KEY POINTS:
First thing you notice about the America's Cup yachts is the speed. These vast, 24m, multi-tonne yachts whisper along the top of the water like rustling silk.
We are in a large inflatable, approaching NZL84, the yacht Emirates Team New Zealand has drawn for a round-robin clash with
BMW Oracle in the Louis Vuitton Pacific Series. It looks imposing as we draw near, with all of Emirates Team New Zealand crew on board, readying themselves for the transfer.
Normally, the crew would board the yachts at the docks but, in the regatta, Team New Zealand's two yachts and Oracle's pair are being shared by all the other teams.
We have bobbed in the tide on the inflatable for an hour or so, watching Britain's TeamOrigin race against Italy's Damiani.
Origin messes up the start, having expertly had the better of the Italians in pre-start manoeuvres - forcing the Italians away from the favoured side of the course. But skipper Ben Ainslie arrives at the start line seconds too early, is flagged, and has to turn back.
Not for the only time in the afternoon, I reflect on the precision involved with these enormous boats.
"You'd tack now, wouldn't you?" asks one Team NZ crew member, watching the Italians head out with a handy lead but not yet taking advantage of it.
"He hasn't calmed down yet," comes the droll reply from another. They laugh.
Vasco Vascotto, the likeable Damiani skipper is typically Italian - always with a sunny smile, always voluble and excitable and Origin has done enough at this regatta to be regarded as highly competitive if there is ever another America's Cup regatta.
Origin hauls back some ground and gets close on the second run but Damiani always had the advantage after that unforced error at the start.
When the race is over, we approach NZL84, staying astern until the British sailors jump into another RIB. They take forever to do this. The Kiwi sailors are getting restive. NZL84 is heading straight for St Leonard's Beach near Takapuna and there isn't much deep water left.
"This is getting marginal," growls Team NZ boss Grant Dalton.
Finally, the British sailors are all off and the RIB nudges alongside NZL84. I am due to be 18th Man on board the yacht for this afternoon's race but if I am expecting a "guest appearance" - cosseted, organised and instructed - that notion disappears as the urgency of the situation asserts itself.
The sailors quickly clamber over the side of NZL84. It's a fair hoist up from the RIB and it's every man for himself. Team NZ have put three men on board NZL84 to take over the yacht as the Brits leave and the Kiwis arrive.
"Anyone here know how to sail?" grins the one on the wheel. When the crew gets set, these guys leave on another RIB.
"Is Paul on board?" I hear someone say as I pick my way towards the rear of the boat.
I know where to go and what to do - get aft, where there is a four-piece crosspiece to hang on to, stay out of the way and shut up.
But it turns out I am not very good at staying out of the way.
These yachts are built for speed, of course, not comfort.
There is a bewildering array of wheels, lines, grinders and bodies and no room, it seems, to get past them.
As the boat lurches, I put out a hand to steady myself and grab a rope. It brings the first of many admonishments - don't hold a rope or any running gear. It will take your fingers off, I am told.
Fingers being fairly essential to typing, and life in general, I am mindful of this advice. But it is contrary to human nature not to use your hands when your balance is threatened. Dalton comes down the back to instruct me.
"Sacrifice your body, not your hands," he says as he shows me what to do when the boat is thrown into tacks. I have to leave the safety of the crosspiece, hunker down and slide forward to a hatch cover which has a hollow, raised handle. That handle is what I, sitting, push against with my feet to keep my balance on the windward side as NZL84 goes into a 45-degree tack, and more.
"You'll anticipate the tacks," he says, before disappearing forward.
He is not here to be Guest Liaison Officer; he's got grinding duties on the first beat before moving up the sharp end. I am not sure I will anticipate anything but he's right. I get into the rhythm and learn to read the signals that pass through the crew, communicating the next manoeuvre.
We pass an official boat as we head away from St Leonard's and begin final preparations. It has a trapdoor open at the side. A man is fishing, improbably, as the day clouds over and the wind gets up a bit. NZL84 swooshes past, taking his fishing line on an unanticipated trip. The man scrambles to his feet and disappears inside.
Team NZ halt progress and wait until the chase boat hoves to again - this time putting a diver overboard to check the fishing line is not wrapped around the boat. See what I mean about precision?
SO LET'S talk about glamour. Yachting is a glamour sport, supposedly, with glamour salaries and lifestyle. Nuh-uh. Not in the boat. The crew are all focused faces, do-your-job-properly, teamwork-intense.
They slip into their roles easily, quietly. There is surprisingly little yelling and shouting. Everyone knows what to do. No point in wasting lung power. Do it. Do it quickly. No mistakes. Professional. Precise.
Skipper Dean Barker and tactician Ray Davies move from one side of the boat to the other as well as taking the wheel - watching, waiting, assessing, instructing. There's no comfort zone either. The crew have eaten and drunk before departure, keeping energy and hydration levels up. Several need the loo but there's no head on this boat. It's over the side.
There's a female observer on the boat, keeping an eye on things and liaising with the umpires.
She is standing behind me on the crosspiece and either discreetly looks away or moves behind my bulk. No room for niceties on race day.
One of the crew hitches up his trousers, preparatory to a loo break. But he realises there's no time. He drops the idea - and his shorts leg - and gets back to work.
We are beginning the build-up to the pre-start now. The fishing line is clear and the huge yacht is buzzing between the official boats and those of the spectator fleet. It seems to miss by only feet.
Precision again. Barker twitches this huge thing in between the other craft like it is a 14ft runabout.
It ghosts past, like the Marie Celeste on P. And with people.
It is enormously impressive and exhilarating and, again, you feel the speed of these things.
Most of the noise is muted, coming from the crew although the loudest is the sounds of tension-strain from the stiff, carbon-fibre boat and the occasional alarm sounding from stressed gear with the boat at maximum load.
We only get up to 14 knots the whole day but it feels faster. I have been up in a F14 fighter and for some reason find myself thinking of that.
WE ARE into the dial-up now - those turning, twisting, occasionally violent manoeuvres designed to snatch the best position at the start to get a controlling position in the race. Barker circles tightly. We are up against Russell Coutts, the man acknowledged by many as one of, if not the best, racing sailor in the world.
I sneak a look at Coutts. He is wearing a white jacket. He looks calm, measured. As we twist and turn some more, Coutts breaks off and makes a perfectly-timed start to leeward of us.
Ainslie had been a second or two out in the earlier race. Coutts times it superbly. Precision. Barker has made a good start but we are a little late on it.
Oracle works the windshifts well, extending their lead; 70m clear and NZL84 never gets much closer. There are rumours that NZL84 is a slower boat than NZL92, which Oracle are sailing but it is difficult to tell.
Certainly Team NZ do not put a foot wrong other than at the start but don't make up any ground.
Which doesn't mean they didn't try. On the first beat, the tacking duel commences, and I scrabble forward to my hatch cover. Even at 100kg-plus and with strong legs, I am occasionally flung off the hatch, cannoning into the other side of the boat.
My backside is wet from the water flicking over the back of the boat and the rain. I scrabble back to a position where I can anticipate the next tack, all ungainly hands, knees and bum. Glamour? Give me a break.
On the downwind run, we gybe often but we are still making little impression on Coutts.
And so it goes until the finish, Oracle 27 seconds ahead and it is Team NZ's third loss in four races and perhaps not the best dress rehearsal for the approaching finals.
For once, as a sportswriter, I don't care. Shoreside, I would have been clucking my tongue and poising my pen. On board, I am still aglow with the exhilaration of it all.
Win, lose or draw, it seems not to matter right now.
Not after a ride like that.
I check my fingers.
Yep, got 'em all.