AFTER TEXTING half the night, into the wee hours, I groaned when that alarm rang at dawn. Time to get on Sir Keith’s boat. But I also felt grateful. A

sailing race was the only way I’d be able to put down my phone. And I needed to put it down, just for a spell, to collect my wits. To pace myself.

Sir Keith’s boat was called Invictus. Homage to the games, God love him. That day it had a crew of eleven, including one or two athletes who’d actually competed in the games. The five-hour race took us around the Needles, and into the teeth of a gale. The wind was so fierce, many other boats dropped out of the race.

I’d sailed before, many times—I recalled one golden holiday, with Henners, trying to capsize our little Laser boat for laughs—but never like this, on open sea, in conditions so squally. The waves were towering. I’d never feared death before, and now I found myself thinking: Please don’t let me drown before my big date. Then another fear took hold. The fear of no onboard loo. I held it in for as long as I possibly could, until I had no choice. I swung my body over the side, into the tossing sea…and still couldn’t pee, mainly thanks to stage fright. The whole crew looking.

Finally I went back to my post, sheepishly hung from the ropes, and peed my pants.

Wow, I thought, if Ms. Markle could see me now.

Our boat won our class, came in second overall. Hooray, I said, barely pausing to celebrate with Sir Keith and the crew. My only concern was jumping into that water, washing the pee off my trousers, then racing back to London, where the bigger race, the ultimate race, was about to begin.