Overboard . . . Some say there are those who have gone overboard and those who will go overboard. I never really believed that until yesterday. The forecast Santa Ana winds never really kicked up the way I'd hoped in San Diego Bay, but I was having a fun, single handing my C-27, playing the winds and enjoying the warm weather. It's Friday afternoon and there is surprisingly little traffic on the water. I noticed I'd inadvertently wrapped my jib halyard around the forestay and it wasn't allowing me to tension the jib properly. So I clipped in and went forward to fix it. Before leaving the dock I'd run a jack line, and I'm wearing a harness, and an automatically inflating (Sospenders) PFD. I got the jib squared away and returned to the cockpit and unclipped myself from the jack line. That's when my hat blew off. I bid it farewell as it disappeared into my wake lamenting that's the third or fourth one I'd lost this year. Except this one had my fishing license attached to it. I came about to see if I could find it and when I did spot it I thought about running below for my fishing net, but there's no time as here it comes. I'm sliding up on it nicely. Now, just reach over and grab it. Splash . . . I felt myself going over the side at the same time I realized I had reached out too far. My PFD inflated with a rather loud pop and I came up to see my "Julia Bell" sailing away without me. I hoped for a moment she would head up and stop but she's dead in the groove and away she went. I had never before seen my boat from that angle. I looked around. I'm dead in the middle of the Bay. There's only one other boat in my vicinity, three fellows fishing in a small powerboat, and they are about four hundred yards away. My first inclination is to maintain my dignity and just slightly raise my voice and say something like, "Hey, fellows, excuse me, but can you give me a hand here?" But, what I did do is scream HELP at the top of my lungs. (I totally forgot there is a whistle attached to my vest.) I saw them looking around a bit before they spotted me. They then quickly reeled in their fishing lines and began heading my way. It's only then I noticed I had my hat in my hand. The helmsman did a good job stopping the boat next to me and killing its motor. They pulled me around to the stern and I stepped up on the outdrive and climbed aboard. "That's not the way to get off," one of them said as I offered up my breathless gratitude. By this time "Julia Bell" had finally rounded up. We came up on it easily and I stepped across and got back onboard. I've had a day to think about what happened now and the lessons are obvious. First, always go out and buy another hat. As for the fishing license, well, that too could have been consigned to the deep as I never catch anything anyway. The main lesson is this: Always wear a PFD! Always wear a PFD! Always wear a PFD! The PFD is what made this whole episode only mildly interesting and not so terrifying. I shudder a bit now, thinking about what could have happened. What if it was at night. What if there wasn't anyone around to fish me out. What if a big Navy ship had come around the corner just then to either run me down, or blow my "Julia Bell" out of the water for getting too close. I must finally offer up a big thank you to those three fisherman. I wasn't onboard long enough to catch their names, but they were great. They were Johnny on the Spot and I promise, from this day forward, to never use the term "Stinkpotter" again. Nick "Julia Bell" C-27, #86