As we walked through the dark marina at 3.30am, I swallowed the last bite of my banana then tossed the skin on a pile of others on the dock. Bananas are considered to bring bad luck on boats and we needed all the good fortune we could summon to make it the next 750 cold, wild, watery miles. The eighth Race to Alaska (R2AK) was about to start and I was crewing on one of the 44 teams heading to the start line. A few teams aimed to be first; the rest of us just aimed to survive.
More than 100 adventurers from four countries converged in Port Townsend, near Seattle, in June to test their mettle against the unpredictable elements in the Pacific Northwest’s famed Inside Passage. Our goal was to make it to Ketchikan, Alaska, before the “Grim Sweeper”– a boat that slowly follows racers up the course – tapped us out.
Unlike other sailing races that are fraught with complex regulations, the Race to Alaska is purposely simple: no motors and no outside support. My team – a trio of women in their mid-40s dubbed Sail Like A Mother – were unanimous as to why we were taking part in the race: we were hoping for a midlife reboot.
Katie Gaut, a fellow sailing addict, myself and the third stalwart crew member, Melissa Roberts, were also doing the R2AK to prove to ourselves and to our children that we had “the courage to travel a hard quest”, as my nine-year-old son wrote in a note he stowed onboard.
My stomach was knotted with nerves as we hustled through our final preparations. A ragtag fleet of vessels – most of them smaller than a pickup truck – ghosted towards the start line as sunrise painted the horizon pink.
The medley of vessels that entered the race this year ranged from a standup paddleboard to a sleek racing trimaran to a handmade wooden catamaran to an old monohull bought off Craigslist for $250. Crews ranged from parent-child duos to 70-year-old soloists to a boat full of seven strangers. Some were six-time R2AK veterans while others, like me, had never sailed the course.
The first leg of the race entails crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a notorious stretch of ocean that separates the US state of Washington from Vancouver Island in Canada. Part of the “graveyard of the Pacific”, the strait’s stormy seas, dense fog and strong, variable currents have left dozens of shipwrecks littering the bottom of the channel.
Our team, in our 27ft (8 metre), half-century-old sailing boat, was last off the dock. I pedalled us out around the jetty – yes, pedalled. R2AK sailboats need a creative way to move when the wind dies down. We had a bike strapped to the stern that turned an aircraft propeller, which allowed us to crawl at about 2.5 knots – walking pace – through the water. We made the start line with only a minute to spare before the horn blew.
We were off like a bale of turtles in the still air. I sighed with relief when the wind filled our sails an hour later.
Long before the race began, all of the teams had to deal with mind-bending logistics. Questions such as: what do we eat for five to 25 days at sea without a kitchen or refrigeration? Where do we sleep? Where do we pee?
If you want to know the answers, they are: dehydrated dinners, oatmeal, jerky, nuts and a lot of chocolate. Luckily, our sailing boat had two cots below the cockpit, which I lovingly referred to as the “coffin berths”, and that’s where we slept. We pee’d overboard or, in rough seas, in a bucket that was dumped overboard.
During low points while racing in the ensuing days, I reminded myself of my son’s belief in my bravery to shore up my commitment to continuing. Like when I was changing a sail on the bow in 30-knot gusts as we pounded into steep, breaking waves that doused me from head to toe.
Or when the wind died at 2am and we were still six miles from an anchorage where we could rest for a few hours. Or when I accidentally jibed in 8ft swells, which pushed our boat alarmingly close to a jagged rock in the dark.
I also drew inspiration from the two teams comprised entirely of teenagers from around Washington’s Puget Sound. Both youth teams maintained good speed and high spirits throughout the race. Their age may have given them a leg-up on the grownups in terms of stamina.
Willow Gray, onboard team Juvenile Delinquents, brought along a cap and gown to commemorate her high-school graduation, which she missed while competing in the race. Her highlight? “The sightseeing was so stunning – stars like I’ve never seen before, all the wildlife, crystal-clear water, and seaweed, and so many jellyfish.”
Like Gray, the raw beauty on the course was one of my favourite parts. A pod of orcas swam past us during a particularly jaw-dropping sunset. A humpback breached just a stone’s throw from our stern one afternoon.
Another night, a full moon reflected off bioluminescent sparkles as I pedalled us through still waters, the silence broken only by the call of a loon.
Ten days after we left Victoria, our team approached the finish line. I cried a little as Ketchikan – and the end of our voyage – came into view. So did Gaut, our captain. “I love being out here so much. I don’t want it to be over yet,” she says.
At 1am, we finally nosed up to a small dock, greeted by cheers from 30-odd people huddled under raincoats. The Race to Alaska changed me, as it does anyone who travels its rugged, remote and unpredictable route.
Now, I am even more respectful of the ocean and its immense power. I am more appreciative of the fact that it takes a village to launch one small boat. And I am finally certain that I do, indeed, have what it takes to complete a hard quest.
