Nothing makes us happier than when over-priced "Rock Stars" make guest appearances on programs like the Volvo that you know they couldn't hack if they were asked to do the whole thing. Here's an SA exclusive - the Real on-board commentary from one of our favorite "Rock Stars".

By Peter Wusler

Hi, my name is Peter Wusler, and I'm sailing in my first-ever leg of the Volvo Ocean Race. Okay, not really sailing, but rather writing about sailing. I'm laying on my side (although I prefer my stomach), typing on a laptop-because well, after all, that's what I do best. The romantic sound of salt-water spray is lashing the deck a few feet above me. Little tiny teeny puddles of wonderful, wonderful water in the bilge dance around (like sugar plum fairies - hehe!) a few inches below me as our 65-foot sloop bashes its way into 6-foot seas in the Tasman Ocean. Nearby the ship's mascot, a rubber, two-foot high Bart Simpson doll is staring blankly at the ceiling. Though I think Bart is a cute little bugger, I much prefer Waylon Smithers. However, young Bart is now my personal bunk-buddy when it's extra chilly, or if I'm feeling a bit amorous (good thing we opted for the multiple orifice option!)

We've been sailing for nearly a week now--and let me tell you that this Ocean Race stuff is nasty, nasty business! I mean, yes, I am an over-paid, coddled, do-little Rock Star (I have the checks to prove it), but I don't like this rough stuff (well, you know what I mean. I do like the rough stuff, but not this yucky sailing rough stuff). I'm much happier, flitting about in the warm weather of San Diego in my wife's Etchells, where everybody thinks I'm wonderful!

The 11 other crew members aboard Team News Corp, all big, burly hunky professionals, are all well into the routine of shipboard living aboard this hell-hole masquerading as a state of the art ocean racer. Personal hygiene is definitely lower on the priority list out here, and frankly I'm disgusted! My God, I mean I certainly don't mind the smell of man-meat, but jesus, this is no way for a man of my delicacies to exist. I'm a soft Yaley, for christ's sake!
First and foremost, the goal is making our boat sail at peak potential--24/7. That's the company line, but I'll let you in on a little secret; that's not my agenda! Mine is to pad my resume, pad my bank account and make it look like I really do something.

Last night during the sail changes that everybody else did except me, it occurred to me, again while laying in my bunk, how different a sport this is than so many others. Here's where I drone on and on about this sport as only I can: Ocean racing is comprised of long hours of relative tedium in damp, often uncomfortable conditions, interspersed with short periods of anaerobic activity--grinding winches, moving sail bags, and generally working the boat hard. Those guys work hard, I know - they keep me awake all night with their infernal racket! Even the ear plugs and thingys you put over your eyes don't help. Sail changes on these reaching legs can be especially difficult, so I've been told, and everyone got their share of a work out. Well, almost everyone. I was busy sleeping, er, navigating, don't you know? But instead of hitting the showers and a change of clean clothes (including mandatory thong brief bikini and plenty of Gold Bond in the oh-so hard to reach, but oh-so wonderful areas!), after a stint at the gym in my goldenrod spandex tights, the best that we can look forward to is having a bowl (dog-bowl variety) of freeze-dried food and climb into a rather damp sleeping bag in the bunk for a few hours. This is so ucky!

My job on board is one of no labor and little that can't be done by almost anybody who knows how to push buttons. Along with my good friend ( I say that because he just wrote me a fat check), Ross Field, the boat's navigator and the guy who talked me into spending the Xmas holidays in this unique fashion, I help to route the boat, which means providing the crew on deck with all the information they need to make decisions regarding sail changes, course adjustments, and how to deal with the competitors. In other words I'm completely non-essential. All these jobs were done before I got here. I contribute virtually nothing, but remember, I'm Peter Wusler!

I spend about half my time down below on the computers at the nav station, downloading weather information, blah, blah, blah, the other half in my bunk. In other words, I do almost nothing. Christ it's great to live off my over-valued reputation. The other half (of my awake hours) I spend up on deck-hiding in the aft quarter near the stern pulpit. I never say a word, and mostly the fellas, who I think by now really and truly hate me because I'm such a wuss, leave me alone. Grinding winches, trimming sails, and talking with the crew all are things that I would never do.

Am I happy to be here? Isn't happy really another word for gay? Then, yes, I'm happy. Like the rest of the crew, I'm looking forward to the finish in Auckland, a hot shower--some real food and a dry bed. Besides, I hear there are some great alternative lifestyle bars.

Am I ever lonely? Not with all the other guys packed aboard this boat. Packed. Now, there's a word I love.

Peter Wusler-Team News Corp.