A s 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 preparatio.