The memory of losing Alliance is so clear in my mind that it’s hard to believe that it’s been a year to the day since we got in that life raft and cut ourselves loose.
When we got to land, everyone wanted to hear the story, and from podcasts to articles, I put out so much media in the immediate aftermath that for better or worse, I really processed the sinking in terms of presenting it cohesively for an audience. It is, after all, my job to tell sailing stories. I went straight to work.
I don’t go back and review that content often, but in videos of myself taken after the race, I’m always struck by my own jittery, almost manic energy, snapping from smiley to serious and back in the blink of an eye. I remember feeling like my head was full of loud static, like I couldn’t really tune in. And behind the scenes, I was struggling. I threw up every day I was in Bermuda, returning home at a weight I haven’t seen on the scale since high school. I went back to work and would sign out of video calls, blink, and it’d be 8pm, and I’d realize I’d just been staring at the wall for hours. Every time I had to travel, I was swamped with this overwhelming dread, an absolute certainty that I would never see home again.
My sister happens to be a neurologist, and she was the first person to use the term “PTSD symptoms” to describe it. I sighed and found a therapist who specializes in these things. I also took the winter off from travel.
It’s been a long year, I won’t lie about that. I was 19 when I decided I wanted to write about sailboats for a living and set my sights on offshore racing. What do you do when a dream you’ve been chasing your whole life comes crashing down around you? How do you move forward?
But therapy works, time helps, and eventually “normal” started to feel possible again. Despite being a close knit crew, we didn’t really talk much about how the sinking had impacted us. I guess I assumed I was the only one falling apart, maybe because I was more emotional than my STEM-y crewmates, or maybe because of some misplaced guilt for having been at the helm when it happened. It was only later that I learned that it wasn’t just me, we were all quietly managing as best we could, trying to make meaning of it in our own way. Sometimes these things just take time.
After a long winter, I’m proud to say that we’ll all be back on the water this season. Eric and Mary have a new boat, a Sabre 426 renamed Minerva after the Roman goddess of wisdom. I helped them deliver her home from Annapolis to Newport last October, and she’s beautiful.
Bill is back out on his beloved Vento Solare, and Julija and Connor are the proud new owners of a Sabre 30, named Sabre Tooth. Sam planned to race offshore with Banter—our friends and rescue buddy boat—this summer, but a fire at the shed where their mast was stored cancelled those plans. Instead he’s doing some shorter course sailing. After missing her college graduation to join us on the Newport-Bermuda, Mary S. took a job on the West Coast and has been enjoying the good weather and long season out there.
For our part, Eddie and I just finished what we believe to be a new course record for the slowest Annapolis-Newport Race ever sailed (according to Google Maps, it would’ve been faster to walk). If you’re wondering how we managed that, don’t worry, there will be an article.
The truth is offshore sailors are a resilient bunch, and though things may never be quite the same as they were before we lost Alliance, all we can do is move forward. We remain incredibly grateful for the help and support of our competitors and the wider sailing community, but in particular the crews of Ceilidh and Banter.
Despite everything, as I watch Wendy and Adam compete in the Marion-Bermuda this week, I find myself feeling a little jealous that they’re out there and I’m not. Turns out, I already have a new dream to chase.
June 2025
