It was a warm summer night and we were a world away from Rhode Island although hardly 20 miles from Newport Harbor where it all started that morning.

It was dark, very dark. Occasionally, the sweep of a flashlight from shore or a boat nearby reflected off the flotilla anchored in Cuttyhunk Harbor. Lights shone from the windows and open doors of the island’s scattered homes with their view of Massachusetts coastline and the Vineyard.

While there wasn’t much light, there was plenty of conversation and music. This was a post-party party aboard the 28-foot Pearson Triton sailboat owned by Bill Riggs. The cockpit was narrow. Our knees bumped with those who sat across from us. If not being held, cans of beer were wedged between us along with plastic glasses of gin and tonic or rum and coke. Bags of potato chips and popcorn were passed between us and those from other boats perched on the cabin roof.

Conversation focused on the day’s race hosted by the Twenty Hundred Club. By that time, and before sundown, the results had been announced from the town dock where skippers and crew served up nibbles and club members stirred up libations in clear plastic cylinders containing chunks of ice. Riggs’ boat party was the afterglow.

One of his crew, maybe it was Bill himself, went below for another bag of chips.

“There’s a foot of water down here,” he announced with alarm.

What, were we sinking? Water covered our feet in the cockpit, but the assumption was that it was draining. It was draining, but into the cabin below where Bill’s father slept unperturbed. Visitors and crew sprung into action with buckets, pots and the single hand pump. Who would have imagined we could have sunk in protected Cuttyhunk Harbor with at least 20 sailors aboard?

The story is one of many that I have recounted in this column about sailing with Bill.  A common theme was racing since that is what he loved. More often than not, he finished in the top half of the fleet and, indeed, there were those moments of glory like the end of the season Bud Humphrey race around Prudence Island. It is a pursuit race where boats start based on their rating or handicap. Slower boats are off the line as much as an hour ahead of the bigger and faster boats.

It was blowing stink but as many as 60 boats were out there. Bill wasn’t deterred. We started passing some of the slower boats while anxiously keeping an eye on the faster ones that were closing the gap. Bill and the crew sensed we were a viable contender. Somehow, as ugly as conditions were, Bill played every breaking wave to maximize speed. Crew positioned their weight to stabilize the boat and worked the sails to gain speed. As we were running with the wind one crew member – it was probably Bill’s son Doug – reached over the life lines extending the jib in what is termed “wing on wing.”

Within a half mile of the finish we had passed all the slower boats. But now a couple of the faster boats were closing in. Could we hold them off to the finish? Bill held steady. He knew the limits of his vessel – Rigadoon. He was calm. He knew skippers and crew in the smaller and larger boats faced the same conditions.  We got the finish horn with less than 30 seconds to spare.

There was a wave of relief and excitement. Bill was smiling; we were doing high fives. There was also work to be done as we headed back to Warwick Cove at least five miles away. The faster boats passed us. Bill waved and shouted “good race.”

He was that way, always a sportsman who loved winning but not at any cost.

Bill died July 22. He was 93. A memorial service was held Monday at St. Kevin Church.

He pursed life to its fullest. And we all have benefited.