The ARC+ 2019
Three thousand nautical miles is a big chunk of ocean to swallow in one bite. As daunting as it sounded at first, it also felt like an incredible adventure—a once in a lifetime kind of gig.
But my first Atlantic crossing wouldn’t be Kevin’s first. He qualified to wear red pants in 2009 after participating in the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers (ARC for short). He already knew what to expect. His confidence helped build my confidence about the journey. Still, as a relative novice, an organized approach appealed to me. For one thing, there was a sense of safety in numbers. But also, after so many years of sailing in our own company, the idea of camaraderie appealed to me.
Participation in the ARC+ came with a community of fellow sailors from all over the world headed in the same direction. Ours was one of 99 boats registered in the 2019 ARC+ cohort. There would be numerous organized information briefings in Las Palmas as well as hosted parties and dinners providing opportunities to meet, mingle with and get to know other cruisers. The ARC+ promised further cultural experiences and events on arrival after Leg 1 in Mindelo, Cape Verde as well as at our final destination in St. Lucia.
While Kevin gathered a highly experienced crew—fellow Wild Thing crew members—from Sydney, I set about on a mission of my own. In the spirit of team building, I purchased not one, but four different sets of crew shirts, as if our crew were my own matching Barbie dolls. I imagined we would need some way to stand out at our various ARC+ functions. I planned outfits for crew at work, crew at play, crew at sea Leg 1, crew at sea Leg 2. I even went so far as to purchase fuzzy headbands with animal ears to match the Wild Spirit animal print T-shirts I’d already purchased. A mission is a mission after all.
It might have been a bridge too far to expect the crew to wear the gray bamboo men’s briefs with red a crew Polo shirts on the start line in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. It’s for our sponsor, I insisted.
It was true. We had received sponsorship from a wonderful rep from Boody Ecowear, who sent us a full suite of short and long sleeve T-shirts, men’s briefs and ladies sports bras. It was also true that the bamboo made these garments insanely comfortable. In the end, the crew were all good sports. They all complied. All in the name of fun and team spirit, I said. I regret my amusement likely came at their expense.
But looking at the photo taken at the start line with the entire crew on deck waving to the camera in those gray bamboo briefs, if you didn’t know we were all wearing men’s underwear, you’d swear we were dressed in sleek Italian sailing shorts.
In the lead up to the race, Kevin and I spent months preparing for the journey—mentally, physically, financially and emotionally. Safety played a major factor in our decision to join. Although the ARC safety requirements were demanding, we appreciated the rigor. In Las Palmas, we passed each of the required safety inspections with ease.
The November afternoon we were due to set off from Las Palmas, the race had been all but called off due to weather. At the morning Skipper’s Briefing, the organizers advised that it would be prudent for some boats to delay their start. With wind gusts between 35-40 knots and 3-4 meter swells forecast over the next several days, the conditions were too aggressive for double-handers and those boats with inexperienced crew and/or young children.
After the briefing, Kevin gathered our crew— seven in total. One had skippered an around the world race twice, winning the latest. One was a professional skipper, another was scheduled to participate as professional race crew in the Caribbean islands for the season. At just 19, the youngest member of our crew already had achieved his yacht master’s license and first crossed the Atlantic at 17. As for me, I’d spent days shopping for and preparing over 500 crew meals for the 850NM trip. No one would go hungry.
Without exception, the crew agreed: the boat was ready and so were we.
An electric mixture of anticipation and excitement filled the air as we motored out of the harbor a few minutes past noon for the official one o’clock start. As we rounded the jetty heading toward the start line in, the entire crew were required to appear on deck on the port side wearing life jackets. For a photograph, the organizers said. Although we cherish the photographs as a memento of our experience, the primary reason for the happy snaps was to satisfy the insurance companies. Call it proof of life—before and after documentation of the number of souls aboard.
After waving to the cameras, we were soon in blue water. The air churned the sea. Ninety-five masts began to fill the harbor. Excitement grew palpable as the yachts positioned themselves for the start line. Kevin and the crew knew the drill. Each took their position. Kevin switched the motor off and adeptly jockeyed Wild Spirit into place. Wendo counted down the seconds. The start gun blasted.
We were away.
"Safety first,” Kevin called out as he crossed the start. “But we’re not here to fuck spiders.”
The ARC+ might be called a rally, but to my ocean racing-loving husband and his Australian mates, two boats constitutes a race.
And this race was on.