Full Moon Race

          This was the race of the season, the pinnacle of sailing on the Snake, the day that separates the sailors from the other folks who like to sail... Well, you get the picture. The Full Moon race is a 40-mile overnight sail from Chief Timothy to Wawawai Landing and back. The winner takes home the coveted wall plaque, an artful nautically-inspired toilet seat (unused) displaying a painted styrofoam "full moon." When the seat is lifted, revealed are the names and boats of all past winners - quite the trophy to display over your mantel. This would be the pinnacle of my sailing career here in Washington and one heck of a day (literally) on the river.

          The race was set to start at 7pm, the boats poised on the start line, tacking back and forth to attain the best position off the line. The competition was fierce; Christine in her Sparrow 16, Jeff in his San Juan 21, and Mike and I in his Macgregor 26. The air horn blew for the warning, then the five minute toot. We re-positioned, luffed sails, and waited for the one minute horn. With that blast, we sheeted in and headed for the line on a starboard tack, positioned nicely in the thick of the current (what little there was). The start horn wailed and we crossed the line a few seconds after, as fast as the breeze would carry our two ton bum.

All three boats toying at the start line

          The wind held nicely for the first leg down the channel, trading tack for tack with Jeff. Occasionally we'd slip one by him and pull ahead, to fall back again as he found a sweeter pocket along the cliff wall or in the center channel. We toyed with each other back and forth for the first mile or two, but the breeze is a cruel mistress and left us luffing, begging for more. This was the defining point in the race for us, as we saw the San Juan 21 pulling away. We would cross paths again, but not for another 6 or 7 hours.

Trying to out tack Jeff's San Juan 21

          The night rolled in and the river miles crawled by. The darkness took the river for an hour or so before the moon showed its face above the hills. Jeff’s stern light was a blip in the distance, and though it seemed to play back and forth as if in some freshening wind, the breeze never reached us. The cool stagnant air was a relief after a sweltering day which lingered around 100 degrees. The silence was miraculous, such as that found while deep within a forest, miles from civilization. The quiet was accompanied by intermittent splashes as the trout leaped for buggy dinners out in the black nothingness between the boat and the outlines of the hills. The bats were at it too, stirring the air around the boat; whether it was to help us along or dine by our stern line, I’ll never know. Eventually I succumbed to the night; a nap was in order.

Sunset over the river

          It felt like only a few moments when the main sheet swiped me, stirring me from my dreamless slumber. We’d found a light breeze from astern and Mike had shifted the sail accordingly while I was out. We were now running with our whisker pole, sails wing-on-wing, adding about half a knot to what the light current had been providing. There was no longer a white light in the distance; we had lost too much ground. It was now my turn to keep watch, so I grabbed my fleece and Mike dozed off. I tried to be as quiet as I could while I mingled with my mind and tended the tiller. I am not going to say that steering is boring, but it is monotonous, especially with the canyon air playing games. Though we were only nearly ghosting along, I still had to keep a hand on the tiller and adjust slightly every minute or so to keep us in the middle of the river. Eventually Mike woke and we were back to taking turns at the tiller.

The moon over the river during the night

          The night went on much like that until around 4:00 AM when instead of chasing a white stern light, a small red blur could be seen ahead. Minutes later it shifted to green and then back to red. Jeff was tacking towards us; he had made the turn and found some wind. Before long we were within shouting distance. As we passed, I was surprised not to hear any witty remarks; the long night had taken its due from both outspoken captains. At our passing, we were about three quarters of a mile from our turn around. After a slow night, we were only about one and a half miles behind. Not a bad job for the overweight two ton Macgregor. Even so, we wouldn't make it to the turnaround until about 5:10 AM.

Sun rise beating up river

          Beating back up river revitalized the excitement of the chase. Now at least 1.5 miles behind (and most likely more), we were in need of a solid breeze, and our wishes were granted. As the sun started to brighten the sky from its hiding place behind the hills, the wind picked up. Soon we were back to cruising! We quickly picked up our pace, gaining about 5 miles in just over an hour. We shot past Blyton Landing and made it the next 10 miles to Nisqually John before the breeze moderated. The next few miles were grueling, though there was never a period of prolonged calm. After what seemed like an eternity, we had passed the narrowest part of the channel and were poised for the last mile of the race.

Gaining some speed as the wind picks up

Getting our heel on

          The last section, from green marker 17 to the power lines, was the roughest. The beach to port extended far out into the waterway, often drawing less than a fathom, half a cable length (300ft) from shore. To starboard, we saw sheer cliffs with sporadic shallows where part of a cliff wall had collapsed at some point in the past. And in-between we sat, barely enough wind to fight the current. After gaining about 100ft over two hours, we decided upon heading toward the low current shallow and attempting to skirt the edge in the minute amount of wind that could be seen rippling the surface. This would be our downfall: we gained another 50ft before dragging bottom and getting caught in the muck. And sadly, the suction was too strong to pull the dagger board up, so we opted for some iron wind to pull us free. That last half mile took us less than 10 minutes to conquer, and we passed under the wire at 11:54 AM, 16 hours 54 minutes after we had started. Luckily, our disqualification had already occurred at 10 AM, but 16 hours in, we were stubborn enough to keep trying. From there, it took another hour and a half motoring to make it back to the Marina, which gave Mike plenty of time to clean the boat.

          I can’t say I didn’t have fun, but that was one heck of a trip. Grueling at times, but the solitude and sailing made it all worth it (provided you didn’t ask me until after I got a full night's rest). It’s sad to think that I might be sailboat-less out here before too much longer, especially after such an emotionally stirring trip. White Raven has been on the market for two weeks at this point and there has been plenty of interest. I may soon have to become a hobo sailor, bumming rides on San Juan 21s or the like, especially with the Tribune Cup coming up next month.