Racing the North Pacific: Lessons from Clipper 23/24

Into the Heart of the Pacific

I stumbled toward the bow, past the mast, waves crashing over the deck - a deafening roar of icy terror. The ocean spray the North Pacific cut into my face as water flooded into my boots, soaking through layers of "waterproof" gear. It didn’t matter; there was no time to hesitate. The Yankee sail had to come down before the squall hit, and it had to come down now.

Moments earlier, I had locked eyes with Dmitri, my fellow sailor. The fear between us was tangible. I’ve truly never felt such a pure, primal fear as I did while waiting and watching the squall on the horizon - would it pass to the side of us or would we need to face the bow and bring down the sail before we were overpowered? It was quiet as we waited, the tension thick, the dark cloud moving toward us as we waited for the skipper to make the call.

We were already short-handed. Lorraine had been taken out two days before, slammed by a rogue wave and thrown across the bow. Cracked ribs? Broken? We didn’t know, but she was out of action. Now it was just us, short-handed and huddled in silence, waiting.

The Pacific had been “kind” for weeks, or so the round-the-worlders claimed. But three days ago, the beginning of a three-day storm had shattered that illusion, wrecking the boat and crew. And so we waited and watched the horizon.

Max gave the call. The Yankee sail had to come down before we were overpowered.

Max, Dmitri, and I braced ourselves, pulling on every bit of courage as we staggered forward, consigned to our grim fate of destruction. The icy waves crashed over us as the wind pierced through our soaked gear, making every step a battle to get to the edge of the bow, where we would need to pull in the sail by hand.

How did I end up here? I wasn’t a sailor. I was a 33-year-old with barely a few months of training, now racing across the Northern Pacific in a 70-foot yacht.

A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined being here. Yet here I was, standing at the edge of the world, three months into the most intense stretch of my life -facing the ocean’s wrath and discovering what I was truly made of.

The Journey to the Pacific: From Tropics to the Unknown

My journey began in Australia. I joined the Clipper Round the World Race on the beautiful coast of Airlie Beach, setting sail into a world I knew little about, driven by an appetite for adventure and the promise of unknown glory.

The first leg of the journey took us north, threading the Solomon Islands (and pirate-infested seas), rounding Papua New Guinea, Indonesia, and the Philippines. The relentless tropical heat pressed down on us, suffocating misery as we fought through the doldrums - days of stifling, windless suffering - punctuated by sudden squalls of tangential downpours, and nights of restless sweat-soaked night terrors.

It was a battle of endurance, a constant push against exhaustion, dehydration, and discomfort. By the time we reached Vietnam, I thought the worst was behind us.

The South China Sea: Zhuhai to Qingdao

The next leg, from Zhuhai to Qingdao, was different. We weren’t just surviving - we were truly competing. The stretch through the South China Sea was brutal, with the change from tropical heat to the frozen winds rolling in from the Mongolian steppe to finally reach us - sweeping across the deck. Yet, as a crew, this was the first time we were truly in it. We found our rhythm. Every maneuver, every adjustment, felt sharp and deliberate, as we edged forward ahead of the fleet.

The closer we got to Qingdao, the stronger our belief that we could win. And we did! Crossing the finish line first was a euphoric moment - proof of how far we’d come, and the work that we each put in as individuals, and as a team.

Victory

Winning was a natural high, the glorious vindication of every grueling shift, every bruise and injury, and every sleepless night.

But I was also exhausted.

As we celebrated in Qingdao, there was a part of me that considered stopping there. I could leave the race on a high note, stepping away from Qingdao with a win. The exhaustion I’d been pushing down for months had finally caught up to me, I was almost ready to give in.

But the call of the Pacific was louder. It was, after all, the whole reason I'd joined the race in the first place - to cross the most dangerous and isolated ocean in the world. And so I decided to press on, to finish what I started.

Pushing Past My Limits

And so the Great Pacific Race began. Frigid winds cut through every layer of gear, and waves as tall as buildings tested the strength of both the boat and the crew.

Helming a 70-foot yacht over massive waves, spotting whales in the open ocean, or sharing stories with the crew after days of hardship - these experiences reminded me why I stayed.

The Pacific leg pushed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined, but it also gave me unmatched clarity. Growth doesn’t come from staying at home, sitting on your couch all day and watching TV. It comes from pushing yourself beyond what you think you can endure.

The Beauty in Chaos

Amid the chaos, there were moments of profound peace. Night watches under a sky covered with stars, the boat slicing through the waves, the camaraderie of a crew bound by shared struggle - it all felt raw and real in a way I’ve never experienced back in the "real" world.

The Pacific stripped me down to my core. It forced me to let go of everything. The less you have, the more you live.

Ocean Racing Lessons

Now I know I can take more than I ever thought possible. And that many people don’t even begin to test their limits. The race showed me that truly living happens when you throw yourself into life, embrace the discomfort, and dare to do insanely big things.

It wasn’t just a race. It was a reminder of what it means to truly live.