Darkest Before the Dawn

By Christina Rice

They say it’s darkest before the dawn.

Coldest before the thaw.

I have experienced this in life and on the longest freshwater sailboat race in the

world, the Chicago to Mac. * held every summer, this 330 mile race can take 2.5

days – less if your fast.

Beginning at the Navy pier and finishing at the iconic light house on Mackinac

Island, this race challenges and rewards sailors with life lessons. My crew –

we’ve sailed together for years. We know to expect the unexpected.

One of those times was a few hours after the gun shot started the race.

We hoisted our big sail and were headed North.

Sunny and warm, 12-14 knots of breeze. Perfect.

We were going fast, listing to music, but as always anticipating a change,

something unexpected. It was all too perfect.

Forecasts of wind gusts up to 65 knots and a sea state with 4–6-foot waves were

making me nervous. I knew we battled storms like this before and we were

prepared.

Our goal: keep racing. Keep the sails full.

By that evening, we were in first place.

On the radar, while tracking the storm, we saw a boat closing, closer and closer

to us. The wind shifted.

We took action, adjusting our sails to avoid a collision.

The other boat did not.

Forced off course, our driver yelled over to the boat,” Sail your heading” …

Doing my job, I was trimming the sail fighting to take out the slack, our sails were

flopping and instead of a northerly course we were now heading south. The sun set, the wind stopped. There’s silence. The air is stagnant, ominous. I feel the tension, prickling on my skin - the atmosphere was electric.

I thought, TIME TO REACT. But, we didn’t.

Distracted by that boat, closing on us, for just a moment, the wrong moment

everything changed, the race, our lives, forever altered.

I heard, “We are going over!”

Our boat lifts out of the water, the rig groans. This is happening in what feels like

slow motion.

Then, we start to spin.

This is the moment when it’s every man for himself. I know I must grab on to be

safe. Safe from the lines, safe from the boom.

I hear a bam, the boat slammed on its side, 90 degrees to the water. “blow the sails” someone shouts. I see the boom and the mainsail are held under water by the brute force of Mother nature. We are hanging on for dear life. I am in a precarious situation, sitting on the high side, no way to brace myself.

Using one hand to free the sail and one to hold on to the boat. I am catapulted

straight off the boat. I am completely air born. I look down to see the dark cold

churning water, this is it, the place no sailor wants to be.

Suddenly, the opposite side bench seat appeared, the boat is rising out of the

water, just enough. I land on my feet – I felt as if I had jumped off a 10-foot wall.

(like a stunt double only it was me?)

We are safe. The violence is over, but there’s still a race and we’re not ready or

race worthy.

Reports from the rest of the fleet, come across the radio, there are 300 boats that

just got hit by 60 knots, a wall of wind. I know there is carnage everywhere:

Broken masts, booms, falling rigging, torn sails and most frightening, a sailor in

the water.

Someone we know. An empty life jacket.

We can’t help, we want to, but we aren’t seaworthy ourselves, we must stay

focused on our current predicament and saving ourselves before we can save

others.

It’s 45 minutes after sunset, the sky is black.

Sailing our boat, was like a game of frogger with the waves and the raging storm,

the green starboard and red port lights disappearing in the dark.

The waves, (pause)

It was all we could do to avoid a collision.

Our sail was wrapped around the rig at the bow, the middle third of the sail was

full of wind, pulling us forward. The rig groans and shakes, winds gust, waves

crash, our boat and us are in a state of vibration.

Steering straight was nearly impossible.

Frantically we unwrapped the sail, layer by layer. Everything we did made it

worse.

Gale force winds slammed our hull into 6-foot waves. Every wave crested over

our heads, lifting us up and washing us towards the back of the boat.

1:00 am, Ross, the owner of the boat, finally called it. We were done.

I did not want to quit. My approach to life, put your head down and push through

it. Quitting never sits right.

Ross argued he was preventing a disaster, for the crew and for the rig.

Race committee, race committee, race Committee, this is Esprit de Cosse

retiring from the race, all souls on board are okay, heading to safe harbor.

4:00 am, the nights work was not over, with the sail as it was, we had no way to

dock the boat safely. The sail had to be cut down.

Normally we do this with two lines for safety, but we didn’t have two. I was going

up on one, that shouldn’t be a big deal because they are meant to hold 22,000

pounds, but it’s a single point of failure, and nothing was going right. It’s nerve

wracking in the best of conditions, at the dock in perfect weather. This is on the

lake in now 4-foot waves and still 25 knots of wind, 42 feet in the air swaying with

every gust.

I am half hoisted half climbing to the top. We were not getting this sail down while we raced. It wasn’t just wrapped it was knotted. The ability for a sail to knot like that when it is attached at all three corners is a mystery to me, but it happens,

seemingly defying physics. It took me over an hour. Holding on to the forestay

with my feet, like swinging on monkey bars at the playground, to keep me close

enough to cut the sail with one hand.

5:15 am, night turned into dawn, the storm sailed away in the distance, the sail

fluttered down with every cut. I took a moment to look at the pre-dawn sky as the

light began to appear over the horizon. From the mast swinging in the remaining

breeze, I thought we weren’t winning this race, it ended the worse way possible

or did it.

It was the first time we retired early, disappointed but happy, with the people I

care about, doing something I love and news our fellow sailors were safe. There

was wisdom in Ross’s decision just before dawn.

They say it’s darkest before the dawn.

(Pause)

Coldest before the thaw.

(Pause)

I know it to be true in sailing and in life.

Even while I struggle to find my own dawn after an icy winter like those on Lake

Michigan, I know there will be a new season of life one that I can raise my sail, feel the breeze and drive toward my light house at the end of the race– using my

own intuition as guide, I will win my own race by trying, never quitting and

keeping my team at my side and the wind at my back, once again sailing in fair

winds and following seas.