The 2016 Race to Alaska

The Race to Alaska is the brainchild of Jake Beady and his enablers at the Northwest Maritime Center in Port Townsend, WA. The premise is to race up the Inside Passage from Port Townsend to Ketchikan, AK, a distance of 750 miles, with no motors and no outside assistance. That's about the extent of the rules. The first one there wins $10,000. The second gets a set of steak knives. The race debuted in 2015 and races annually every June (with the exception of the pandemic years).

The Inside Passage is one of the most dramatic waterways in North America. It is as beautiful as it is dangerous. Mountains line the route, funneling the wind and very often accelerating it to gale force or even higher. Grizzly bears and black bears roam the slopes freely. Currents through Seymore Narrows can exceed twelve knots, creating standing waves and huge whirlpools, making passage impossible for small craft. Orcas roam the waterways. The Inside Passage is famous for its 'deadheads,' which have nothing at all in common with the Grateful Dead. They are saturated logs, barely floating, very heavy, and virtually invisible. Every year, multiple competitors get taken out by a collision with a deadhead. Enter thirty to fifty racing boats pushing the limits of their crafts and their endurance, sailing blindly at top speed through the night. To date, there have been no casualties other than a few hypothermia cases (in June?!!) and a couple of minor injuries.

After the inaugural race in 2015, I was hooked. I had to participate. In 2016, I formed a team using my Harmony 22, Gizmo, called Team Ghost-Rider. We paid the entry fee and started planning. Unfortunately, my crew members were all productive members of the workforce. They could take enough time off to do the race (barely), but not to bring the boat home again. So, I formed a new crew with similar results. I was left with a valid entry, but no crew. Enter Steve Marcos and Team Golden Oldies. He wanted to race and had a very fast ocean-going racing catamaran named Nice Pair but had not submitted his entry in time. So we joined forces and became Team Ghost Rider meets Team Golden Oldies. Nice Pair was a veteran of the 2015 inaugural race but had dropped out after breaking a mainsail halyard in Johnstone Strait.

Nice Pair was moored near Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands. For a boat that theoretically was almost ready to race, she sure needed a lot of work. Enter Team Ghost Rider, myself, Ryan Smith, and Richard Mackie. We reassembled her to get her to our home in Olympia so we could prepare her for the big event. That meant bending on a very heavy mainsail, running a new main halyard, and remounting the rudders. This is all in April, a little over a month from the starting gun. Once in Olympia, we scrubbed a year's worth of growth off her bottom, replaced the lashings on the trampoline, built rowing stations so we could propel her manually, and did a whole host of other small chores.

Two weeks before we were to head north to Port Townsend, Captain Steve decided he wants to replace all the standing rigging and wants me to do it! What?!!!! I thought we were going to go out and practice! After all, three of us had never sailed a catamaran before. I didn't even think it was possible. I thought we'd need a crane to lift out the 65' tall wing mast. How could we possibly line that up in just two weeks, even if I already had the new rigging? Steve assured me that he had riggers standing by to build the new parts. All I had to do was climb the mast and take the old standing rigging down and send it to the shop. Really?!! And what's going to hold up the mast while we're doing this? Steve assured me that two halyards to each bow and the running backstays aft would do it. But he was safely in Reno, Nevada. Guess who had to go up the mast and take all the rigging down? Me, the stupid one.

Yeah, that's a friggin' tall mast! The halyards were in good condition, but the running backstays were frayed, tied with bowlines instead of being spliced, and under-sized to boot. I wasn't about to trust my life to those. I up-sized the backstays and spliced them properly to preserve the strength of the Dyneema. Finally, with new backstays holding the mast from falling forward, and halyards to each bow to keep it from falling backward, I was ready to take down the standing rigging. The diamond stays were first. As soon as we loosened the turnbuckles, the carbon fiber mast got really wiggly, making it really nerve-wracking to be aloft. Now for the shrouds and forestay. It's a rotating mast, so all three are attached to the same huge shackle on the front of the mast. Disconnect that and pray that the halyards hold. Everything worked out, and I'm still alive to write this blog.

The standing rigging showed up three days later. Same with the diamond stays. I was far happier putting it back up than I was taking it down. But then I had to figure out how to tune the rigging. This is a custom boat, so there's no information online. I winged it as best as I could. I really needed to put the rig under load, but that would have to wait until we began the delivery to Port Townsend just a few days before the race. Enter Team Golden Oldies, Steve Marcos, and Curt Pitts. We finally met face-to-face for the first time just in time to head north.

Port Townsend was a zoo! Craziness abounded! Crowds packed the docks asking all sorts of questions. The night before the race was the Ruckus, a huge party in the NW Maritime Center that spilled out over the lawn and down to the boats at the dock. Lots of drunkenness. And a five-thirty starting time.

Race day, finally! At five in the morning, the docks were packed, and crowds lined the shore and jetty. A jackass in a helicopter was hovering low over the fleet, taking pictures oblivious to his downdraft. And Mother Nature was happily playing with us by blowing a 15-knot wind straight down the channel. Remember that we had no motors? Boats were banging against each other as they tried to get out against the wind. Some got pushed into the jetty, and a couple gave up because they couldn't get out. Their race was over before they even got to the starting line. We were late for the start since we waited until the channel was clear. Then we pushed off and put everything we had into our oars. No problem. We powered out against the wind with no problem.

The first leg of the race is a 40-mile jaunt across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Victoria. It's not really a race. But tell that to the competitors! You have 36 hours to get there. But you have to complete it to prove you can propel your yacht manually. Sailing is against the law in Victoria Harbor. Competitors have to douse sails and pedal, paddle, or row their boats for the last two miles.

Our crossing was a little anticlimactic. We thought we'd have a fast crossing with the 15-knot wind, but it didn't last. We started a little late (No problem, half the fleet started even later!), but when we rigged the spinnaker, the bitter end of the halyard disappeared inside the mast, only to reappear on the trampoline a few seconds later, coiling itself neatly as it fell from the top of the mast. Curses! And then the land breeze faded, leaving us rowing for four hours. A light sea breeze finally filled in and carried us to Victoria.

The actual race began on Sunday at noon. It's a Le Mans-style start. The boats are all moored, and the crews are ashore on the landing above the marina. When the gun goes off, all the crews race to their steeds and shove off simultaneously. Chaos ensues! It's a slow-speed demolition derby that is highly entertaining for the spectators. We were all set for a quick exit since we were at the end of the dock. Unfortunately, Team Bunny Whaler got a faster start and got in front of us just as we lunged forward. We very nearly ran them over. The delay caused us to get tangled up with all the other boats.

Finally clear, we rowed out to the cruise ship docks, then raised sails. At first, we thought we'd have a good breeze. But it didn't last. We shot forward through the fleet, passing trimaran after trimaran, then the breeze left us. I had originally planned to sail inside Discovery Island to avoid the ebbing current. But Captain Steve decided to follow a team from California instead. They were professional sailors with several world championships among them and obviously knew far more than all of the rest of us. So, we followed them out into the ebbing current and found no wind at all. Most of the rest of the fleet went inside the island and ended up way ahead of us. That was when we discovered that the team from California had withdrawn from the race. They were sailing to give their sponsors some photo opportunities. By following them, we dug ourselves a hole and put ourselves way back in the fleet. One nice memory was seeing Olympic gold medalist Carl Buckin set a beautiful hourglass spinnaker aboard his custom-made racing boat named Madrona. It took a good five minutes to clear. I guess it happens to the best of us, but it was reassuring to see a champion sailor screw up.

We entered the Strait of Georgia via Active Pass, following Madrona. But we got there at dusk at the end of slack water. The ebb was starting as we entered. At maximum flow, the current races through the two-mile-long pass at 6 knots. We were rowing mostly in the light wind as the opposing current continued to build. It was the longest two limes ever! We put our backs into the oars and barely snuck out the other side in time. Another half hour and we'd have been swept back through the pass. We found no wind at all in the Strait of Georgia and drifted mostly backward all night. The next morning found us within a quarter mile of the daymark marking the entrance into Active Pass.

Several trimarans and a few monohulls accompanied us as we cruised slowly up the Strait of Georgia. Nothing notable happened until we got into Discovery Pass. That's when we were met with a 5-knot opposing current. Tack after tack, we barely made any headway. As the wind continued to fail, we decided to pull over at a private hunter's lodge and see if they had a restaurant. We never even made it off the boat before we were told that we weren't welcome there. So, we shoved off and anchored just off their dock as we waited for the wind. A little while later, one of the lodge's runabouts returned to their dock and circled the boat at high speed, trying to rock us because they were unhappy that we were moored there. The moron didn't realize that you can't wake a 38-foot catamaran. He also didn't realize our anchor line projected forward underwater and promptly wrapped it around his propeller. A few choice words were exchanged, and he slunk away with his tail between his legs.

FOOD: My wife, Fran, prepared all of our meals for us. She cooked up home-cooked meals and vacuum-bagged them in single-serving allotments. Those were all frozen until we were ready to eat them. On the water, all we had to do was boil some salt water and dip the bags in to reheat them. We didn't even bother with bowls. Too much trouble to clean up afterward. She also made some homemade granola cereal for breakfast. We ate well.

SEYMORE NARROWS: The very name causes the bravest mariners to pause. It's the most treacherous single spot on the entire racecourse. And there's no real way to avoid it. The rules mandate that we go through, so there's no question about that. The alternate routes were just as dangerous. Currents rip through the narrows at over 12 knots, causing huge standing waves and whirlpools. A long time ago, there used to be a notorious rock aptly called Ripple Rock right in the middle of the channel that claimed countless ships and 114 lives. Finally, in 1958, engineers tunneled under the rock and packed it full of explosives. The resulting explosion was the largest non-nuclear explosion ever up to that point. But the infamous rock was gone, and the channel was clear. But the raging currents and massive whirlpools thirty feet across are still there. Seymore Narrows must be transited at or near slack water. That's the navigational challenge. Just getting to it proved a challenge as the current in Discovery Passage runs at 5 knots. There are a couple of spots where a boat can moor and wait for slack water. If you miss slack water, you have to wait another 6-8 hours.

Our transit through the Narrows was happily a fairly boring event. A light breeze filled in and got us to the Narrows just before slack water. As we approached, we could see white caps in the Narrows. That's the other danger. The mountains funnel the wind and amplify it. But Nice Pair loves wind. We passed Maude Island on the right and shot through the Narrows, passing two monohulls and two trimarans in the three-mile length.

Immediately after Seymore Narrows comes Johnstone Strait, famous for its gales. Sure enough, we got hit hard. In 2015, Nice Pair made it all the way here, just to have the main halyard break causing them to retire. They were pushing hard despite the gale-force winds, launching the boat off of each wave. The shock loading is likely what caused the main halyard to part. So, we were taking it a bit more cautiously this year. Nice Pair can handle the wind easy enough. But when the waves built to the point that we were launching her, Captain Steve called for us to seek refuge. We pulled over to Billygoat Bay on Helmkin Island. The cove was so protected that you couldn't even tell it was windy out. In retrospect, we maybe could have dragged a long line to slow us down, but that's water under the bridge now. Ryan and Richard had to go ashore and start a little campfire just to say they did. But Richard decided to test his dry suit and swim ashore. He left that little zipper in the front a little unzipped, causing a wet spot on the front of his pants. He took some ribbing over that.

The wind in Johnstone Strait is either feast or famine. We did a lot of rowing, like 4-6 hours. Richard even snapped one of our carbon fiber oars. We were nearing Port McNeil on Vancouver Island when someone noticed that our gooseneck fitting on the mast had come apart. It must have happened during the gale. The fitting was made of a latticework of carbon fiber to keep the weight to a minimum. But this fitting takes a lot of force on a mainsail as big as Nice Pair's. It obviously wasn't up to the task. I saw Captain Steve and Curt staring glumly at the damage, knowing we couldn't go on. And this is only a little further than they got last year. Being an engineer, I studied the problem. We had a crash kit on board. We should be able to fix this. Steve was reluctant to do any jury rigging since it was such an expensive mast. But I came up with a permanent repair that we could do ourselves. My solution involved preserving the carbon fiber outer shell but cutting away all the broken internal latticework. Then we would chop up some carbon fiber cloth, mix it with epoxy resin until we had a thick putty, and stuff the outer shell making the gooseneck fitting solid. The only tricky part was preserving the two bushings and keeping them aligned. We did that with a homemade dowel. Captain Steve was happy with that solution, so we pulled into Port McNeil in order to focus on the repair (and have a beer or three while the epoxy dried...). Turns out that Curt did most of the repair. I was just in the way.

Less than 24 hours later, we were back in the race.

Pulling out of Port McNeil, we found no wind at all, so we rowed. And rowed. And rowed. Keep in mind that Nice Pair weighs 4300 pounds. But that afternoon, a fresh southerly breeze filled in, and we were on our way north at high speed. We screamed up Fitz Hugh Sound at 15 knots, blew past the required waypoint in Bella-Bella, and headed out into Hecate Strait. Overnight, we made short work of the Strait and charged into the feared Dixon Entrance. Fortunately, the notorious swells and waves were behind us and our GPS peaked out at 21 knots! We had one scary moment when we stuffed the bow into a wave and almost flipped her. I was steering and went flying across the trampoline as she came to an abrupt halt. Captain Steve released the mainsheet causing the boom to fly out against the running backstay. That impact pulled a section of the sail track off the mast. Suddenly, we were without our mainsail. We finished the crossing under working jib alone, but we were still clocking 12-14 knots. That lasted until we completed our crossing and entered Nichols Passage. Then the wind left us with just 30 miles to go.

The last 30 miles into Ketchikan were slow and painful. We had blown out the screecher, so all we had left was the working jib. We crept up Nichols Passage with an opposing current. Finally, we had to anchor and wait out the current. So close! The wind never returned, so we rowed the last ten miles of the race.

Fran flew up to meet us in Ketchikan. She had been monitoring our slow progress on the race tracker and figured that she had several days to get there. And suddenly, she saw us flying north at 15-16 knots! She frantically tried to change to an earlier flight to no avail. Frustrated almost to the point of tears, she got on the plane, knowing that she'd missed us. The first thing she did once on the ground in Ketchikan was turn on her race tracker. We hadn't finished yet! She raced out of the airport only to discover that she had to take a ferry to the mainland. And all the time, she had the tracker active in her hand. She caught a ride with a couple of guys, checked into the hotel, then raced down to the marina. We still hadn't come in. She had time to hitch a ride on a boat and meet us.

The Race to Alaska was one of the toughest challenges I've ever faced. The planning, the preparation, the long sleepless nights, the cold weather, the danger, the emergency repairs, the long hours rowing. Would I do it again? Absolutely. I'd love to do it solo. But I would also join a team with a hot boat. I might even be tempted to do it again on Gizmo as I had originally planned. The Race to Alaska lives in our souls. It's a life-altering experience. Once accomplished, you are forever a Race to Alaska veteran.