Thursday was a turnstile of finishes sealing the question of prize winners in both Go Fast and Go Hard classes, and bringing a raft of hangry competitors riding high-octane boats with their versions of lift kits, custom headers, and oversized exhaust systems. Ruining the lead pack pedigree were rides from a past racing era, saddled with racers that refused to believe they shouldn’t be this fast. (Ahem…Team Fressure).
Don’t get mad. Trust us, it’s a lot to take in after a lifetime of not knowing how dumb you are. Relax. Take a deep breath and a beta blocker. This isn’t personal, count to 10. Think of puppies and breathe into your flaws. We were all wrong.
In the space between the 128 crow-flown miles separating Olympia Shoal and Point Roberts, the inaugural cohort of WA360 racers continued to grind and push for every inch of advantage on their way towards the Championship Belt.
Oh complicated sea, you mischievous imp. You always know our weakness and like an untutored child, needle us where we, most vulnerable, have nothing left but wild screaming at the jellyfish as they undulate by, whose mocking ripples intermix with our desolate tears. Because everything in the world is moving faster than us, and you’ve broken all our shit.
The people cheered, the vessels jockeyed for position in light breezes, and everyone hummed along to the traditional Race Start song: Госудáрственный гимн Росси́йской Федерáции. And then it was on like Donkey Kong–360 miles of hopes, dreams, devastating failure, and exultant triumph. 153 racers crossed the line and began the first-ever WA360.
If you didn’t know better, this was like any other first Saturday in June. Racers from SEVENTY48 rolled in and collapsed starting at 4:54am. Volunteers bustled about making sure teams didn’t die on the beach—checking vitals, then administering Top Ramen, coffee, showers, and more legit medical attention as needed. After short/dazed celebrations, boats made their way from beach to car tops while humans wondered aloud how they had just done all of those miles, in those conditions, which by all accounts ranged between gnarly and underwear-changing.