In honor of Kevin Burnham
While the rest of us shuffled around the boat park in the mornings at a 6.5 or 7/10 energy-wise, Kevin Burnham was always 10/10. Maybe that is the reason so many of us feel such a strong connection to him.
The friendly conversations that turned to tall tales, full of vivid details at the US Sailing Center crane. Kevin’s sheer enthusiasm, overwhelming, but in the best way, like brilliant sunlight. These are the things I cherish most.
He didn’t read the room. He filled it. He was the kind of grown man who would walk up and hug you just to say hello, “Phil the Drill, how are ya, buddy?”
“What’s the forecast today, KB?” I’d ask.
Kevin’s Miami weather report always had to do with two things: the dew on the boat cover and the clouds over the gulfstream. There was a certain relationship he’d ascertained after years of study, that dewy boat covers and a thin blue line on the horizon was a good sign for seabreeze.
“But we just have to go out there and see,” he’d quickly follow up.
Kevin had an incredible career as a legend in our sport, yet still when he spoke to you, he’d grab you with his words. Kevin was honest and raw and shared his emotions freely. Conversations like that are rare in today’s world.
When I was 17 years old I flew to Hamburg, Germany. I arrived with no plan or means to get to the regatta venue for Kieler Woche. I was a teenager, in Europe, traveling solo without any skills, coach, or real ability to plan.
I waited at baggage claim for hours throughout the morning, looking for some sailor—any sailor—to hitch a ride with. I saw a Russian windsurfer dragging his gear and quickly introduced myself. He politely let me know it was not going to happen.
By shear dumb luck only achieved by a boy of a certain age, I learned that some American sailors were at the airport and I should ask them. I dropped my gear and ran up to a blue Mercedes van that was parked on the sidewalk.
I bounded up to Paul Foerster (not knowing he was Paul Foerster at the time) and asked him for a ride. He looked dumbfounded and very suspicious of me, when a tall, gangly fellow leapt out of the driver’s seat and waved me in.
That’s the first time I met Kevin.
Shy and hoping to express my appreciation with small talk, I asked, “did you guys just arrive too?”
“Ha,” Kevin let out, “we’ve been here for weeks,” with unabashed suprise at such a stupid question.
The following year, Kevin and Paul would win the gold medal in Athens. Kevin was the oldest Gold Medalist at that Games (48).
Arriving early was routine for Kevin. He was proud of his Olympic history: His partnership and silver medal with Morgan Reeser at the 1992 Games in Barcelona; his gold medal performance with Paul in 2004. He’d inspire our youth sailors by impressing upon them the importance of a strict routine.
“I’d lay out my clothes the night before for the next day. Every night, I ate the same thing, at the same table. And I’d wake up early and eat the same breakfast as I had the day before, so that I wouldn’t waste any energy on anything but my race that was about to happen,” punctuating every word as he relived the experience while sharing it with us.
“We would launch even before the race committee was out there. And we’d sail the whole race course. The whole course, even before the marks were in the water.”
“And I’d have my numbers, I’d write them with an ink pen on the deck. I knew every shift that was out there on that course. And then we went out there and we just did it,” he’d laugh with a croak. “We just fuckin’ did it.”
He always boasted about being the first sailor at the boat park on regatta day, with his spinnaker hoisted so everyone arriving would see it. He loved the psychological advantage it gave him. No doubt, after telling that story the next day we’d see two or three spinnakers hoisted in the early morning from sailors who were struck by his example.
I knew him first as a sailor, but mostly as a fellow coach of youth sailors, who he adored and invested everything he could into with such passion and commitment. Elizabeth would sit in on debriefs some days just to make sure he didn’t get too passionate after a particularly rough day. And when a sailor or team had performed to his standard the praise burst out and overflowed like champagne.
As a passionate crew, Kevin elevated the role of a super crew among our youth and shared his technical skill, body control, and knowledge freely. Small things are big things in our game. And for Kevin every single wave or piece of chop is an opportunity to push the boat a little harder.
“The skipper has the tiller, but we all know the crew drives the boat,” he’d say. “And you’ve got to look at the water for the right wave. Wait for your wave at the top mark and turn the boat on it to keep your apparent up so you’re top speed to set the spinnaker.”
My most powerful memories of Kevin are joyous ones. Those who knew him, knew his passion for sailing and also for ice cold Heinekens and UM football. It was a beautiful moment for our sailing community to come together on Sunday in Biscayne Bay, his home turf, in honor of Kevin’s life and legacy. The starting line with sailors in dinghies, skiffs, kites, and more.
We lost a legend, a coach and our friend in a sad and tragic way. We can all do right by him in smiling a little more and enjoying the little moments with each other in full spirit.
The lessons that Kevin taught me are ones I pass on, and will continue to. And I don’t usually drink beer but from now on I’ll never turn down an ice cold Heineken. Because that green bottle, like so many other wonderful things about our sport, about these boats and the water, and the glimmer of sun on top of every piece of chop in Biscayne Bay will remind me of our friend.