From ice-limit sailing to a dockside reunion—five thousand miles where the lead was never safe.
It is going to be a shorter post this time—so my apology. Seattle was too good to rush past. After months at sea, being wrapped in family and friends again pulled me fully ashore in the best possible way.
But the headline is simple: we won.
From the very start of our crossing of the Pacific Ocean, we sailed like a team intent on controlling the race, not reacting to it. For three or four thousand miles, we held the lead—but it never felt comfortable. Even after more than 5,000 miles of ocean, the gap behind us would sometimes shrink to just twenty miles. It felt like watching a football game where your team holds a two-point lead from kickoff to the final whistle—never safe, never relaxing.
The ocean made sure of that.
We pushed through three low-pressure systems—big seas, howling winds, and helming that demanded everything you had. At times it was survival sailing; at others, we were stuck in wind holes, drifting for hours and watching our hard-earned miles leak away. Every decision mattered.
We chose to stay north, riding the edge of the ice limit. It’s a simple truth of the globe: the farther north you go, the smaller the circumference, the shorter the path. It was colder because of it—much colder. The boat was constantly damp, condensation creeping into everything. The only real warmth came zipped inside a fleece-lined sleeping bag, stealing heat where you could.
Somewhere along the way, we crossed the International Date Line and lived a day twice. A strange gift in the middle of a long, hard race—more time, but not necessarily more rest.
And then, land.
Bringing the boat into Seattle as race winners was something special. With the Seattle Sports Commission backing our campaign, it felt like delivering the result home where it belonged. The welcome matched the moment—Seattle is a city that knows how to celebrate, and there’s plenty there to take in once your sea legs settle.
For me, though, the most powerful moment came just before we docked. Hoisting the U.S. courtesy flag off the spreader—after eight months away from the country—hit deeper than I expected. It wasn’t Florida, not yet, but it was home soil again.
And then I saw my wife on the dock.
That’s the moment that stays. After all the miles, all the cold, all the pressure—that simple, human connection was the real finish line.
We sail soon for the Panama Canal, then Washington, DC. It has been eight months since race start and now less than ninety days until race finish. More to come, and thanks for following along.
p,s, We had the one of the fleet on board reporters with is so I made a few cameos:
Arrival Interview:
Perservence and Grit (a.k.a. Bitterness and defiance)
Dinnertime
