why we lost are a lot longer than how we won?), while deep inside the fear that we might get hurt is ever present.

Racing has an all-consuming power over those who compete—sometimes at the expense of our families as well. As our children grow, they either become part of our racing programs or pursue their own ambitions. Sometimes we’re so busy with our heads in racing (or elsewhere) that we don’t notice they are growing, changing, hurting, loving.

The challenge is finding the balance. How can we do what we do, and support the other important aspects of our lives?  Well, first we have to accept that there are other important aspects of our lives.

As we do so, we have to give priority to those parts that are important to our spouses and children, and make certain that we put as much of ourselves into those as we do our racing. If we can find that balance, we build even stronger bonds of mutual respect.

Second, we must understand they may have a passion about something and we need to support them as they have supported us. Sabrina is a runner and competes in 10Ks and half marathons. When she’s training, I’m with her, albeit following on a bike. I can hear the breathing, the fight to get past that physical wall at eight miles and nine miles and the last mile. I can see the determination to make it to her finish line. Her passion is evident, and it’s my opportunity to give back what she’s given me.

Third and finally, it’s finding a balance while integrating what our spouses enjoy and what we enjoy. Boat racing is still selfish, but helping each other to accomplish a personal passion seems to achieve some sense of balance and “relationship.”

We’ve agreed that talking about racing will happen during race season only. The balance of the year is anything but boat racing. Sabrina says it keeps the butterflies at bay until the summer rolls around. I’m thinking that’s a fair deal.

Watching her train, the exhilaration of finishing a marathon, beating her previous time, overcoming the physical pain, the emotional aspects of her sport, the competition within herself to do better … I get to be part of her passion.

Balance and respect.