I respect people that push the limits of speed, no matter the track surface. Offshore racing brought together a three man crew with balls of steel and everything to lose, with the fickle sea no more forgiving than tarmac. No spectators, no corporate sponsors—in the early days of the sport, most just raced for bragging rights and the privilege of walking around Gasoline Alley with their head held high. I remember summers on the Long Island sound, hearing that distinctive engine roar, and rushing out to the end of the dock. With a hand on the forehead to shield our eyes from the sun, squinting into the distance to try and catch a glimpse of those gods of the sea, hurtling across the whitecaps.