Hit It

If the roughly hewn timber and rock breakwaters of Port Townsend and Ketchikan were parenthesis, our adventure would not be contained in an aside. This was an exclamatory excursion and it would burst through any sort of manmade containment without apology. Hence our slamming and swirling encounters on our exit from and entrance into “safe” harbors, the start and finish lines. 

Save whirlpools and overfalls, hitting stationary objects (breakwaters, islands, docks) or being hit by other moving objects (containerships, massive logs, tugboats) was my greatest fear on boats. Losing an engine was high up on that list, too, as it would only contribute to such jarring opportunities for puncturing the hull. I suppose it wasn’t so much the hitting as the sinking that worried me. And not so much the sinking but the drowning part, gulps of salty sea and plankton through baleen-less jaws, a diving deep without a spyhop to follow.

I am in love with the sea, I am a mermaid, a shapeshifting flying fish, but the imagination of my heart can only go so far, breathe so deep under the edge of water.

Entering a race where the rules forbid even having an engine on board, where sailing and rowing and paddling (or peddling on some boats) are the only means of propulsion, where turbulent tidal rips and currents and whirlpools let you know that you are definitely not the one in control, well, it seemed a little nuts. Because hitting shit was inevitable. And hit shit we would. I pretended like I was OK with that reality but in fact I was terrified and I knew this was the very best reason for me to enter the race.

Even with tens of thousands of miles of sailing experience I felt pretty vulnerable and anxious as I boarded the ferry to Port Townsend where the Race to Alaska would begin. Walking down the street with a dry-bag heavy with emergency equipment over my shoulder, I watched the truck trailers sporting modified plastic kayaks and mini mono-hulls crawl towards the waterfront. When I leaned out over the rail overlooking the docks full of trimarans and hobie cats and tiny coffin-like boats, I cried.

Not out of fear but excitement and relief. These were my people! Nuts, every single one, some even more so than me! We were all coming together to push our limits, to challenge what was considered safe, to use our skills and stamina in ways we couldn’t yet imagine. I was soothed by the camaraderie, like a snug school of sardines finning past the gaping jaws of a shark.

Last minute preparations, repairs, modifications dialed up the frenetic energy on the docks. In less than 36 hours (and two beer-soaked parties later), we would all be squeezing through the narrow harbor entrance and pointing our bows towards Alaska. Well, those who could actually point more than 45 degrees into the wind would be doing so. As part of Team Onism on a 24-foot homebuilt trimaran with 25-year-old sails (and trampoline and hull), we would be pointing a lot of places along the way but rarely in the exact direction we wanted to go. Of course we didn’t know this when we started. We were very aware we didn’t know a lot of things about the boat. We went anyway.

We hit the breakwater in Port Townsend battling 20-knot winds on the nose with oars and paddles. (The oars and paddles were in the water, not in the turbulent air smacking that laughing wind on the snout, but sometimes our propulsion implements felt like they might as well have been skyward the progress was so painfully slow.) It was 5am, we hadn’t eaten breakfast or slept a wink as the halyards clanged and docklines creaked all night. To make the 6am start the 60+ boats started clawing their way out of the harbor before sunrise. Or perhaps the sun had already risen but was obscured by the angry black clouds overhead.

Before we had a chance to think about it (or have coffee. Damn!) the trimaran in front of us pushed off into the fairway. That meant it was our turn and god I wasn’t ready lets just take our time but now we’re being pulled forward by boyfriend and husband and father and now fuck we are in the fairway and now I am paddling and now my lungs are burning and I realize that paddling in a drysuit sucks and my muscles are now burning and suddenly I am yelling “Let’s do this ladies” like a gym coach on steroids because I am afraid if I don’t yell I am going to stop and cry but I keep paddling and Emily keeps rowing and Katy keeps steering and yells “Don’t stop!” and we don’t. There is a crowd cheering us on from the railing above but I can’t hear them with the blood rushing in my ears and we round the corner

we can see open water

we can see the other boats

we are almost there

but the wind still takes our bow a second before we can get the jammed staysail to unfurl and we drift more like slide more like plow towards the timber wall to port. Contact! That sounds so gentle but it is more of a crunch and we are sliding against the splintering wood and we think we will spin and end up on the beach where there is another fucking happy group of people cheering us on (DON’T YOU SEE WE ARE GOING TO CRASH?)

But the fluttering of a white wing saves us and pulls us into the wind. We are flying towards the rest of the (floating, sailing, safe) boats and we can breathe again. Yell with joy. We have not even officially started the race but we have started the journey.

We have hit shit. We are OK. We are more than OK. We are laughing.

We are on our way to Victoria and then Alaska. Alaska!

I am on my way to discovering who I am when the boat hits the breakwall, when exhaustion and steep waves and adverse currents will mix with bubbling shame, when the sight of fins and flippers will connect me to my briny blood.

When in the last moments of the race we are spun in circles inches away from hungry sharp rocks and we are able to laugh again and accept our pirouette of a finish as we guzzle beers and ring the brass bell and hug fellow racers when we finally make it to the dock in Ketchikan. 

I will finish with a smile on my face, arms strong, hands blistered, heart full.

We hit shit and we made it. 

Spun, rain-soaked, sun-drenched spirits
bursting out of whale bone cages to meet the yellow dawn

and the next

 )not-to-be-contained(

ADVENTURE.