Capsize: fall down, go boom. Pitchpole: now there's real beauty.

Ahh, the pleasant pitchpole. The slow elevator ride to vertical or nearly so. The sinking realization that you are no longer cool not to have recognized the limit and not to have backed-off in time to prevent the inevitable. The echo of one's dear departed Mom in the overconfident gray cells saying, "You're gonna kill yourself on that thing." (She had long since dropped the "Just wait 'til your father gets home" appendage to the admonition.) Helplessly you ask yourself "Why didn't it rubber band back like it does, sometimes?" How smart you are, you tell yourself, up to your chin in salt water, that you stuck out your arm in order to prevent your noggin' and/or ribs from banging into the mast (big bruise already on that arm). Mere moments before a gorilla on a wire and now simply a wet monkey at the level of fishbait, plankton, and other simple or no-minded creatures among the flotsam. The alpha male reigned in by the Alpha Cat. You da man. It was wonderful; which is kinda hard to explain.