TLDR: Two real people—a seasoned grower-turned-paddler and a newly minted lottery winner—show how a 1,000‑pound pumpkin becomes a boat at Tualatin’s West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta, and why the ritual feels less like a stunt and more like community craft and play. Come for the spectacle, stay for the human reasons we keep doing weird, joyful things together.
The first rule of pumpkin boating is don’t let the pumpkin eat you. The second is wear a costume your chiropractor would approve of. Gary Kristensen, a real estate appraiser from Happy Valley and four-time reigning champion of the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta, slides into his custom lobster getup, claws and all. He taps the thick rind of a half-ton Atlantic Giant pumpkin bobbing at the edge of Oregon’s Tualatin Lake at the Commons. It makes a dull, satisfying thump. “This one wants to go straight,” he says, grinning at the gourd that will carry him across the water. For Kristensen, this isn’t just a race—it’s the culmination of a passion that started in 2011 when his wife asked him to grow a giant pumpkin to entertain their kids. Now, it’s become therapeutic craft that has earned him a Guinness World Record for paddling 45.67 miles down the Columbia River.
The Weird Prep, Close-Up with the Grower-Turned-Paddler
Dawn at the lake is cold and quiet. Fog lifts off the water as members of the Pacific Giant Vegetable Growers roll their behemoths onto shore-side mats with the careful precision of moving sculptures. There’s the thud of forklift and muscle, the quiet hum of generators, and the earthy smell of damp soil mixed with something distinctly gourd-like. This is the workshop for one of America’s most charmingly absurd cultural quirks: giant pumpkin racing.
Before any carving begins, Gary and other growers conduct float tests. Each gourd is carefully lowered into the water to find its natural center of gravity—its “best side up.” Only then do the saws come out. “You want the walls thick enough for stability, but you don’t want it so heavy it plows through the water,” Gary explains, running his hand along the orange surface like a shipwright inspecting a hull. He’s learned through years of trial and error that the sweet spot for a winning Tualatin pumpkin boat is between 650 and 800 pounds—big enough to float a paddler, not so massive it creates drag.
As volunteers with snow shovels begin scooping out hundreds of pounds of stringy guts into nearby dump trucks, Gary lays his paddle on a tarp. It’s already collecting a thin film of pumpkin slime. He grins. “It’s a messy business, but I love every aspect—from growing to harvesting to this.” The therapeutic rhythm of working in his garden every day, he says, provides a welcome break from his home-based appraisal business.
How a 1,000‑Pound Gourd Floats
Atlantic Giant pumpkins are mostly water, but their thick, hollow-celled walls make them less dense than the water they displace. Once you carve out a cockpit while keeping thick walls for displacement, you’ve basically created a buoyant, biodegradable kayak.
Meet the First-Time Lottery Winner
Across the park, Sarah Martinez pulls on a full-body otter costume, complete with a hand-painted sign reading “I otter win.” Unlike Gary, she has never paddled a pumpkin or even seen one up close until today. “I’ve put my name in the lottery for three years,” she says, laughing as a safety volunteer helps her adjust a life vest over her furry suit. “When I got the email in September, I think I screamed. Then I thought, ‘Oh my god, what am I going to wear?’”
Sarah is a lottery winner, one of 25 lucky citizens chosen from more than 150 applicants for the public heat. Her motivation was beautifully simple: a dare from a friend and a desire for a good story to tell her kids. A grower gives her a quick tip: “Keep your weight low and don’t lean too far. They like to spin if you’re not careful.” She eyes the wobbly orange vessels at the water’s edge, excitement and nerves dancing across her face. “My mom thinks I’m completely insane. My boss just asked for pictures.”
The anticipation has been building since summer. Lottery winners find out during the summer, giving them months to plan costumes and mentally prepare for the surreal experience of climbing into a vegetable and paddling across a lake.
How the Public Gets a Pumpkin Boat
The City of Tualatin runs an annual public lottery called the Giant Pumpkin Paddling Quest. Winners are notified in September and must be 18 or older, check in by 11:30 a.m. on race day, and wear both life vests and costumes. Prior pumpkin-paddling experience is decidedly not required.
Festival Switches On, Community Ritual in Full Swing
By 10 a.m., the quiet focus of the growers gives way to a full-blown festival that nearly doubles Tualatin’s population. The Tualatin High School marching band strikes up, “dancing witches” weave through the crowd, and the air fills with the aroma of food trucks and wood-fired pizza. Twenty thousand people have descended on this town of 28,000 for a glimpse of the spectacle, creating a festive charge that builds toward the noon races.
A huge part of the tradition is the police fire heats, where first responders trade their rescue gear for paddles and costumes. A Tualatin Valley Fire & Rescue crew member, adjusting his superhero cape, jokes, “Usually we’re putting out fires, not trying to keep a squash from sinking.” It’s a moment of pure play where the community gets to cheer for the people who protect them in a low-stakes, high-spectacle showdown.
One spectator, a local who has attended every year since the festival’s early days, captures the spirit perfectly: “It’s completely ridiculous. That’s exactly why we love it. Where else do you get to see a police officer dressed as a pirate trying to paddle a pumpkin?”
What the Heats Mean
The pumpkin boat regatta 2025 features distinct race categories: the growers’ heat pits masters of the craft against each other; the public lottery heat gives everyday folks their shot at glory; and the police fire heats let first responders and invited agencies battle it out on the water, often in playful challenge formats that delight the crowd.
On the Water—Two Rides, Two Stories
At noon, the horn sounds for the growers’ race. Gary slides into his hollowed pumpkin, settles his weight low, and with a few powerful strokes, he’s gliding. His movements are efficient and practiced, the paddle digging deep, his vessel cutting a surprisingly straight line toward the first buoy. He rounds it cleanly, focused and determined, the bright orange hull a testament to months of meticulous care and years of experience.
Two hours later, it’s Sarah’s turn in the public heat. Her launch is decidedly wobblier. The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers as she finds her balance, her otter tail dipping into the lake. The inside of the pumpkin is slimy, just as she was warned, and every paddle stroke makes the gourd want to corkscrew. The finish line seems impossibly far away. But for every person who tips or gets stuck, the cheers from shore grow louder. This isn’t about winning times—it’s about the sheer, joyful absurdity of the attempt.
While Gary races against the clock and the physics of his perfectly prepared craft, Sarah is racing for the experience and the story she’ll tell for years. Not all pumpkins make it to the finish line—some sink, others tip over from water intake—but that’s part of the charm. The crowd cheers loudest for the stuck ones.
How They Hollow and Prep the Pumpkins
Crews use long saws, shovels, and scoops to gut pumpkins after float tests determine optimal carving orientation. While rules are strict about no motors, some paddlers add temporary liners or tape edges to reduce water intake. The key is maintaining thick walls for stability—once a pumpkin starts taking on water, it becomes very tippy, very fast.
Why Anyone, Anywhere Should Care
At its heart, the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta answers a wonderfully practical question that Pacific Giant Vegetable Growers asked in 2004: what do we do with these massive, inedible gourds at the end of the season? Instead of composting them or donating them to the zoo for elephants to smash, they decided to play. What started as a small gathering of grower-turned-paddler families and friends has grown into a nationally recognized human-interest festival that embodies something essential about community.
This event represents more than just a weird & wonderful spectacle. It’s a celebration of craft, with growers spending 140-160 days coaxing living boats from seeds, mastering the delicate balance of nutrients, light, and fertilization. It’s a testament to community spirit, where thousands of people agree that making something silly and joyful together is a worthwhile way to spend an October Sunday. And it’s a reminder of the importance of play—that adults can put on ridiculous costumes, climb into vegetables, and be celebrated simply for trying not to sink.
The regatta has inspired similar events across the country, proving that the appetite for communal joy and harmless absurdity extends far beyond Oregon. It’s a ritual that surfaces universal threads: the satisfaction of craft, the risk and reward of play, and the simple pleasure of neighbors gathering to cheer each other on in pursuit of something magnificently pointless.
Your move: would you rather be the grower who knows every line and current, or the lottery rookie who doesn’t know what they’re doing—yet?