How Sailing Saved My Life
By Gary Jobson | Photography by Angie Myers
It is 3:45 in the morning. Huge waves pound the boat as we race across the Gulf Stream toward Bermuda. The air is dark, damp, and salty as I crawl from my bunk to put on foul weather gear and a safety harness. At 62, I try to remember why I thought this was thrilling at 29, racing in the infamous 1979 Fastnet Race — considered the roughest ocean race on record. Now, every routine move is harder.
I break into a sweat rushing on deck. Years ago, as a cadet at New York Maritime College, I learned that the worst thing at sea is relieving a shipmate mid-watch. They’ve been wet, cold, and exhausted for hours. Five minutes before eight bells would ring — 4 a.m. — I burst through the mid-deck hatch. A massive wave breaks over me. I am soaked. My jacket collar forgotten. Cold water drips down my chest and back. Four hours and five minutes stand between me and relief.
Before stepping on deck, I reviewed our position and strategy with the navigator. The wind gusts 27 to 34 knots. The 65-foot racing sloop, Kodiak, screams over 15-foot waves at 18 knots. I shake off the dousing, take the helm, and for two hours guide the boat through towering swells. I forget the water soaking my legs. The thrill of racing at top speed, at night, in perfect harmony with the ocean, is intoxicating. Sailors live for these moments — and I’ve had many. Yet I never imagined that one day, sailing would save my life.
I grew up racing and daysailing on Barnegat Bay, New Jersey. Summers were spent crewing E Scows with Sam Merrick; winters, racing International 14s on the Chesapeake. By 1967, with a driver’s license in hand, I towed my Penguin to regattas across the Northeast. Sailing wasn’t just a pastime — it was my life’s mission. Annapolis became home in 1977, when I was invited to lead the Naval Academy sailing program. Janice and I raised our three daughters here, and I built a career promoting sailing worldwide through coaching, lectures, writing, and television.
But life, like the ocean, is unpredictable. In 2003, after covering the America’s Cup in New Zealand for ESPN, I became gravely ill. A persistent cough, swollen nodes, red blotches — the diagnosis: non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Ironically, I had served as honorary chairman of the Leukemia Cup Regatta Series, which had funded vital research. For two years, I endured treatment, including a stem cell transplant. At my lowest point, I was too weak to walk or concentrate. I was adrift, alone with my thoughts.
Then a memory struck me — of sailboat races that had not gone well. How I had overcome obstacles on the water, trusting my skills and perseverance to reach my goal. I resolved then: I would fight to recover. I promised myself that if I survived, I would dedicate my life to helping others. With Janice by my side, I did. My sailing experiences — the discipline, the courage, the focus — carried me through the storm.
As Kodiak raced toward Bermuda, I reflected on that lesson. At sea, fear is ever-present. It teaches humility, caution, and respect for forces beyond your control. Overcoming cancer taught me that anything is possible with focus, determination, and a positive attitude. That 635-mile voyage took less than 47 hours. When we returned safely to Annapolis, I felt the profound gratitude that comes from surviving both ocean storms and life’s fiercest challenges. Today, my health is good, my gratitude immense, and my love for sailing — the force that has shaped and saved my life — unwavering.
