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We were somewhere in the Pacific Ocean just Southwest of San Nicolas Island when our pin-top main became weary and began to shred.

It was four o'clock in the morning and the end of my exhausting night watch. With eighteen to twenty-two knots of consistent breeze and puffs of twenty-seven, the windward beat was testing the tenderness of our thirty-five foot ultralight displacement 1D35 racing monohull called Black Marlin. Our sail plan was a full-bodied J2 jib with an over the hill pin-top main. We were hard on the wind and sailing our optimal offshore upwind velocity made good (VMG). With the wind conditions, power was not an issue. Earlier in the night, we reefed the mainsail to reef point two to reduce the sail area because we were grossly overpowered and unable to point for the optimized VMG course. Little did we know, the conditions would still be too much for our well-used sails to handle. Our pin-top leech reef point gave way and the middle panels of the sail immediately blew out with a sound resembling lightning splitting a tree. After a couple bangs on the deck and an "all hands on deck" call, everyone was helping to douse the main and prevent further damage to the sail or rig. Thankfully, we had our new square-top main below deck. A mainsail change while underway is not a fast maneuver but during a race, you need to make it as fast as possible. With all hands on deck, the main sail change was quick enough and fairly painless.

One sail down.

After the mainsail change,  I went back down below deck, shed my foul weather gear, ate a protein bar and laid in my bunk. Not even an hour later, I wake up to a clamorous and reverberating commotion on deck. I casually rolled over, pulled the blanket over my head and tried to go back to sleep. When offshore sailing, sleep is one of the pillars of success. You get it when you can. You prioritize it. If the crew on deck needs you, they will call for you. If you have to sacrifice a hot meal for dry goods to get the sleep you need then that is what you do. It is your job to ensure you are sleeping enough to be a valuable contributor to the team. If you fall asleep on deck or make a careless mistake because you were tired, you are not only jeopardising your own safety but also the safety of your fellow crew.  They are trusting you and you are trusting them. When you are a thousand miles offshore, "Sorry, I was tired" is not a valid excuse.

The commotion on deck was our J2 jib telling us that it has had enough. The entire foot blew out. With multiple panels being violently ripped apart at the seams. A repair was highly unlikely. We doused, bagged and stowed the jib for further assessment when the sun rises. Our only option for a replacement jib was our J3. If you are unfamiliar with what the number means when it comes to sails, don't worry. I will explain at a high-level. As the numbers increase, the sail size decreases. This matters because when the wind speed increases, you cannot flatten a sail enough while maintaining efficiency, so you must reduce sail area to maintain course and control. Referencing the numbers on our crossover chart, the J3 was not the ideal foresail for our course and wind speed but we had no choice. A sail is better than no sail. The crew on deck frantically hoisted J3 and we expeditiously returned to course.

Two sails down.

We knew that the first three to four days would be a wet and wild ride. However, we did not expect the first forty-eight hours to be so dramatic.

There are three well-defined stages of the TransPac race.

The first stage was the tumultuous beat off the Southern coast of California. The planned course was to sail west from the starting line, hug the Eastern coast of Catalina Island to wittingly catch the land lift, round Catalina to port without running a ground, split the Catalina and Santa Barbara Islands around dusk, take San Clemente to port and San Nichols to starboard in the dark without foolishly falling into the San Nichols wind-shadow then sail full-speed ahead into the drink.  All the while, the skies were overcast, the breeze was bone-chilling, everybody and everything was drenched. The TransPac is like a day sail to Catalina except you never actually get there. It’s cold, far from dry and all there is to do is mindlessly hike but morale is high because the journey of a lifetime has begun.

Stage two typically comes after a few days when you hit the synoptic winds and the breeze starts to move aft so you can begin to slowly reach. This makes the ride less destructive and a bit more enjoyable. Eventually, the wind will migrate enough aft to hoist a spinnaker. At this point, the ride flattens out and the crew can begin to think without our brains rattling in our heads. The goal was to strategically cross the Pacific High ridge so you are positioned properly for the slot-cars leg of stage two. The slot-cars is a leg of the race where strategy and tactics can make or break a team's position across the finish line. Tactfully explained by the TransPac Yacht Club, "if you are too far to the north, you will be slowly passed by the yachts to the south of you, and there is nothing that you can do about it; you cannot gybe, you cannot sail lower.  As the wind gets lighter, your polars force you to sail higher and higher, until you "spin out" up into the high.  When you eventually are forced to gybe to avoid the calm, your angle on port gybe has you heading behind your competitor's transoms." When the breeze rotates far enough so that both gybes are symmetrical around the course to the finish and allowing you to sail either gybe, you know that stage two is over and the final stage has begun.

Stage three, the run, is the most anticipated stage of the race. True downwind sailing with moderate to big breeze (13-22+ knots) in a warm, tropical climate. This is what you optimistically pray for during the dreadful first stage. You can finally stand up without bracing for impact. We could cook food without the entertaining complications of a 20 degree heel. We began to start drying out ourselves and our clothes. We began to smile again. The fun scale shifted from Type II to Type I. We were sailing fast, flat and having fun while doing it. The VMG downwind sailing via the TWA included surfing down waves, fast and furious spinnaker trimming, and chasing cloud streets for pressure while gybing in front of squalls to stay ahead. There is nothing but dead air behind squalls. Voids are not fast. You must continuously watch the sky and sail the local weather patterns while ensuring you are not short-sightedly straying off course and away from the destination, land. Back in the day, you knew that you were getting close to land when the number of birds increased. Now, you know you are getting close to land when you start to see airplanes overhead. As we approached the Hawaiian islands, we banged the Northeastern coast of Moloka'i then aggressively ran up the coast to take advantage of the land pressure. Once we reached the tip of the island, we strategically positioned ourselves so we could cross the Moloka'i channel on the same board. This channel is known for its big puffs and confused sea state. We had the unique pleasure of crossing the Moloka'i channel during the golden hour with a picture perfect sunset to chase. After a successful crossing, we took the Diamond Head lighthouse to starboard and by starlight, crossed the finish line in high spirits. This final approach was such a magical experience that it could fill an entire book. It was such an emotion provoking sail with its own personality, demanding challenges, and immaculate views. All in all, stage three was the most enjoyable leg of the journey.

Putting aside the technical and strategic aspects of the race, another point of potential contention was the fact that seven people were living on a thirty-five foot ultra-light racing monohull for half a month. This means there were seven different personalities, each with their own backgrounds and quirks, in a confined space with minimal creature comforts. More accurately, there were seven sailors crazy enough to travel halfway across the Pacific Ocean by harnessing the wind and living on a boat that half of us were too tall to fully stand up below deck. Between all of us, our crew had multiple decades of ocean racing experience and a well-balanced, complementary set of hard skills. However, this was the first TransPacific passage for both Black Marlin and the crew. Even though we were technically proficient, sharing such a tight living quarters for a sizable amount of time during a high-stress race is a true test of one's soft skills and patience.

I assume everyone reading this has had family come to visit for a holiday. Now unless you are a part of a Hallmark channel Christmas movie family, you probably resent inviting your family to stay with you after the third day and casually start drinking three glasses of wine at dinner instead of the normal one glass. Imagine being stuck on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with the same family. Now add being soaked, deprived of sleep and an irregular diet of dehydrated camp meals to the experience. We have seen this before in prime-time cable television shows such as Lost, Survivor, The Day After Tomorrow, The Hateful 8 and so on. These cliche survival dramas never end happily ever after. The entire cast never survives till the end and those that do rarely have a smile on their face, all of their limbs, and/or are still friends without resentment. Well I am here to tell you that the Black Marlin TransPac ocean survival drama series ended in Honolulu, HI with smiles, hugs, gratefulness and joy. On top of that, everyone thankfully had all of their limbs and surprisingly still seemed to be friends. In my opinion, our crew's interpersonal dynamics were exceptional. Our communication quickly became dialed in. Everyone knew their roles and played them well. We became a well-oiled machine and everyone was an extension of the other. I believe everyone recognized and understood that working together as a team to achieve the same goal is another one of the pillars of success. Thus, giving grace and having a foundation of understanding was a key to being a high-performing team in such close quarters. Anytime you wanted to do something, two people were always in your way. No matter how trivial. Oh, you want to quickly grab a granola bar or fill-up your water bottle? Well, you will have to wait ten to fifteen minutes until the person who is changing out of their foulies is done, then politely ask the person who is exhausted because they just got off shift and eating to move so you can reach the dry good bin and freshwater. We called this below deck dance the Black Marlin Ballet. Now, my moves on the dance floor are embarrassing at best but after a couple days on the ocean, I was surprisingly light on my feet.

Safety was of the utmost importance throughout preparation and the race itself. The United States Coast Guard (USCG) uses the Sikorsky HH-60 Jayhawk helicopter for offshore search and rescue (SAR) missions. According to the Naval Helicopter Association Historical Society, "the Jayhawk can fly 300 miles offshore, remain on scene 45 minutes, hoist six people on board, and return to its point of origin with a safe fuel reserve. Normal cruising speeds of 135-140 knots can be increased to a “dash” speed of 180 knots when necessary. It will fly comfortably at 140 knots for 6-7 hours." This means that after we pass the 300 mile mark of the race, we are no longer in range for a USCG search and rescue mission. In addition, we have seven souls onboard and as per that document, is more than the Jayhawk can hoist on board. From that point on, we would have to address any medical emergency, hardware failure or technical malfunction ourselves. If an emergency did occur, we had defined standard operating procedures to resolve the issue. Depending on the degree of severity, we could resolve the issue ourselves and keep racing. If the issue is non-life-threatening, we reduce the severity, use the satellite phone to send distress communications ashore and engage the motor to get back in range for rescue. Worst case, use the satellite phone to send distress communications ashore, abandon ship into our USCG approved life raft and hold on for dear life. To put the isolation in perspective, we did not see another vessel or land for twelve days. For all intents and purposes, we were on our own.

An aspect of our crew dynamics that warmed my soul was the fact that everyone was selflessly prioritizing crew safety along with their own. Safety is a bit more than ensuring that you and your fellow teammates are wearing personal flotation devices (PFDs). Along with crew safety, personal safety includes making sure you are resting enough so you are lucid for your next shift. If you are drowsy and begin to doze off, you are not only putting yourself at risk but risking the lives of everyone on board. Personal safety is making sure you are being diligent about your own nutrition and hydration. If you are physically unable to perform or fatigued because of a caloric deficit or dehydration, you are not only putting yourself at risk but risking the lives of everyone on board. If you come up on deck without the proper gear or if you are on deck and forget to "clip-in" by attaching your tether to the jack-lines and get injured or heaven forbid, fall overboard, you are not only putting yourself at risk but risking the lives of everyone on board. My point is that your personal actions directly impact the rest of the crew. Thus, it is critical that you make safety a priority and have the forethought to analyze the impact of your decisions before you make them. Think slowly but move quickly. For example, a quick reminder to double-check and ensure everyone is clipped-in could save someone's life. Especially in the middle of the night when everyone is running on moonlight, a cup of cowboy coffee and two hours of sleep. The checks and balances were essential to ensuring that everyone was awake and aware.

Living in Colorado, I have kept a tight grip while climbing Class 3 and Class 4 routes up mountains. I have spent many moons alone backpacking in bear country. I have slept under the stars in below-zero temperatures. I have surfed and been humbled by the swells of Oahu's North Shore. I have explored foreign countries without knowing a soul or speaking the language. I have found myself alone at night in the sketchiest parts of Los Angeles. I have inadvertently had a standoff with a timber rattlesnake. Even though my parents told me not to, I have jumped off bridges. I have even reluctantly fallen in love... once. However, this self-sufficient, 2,375 nautical mile TransPacific voyage from the Southern coast of California to the Southwestern coast of Oahu is my most notable thrill to date. The risk was mountainous and reward was commensurate. The unfortunate aspect of the TransPac is that you start to learn how to do it by the time it is almost over so I am eagerly preparing for my next long-distance offshore race and looking forward to applying what I have learned.

I have been very blessed to be a part of a California based offshore ocean race team. However, I began sailing in the landlocked state of Tennessee. I want to take a moment to express my heartfelt gratitude for the incredible opportunities and support that Percy Priest Yacht Club, Paul Latour, and David Curtze have provided me. Your contributions have had a profound impact on my journey, and I'm truly thankful. PPYC and their LATH program allowed me the opportunity to step on a sailboat for the first time. It was the opportunity that started it all, and I am immensely grateful for the chance to learn and grow. Paul, your guidance and mentorship have been invaluable. Thank you for taking me under your wing, teaching me the ropes of racing, and helping me not only look good on the bow but coaching me to excel as well. Your belief in me has been a driving force in my development. David, I appreciate your trust in me and the opportunities to race and learn on Scooter. Your support has been instrumental in my journey, and I am grateful for the experiences I've gained. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had the chance to work with such remarkable individuals and organizations. Your generosity and belief in my potential have shaped my path in ways I could have never imagined. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

If you ever get the opportunity to set sail on the open ocean, seize it with haste! You will not regret it! Just be sure to ask the sea for mercy and pack a little extra wine for sunset.

My pleasure and my pain,

Andrew Woods