Spirit of Aloha | Features | March/April 2005

The Squall Diva’s Tale
By: Elisa Williams

From San Francisco to Hawai‘i on a 40-foot yacht

PHOTO: MARIAH’S EYE PHOTOGRAPHY Dreaming away across the Pacific, squall diva/writer/intrepid navigator Elisa Williams heads for Hawai‘i. PHOTO: PETER VAN HANDEL Start of the “Fun Race to Hawai‘i,” across San Francisco Bay and under the Golden Gate. PHOTO: MARIAH’S EYE PHOTOGRAPHY

The world is full of adventurous types, intrepid adrenaline junkies who scale mountains, drop from airplanes and dive to the bottom of the sea. I am most definitely not one of them. So how did I end up crewing on a racing yacht from San Francisco to Hawai‘i, helming the boat through the raging winds of Pacific squalls? Beware of great passions: They can lead you on the most unexpected journeys.

Yacht racing combines everything I dislike the most, but, over the years, I’ve found that rules on land often don’t apply when you’re at sea. I took up sailing at 33, while I was living in England, and for several years found myself getting up early each Sunday morning to make the hour drive from London to Brighton in weather that was bitter cold on land and even colder at sea. Even if winds weren’t blowing gale force, the races usually felt quite dangerous. In races between cars, runners or horses, competitors line up in neat, well-marked lanes, all pointed in the same direction, before the gun goes off. The minutes leading up to the start of a yacht race are complete anarchy, with yachts hurling themselves toward each other, making right-angle turns that take them within millimeters of each other. Most of the weekend races were less than three hours long, which brought us back to the yacht club bar for a lunchtime pint or two. The summer race schedule included several multiday events that took us across the English Channel to ports in France, with a leisurely return.

Sailors dream of crossing oceans. I never did. I was happy to spend a week ambling back from France, with stops in the Channel Islands of Jersey, Guernsey and Alderney for food and hot showers. But when I moved back to California, I started hearing talk at the yacht club bar about the West Marine Pacific Cup, a race from San Francisco to O‘ahu held every two years. It is known as “The Fun Race to Hawai‘i,” in contrast to the more competitive TransPac, which leaves annually from Los Angeles. The race takes most boats between 10 days and two weeks. I couldn’t do that—or could I? Doubt became desire, and when I found out my part-time job selling boat parts made me eligible to apply for a slot on the company’s employee-crewed boat, I filled out an application. When I got the call asking if I’d like to make the trip on a 40-foot yacht named ProMotion, my answer was an enthusiastic, “Yes.”

ProMotion was entirely staffed by West Marine employees, half of us part-timers and half full-timers. We were three men, and three women, who ranged in age from 20 to mid-50s. We were all comfortable on boats, but no one had raced this length before and only one of us—the skipper—had done a crossing (in the opposite direction, on this boat, two years before).

We got ready at a frantic pace. As a crew, we took a weekend navigation course and spent three days on the boat, 13 hours of it in a race along the California coast. But many hours were also spent fixing the boat, getting the sails repaired, planning and buying the food for not only the expected two-week journey, but also for a few weeks in case we got becalmed or lost. They say there’s no 7-11—or spare parts for sale—once you sail under the Golden Gate Bridge.

June 30, 2004—We’re Off

If you like those cheesy reality TV shows where some calamity is always concocted to make the group dynamics more interesting, you’d have loved ProMotion’s race start on Wednesday. After weeks of preparation and practice, we pushed off the dock in Alameda and made a quick stop to top up our tanks before making the brief motor-ride across San Francisco Bay to the St. Francis Yacht Club and the race line near the Golden Gate. While we were motoring along our speed dropped to zero, which isn’t good in the narrow estuary. We quickly got the sails up to avoid crashing into a container ship and able crewman Mac dove below to tear apart the engine to see what was up. The engine was working and the transmission was working, but it wasn’t connecting to the shaft. What to do? We called a friend and, after a few questions, he gave us the diagnosis: the transmission coupling pin appeared to have sheared off. It would take a mechanic to fix it, and that wasn’t going to happen in the 45 minutes before our start. Skipper Bernard and crew looked around at each other and nodded in agreement. This boat was sailing to Hawai‘i, not motoring.

July 1—East Coast Sailing Day

Day two was East Coast Sailing Day, in honor of our New Jersey crew member. She says one of the big differences between East Coast and West Coast sailing is how little shouting and swearing there is on California boats. To make her feel at home, we tried to let out some expletives throughout the day, but the shouting was kept to a minimum, since the three-hour on/three hours off- schedule means half the crew is trying to bank sleep at any given time. The shouting and swearing must be an Atlantic Ocean tradition, because the crews certainly did a lot of it in the U.K. The important difference for me is how much more cross-training there is on California boats, with everyone spending time at the helm, the winches (the mechanical devices that make it easier to put up and pull in the ropes attached to the sails) and the mast. (OK, so I haven’t braved the foredeck yet, but I did do a three-hour stretch on the helm the other night and that was a record for me.)

July 2—Moon Day

The full moon was unbelievably bright and clear on the midnight watch that started our third day at sea. As we came up on deck we each said, “Ah, yes, this is why I did this.” The seas haven’t been too bad and the mal de mer (even seasickness sounds better in French) has been thankfully minimal for the early days of the race, considerably less than our 18 hours of suffering motoring up the coast after our practice race. During that long, miserable experience I asked fellow crewmate Peter (or, as he’s requested to be known, “Brave and Fearless Peter”) to describe yacht racing to someone who has never done it. He said, “It’s long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.” The next day he changed that to “Long periods of discomfort and fatigue punctuated by sheer terror.” Getting up to a cold and wet deck after three hours of sleep is not fun, but on these long offshore races what people seem to like most about the experience is how peaceful it is at sea, particularly at night.

July 3—Boy Scout Day

The spinnaker is flying nicely and the weather has warmed up so crewmembers are taking sponge baths and combing out the dreadlocks (or reshaving their heads). Skipper Bernard brought turtle tattoos for everyone’s ankles. Eva shared her coconut-scented foot cream. Brave and Fearless Peter started us off in the morning with banana-pecan pancakes. Tonight we had rosemary pork loins, yet another of the marvelous meats barbecued by First Mate Mac in the weeks before we left. One of the joys of sailing is you aren’t stuck with freeze-dried backpacker food. We have three coolers packed with dry ice preserving Mac’s delicacies, which also include salmon, chicken breasts, tri-tip, baby back ribs, halibut and trout.

July 4—Greetings from ProMotion

As I came up for my 10 p.m. watch last night, there was great excitement on deck. A light, alternating green and then red, was directly behind us and making good speed. Our first thought was that it was Mari-Cha IV, the 140-foot custom rocket ship. Or perhaps a pirate vessel? We got on the radio and said, “This is ProMotion. Who are you?” They said, “Good evening, ProMotion, we’re a bigger version of you.” It was Chicken Little, a Santa Cruz 50, the same make of boat but 10 feet longer. After a few joking remarks about rafting up beside each other, they headed off due west of us into the night. After a few days at sea surrounded by nothing but water and land, it was exciting to have anyone so nearby, even if all we could see was a tri-color mastlight. We report our position every morning and can track the progress of some of the boats, but not all of them.

ProMotion celebrated the Fourth of July in great style, with John Philip Sousa marches and the Star Spangled Banner blasting from the stereo. From the kitchen we had baby back ribs, corn on the cob, fresh salads, watermelon and freshly baked shortcakes for the strawberries, blueberries and whipped cream.

July 5—Cinco de Julio y Spa Day

The skies were amazing last night. You would think light-blue skies during the day, dark-blue skies at night and blue water might get a bit monotonous, but we’re in constant awe of the changing colors in the sky and morphing shape of the clouds. Last night, we could see the rapidly moving rain clouds in the distance and we were surrounded by pink light at dawn. We even saw a few shooting stars for good luck. Light winds and choppy seas have made it frustrating weather for flying the spinnaker, but as the weather warms up, the crew is spending more of its off-watch time on deck. We have a silly holiday planned for each day of the trip, complete with festive food, silly decorations and special activities. It started as a joke, but it has actually been helpful in distinguishing one day from the next. Spa Day was scheduled to take place later in the trip, but it was moved up by popular demand. The grooming products came out, and the women on ProMotion now have freshly washed hair (a salt water wash from a pan, with a squirt bottle rinse with fresh water), smooth legs and big smiles on their faces.

July 6—Bastille Day (Observed) and Spa Day (Revisited)

What a night! It’s all a bit of a blur this morning, but events included a messy spinnaker wrap (when the colorful sail gets wrapped around the wire that reaches from the bow at the pointy end of the boat up to the top of the mast) caused by light and fluky winds, which then tightened when the winds picked up and filled various bits of the sails. Brave and Fearless Peter has been earning his nickname, dangling off the boat at a 45-degree angle a few times a day to pull Eva back on the boat, yank on tangled halyards (as he was doing this one time his tether inexplicably came off and dropped on the deck) or attempt to untangle the spinnaker as he did last night. In the end we doused the spinnaker to repair a rip (along with another one—Eva has been busy) and put a jib just as the air died, and died completely. We sat around in the dark flapping the sails trying for a breath of wind, which never came. Yacht racing teaches patience, among many other things.

Being becalmed was much more fun today. The sun was out and the sunscreen was on. Peter, Mac and I played “Humiliation” for about two hours straight—a game we made up with nautical trivia cards about famous shipwrecks, boating terms and geography. Mac always seemed to get the easy cards, but perhaps he knows more of the answers. Bernard taught us some words in French in honor of Bastille Day, and I thought we would break into our Halfway Ice Cream tonight, leaving the rest of the party for tomorrow.

July 7—Halfway Day

Now is probably a good time to say a bit about how handicapping works in the PacCup. The more than 50 boats racing in the PacCup range in size from a handful of entries under 30 feet to the 140-foot-long Mari-Cha IV, which obliterated the trans-Atlantic monohull record in its maiden voyage. “Having Mari-Cha IV in this race is like having Michael Jordan play in your neighborhood’s basketball game,” says Brave and Fearless Peter. To even the playing field, boats are assigned a time advantage by an extremely complex formula involving factors such as boat length, weight and sail size. To make the parties in Hawai‘i more fun, start times from San Francisco are staggered to give the slower boats a head start. So, ProMotion left on Wednesday, June 30, and Mari-Cha IV left on Friday, July 2. Mari-Cha IV is expected to cross the finish line sometime tonight.

We celebrated Halfway Day with champagne and a Middle Eastern meze, consisting of falafels, spanakopita, dolmas, salmon and tri-tip.

July 8— Rasta Day

We had great plans for Rasta Day, but, in the end, we celebrated it in a very appropriate way: dealing with the heat and its effects on the boat. We sorted through the foodstuffs, throwing out what went bad, seemly overnight, as the weather warmed up. We had three chests packed with dry ice, and we’ve opened two of them. We’re holding back on the third one until tomorrow, in hopes of making it last a bit longer. We have two refrigerated coolers that are kept cold by running the engine for a few hours a day. This whole provisioning plan is a combination of art, science and guesswork as to what people are going to want to eat when, how long the food will keep and how much of everything to bring.

July 9—Crime Day

Squall! I was at the helm last night for our first squall—nighttime storms with heavy winds and rain. As squalls go, I think it was a small one, but it was intense and I don’t remember much of it, because I was mostly staring up at the wind indicator and down at the compass, trying to keep the boat standing up and hanging on for the ride as the speed climbed. “Now this is boating!” says Peter. I had just nylon shorts and a sweatshirt on and I was soaked to the skin, but the rain was warm and it was great fun. Next squall, I’m getting out the shampoo if I’m not steering.

One of our crewmembers was a criminal justice major, so crime seemed an appropriate theme. We were hot and sweaty and there wasn’t much wind, so the most trouble we got into was with concealed water pistols (which are hard to hide if you’re wearing as little as we are). I had anticipated crew trials for offenses like leaving dirty underwear hanging around the boat, but we had a surprisingly tidy crew. We’re also fortunate not to have any whiners. We kept joking that someone should have installed cameras onboard to study the delicate interplay of human dynamics through the race. Combine close quarters, dangerous situations and lack of sleep and it’s rather astonishing there aren’t murders routinely on offshore races. We kept joking that it’s like Survivor, but you can’t vote anyone off the island because race rules require you to start and finish with the same number of crew.

July 10—Fish!

Eva spent some of her off-watch time this afternoon drawing fish in her artist’s notebook. But these were not the cute flying fish we’ve seen, or fish you might see diving in Hawai‘i. She had a very specific goal in mind: sushi! With such hopeful thoughts in mind, our provisioning cupboard was stocked with specific supplies: wasabi, pickled ginger, sushi rice and vodka. Vodka? For sushi? Wouldn’t sake be more appropriate? It seems the subject of killing fish humanely has come up on ProMotion before, and the most acceptable means was deemed to be spraying alcohol on the gills of the fish. So, when Lee spotted the tug on the line I dove down for the supplies. Mac had brought a spray bottle for applying the vodka, but we sort of slopped it into the gills. It was a mahimahi, better known for fish tacos than sushi, so Bernard chopped up the meat as I heated the pan and got out the tortillas. Perhaps 15 minutes passed between when it was swimming in the sea and when it was swimming in our stomachs.

July 11—Call Me “Squall Diva”

I’ve gotten a bit of a reputation for being a wind witch. I was at the helm tonight with the spinnaker up when we saw a black cloud working its way toward us. Peter asked if I wanted to switch, but I said, “No, please, just call wind shifts!” I held on as the wind started howling and the rain started pouring down. It was such a rush. Lee said when the squall started she looked up from the hatch below to see what poor soul was on the helm. She was shocked to see me with a huge smile on my face and slightly demonic eyes. As soon as I got off the helm, the wind died.

July 12—Bossa Nova

The days and nights were so beautiful. With our ever-shifting schedule we saw at least a sunrise and a sunset every day. The clouds were amazing—shifting colors, shapes, textures. I took a series of daybreak photos with the sun pouring down through the clouds, which we called “Rapture.” Even though the moon is getting smaller each night the clouds are still clearly visible against the starry sky, particularly the dark squalls. At sunset tonight Peter had on his bossa nova CD. The music was perfect for the mood. The winds were warm and it seemed like there was no better place to be on the planet.

July 13—Land Ho and Aloha

We had finally made some good time, and adjusted our arrival time forward a few times. On ProMotion, we broke into the cleaning products more than the spa products to get the boat ready to hand over to the delivery crew. It was very weird knowing it was our last evening on board. Peter put on a country music CD. Eva was on the helm when a good-size squall came in to greet us and welcome us to Hawai‘i. The finish line was only an hour away. Bernard called us up on deck for the finish. It was pitch black, but we could see another boat and just passed it. We crossed the line and cheered.

As we came up to the dock at about 3 a.m. we were shocked to see some 50 people greeting us. A good-size contingent was from West Marine and the Pacific Cup Yacht Club, but there were also people from other boats who had already finished. The customs official took our wilted remaining produce, and in exchange we were handed mai tais, fresh pineapple and champagne, and given leis. Solid ground felt anything but solid under our wobbling legs. We stumbled into a van and headed to a house with beds and showers—and dreamed of sleeping for a full eight hours.

July 14—Hawai‘i Time

We were in a daze, but made it to the ’50s party that night for the food we’d been craving: cheeseburgers, French fries and root beer floats.

July 15—Mount Gay Party

July 15—Mount Gay Party Boat owners may take home trophies, but for crewmembers there is no more valuable prize than the red Mount Gay rum caps that were distributed at Mount Gay-sponsored parties at major yacht racing events around the world. On eBay the hats sell for upwards of $100 from races such as Cork Week in Ireland, Figawi Week in Nantucket and Antigua Week in the Caribbean, but, like most sailors, I’m snobby enough to think they should be earned —or perhaps given as a gift for a romantic favor. And now I have one.

July 16—Encounter at Byodo-In Temple

On my day off in Honolulu I head to the Valley of the Temples to see the Byodo-In Temple. I’m surprised to find that it’s in a cemetery complex, but it’s lovely and very calming. I take off my shoes and go in. I’m greeted by an older Japanese man, who says hello and asks where I’m from. I tell him I have sailed to Hawai‘i from California, and his eyes get big. His English isn’t terrific, but he slowly asks me questions about my trip. Did we have an engine? (Yes, but it was broken.) Did we have to bring our own water? (Yes, but we also had a water-maker.) Did you catch any fish? (Yes, two.) He’s the first person I’ve talked to about the trip, with the exception of people who have already made it. He bows as we separate and thanks me for telling my story. I thank him for listening.

That evening at the awards banquet, a festive affair with little wooden boats flying starched spinnakers of Hawaiian fabric as table decorations, most people are already talking about the race two years from now. Anyone need crew? I’m ready to sign on.

ELISA WILLIAMS’s articles have appeared in Newsweek, Real Simple, Budget Travel, Glamour and Inc.

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