PSSC 2025

If there’s one thing the Puget Sound Sailing Championship (PSSC) reliably delivers, it’s uncertainty. The forecast for this year’s event was looking… let’s say dubious. It wasn’t clear whether we’d get a gentle day or a full-on ball-buster. With that in mind, I made sure Blur—a B-25 ultralight racer that loves light stuff but needs human ballast to stay upright—was fully loaded with crew. Seven of us on Day 1. Five on Day 2. And a prayer for balance somewhere in between.

The Forecast Fails to Intimidate

When we rolled into Shilshole on Saturday morning, the breeze was blowing a civilized 10–12 knots. Flat water. No whitecaps. Dry skies. It felt suspiciously like a setup, but we weren’t going to complain. We rigged up, got Blur in the water, and were out by 11:00 for the first start.

Originally, we’d registered for the doublehanded class, but one of the boats suffered season-ending damage, and the fleet collapsed. So, with a last-minute switch to fully crewed racing, I scrambled to assemble a new team. Half the folks had never sailed together before, but everyone showed up ready to make it work. My main goal for the day: finish all the races and keep the learning curve pointed roughly upwind.

Race One: The Gooseneck Incident

We were slotted into Class 3, up against two J/109s and a Beneteau 36—boats that make Blur look like a toy dinghy. The starting line, thankfully, was enormous—so big that I could own one end without getting buried under the big boats’ sails. A gift from J/105 class of 17 boats.

Just before the first start, as we were tightening halyard tension, the boom popped clean off the gooseneck. Turns out we’d lost a nut somewhere. Nothing says “good morning” like your boom suddenly deciding it’s had enough of racing. We lashed it back together with Dyneema—ugly but functional—and got back on the line. (Pro tip: Dyneema fixes almost everything except bad starts)

Only three boats made it off the line—another had gear failure—so we took third. Respectable, considering Blur was the smallest hull out there by a good 10 to 12 feet. Twice around the course, and we came back grinning. The boat was solid. The crew was finding rhythm. Not bad for a first round.

Race Three: The Great Kelp Catastrophe

By the time the third race started, the fleet was back to four boats, and things looked promising. That lasted all of thirty seconds. The moment our prep signal sounded, we plowed straight into a massive patch of kelp—so thick it wrapped around the rudder and stopped us dead. Full stop. Like hitting an invisible net.

Cue five minutes of controlled chaos as we backed the boat down, freed the rudder, and tried not to swear too loudly. We made the start with about thirty seconds to spare – definitely not ideal –  but got across cleanly and settled into a good groove. The breeze stayed steady at 12–14 knots, the teamwork clicked, and we sailed a clean race. Another fourth-place finish, but the crew was gelling, and the boat felt fast. 

Race Four: Smooth Sailing (Sort Of)

The Forth race was a quick one—just once around. I took the helm again, and we sailed it beautifully. Clean tacks, fast downwind legs, and a rhythm that finally felt natural. Of course, we still finished fourth, because physics is cruel and the other boats were, well, bigger. But there’s a certain satisfaction in sailing a small boat well against giants. We didn’t win the race, but we didn’t embarrass ourselves either, which is a win in my book.

Back at the Yacht Club, there was clam chowder and tall tales. Spirits were high. No one had gone overboard. Nothing was on fire. A good day by any metric.

Day Two: From Gusts to Glass

Sunday morning looked intimidating. Reports were coming in of 26-knot gusts off West Point, and Blur doesn’t exactly thrive in that kind of breeze without extra ballast. But by the time we got to the start line, it was only puffing 7–8 knots. Then 6. Then… nothing.

We started a race in dying wind, wandered into a few holes, and generally looked lost—along with everyone else. The Race Committee eventually called it off (thank you, Charlie), which was absolutely the right move. The convergence zone rolled through, and for two long hours, we drifted around like colorful corks.

Then, mercifully, the northerly filled in. Charlie reset the course near the marina breakwater, and we got one last, lovely race. 12–13 knots, sunshine, and a short course that Blur could really stretch out on. We sailed hard and came in third—our best finish of the weekend.

The Wrap-Up: A Small Boat with a Big Heart

Two thirds and three fourths put us solidly in fourth overall for the regatta, which—considering the size difference in the fleet—felt like a win. The weather, which had been forecast to be miserable, turned out gorgeous. Cool, sunny, and full of surprises. We learned a ton, and fixed some weird problems.

All told, PSSC 2025 was a success. The crew was game, Blur was fast, and the sailing was dry. For a boat that thrives on chaos and caffeine, that’s a perfect weekend.

Where Did Everyone Go?

I’ve noticed something odd in recent years: the big end-of-season races like PSSC and Grand Prix seem to be turning into exclusive gatherings of J/Boats and big yachts. The ragtag fleet of small boats that used to bring chaos and color to the starting line? Vanished. Gone.

By “small boats,” I mean those sweet 20- to 30-foot pocket rockets that used to pack the line — the Moores, Melges, Olsons, Santa Cruz 27s, Thunderbirds, and every other slightly-leaky, occasionally-overpowered local legend. They’re still around — you see them at Monday night Sloop Tavern races, tearing up the course and talking smack at the bar. But when it comes to the big regattas? Poof! Gone.

The Case of the Missing Small Boats

What happened? Were they abducted by aliens? Kidnapped by TP52 owners for ballast duty? Or perhaps they’ve gone to that great boatyard in the sky, where every halyard runs freely and no one ever forgets to close a seacock.

I can only speculate. Maybe it’s the cost — two or three days of racing can easily run you a couple hundred bucks (which, these days, is approximately the price of a Seattle latte). Or maybe it’s the new rating systems — PHRF giving way to ORC, complete with fresh paperwork, fresh fees, and fresh headaches.

And then there’s the weather. Let’s be honest: by late October, the “refreshing breeze” has turned into “horizontal rain,” and enthusiasm can freeze right along with your fingers. You’ve got to be a die-hard to leap out of bed for buoy racing when the sun rises at 8:00 and sets at 4:30.

The Sound of Silence

Back in the 90s, the small boat fleets at PSSC were rowdy. It was tight, intense racing — one-design in spirit if not in class. The docks were loud, the beers were cheap, and the trash talk was world-class.

Now? The scene feels like the morning after a great party that everyone forgot to invite you to. The competition is thin, the docks are quiet, and finding crew feels like recruiting for a polar expedition — all the good pirates are already spoken for.

Giant Killer Mode: Activated

But you know what? I’m not crying into my IPA. If it means my little boat lines up against a fleet of giants, so be it. Every David needs a Goliath or two. I’ll happily take my role as the underdog — the scrappy little boat punching above its weight.

So here’s my mission: I want to see more small boats on the line. I want to see those Moore 24s, Olsons, and T-birds back in the mix at PSSR, PSSC, and Grand Prix. Let’s bring back the chaos, the competition that makes this sport what it is.

See you on the line — and one of these days, I swear, I’m going to correct out over a TP52.