Each summer, a handful of plucky sailors square off in one of the world's most unsung regattas -- a marathon contest across Great Slave and back. The lake usually wins. Story and photos by Katharine Sandiford.
A wave crashes over the nose of the sailboat and gives me a thorough ice-water soaking, rendering the hand-held wind meter useless. The last reading was 32 knots. But it’s too late to do anything. We’re well into the storm and the wind’s too strong to reduce sail – something we should have done as we approached the ominous thundercloud half an hour ago. Instead, the rails are in the water and all four crewmembers are wedged as far up on the deck as possible, gripping lifelines and handrails to avoid falling overboard.
The skipper, Jim Merritt, eases the sails out to spill wind so the boat doesn’t capsize. But the flapping of the jib is unnerving. “I’ll protect my crew over my new headsail,” Jim hollers over the noise, “but I’m sorry baby!” The sail’s custom stitching weakens with every violent snap.
Unlike his sail, Jim is unflappable. He’s grinning ear-to-ear, confident in himself and his crew. My heart’s thumping loud, but I’m smiling too. As we hammer through the squall, I feel like I’m on an amusement park water-ride, not 30 hours into an epic sailboat race across one of the coldest, largest, deepest and most dangerous lakes in the world.
We’re one of five boats in the 29th annual Commissioner’s Cup, a race that takes sailors between two and five days to go from Yellowknife to Hay River and back. The boats cross the widest section of Great Slave Lake, the deepest lake in North America and the ninth biggest in the world. Although the course is 420 kilometres as the crow flies, sailboats don’t go straight. Most will clock 500 to 700 kilometres before the race is done.
There are only a few other long-distance, freshwater sailboat races in the world of comparable length and challenge. The Ontario 300 and the Chicago-to-Mackinac attract hundreds of sleek racing boats and widespread publicity. The Commissioner’s Cup only gets a handful of sailboats, and almost no media, but the challenge is as great if not greater – it is, after all, the northernmost race of its kind. Smaller, older, less well-equipped boats spread out across an ice-cold lake that’s subject to harsh Arctic weather and a scarcity of ports and search-and-rescue infrastructure. One only has to dig through the race’s three-decade history to find accounts of knock-downs, dismastings, gales, boats abandoned and washed up, terrifying electrical storms, super-heroic rescues and near-death catastrophes. But as our boat crashes over the dark blue waves, all I feel is joy.
**
It’s mid-afternoon on a t-shirt-weather Friday in August, two hours before race time, and towering cumulonimbus clouds are looming in every direction. Four of the five participating boats are docked end-to-end along the wooden wharf of the Great Slave Cruising Club, Yellowknife’s low-key answer to a yacht club where 40-odd sailboats moor just a stone’s throw from Giant Mine’s tailings ponds. Anxious crewmembers are scuttling about carrying coolers, all-weather survival suits, sleeping bags and anxious expressions. For once, the chatter about the weather isn’t just idle banter.
“We’ll just do the best we can with the conditions we’re given,” says Jim after I question him about the billowing clouds. His easy-going demeanor is reassuring as we cram our belongings into the cabin of his 25-foot sailboat, Checkmate. In his 50s, Jim has been a pilot for decades and now flies First Air’s powerful Hercules airplanes, regularly landing on ice or gravel to deliver heavy equipment into remote sites. “Sailing’s like flying except you’re going five knots instead of 300,” he says. “But sailing is my recreation, not an occupation, and that’s a big difference, because recreation is good for the soul.”
He’s invited his co-pilot from the Herc, Darrell Smith, to crew in the race. Although Darrell has only sailed a few times, Jim relies on his ability to work under pressure (and take commands without offense). My boyfriend Terry and I complete the crew. We’ve been sailing with Jim and his wife at the club’s Wednesday-night races since the beginning of summer. Though we’re experienced sailors – we spent five months in 2010 sailing all the Great Lakes – the prospect of the big lake is daunting.
**
As we shove off from the dock, Commissioner George Tucarro waves farewell. Under the shadow of an enormous raincloud, boats jockey at the start-line, timing our zigzagging tacks for best position. This is the closest the five boats will be to each other for the entire race and I take the time to survey the competition while struggling into my foul-weather gear.
Our main competition is a 34-foot racer called X-Capade, the fastest boat of the fleet and crewed by six people. Ace skipper-couple Lorraine Seale and Paul Guy are in the race for the fifth time, having won it twice – and having lost by an astounding 66 seconds in their most recent attempt.
Then there’s Beaumaris, a gorgeous 35-foot cruiser skippered by Yellowknife’s French chef, Pierre LePage. Rumour has it his water tanks are filled with red wine and his hatches packed with fine cheeses and meats. “I’m here to have fun,” he reminds everyone.
Small, but still a contender is Ice3, a 22-foot-long boat, sturdy but slow, that “you can throw a hurricane at and will stay keel-side down.” Four close friends are crammed onboard. Grayling is the fifth boat: a lightweight, narrow 21-footer, better known as a weekender and not designed for offshore, open-lake conditions.
As the fleet clears the start line and parades single-file down Yellowknife Bay, the drizzle turns into a downpour. The wind is consistent too, so we set a straight course for the outer islands. Beyond that, it’s open lake. Navigational buoys guide us on the safest passage through islands and shoals. Only a few hours into the race and X-Capade is already a speck on the horizon. Beaumaris, on the other hand, is a cannon’s blow away.
**
Just as we near the end of the fairway channel, we get a chance to pass Chef Pierre’s pretty green vessel. After weeks of practice, we’re the quickest to raise our spinnaker – that large parachute-shaped, multi-coloured sail used in down-wind runs. As we creep past, one of his crewmembers struggles with a foul in the spinnaker lines. “Help! Help!” shouts Pierre, frantically waving his arms. “What is it?” shouts back Jim. “We need butter!” responds Pierre with a mock-shriek. “We’re short four pounds of butter!”
As soon as we enter the wide open lake, the land quickly receding behind us, the wind almost completely dies. We have to remind ourselves it’s not always so.
Last year, the fleet battled strong winds and thunderstorms all the way to Hay River. One boat quit the race just a few kilometres out of Yellowknife. When gusts reached 45 knots, Ice3 and a fast Kirby racing boat skippered by Stephen Jeffery, this year’s race marshal, also dropped out and headed home. His dad wasn’t as lucky. Charles Jeffery suffered a broken tiller and a partial knock-down in the towering waves on the approach to Hay River. Luckily, a Coast Guard boat was at the ready and towed Jeffery Sr. into harbour. “I was thankful Dad used the resources of the Coast Guard,” remarks Stephen. “It could have happened to anyone.”
Only one boat made it through all the storms to complete the race last year. It was Checkmate. “It was a bit of a letdown,” admits Jim. “But we were happy we made all the right decisions at the right time.”
A breeze carries us forward to Hardisty Island. It’s the last landform boats see before entering the widest section of Great Slave Lake. As we approach, I’m asleep below decks, wedged into the narrow bow, spooning one of the extra sails, when I hear a loud clonk against the hull. I scurry up to the cockpit and see Hardisty appear through a veil of mist in the dawn light. “What was that noise?” I ask, rubbing my crusty eyes. “Logs. We’re in a sea of them,” says Terry. All around, as far as the eye can see, are huge, floating, limbless logs. It’s a light wind and the obstacles are spaced out far enough that we can mostly outmaneuver them, but it’s an eerie vision.
Hardisty’s been known to play tricks on sailors in the Commissioner’s Cup before. Ann and Barry Lange, who have raced the cup over a dozen times (and would be this year if they weren’t halfway through sailing around the world), say you always have to watch out for the Hardisty Island Marching Band. Every year since the early ’90s one of them will get on the VHF and ask the other boats if they can hear the sound of tubas and timpanies on shore – a practical joke that usually stumps one or two sleep-deprived newcomers to the race.
Jim gets on the VHF radio and broadcasts a warning about the logs to the other boats. X-Capade, already a few hours ahead of us (due to handicaps, they have to beat us by five hours to win) responds over the crackly line. No word from Beaumaris, although we suspect they’re not far behind. The other boats are well out of range; Ice3 we later learn, fell into a prolonged dead calm. “When we got back I heard the craziest stories of people going through thunderstorms and high winds,” says Katy Dilon, one of its crew. “But we watched as one, two, three boats shot across the lake. We were just sitting there, totally becalmed for two days straight with only patches of wind.”
By mid-afternoon Saturday we hit a calm of our own that brings with it hot, summery weather. Floating aimlessly in the middle of the lake, no land in sight, we suntan, read sailing magazines, nap, drink beer, eat chips. A few of us even brave a swim in the cold, dark water. For a few sweet hours, we feel like a family on vacation.
But late afternoon thunderclouds build on the horizon and soon the silken water starts to ripple. We haul up our sails and tidy the party mess. Only a few hours later, just 50 kilometres off Hay River, we hit the storm. It’s an old adage that sailing is “99 per cent boredom and 1 per cent sheer terror.” We’re now smashing through two-metre waves and the wind meter is as good as useless. As I grip the handrail to prevent falling face-first into 150-metre-deep water, I remind myself that this is nothing close to the terror of races past.
The worst accidents always happen on the approach to Hay River. In a strong, consistent wind, ocean-sized rollers build up over the lake, then jack up into a steep pitch upon hitting the suddenly-shallower waters off the sandy shores of Hay River. This year is the first race without a mandatory overnight stopover in town – we simply have to round an offshore buoy and head back for Yellowknife – changed because of how much difficulty entering port can entail. In rough weather, sailboats struggle to reach the narrow harbour and face breaking waves, shallow depths and the very real possibility of broaching or grounding.
In 1986, sailors here got their first real taste of what kind of poison the lake could stir up. Back then, the race was held over Labour Day weekend (it was moved to early August in the ’90s to avoid fall storms). Terry Kruger, a Coast Guard employee from Hay River, was in the thick of it. “The weather turned and it became clear this was becoming a bad situation.” He says the wind was blowing 90 kilometres an hour – a “strong gale” on the Beaufort scale – creating “apartment-block” sized waves. The first boat to approach land immediately called for help on their VHF. After a plane spotted them, Kruger and his team jumped in a fisheries boat to tow the craft to safety.
The next call Kruger received came from skipper Henry Adams, who had a badly sprained ankle after his boat had side-slipped in a breaking wave, soaking – and spooking – everyone to the bone. “Imagine something where you can’t sleep, can’t get or stay dry, can’t eat, can barely drink and you can’t go to the washroom,” said Adams to media after his accident. “The only thing you can do is hang on with all fours.”
Then Kruger got another call. A sailboat almost 100 kilometres offshore suffered a partial dismasting when the howling winds broke one of its stays – a wire that secures the mast to the deck. This forced the crew to lower their sails, but under bare poles, the skipper had no choice but to run with the weather. They washed up on Loutit Island near Fort Resolution, over 200 kilometres off-course. Kruger wasn’t far behind them in the rescue boat. “We beat ourselves up going out there,” he says. “They were pretty wet and beat up, rattled, when we put them on the fisheries boat.”
The next year was even worse. Again, gale-force winds battered the fleet on their approach to Hay River. Coast Guard employees Terry Cook and Ernie Kruggel headed up the rescue effort. “Waves were 25 feet,” says Cook. “Almost every boat in the race that year needed assistance.”
First they pulled the crew out of a sailboat that had grounded on a sandbar and was getting pummeled by waves. Then they towed a swamped boat to harbour. On their last call of the day, exhausted, wet and cold, they set out to rescue a sailboat about 30 kilometres offshore. When they got there, they heard terrifying news: Two people had been washed overboard an hour earlier. Miraculously, they located the pair, clinging to a life ring in the massive waves. While Kruggel drove the Zodiac back to port, Cook huddled with the severely hypothermic man and woman, experienced Yellowknife sailors Ian Girvan and Karen LeGresley. They were rushed to the Hay River hospital and eventually recovered from their near-fatal brush with the lake. The next spring, Canada’s Governor General presented Kruggel and Cook with the Star of Courage.
As we round the Hay River buoy at 10 p.m. on Saturday night, 29 hours into the race, the waves are small and the wind moderate. The sun is just starting to set, with mushrooming thunderclouds backlit on the glowing horizon. An hour later, we slip past the silhouette of Hay River-bound Beaumaris. A tinny chat on the VHF reveals Chef Pierre’s race strategy: “We’ve just enjoyed the most marvelous dinner: roast pheasant and duck confit.” Darrell, who’s been unable to sleep until now, crashes below. After swallowing down a dry cracker with cheese, I flop on one of the bench-beds in the cabin and close my eyes.
I awake four hours later, vomit rising in my throat. The boat is bucking like a mule. Mast wires clank and sails flap. This can mean only one thing: no wind, confused waves. I come up on deck in my pajamas and the grey light is illuminating Terry and Jim’s downturned expressions. “This is hell,” says Terry. Jim agrees: “I can now see the guys in the Doldrums. They’d go over the edge. They’d jump overboard.”
But with the rising sun, the winds suddenly come back to life. Within half an hour, we’re cruising along, riding over the waves with a driving force that I hope will eliminate my desire to puke. I take the helm – a trusted method to combat seasickness.
When we reach Hardisty Island, the floating logs have paranormally morphed into a series of giant, snaking rafts. The wind and waves are high and navigation takes more than just skill. It’s a roll of the dice that none of the logs are floating vertically in the water, where they could strike and puncture the hull. “The logs were poking out of two-metre swells like a porcupine in a blender,” recounts Lorne Gushue, a crewmember on X-Capade. “It was terrifying.”
It is also nauseating. After an hour sitting up on the foredeck, watching for logs, I succumb to my ailment and heave the remnants of lunch – a lime-quinoa salad I’ll never make again – overboard.
The wind picks up even more and as we head into Yellowknife Bay, we launch our spinnaker. Although it’s a dead run, which means our sails are at risk of flipping sides at a moment’s notice – not good – Jim holds the tiller steady and we surf our way down the fairway channel averaging eight knots, fast for a 25-foot sailboat. Before long, we see the Con Mine headframe, marking the outskirts of Yellowknife.
**
Glen Abernethy, an MLA and cabinet minister, grew up sailing in Great Slave Lake with his dad, Dick, a founding member of the cruising club and skipper of the first boat to ever win the Commissioner’s Cup. Glen was just 14 when his dad finally let him come along. But that was 1986. “I really wanted to go. I really, really, really wanted to go,” he says. “But we got hammered by a storm all the way. The waves were like apartment buildings coming out of nowhere, hammering you, knocking you down constantly. I was in raingear but it shredded because we were getting thrown around the boat so much.”
He waited 16 years to do the race again. He was 30 years old, owned his own sailboat and the Cup had recently been having good, calm weather. “We got our butts kicked. We just got hammered by the weather,” he says. “And my bilge pump broke, so every time the stern went below the waterline, I was taking on water. When I went down below, there was water half-way up my calves.” He crawled into Yellowknife with a half-sunken boat and hasn’t done the race since.
We were lucky this year. We had good wind, a good boat and good crew. And so – frothing champagne bottle in hand – we cross the finish line in Yellowknife’s Back Bay on Sunday evening, completing the course in 51 hours. Although X-Capade cleared the line three hours before us, once handicaps are calculated – a thorough mathematical algorithm – we are proclaimed the winners by a margin of two hours, eight minutes. With SPOT locator beacons on every sailboat, Jeffery shows us the position of the remaining vessels. Chef Pierre is pulling up to his mooring ball in Houseboat Bay – he was only a few hours behind us, but knew he’d lost and didn’t have the interest to round the finish line a half hour away. Ice3 had dropped out and started motoring home, fed up with the lack of wind. And tenacious Grayling had just rounded the buoy in Hay River. They wouldn’t return to Yellowknife for another three days, happy as clams.
