Swiftsure Race
The best part of any race or voyage is when the crew start gathering at the boat. There is a feeling of excitement in the air as each person arrives by car, plane or on foot, stows their bag, and greets their new crew-mates. The crew of the race-boat Korina Korina was a mix of Canadians and Americans, recruited by Captain Jon Kudson over the past couple of months. We were doing the long-distance route of the Swiftsure International Yacht Race, starting in Victoria, sailing through the Juan de Fuca Strait south of Vancouver Island, going round a marker at the edge of the Pacific Ocean, and returning back to Victoria for a total of 256 kilometres.
 |
| Brave crew-mate leaps on the boom to fix some rigging |
The start of Swiftsure is really fun, as over 100 sailboats whiz around in a small space, trying not to bump into each other as they wait for the cannon that marks the start. There is a lot of yelling! We had a bit of a slow start, but we knew that the wind was going to pick up towards evening (oh boy, would it ever!). We were carefully watching our position on the race tracker, and vying for the lead with one other boat in our division.
As predicted, the wind picked up towards evening and kept growing the further we got into the Juan de Fuca Strait. We eventually reached 35-40 knot winds, which is technically within gale force range. The waves themselves were 10-15 feet high and crashed over the deck. Just before an especially large wave would hit, someone would yell “wave!” and we’d all stand up, so that only our legs would get the soaking. As the wind rose higher, the boat groaned and creaked and strained. It was getting the bashing of its life as we beat for hours directly into it. Sailors don’t normally put a boat (or themselves!) through this kind of strain, but in a race we were pushing the boat and the crew to their limits.
 |
| A rare glimpse of some of the wilder weather |
My job was to switch the running back-stays every time that we tacked. This meant loosening a line supporting the mast on one side of the boat, while tightened the line on the opposite side. It’s critical in rough weather because the back-stays help support the mast. But it also involved forcing back seasickness, crawling in the dark on a sharply angled, soaking deck to the very stern (back) of the boat, clipping onto a lifeline, and getting it done as quickly as possible before crawling back. To do this safely, you have to keep at least one hand on something and creep forward in between large bounces as waves hit the front of the boat.
At one point during the night, there was a loud “bang” as one of the minor shrouds snapped. The shrouds are a structural piece of rigging that permanently hold up the mast at the side of the boat. To lose a minor shroud is not as devastating as losing one of the main ones, but when mast supports are starting to break from the strain, it’s very scary. One crew suggested a Pan-Pan (a radio distress call one level below a May-Day), but crew-mate John, a very handy and experienced engineer, managed to get the shroud back in place with a temporary fix.
At 1am, semi-frozen from waves that kept hitting us in the dark, I gave crew-mate David the coordinates for the virtual marker, so that he could track when we went around. Then went to roll-out on a bunk to get a bit of rest. Down below, it was dark, messy, full of gear, horrible smells and the sounds of a poor crew member, who had been retching for the past six hours. I was soon on my hands and knees saying goodbye to the last of my Gatorade. I learned the next morning that at least half of the crew had been sick, including several of us who prided ourselves on never feeling ill.
As I lay in my bunk – with one hand clinging to the bunk above me and one foot trying to keep the communal puke bucket from tipping over – I did some serious soul-searching about my life choices. When I got home I was going to sell my sailing gear, never set foot on a boat again and devout the rest of my life to comfort. Some of the other sailors admitted the next morning to having similar, dark thoughts during the storm.
After a few hours, I felt a bit better and went to go on deck. I opened the hatch with impeccable timing as a big wave crashed through, soaking my exhausted crew-mate, who was also taking a turn getting some rest in the bunk below. We had rounded the mark, and the wind that we had been fighting for at least 12 hours was now behind us. Korina Korina wasn’t just sailing— she was literally surfing the backs of the waves, lifted up and thrown forward high on the top of the waves!
At this point, the foresail was beaten to a pulp, and little bits of it fell off and floated by us in the water. The mast was wobbling alarmingly. After sailing for nearly 24 hours straight, through extremely difficult conditions, Captain Jon gave over the tiller to crew-mate John, who had saved the shroud – and possibly the race – the night before. John steered us for several more hours. Captain John, who is basically made of iron, didn’t go sleep, but went busily to work, emptying buckets of water from the bilge and reinforcing the base of the mast.
My job was also to radio in our position along the way as we passed certain longitude lines inbound and outbound. As we reached the final check-in point, I was so tired that I radioed in coordinates that put us travelling somewhere in the woods of mid-Vancouver Island. I quickly radioed back again with our corrected position.
At this point, after 27 hours of racing, many of our phones were dead or didn’t have reception, so we didn’t know who was winning. As we got closer to home, though, we came back into range and learned that we were in the lead! This gave us all a burst of energy, and we pushed the boat to make the best time she possibly could. We were screaming along at 10-12 knots under a straining spinnaker sail.
As we burned through the last couple of miles, I radioed in to confirm our position, and the race committee said they had eyes on us as we crossed the finish line.
We got off the boat in the Victoria Inner Harbour, stunned by the past 30 hours. We were two hours ahead of the next boat, but when the handicaps for speed were factored in, we had beaten them by only five minutes. We later learned that half the boats in our division either didn’t finish or turned around due to weather. What a win!
 |
| Looking stunned after the wild ride and crossing the finish line |
It took the next few days to wrap my brain around this race and to feel the ground firmly under my feet. I did not sell my sailing gear, and it only took a few days for that familiar longing to come back.....I can't wait till the next sailing adventure!
 |
| The proverbial "rail-meat", weighing down the high side of the boat. We are looking miserable here because the waves are crashing over the side and freezing us. |
 |
| Cheered up a little bit |
 |
| Fancy boat hors d'oeuvres |
 |
| A glimpse behind of all the boats popping their spinnaker sails out. |
Comments