It was quite emotional for me, getting up at the crack of dawn yesterday to watch the America’s cup final with my two boys, Samson and Griffin. As those majestic craft glided toward the finish line, we were jumping up and down on the back of the couch in front of the TV – and I had a flashback to the very same scenario, with my dad, when Australia had an unprecedented win back in 1983. Of course, Australia didn’t win the world’s most prestigious yachting event this year. Not technically, anyway. But under Australian captain James Spithill, it was a crew of Australian, New Zealish and English sailors who navigated the American’s craft to victory. Sure, one of the most noble of sports has become a more cynical game today, with teams brought and sold and millions of dollars being poured into legal battles over technicalities. But for my boys, it’s still a marvelous thing of great beauty. To their eyes, the boats are like space craft, or aeroplanes. The crews look like warriors, Ninjas of the sea. Through their eyes, I see it all, anew.