Light to building, fun to freezing—this young Hobie 33 crew learned a lot of important and worthwhile lessons on their first offshore race.

A few days before this year’s Pacific NW Offshore, from lovely Ilwaco, Washington to Victoria, British Columbia, someone asked, “What possessed you to want to do this race?” Call me crazy, but as a young and relatively inexperienced offshore sailor, I crave this kind of challenge—learning how to prep the boat, use all the safety gear, navigate, plan sails, steer through big ocean swells, and make safe decisions when things go sideways. And considering our plans to do a Hawaii race in the coming years, we were looking for a way to test both our boat and ourselves in offshore conditions. Plus, how else do I get the stories I’ll tell at the yacht club when I’m 60?

We opted to trailer our Hobie 33, TC, down from Seattle and were still putting the mast up and doing last minute projects right up to the start on Thursday, May 15. Tight timeline notwithstanding, we had poured a ton of preparation into this race. In fact, we ended up carrying more safety gear than was technically required—because, as our offshore savvy navigator Marc put it, “The Pacific is no joke.” I’ve never seen a Hobie 33 so loaded with equipment, but for my first offshore experience I wanted to err on the side of caution.

The forecast looked promising—a light wind start in a 6 to 10 knot west-southwesterly throughout the day, shifting to south-southeasterly breeze building to the teens at night, and then continuing east as we would entered the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I went to sleep on the eve of the race with a mix of anxious dreams—playing out every worst-case scenario—but also with a kind of excitement I’d never felt before.

May 15, Early Morning: Raft-ups, Bar Crossings, and the Start

Getting to the start line means crossing the infamous Columbia River Bar. The race committee pushed the start time from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. to give boats plenty of time to make it out safely. For deeper-keeled boats like Farr 39ML Absolutely, the low tide posed a bigger challenge—they had to leave the shallow marina hours early, drop anchor inside the protected slough, and wait it out for nearly four hours. Several other boats did the same, resulting in an impromptu pre-race raft-up. We joined and ate breakfast, chatted about the weather, and wrapped up last-minute boat projects while tied up together.

Eventually, the parade of boats made its way out to the start line, right outside the entrance to the bar. Though hardly eventful by Columbia Bar standards, as were tossed around like tumbleweeds on the way to the start, my crew started turning various shades of green. We had all put on scopolamine patches, but seasickness still hit most of us pretty hard. Lesson #1: Put on the scopolamine patch the night before.

There were 21 boats participating in this year’s race and we all started together on a virtual line—just two GPS coordinates. With no physical marks, it was impossible to visualize, and even with Marc watching the chartplotter closely, we were a bit lost. So, we had the brilliant idea to follow the Club Swan 42 Free Bowl of Soup, seasoned Oregon racers who’ve won this race multiple times.

We started on port with the code zero up in the predicted west-southwesterly. It was a strong start, thanks mostly to the Soup crew. I got my marching orders from Marc to sail a compass heading of 320-340 degrees, which would take us offshore to better breeze. Then it was time to buckle up for a long race.

The boats quickly started to separate with everyone having different strategies. Absolutely and a few other boats sailed a higher angle with jibs, whereas those with flying sails such as Flying Tiger 10, Tigger, and the J/120s stayed lower. We tried to stay somewhere in the middle and, after a few hours, changed out the code zero with our J1 so we could sail higher. It’s a different mindset to be on the same port tack for multiple hours on end and just trying to optimize your boat’s speed. 

Our overall strategy was to sail offshore, make one jibe back toward Cape Flattery, and heed the conventional wisdom to make our way east up the Strait on the Washington side. You know what they say about best laid plans…

2 p.m.: Rain, Gasoline, and Mast Climbing

Sailing along on a beautiful reach in light wind and big rolling waves, a strong smell of gasoline revealed a major party-foul. On the Hobie 33, the outboard gets removed from the motor well and stored on its side in the stern. The internal tank had leaked four gallons of gas into the stern compartment, and some had made its way inside the boat.

The fumes made seasickness worse—going below was almost unbearable. I was also hesitant to use the Jetboil stove in what felt like a very flammable boat. We spent a solid hour cleaning up the mess.

To make things worse, it started raining and barely let up for the rest of the race. We couldn’t open the hatches to air things out, so we were stuck with the fumes. It did improve over the day, but it was rough. Lesson #2: Secure gas tanks and plug any holes leading into the cabin.

We did a daytime watch schedule of 4 hours on, 4 hours off. We had five people onboard, so two up and one floater/navigator at a time. Around 4 p.m. after a few jib/code swaps in the shifting breeze, the wind went farther south and we were ready to drop the code zero to switch to the A1.5 kite. During the drop, the halyard jumped the mast sheave and jammed leaving the sail about 70% down and stuck. With the wind still light, we sent up our fearless crew member Esther Goodell to investigate. She quickly saw what happened but realized it couldn’t be fixed underway. We unshackled the sail, tied on a retrieval line, and secured the halyard. Thankfully, it was our fractional halyard, so we still had the masthead halyard available for spinnakers.

After that fiasco, we hoisted our kite and kept reaching in 6 to 10 knots, still getting pelted by non-stop rain, but the sailing was great. 

As dusk approached, we still had our A1.5 flying in a slowly-building 10 to 12 knot south-southwesterly, and the boat was very happy. I heated up some dinner although most of our crew were not interested in eating yet. We turned on our navigation lights and geared up for a wet and cold night. 

TC isn’t exactly a dry boat to begin with, add in the rain and the fact that every time we sent a sail down the cockpit hatch during a change, a few gallons of water came in with it. Everything was absolutely soaked in gasoline/saltwater/rainwater soup. We also didn’t do a great job of securing our personal things down below and not even dry bags were safe in the sloshing stew. Lesson #3: Put everything in dry bags and make sure no bags/gear are sitting on the floor.

8 p.m.: Building Breeze and Full Send Mode

Overnight, we switched to staggered watch shifts of two hours on and two off, with a new person coming on deck every hour. Each newly on-watch crew spent the first 30 minutes settling in—trimming the kite and getting their bearings—then drove for the next hour. We flew the A1.5 and staysail until about 2 a.m., when the breeze built to 15 to 18 knots and it was time to swap to the A2.5 and make our turn back to shore. Prepping for a jibe and peel, we decided the safest approach was to letterbox douse the A1.5, jibe with just the main, and then hoist the A2.5. It worked perfectly, sparing us any round ups in the confused sea state, but the whole process took probably 45 minutes in the pitch black—much longer than the quick inshore maneuvers we are more familiar with.

With the A2.5 up and winds now gusting 15 to 25 knots, we settled in for a long leg back toward Cape Flattery. This was my favorite part of the race—cold, soaked, and grinning—driving TC under a kite in big wind and massive swells was exactly what we signed up for. We were consistently ripping along at 11 to 16 knots, chewing through miles. Full send mode. 

Fun as it was, the ride wasn’t easy. With a small, fat rudder, TC doesn’t have much grip in heavy seas. The confused, large swell often hit square on the beam, picking up the boat and spinning it, no matter how I tried to steer. I was white-knuckling the tiller, and at one point my hand went numb. Our watch schedule fell apart around then, but with adrenaline pumping, I just kept going.

Between sloshing water in the cabin and crew collapsing into the bunks with foulies still on, all the cushions and sleeping bags were now as wet as everything else. Not ideal. I was also mad at myself for choosing to leave the propane heater on the dock. Lesson #4: Only get into the bunk dry, and bring a heater.

Dawn: Shifting Wind, the Final Round-Up, and the Oh Sh*t Moment

Fueled by meat sticks and Hi-Chews, we pushed on through the night. We needed to head toward the Cape Flattery layline to get to the Washington side, but the A2.5 couldn’t handle the angle in the breeze. We rounded-up and the kite wrapped. Time to drop it. We pulled-off another clean letterbox drop and hoisted the J3, sheeting it to the toe rail as a makeshift blast reacher.

Now in “Hobie happy land,” one of our crew, Will Nelson, hit our top speed of the race just jib-reaching. It was tough driving, with big beam waves. We checked the tracker—our hard push overnight had put us in second place behind Free Bowl of Soup. Spirits were high.

That’s when things went sideways: Marc had been calling magnetic bearings, while our instruments were reading in true. We had been sailing about 20 degrees low for hours. By the time we realized it, it was too late. We had to sheet in and start beating upwind in 22 knots to try to claw back.

We attempted a tack toward the Washington shore to keep to our original strategy, but our new heading pointed us straight back to Ilwaco—not an option. We tacked back, now committed to a long, painful crossing toward Vancouver Island—straight across in full ebb, at the worst possible place to cross. Lesson #5: Don’t get stuck too far downwind of where you need to go, and understand your compass headings.

It was demoralizing to see others succeeding at the course strategy we’d hoped to sail. Free Bowl of Soup led the pack short tacking up the Washington side followed by Wylie 43 Hana Mari, J/121 Reva, and J/120s Pathfinder and Jugo. I tried to hold onto the saying my dad taught me, “Even if you’re going the wrong way, sail as fast as possible.”

Conditions were unfavorable, especially for us and the Hobie 33, upwind in 18 to 22 knots against 2.5 to 3 knots of adverse current and pouring rain. When we finally made the Vancouver Island shore, we short-tacked our way up the stunning coastline still fighting tons of current. The wind softened and we swapped to the J1, but progress towards Victoria was slow. 

On the tracker, we could see a few other boats were with us on the Island side—Tigger, Wylie 48 Haven, C&C 99 Penelope, and Cascade 36 Bums Rush—though we couldn’t see them on the water through the thick rain clouds.

5 p.m. Friday: So Close Yet So Far

Our unplanned flyer to the Canadian shore, unsurprisingly, didn’t work out. We shifted focus to making Race Passage by 8 p.m.—critical timing to avoid getting stalled by current. As we approached, the wind died to 5 knots. We crept along at 4 knots with our heavily loaded Hobie not thriving in light air as usual. Our shot at Race Rocks slowly slipped away.

Light faded, wind faded, and the rain kept falling. The cabin was just as cold, just as wet as being on deck. We were all shivering, and even the Jetboil wouldn’t light. 15 miles to go. This would be the coldest, wettest night of my life.

By 10 p.m., completely becalmed, team morale hit a low. We talked seriously about retiring. No one had a single dry item left, and the misery was real. Still, it felt wrong to give up after 185 miles of hard work and incredible sailing. So we agreed to wait a bit longer and, at 11 p.m., the wind teased us back to life. A fragile 3 knots let us hoist the kite, and it slowly built to 8 knots. We made our way to Race Rocks and chose the outside route to play it safe since we had missed the tidal window.

But the wind faded again, and we were now fighting serious current and getting sucked dangerously close to the rocks. At 3 a.m., cold, exhausted, and going basically backwards, we fired up the outboard and made the hard call to retire. If we hadn’t been so soaked and cold, we probably would’ve finished, maybe around 7 a.m. Lesson 6: If you’re not having fun anymore, it isn’t worth it.

Arriving in Victoria, we cleared customs and were greeted at Fisherman’s Wharf with warm towels—what a lifesaver for my icicle fingers. Then came a bottle of champagne, a group photo where we looked hilariously disheveled, and a speed-walk to the hotel, leaving behind our saltwater- and gasoline-soaked boat.

Reflections

Our course error—sailing too low for hours due to the magnetic/true heading mix-up and wind shift—cost us both our lead and a shot at finishing with wind and favorable current. Despite not officially finishing, I’m incredibly proud of our team and our “little Hobie that could.” We sailed well in tough conditions, overcame many challenges, and kept going far longer than comfort allowed. This event has laid a strong foundation for our team to build toward more offshore sailing.

Free Bowl of Soup finished at 7:56 p.m. on Friday with line honors and also won first overall—an amazingly well sailed race from a rock solid team that I admire so much. Congratulations! The next finishers were Pathfinder, Hana Mari, Jugo, and Tigger. Bums Rush followed, and won our class and 2nd overall—well done! 

I will certainly never forget my first Pacific NW Offshore, it was a big and rewarding experience and one I feel honored to be a part of. We’ll take our many important lessons from this race and put them into practice at Swiftsure, and probably learn 10 new ones!

Results can be found at cycportland.org.