I had been told to expect an exhilarating day.

Sailors are emotional about their time spent running before the wind. They gush about the excitement of a start during which boats crisscross within inches of each another, protected from collision only by everyone's adherence to "The Racing Rules of Sailing," a detailed set of guidelines that specify who has the right of way and when.

They refer to the "joy" of being out on a brisk afternoon, with the wind pushing them quietly along, soothed by the shushing of water under the hull. They even refer to having "happy sails" when the main and jib are perfectly trimmed.

I sensed that passion each time Gil Miekina, vice commodore of Blackwater Yacht Racing Association (BYRA) -- whom I know through church, golf and a number of other common interests around the lake -- encouraged me to join him for a sail aboard his 23-foot sloop, Tundra Swan. "C'mon out and see what it's all about," he'd say.

Somehow I never found the time. I'm an avid boater -- have been since childhood -- but have always been drawn toward power boats. "Stinkpots," they're often called by the "stick-and-rag" community of skippers who prefer wind power to fossil fuels.

Sailors who get the racing bug, I recalled from earlier boating days on the Chesapeake Bay, are especially dedicated. My wife Ferne and I spent some time sailing with a couple, Doug and Candy Whitney, who owned a small centerboard boat -- barely large enough for the four of us to squeeze into her cockpit.

We rode perched on the deck just inches above the waterline, trying to keep our legs from interfering with the helmsman's hand on the tiller. Then, when the boat came about (turned through the wind, forcing the sail to whip through the passenger space to the opposite side), we ducked the boom, shifted our backsides across to the opposite deck and leaned out over the gunwale to counterbalance the wind's efforts to overturn the little craft.

The Whitneys were racing even when they weren't racing. They'd spot another sailboat heading roughly the same direction, pick an imaginary mark out in the distance, and set about getting there before their unknowing victim did. "Beat the sucker!" Doug would say when he'd declared himself the winner of a race-let, slapping Candy a high-five for emphasis.

Alternatively, if he found his boat slipping behind, he'd steer off in search of a new adversary, mumbling, "Those guys had less people on board," or some other lame excuse.

Fast forward to last Saturday when, thanks to the hospitality of several members of BYRA -- I had the chance to add to my meager sailing experience.

The plan was for me to join BYRA Commodore George DeMestro and his wife, Holly, aboard their Beneteau 29 for the early race, and then to transfer to the Committee boat where, under tutelage of the day's Race Director Al Bennett and his Race Committee, I'd get an appreciation for how a race is planned, marked on the water, started, judged and scored.

Race Committee duty, I learned, gets spread among BYRA's 50 or so club members, with each taking his or her turn about once a season. Most sailors would rather be racing than watching from aboard one of the two administrative boats, but Holly DeMestro noted that the camaraderie which quickly develops among a Race Committee can make it a fun and satisfying day. Besides, sailors know organized racing only happens if Race Committees organize it. So they ungrudgingly do their part in return for the days they get to race.

Many of the boat owners keep their craft in slips or on trailers at the marina; some, however, motor home-berthed boats over to join their fleet on race days. Glen Cliborne and his dad, Edgar, for example, come around from Windemere Point near The Boardwalk, a bit over an hour's run each way on a 2-hp outboard kicker.

Members spend the hour before the 11 a.m. Skippers' Meeting scattered about the marina, launching the smaller trailer-kept boats or at their slips making race preparations. By meeting time, about 17 boats had been registered. Counting crew members, 35-40 sailors awaited Race Committee instructions for the day's event.

Side conversations were running heavily toward the weather -- or lack thereof. Even I had noticed it during my Sea-Doo ride to Pelican Point: the sky was flawless blue, and the water was flat calm, with no sign of a developing breeze to stir things up. Ever optimistic, Bennett did his best to predict how things would go "once the winds pick up."

Sailboat races, I learned, follow a prescribed course, usually twice around two or three large orange buoys -- the windward, leeward and, when required, mid-course "marks" -- which are placed according to wind direction. Thus, the course isn't finally set until just before the race, when the Committee has seen how the wind direction compares to the forecast.

On this day, there was no wind -- neither blowing nor forecasted. The racers were instructed to motor toward the mouth of Bull Run in hopes of finding some breeze -- a minimum of three knots gives most boats the headway and steerage they need to maneuver across the starting line, an imaginary line on the water between the Race Committee boat and a "pin" buoy set a couple hundred feet away.

Races begin with a flying start, with skippers trying to edge their boats across the line within seconds of the starting horn -- heading straight down the first leg of the course and "close hauled" (sails tight) for maximum speed.

How well they time their approach to the starting line, reading the warning flags displayed in sequence on the Committee Boat (sort of a slow-motion version of drag racing's "Christmas Tree" starting lights) can be a significant factor in the race's outcome. It's a veritable square dance of boats sailing in all directions as the skippers jockey for position.

Or, as Miekina likes to say, "Sailing is an environmental chess game. You have to think and react to conditions as they change."

Crossing before the starting horn sounds is a significant error, since the offending boat must be sailed back around and cross again legally. This can take several minutes -- time the captain must recover by sailing the rest of the course more efficiently than other members of the fleet.

Most BYRA members sail "cruising" boats that vary substantially in size, sail area and racing performance. To give everyone a fair chance, BYRA skippers register in one of three boat-type-determined racing "fleets," each of which gets started separately. A system of nationally pre-assigned "handicaps" -- seconds or minutes that will be deducted from each boat's time around the course -- further evens the field.

DeMestro put the importance of the start into context: "A minute late across the line and most boats have burnt up their handicap," he said.

The DeMestros' boat, being one of the larger contenders and equipped with a spinnaker sail (a large, often colorful, bulbous sail that is flown out front of the bow for added speed on a downwind reach), races with a third crew member to assist in hosting, changing and trimming sails.

The DeMestros were not so foolish as to expect me to perform that role. Rather, their regular crew member, Ralph Long of Union Hall, was on board. His 50-some years of sailing experience were more in line with what the DeMestros would need to improve their point standing. I, hoping to get some dramatic action photos of the experts at work, would do my best to stay out of the way.

As luck would have it, I could have handled the crewing duties on this particular day. We spent the rule-prescribed two hours waiting for wind to arrive, but it never did. Lolling around the mouth of Bull Run, some skippers even rafted alongside other boats to facilitate deck-to-deck conversation before finally motoring out into the Blackwater in a last-ditch effort to find some breeze.

None was there, either. It was time to call it a day, and the Committee Boat hoisted the blue and white checked "Race Postponement" flag.

The racers handled the conditions with good humor. Sails were stowed and boats were returned to their slips and trailers; the sailors gathered back at the clubhouse for the baked ziti and sausage-with-onions feast that had been prepared for socializing time. Cold beer and sodas were on hand to help wash away the disappointment of a calm day.

Gracious BYRA members even consoled me. Versions of, "Sorry we couldn't give you more action" and "Come back next week and see what it's really like" were offered.

"We get this about once a racing season," said George DeMestro. "It's too bad it had to be when you were here."

Saturday and Sunday are "Jane at the Lake Regatta" days at BYRA -- two days of informal races followed by a banquet sponsored by REALTOR Jane Sullivan Horne. I now know from experience that, regardless of the weather, BYRA members are going to have a great time being on and around Smith Mountain Lake together.