support from the other side: AIS, karaoke, and letting go
I arrived in Portsmouth a few days early. I knew Crew Allocation would be a big day, and I definitely didn’t want to be jet-lagged for it. So I gave myself the gift of a soft landing: a quiet rental flat, remote work, neighborhood walks, and space to center myself.
As it turns out, jet lag wasn’t the thing keeping me up at night.
While I was settling in, Jared was preparing to sail from Oregon to Southern California – our boat’s first real offshore leg without me. He had two crew joining him: one, a friend from buddy-boating in Washington, recently certified as a sailing instructor after years of cruising and racing; the other, a last-minute substitute flying in from Texas after someone else dropped out days before departure. While both were competent crew, neither had ever sailed a mile on Salty Saguaro.
Cue the self-imposed guilt trip.
Here I was, soaking in a proper tub on the nights I couldn’t sleep, eating lovely food, about to meet new friends I would eventually circumnavigate the world with. Meanwhile, Jared was provisioning, troubleshooting, weather routing, and preparing to skipper for the first time with a full crew – without me. And not just any crew: a team of capable sailors he’d need to bring together, build trust with, and keep safe. Skippering with new crew takes a special kind of leadership – the kind that’s equal parts logistics, emotional intelligence, and calm under pressure. I knew he had it in him – but still, it was a lot.
We had done the big prep push together for the Washington-to-Oregon leg, so the boat was in decent shape. But “almost ready” isn’t the same as “ready,” and there’s always more to do. Plus, a front was building off the California coast – stretching west of the 100nm line and swirling around the San Francisco Bay. It meant Jared and crew would need to sail farther offshore than he ever had, with no quick access to land in case of emergency.
Beyond logistics, I understood Jared’s nerves. I could offer support from afar, but I couldn’t be on deck tying down sails or adjusting course in the dark. That was hard to sit with. I journaled. I cried. I called friends who reminded me why I was in Portsmouth in the first place. That I had worked hard to be here. That Jared was on his own growth journey. Something flipped. That pride and guilt can coexist. And eventually, pride started to win.
Before I left the States, we had installed an AIS transponder on Salty – a system that shares a boat’s location with nearby ships and tracking platforms – finally allowing the boat to be seen by others, not just track others. With that, I could follow their route via MarineTraffic while I was in the UK. It became part of my new morning routine: sipping coffee, checking AIS on my tablet, and journaling in the rooftop garden.
On departure day, I watched Salty Saguaro cross the Columbia River Bar – infamously known as the Graveyard of the Pacific – and begin the long westward arc toward safer offshore passage. I went to bed knowing they were underway and woke early the next day to check their progress. They were making steady speeds and still on course. I exhaled, checked weather apps to see what they were headed into, and wrote about my nerves.
Later in the day, I noticed their last AIS update hadn’t changed since morning. I hoped it was just MarineTraffic’s land-based antenna range maxing out, not a sign something was wrong with the boat’s transponder. Just in case, I messaged Jared to confirm. Thankfully, Starlink was still holding strong offshore, so we were able to text and even send the occasional media.
By this point I had begun Level 3 training with my Clipper crew (more on that in a future post). We were docked each night, which meant I could still check in. Throughout the week, I kept checking AIS – even when it wasn’t updating. The occasional note with coordinates, updates about crew morale, a photo from the passage, or a video with a personal message from Jared helped. Still, the silence between updates was tough.
My training crew mates – all of whom I'd only just met that week – were unbelievably supportive. They asked for updates, cheered for Salty, and checked in on how I was doing. It was a great reminder that supporters need supporters too. I was learning what it feels like to be the one watching from the other side.
I started to understand what it would be like to be my supporter during the Clipper Race. It’ll be almost the reverse – AIS will update constantly, but I won’t have texting abilities. The irony isn’t lost on me: the roles will be reversed, but I’ll remember how it felt to refresh that tracker over and over, to re-read the last message like it holds hidden meaning, to hold my breath waiting for the next ping.
Midway through training week, I got a message from Jared: Salty was making the big turn in toward land. Still a day away, but making progress despite feeling beat up. The next morning, coffee in hand, I opened MarineTraffic and finally saw Salty Saguaro appear off the coast near Los Angeles. We set sail for another day of training and later pulled into Cowes on the Isle of Wight for a change of scenery for the evening. After packing away the boat, I checked MarineTraffic one last time and saw Salty had docked in Marina del Rey! I exhaled – again.
I shared the news with my crew and asked if they’d record a quick “congratulations!” video for Jared and the crew. We did, and I sent it off. My heart felt full – surrounded by people who cared, knowing Jared and the Salty crew were safe and sound. Then we headed to the pub – and eventually to a karaoke bar, where I fully let loose with a few off-key bangers. The relief was palpable. I finally felt light again. The heaviness of holding space, from so far away, had lifted. And in its place? Pride. Big, beautiful, earned pride.
