Team Malolo, sailed and pedaled by Canadian skipper Duncan Gladman and crewmembers Paul Gibson, Becky Kelly and Matthew Macatee, has won the eighth running of the Race to Alaska (R2AK). 

The Race to Alaska is a demanding engineless event that requires physical endurance, saltwater know-how, and the “bulldog tenacity that it takes to win a ‘no motors, no support’ adventure race” covering 750 cold-water miles from Port Townsend, Washington, to Ketchikan, Alaska. The first-place prize is $10K. Second place literally wins a set of actual steak knives.

Teams embarked on Stage 1, affectionately known as “The Proving Ground,” from Port Townsend on June 8 at 5:00 AM. From that point, they have 36 hours to cross the Strait of Juan de Fuca and make it to Victoria, BC. 

High noon on June 12 marked the start of Stage 2, “To the Bitter End,” the 710-mile odyssey from Victoria to Alaska. The winners, Team Malolo, is the first all-Canadian crew to bring home the grand prize. The effort marked the team vessel’s third attempt to win R2AK on their custom-built Cochrane trimaran, Dragon.

“It [was] unfinished business for me and for Paul, so I would say that is the most compelling reason for the two of us [to return for a third attempt],” said Captain Duncan Gladman. “For Becky and Matt, they love adventures and are super competitive. They have listened to both Paul and I and the numerous R2AK stories, so it’s natural that they both said we have to go even though I said never again after 2022.”

Gladman took the second-place steak knives on the same boat as Team Pear Shaped Racing in 2019. Gladman and Gibson dropped out of the 2022 race as a DNF (Did Not Finish) due to serious damage from a log-strike at high speed.

“We’ve said a lot about Team Malolo and their vessel Dragon hitting logs in years past,” said race boss Jesse Wiegel. “And logs were the story of their previous two attempts, but Duncan and crew have broken the curse.”

Gladman, Gibson, Kelly and Macatee will celebrate the win at the Alaska Fish House in Ketchikan, where they will receive the $10K prize in the form of cash—as tradition dictates—nailed to a piece of firewood. At the time of Team Malolo’s finish, the nearest competitors were just over 90 miles from Ketchikan.Twenty-nine of the 32 teams that set out from Victoria are still on the course along the Inside Passage. You can follow the remaining teams’ progress on a 24-hour tracker at R2AK.com.

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The Sailing Museum and National Sailing Hall of Fame has revealed the names of 12

individuals who will be inducted into its Hall of Fame fellowship this year. This diverse list features Jan C. O’Malley, a three-time US Sailing Yachtswoman of the Year, two-time Adams Cup winner, and the first ever winner of the IYRU Women’s World Sailing Championship; Peter Melvin, a multiple-class world and national champion, as well as an innovative yacht designer; and Charles Ulmer, a national champion and race winner throughout the 1970s and 80s and proponent of the sport of sailing through the many organizations through which he has been affiliated.

The National Sailing Hall of Fame induction committee met numerous times since the nomination process to whittle down the original list to the slate of finalists. According to the committee, while the future inductees’ biographies differ, they are all accomplished and dedicated to the sport and its community. Ten fall into its modern category, while another two represent historic classification. 

Honored for technical accomplishment and contribution are brothers Eric Hall and Ben Hall, the late Gary Mull, one of the most prolific and successful U.S. sailboat designers working in the latter half of the 20th century, and the late Carl Alberg, whose 56 designs resulted in more than 10,000 boats. 

Others to be inducted in the modern classification in the sailing category are Kevin Burnham, an Olympic and Goodwill Games medalist in sailing; Conn Findlay, a consummate crew member for America’s Cup competitor Courageous and Maxi Ocean Racer Windward Passage, and one of the few competitors to medal in two distinct sports (Rowing and Sailing); and Richard Tillman, the 1965 Sailor of the Year who held National, North American and World titles in the Snipe, Finn, Laser, Sunfish and Windsurfing classes.

Franklin Wood, who founded the Annapolis Sailing School and established the Annapolis Sailboat Show, rounds out the modern classification in the contributor category. Allegra Mertz, one of the two women to be inducted with O’Malley, was elected through the historic classification, along with Alberg.

“The Class of 2024 has left an indelible mark on sailing,” co-chair Gary Jobson said. Their achievements inspire us to explore, innovate and honor the sport. From Olympic champions to boat designers, they remind us that sailing is more than a pastime; it’s a legacy of courage and possibility. Trailblazers like Allegra Mertz, whose skill, determination and love of racing continues to inspire fellow sailors and set a high standard for excellence. Innovators such as Ben and Eric Hall, whose cutting-edge materials and championship-winning rigs have pushed innovation. These inductees are a formidable group. We look forward to celebrating their accomplishments on October 5 at the 2024 Hall of Fame Induction ceremony, hosted by the Chicago Yacht Club.”

“What an honor to welcome these remarkable individuals into The Sailing Museum and National Sailing Hall of Fame,” said Executive Director Ashley Householder. “We take seriously the responsibility of preserving the legacy of our inductees for the countless ways in which each has contributed to the sport of sailing. Please join us as we embark on telling their exceptional stories.”

Each year, the induction committee of the National Sailing Hall of Fame reviews nominations and compiles a slate of those to be inducted into its hallowed fellowship of extraordinary achievement and service. Inductions have been taking place since 2011, when the Hall was in Annapolis. The Sailing Museum and National Sailing Hall of Fame has since moved to Newport, the sailing capital of the country. The number of legends in the Hall will be 135 total with this year’s class.

This year, the Induction will be held at the Chicago Yacht Club Oct. 4-5. For ticket information, follow the Hall of Fame website.

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The day Sally Helme fired me was pretty rough. I could’ve used a life coach. Like the dude who was brought in to replace me. 

The year was 2005, and I was five years into my tenure as ­editor-in-chief of this magazine. It was a different era. My mentors, the preceding editors—Murray Davis, George Day, Dale Nouse and Bernadette Bernon—had always emphasized that in publishing, there was a church and a state, equal but separate, with an emphasis on separate. The churchly editorial department, the words and stories, represented the scripture. Publisher Sally ran the business side—the state—responsible for generating the advertising lucre that kept all the wheels spinning. 

I’d been taught that it was not only beneficial, but also essential, to maintain an arm’s length from business decisions and to refrain from granting favors to clients. My job was to represent and satisfy the readers and subscribers. If the publication was the least bit phony, there was nothing to sell. And if the publisher-editor relationship was a bit tense, to the point of even being slightly antagonistic, that was a good thing. Healthy. Necessary. 

Man, I was outstanding at that part of the job.

Honestly, I wasn’t shocked when I was sacked. But the one thing that really ticked me off was that my executive editor, Tim Murphy, whom I’d been grooming to take my place, was passed over for the job. (Which contributed to his decision to quit, which made me respect and love him even more than I already did.) Thinking back, though, even that didn’t surprise me. Tim would’ve definitely wreaked even more havoc than I had. 

A short time before all the drama, I went in to work on a weekend. There at the door to my office was a pile of fresh dog poop. I’d seen Sally’s car, so I knew she was there and, sure enough, so was her pooch. She apologized profusely and cleaned up the mess, but I’m fairly certain that doggie got a treat shortly thereafter. 

Oddly enough, my first connection with Sally was through my mom, who ran an employment agency in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island. Sally had come to Newport to launch an upscale marine magazine called The Yacht, and my mother had played a role in staffing it. It was how I first came to know Sally.

As has been made clear in this issue’s tribute to Sally (see page 8), she was a force of nature. The marine industry was super-macho in those days, led by hard boys like the Harken brothers, Ted Hood, Everett Pearson and similar characters. And while Sally cast a commanding presence, she wasn’t the type to curry favor by batting her eyelashes. No, to succeed in that hypermasculine world, she always had to be the smartest person in the room. A Princeton grad, she always was. 

All that said, it’s absolutely true that for me, getting canned was not a bad thing. I pivoted to writing more of my own stories, not editing ones that I’d commissioned. I wrote a few books, sailed my butt off, and did things that I’d never have contemplated had I remained in the editor’s chair. Though it stung at the time, I came to be very grateful that it had happened. 

And Sally and I, amazingly enough, eventually became pals. Real ones. She was always supportive, and connected me with more than a few fine opportunities. Sure, we still tangled a bit. She was on the board of the National Sailing Hall of Fame, and in its early days, I was one of that organization’s most outspoken critics, which I knew bugged Sally to no end. It was just like the old days.

The last time I saw Sally was at, of all places, a beauty parlor: We had the very same hairdresser. (It was our mutual scissors friend who texted me the news about her passing, a good day before anyone else knew.) We’d caught up, gossiped, had a few laughs, even shared a quick hug. There we were, after all this time, a pair of old mates still trying to keep up appearances.

Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.  

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Shielding my face from the misty rain, I was steps away from turning around when the sound of jeering cut through the creaking of moored boats. Amid the wind gusts, and under the glow of sunset and scattered streetlights, I could see that I was alone in the harbor, but I distinctly heard cackling, along with, “Weigh heigh and up she rises, weigh heigh and up she rises…” 

This was my first encounter with Peter Cafe Sport, a refuge for trans-Atlantic adventurers on Faial Island in the Azores. 

Unlike other islands in the Azores, Faial is sheltered, with soft, gray moonscapes and 10 sleeping volcanoes. Its harbor, at Horta, is guarded from storms by two peaks to the south, another to the east, and yet another to the north. It’s here that Peter Cafe Sport opened in 1918. Bedraggled seafarers with wild beards, sun-blistered skin and an unfamiliar tongue fueled fear in the isolated islanders, but cafe founder Henrique Azevedo and his son José welcomed them as brave pioneers of the ocean. José, in particular, became known in the sailing community as a friend who could be relied upon for a good chat, a shower, supplies and a boozy welcome party. 

This devotion to passing mariners runs in the blood of the family, still to this day. I returned to the cafe in daylight and noticed drinkers eyeing their docked boats from a raised deck. Above the entrance, a bowsprit reached out to sea. Below it was a ­ribbon-shaped sign etched with “Cafe Sport.” 

The building resembles a boat that’s riding the waves, with bright-white upper floors floating on the blue lower level, embellished with a sperm whale carved from whalebone. Behind wood-shuttered ­windows and through the open door is a dimly lit watering hole with the familiar warmth of a local pub. A sculpture from the prow of a ship hangs over the wooden bar that has stood for more than a century. Weather-worn flags are strung across the ceilings and walls, left behind by sailors for good luck at sea.

José became known in the sailing community as a friend who could be relied upon for a good chat, a shower, supplies and a boozy welcome party.

At the back of the room, through the swinging door, Peter busts out with open arms and a soft smile. “I’m the third Peter, but my name’s actually João,” he says while shaking my hand. “My father and grandfather are also Peter.”

Henrique, the founder, was João’s great-grandfather. João learned the ropes at age 6. By 15, he worked full time. As he grew, so did his appreciation for the family business, which got its name from a captain aboard the British Royal Navy’s HMS Lusitania. Henrique had named his son José, but while José served aboard Lusitania during World War II, the captain took to calling him Peter, after his own son. Back home in Faial, the nickname stuck. Islanders and visitors would refer to the place as Peter’s, so the name Peter Cafe Sport was born.

Today, José “Peter’s” son, José Henrique, is the main man, but he’s passing duties on to his kids, João, Mariana and Pedro, and their cousin Duarte—who all consider themselves the third Peter in the family line. João’s mother offers a helping hand when she’s not working as a doctor at the ­hospital, often treating mariners.

“Two weeks ago, a Brazilian seaman was rushed into hospital with heart problems, and my mother was the one who cared for him,” João says. “When he was better, he spent time in the cafe. My mother, of course, made a visit to see how he was doing.” 

Familiar faces return in the summers, along with unforgotten friends from 10 years past—every year, around 15,000 boats switch from sails to engines as the highest peak in Portugal comes into sight from the water. Some of the most celebrated mariners who have felt the heartfelt welcome of the Azevedo family: Jacques-Yves Cousteau, Larry Pardey, Joshua Slocum, Sir Francis Chichester, Annie Van de Wiele, Eric Tabarly and, just last week, Sir Robin Knox-Johnson.

“There was an English couple who visited at the beginning of a two-year trip around the world,” João says. “They said they’d stop by on their way back home. They did, 18 years later.”

And another, he adds, from just a couple of years ago: “Sven Yrvind, a crazy 82-year-old man, arrived from northern Europe on a hand-built 4-meter-long boat. He was already planning to build another boat once he’d finished his trip to South Africa and back. He wasn’t even halfway through the first journey yet.” 

They all got to hear what I heard: ­clattering cutlery and sizzling seafood on hot steel plates, with garlic butter spitting into the air. I watched satisfied guests nibble on light, creamy cheese starters, and then devour slow-cooked Azorean stews packed with locally grown vegetables. It’s customary here to wash down your meal with a gin and tonic or a signature cocktail made with the cafe’s own Gin do Mar (“gin of the sea”) and the Azorean passionfruit brandy Licor de Maracujá.

Back home in Faial, the nickname stuck. Islanders and visitors would refer to the place as Peter’s, so the name Peter Cafe Sport was born.

All the while, orders are put in for custom parts and boat repairs in the cafe’s workshop next door, and letters from loved ones are brought in to distribute. 

“About three weeks ago, a young ­gentleman, around 16 years old, arrived on a school boat. They travel for six months while learning to sail,” João says. “It was the Pelican of London, and they’d been at sea for a few weeks and out of touch with family. When the boy was in the cafe one morning, I asked if he was waiting for mail. He said yes, so, teasingly, I asked if it was a love letter from a girlfriend. He said: ‘No, no, it’s from my grandfather. My parents called today because he’s just passed away. It will be the last words I ever receive from him.’ 

“I didn’t have the letter, so after ­tracking it and seeing that it was arriving here, I went to the post office and made some noise,” he continues. “I fought for that letter. Later that day, I returned to the cafe with a surprise.”

João handed the teenager the envelope. The boy cried, hugged him and said, “I would’ve just given up if it weren’t for you.”

There’s plenty of tradition here too, in addition to the flags and G&T cocktails. “We have a closing-time CD that we play every day, with music that is special to us, like ‘Drunken Sailor’and songs by Jacques Brel because he was here six months before he died,” João says. “Some say his last live performance was here at the cafe. We also play ‘Imagine’by John Lennon because it’s a message of peace. It doesn’t matter about your race or country; here, you can always have a beer or gin and tonic—if you behave well.”

I left the cafe in the same way that ­thousands had done before me: by walking out onto the harbor, where the concrete breakwaters are covered with hand-painted murals that look like postage stamps from around the globe. Row upon row are intricate designs—some fading, others fresh—of elaborate deepwater dive suits, marine life and boats. Each one is dated and signed, with names of crewmembers and their country of origin.

It’s one last superstitious ritual for good weather during their journey onward.

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