When we found ourselves darting in and out of Port Townsend, Washington, we never thought we would witness the Race to Alaska (R2AK).

We’d somehow forgotten about this race, which is crazy (to realize) because my partner has been building, sailing, and racing boats since he was a wee one.

How did we forget about the Race to Alaska when we were in the very town where it was founded? Where everyone prepares, pre-celebrates, and where the R2AK actually starts?

We forgot about it because we were juggling regional responsibilities, tackling chores, some of which involved a sailboat and multiple marinas.

We wanted to handle all those obligations first, so we could then be free to visit loved ones without interruption. We simply had a lot on our minds.

This meant the Race to Alaska fell into our laps, down by the marina, as the R2AK boats and crew members began arriving—and where, at one point, gear was splayed everywhere on the docks.

One could not miss it. And that was the best part.

It was so much fun to watch the characters involved in this race, the crazy vessels configured for this race, and the fun-loving atmosphere of those who arrived to witness the start of this race.

It was unlike anything I’d previously experienced in the sailing world.

This is where I admit that I’ve kept to myself in the sailing world because of the behavior one can witness. But the Race to Alaska seemed different.

Participants must be self-reliant (no pre-planned support), human-powered (flippers, pedals, paddles), or wind-powered (no engines) while facing extreme weather, currents, and whirlpools.

Also, the R2AK seemed different due to the character of those who showed up to race—humans with humility and humor; humans with found, homemade, and humble crafts; and joyful humans.

One could not have been happier. It was so lovely witnessing and mingling with it all.

For much of one day, the marina and its docks were packed like sardines with people. Grandparents, parents, kids, friends, and old sea dogs were smiling from ear to ear.

How were the teams going to power or sail their floating vessels of all sizes? Especially when some of them were still building their creative rigs right before us? It was mind-blowing.

In fact, I was so happy, that we decided to remain in Port Townsend through all the R2AK preparations, pre-celebrations, and for the start of the race.

I woke at 4 am the morning of the race to take photos of the crews arriving for departure. I woke at 5 am to take photos of the community lined up on the breakwater, cheering everyone on.

Then I woke at 6 am to take photos of the boats after they left Port Townsend, with the sun rising, as they began their 750-mile race up the Inside Passage to Alaska.

These might not be the best photos I’ve ever taken, but the entire experience felt so exciting that I began exclaiming that I now want to sign up for the Race to Alaska, too.

The humorous R2AK race commentary is partially to blame for my newfound thinking.

After discussing what kind of boat we should immediately begin making/finding for this race, I thought this through a bit more.

I envisioned endless downpours on the high seas. Cold, wet, days on end. Limited supplies. No safety in sight. Sitting in a little tub, bobbing in the sea. Bears waiting for me, on shore.

I began wondering how far a vessel could tip over before it would capsize completely. How would I save the others? Where would we then go when rescue is at least two hours away?

To meet my newfound adventure needs, I may have decided to (instead) watch the Race to Alaska on film. Because while I’ve loved living on a sailboat, I still don’t know how to sail one.