An essay on savoring the chance to sail as summer grows a little old
by David Schmidt 26 Aug 17:00 UTC
August 26, 2025
Savoring the sight of some heel angle after way too much time spent ashore © David Schmidt
I'll admit it had been too long. Way too long, if I'm being honest.
I was fortunate to have enjoyed a fantastic late winter and spring of sailing. This included four great races on Puget Sound, a delivery from Seattle to Nanaimo, British Columbia, and then the first half of the Van Isle 360 (VI360), which is a race that circumnavigates Vancouver Island as a series of stage races (nine legs in total, of which I was lucky enough to race five).
But then on Wednesday, June 4, after racing from Telegraph Cove to Port Hardy, on Vancouver Island's northern reaches, and then helping flake sails, my sailing season ground to a halt.
My reasons were solid: I was fortunate enough to have landed an amazing writing gig as press officer for the 2025 Transpac Race, which would occupy three full weeks of my life in late June and July. But this meant leaving the VI360 early to scamper back to my office to hammer-out a pile of columns and feature articles for various publications before heading to Los Angeles for the start of Transpac.
Then, on the flipside of this classic 2,225 nautical mile ocean race, I found myself in a deep work hole.
These work obligations (read: lots of six- and seven-day work weeks), coupled with the fact that I don't own my own boat (head held in shame), meant that some two and a half months had slipped astern without any racing. I'll be honest: my work-to-fun ratio was slouching southbound, and I'm sure I was getting a bit cranky (ahem).
Then, last Wednesday morning, my phone rang. It was my friend Paul Bieker asking if I wanted to join him and his son (and my friend) Leo that evening in nearby Anacortes for a beer can race on their Shilshole 27. Of course, my answer was a strong heck yes (OK, heck might not have been the operative descriptor...).
About eight hours later we entered our starting sequence in roughly ten knots of breeze on Padilla Bay's beautifully flat waters. While I had only sailed on the Shilshole 27 twice before (and only once racing), Paul and Leo are dialed on the boat, and I was able to more or less follow their lead. The accumulated rust from two and a half months of landlubbering immediately started exfoliating.
The feeling was fantastic.
The only problem, and this is one that I encounter a lot sailing and racing, is that time kind of entered that mushy, super-focused zone. To be fair, I wasn't super familiar with the racing area, and I was spending a lot of my attention trying to ensure that I didn't screw anything up too badly, but it felt like we crossed the finishing line way too quickly.
(Part of this was because Paul's Shilshole 27 is a tidy rocketship of a boat, which he designed himself, but part of it harks back to the old cliché about time flying when one is thoroughly enjoying our beautiful planet.)
After saying our good-byes in the parking lot, I found a nice park bench with as great view of the marina to have my sandwich before cruising back to Bellingham, where I live. The setting sun was painting the western hillside of nearby Cap Sante Park a gorgeous golden hue, and the night was just perfect. I watched some local sailors pull their sportboat from the water and roll it into the dinghy park, and quietly smiled at the timelessness of the weeknight racing ritual.
Just as I was (reluctantly) getting ready to get going, a marina employee walked by. We exchanged some pleasantries about the perfect evening, and he put words to something that most Pacific Northwesterners are loath to discuss, especially as the calendar starts inching towards fall's arrival and the inevitable return of short days and the region's famous cloud cover and rain.
"Better enjoy it while you can," the guy said.
"Don't say it," I retorted, with a smile.
"I think we'll have a few good weeks of summer still," he said, smiling back.
And of course I spent the ride home pondering the change of seasons, and the necessity of getting out on the water as much as possible, irrespective of where one lives.
To be fair, most big-boat racing in the Pacific Northwest takes place in the fall, winter, and spring, so my summer's work binge wasn't as horribly egregious as it might initially read. But also, there's zero question that the rains will soon return, and that grains of sand that pass through the hourglass can't be replaced.
So, if you find yourself living a similar work-to-racing ratio, carve out some time to get on the water. Better still, if your summer has been filled with lots of sailing and racing, lean in even harder. In both cases, you won't regret it.
The great news is that summer still has about a month left, and fall is often the nicest time of year to sail in many parts of the country. Sure, days might be getting a tad shorter compared to late June, but late summer and fall are usually wonderful times to fully recharge the sailing batteries before it's time to start thinking about skiing.
May the four winds blow you safely home.
David Schmidt
Sail-World.com North American Editor