and off we are - or so you’d think

You’d imagine that taking off for a race would be a dramatic, cinematic event — ropes flying, sails snapping, maybe someone shouting “Cast off!” while inspirational music swells in the background. With Clipper, however, it’s less action movie and more bureaucratic ballet. Everything happens in stages — slow, choreographed, and just organized enough to ensure that no one has any idea what’s actually going on.

We’re usually told to be on the boat by 11:00 a.m., after having been briefed the day before on what lies ahead: the route, the weather, and the thrilling possibility of something called an Ocean Gate and a Speed Gate — both opportunities to earn extra points, which sound more like features in a video game than something that might involve seasickness and frostbite.

At precisely 11:37 — not 11:30, not 11:40, but 11:37, as if ordained by maritime decree — the entire crew lines up for the official photograph. The idea is to capture the noble, adventurous spirit of a group of people who, at this point, have absolutely no idea what they’ve signed up for. We’re instructed to wear our red, branded London Business School jackets or polo shirts, and under no circumstances are sunglasses or hats permitted. Because nothing says nautical courage quite like enforced uniformity and a healthy fear of bad lighting.

After the photo, there’s a long, ceremonial process of slipping lines, motoring out, hoisting sails, and forming a perfect circle with all the other boats — a sort of floating conga line for grown-ups with expensive hobbies. Then comes the Parade of Sails, in which we glide past spectators who wave as if we’re heading off to war, when really we’re just trying not to tangle the halyards.

Once the parade is over, we sail to yet another area to strip the boat of all marketing materials — the flags, banners, and sponsor paraphernalia that have made us look like floating billboards. Then it’s time for the man-overboard drills, both tethered and untethered, because nothing says “ready to race” quite like rehearsing how to fish a crewmate out of the sea.

Finally — hours after our supposed “departure” — we reach the actual starting line. We’re not allowed to cross it before exactly 3:00 p.m., so we hover awkwardly, waiting for the signal like a group of overprepared tourists stuck at a red light.

And then, at long last, we’re off. Sort of.

Arno getting ready to save Bob our suicidal “Man over Board Dummie”

Going in circles