by Ted Turner
In the first place, he made his point. Television is so powerful that could happen. But number two it absolutely confirmed my conviction that he might be nuts.
Armed with the research data Bob Sieber cobbled together, we did our best to convince advertisers that the SuperStation was a smart place to put their money, but at first it was a hard sell. Early on, we were available in about 2 million households while the networks were seen in roughly 75 million. Our advertising sales team really had it rough. They were like that first wave of troops landing on the beaches of Normandy—they never really had a chance. Not only did people turn us down, more than a few literally laughed in our faces. I remember telling one buyer about how we planned to use TBS to compete as a “fourth network,” and he threw his head back and laughed so hard that his chair tipped over backward and he cracked his head on his office radiator. He almost died laughing at our sales pitch! It was nearly two full years before we got any meaningful national buys. Our first major customer was Jack Irving, at the advertising firm of Dancer Fitzgerald, which at the time represented some major advertisers, including General Mills and Toyota. Once we were able to work out some creative pricing plans, he became the first national advertiser to pay for TBS coverage outside Atlanta. What we were doing was so new and so unique that everyone was slow to adapt, but once a few of the bigger players validated our concept, the rest began to follow.
Our lack of Nielsen ratings continued to hold us back, so I kept after them to add us to their service. It became increasingly clear that the only reason they were freezing us out was because of pressure from ABC, NBC, and CBS and I decided that my only option was to threaten a lawsuit. My argument was that Neilsen’s refusal to measure our networks amounted to anti-competitive behavior by them and the networks. Estimating that they were costing us $10 million a year in lost revenues, I said I would seek treble damages in the amount of $30 million. This got their attention and it wasn’t long before they came back and said they would work on a rating plan for us.
Once we were being measured we tried everything we could think of to grow our ratings and as I was looking at the listings in TV Guide, it occurred to me that every other channel started and ended all their programming at the top and the bottom of the hour. Why don’t we try to break out of the crowd, I thought, and instead of ending a show just before 7:00 and starting the next one on the hour, what prevents us from extending a program through the end of the hour and starting the following one at 7:05? I envisioned that people watching our competition would start flipping around at the end of their show and while the other channels would all be running commercials, we’d be showing programming! (Besides, with a lot of shows the last five minutes are the best part.) Once a viewer came to us they’d be five minutes into the other networks’ shows so they might as well stick around and see what we had on at 7:05. Another benefit of this strategy was that we got our own little slot in every program guide. A group of channels would be listed together at the top and bottom of the hour, but we were all by ourselves on the :05 and :35. We tried it and immediately our Nielsen ratings improved. Before long, people referred to this practice as “Turner Time,” and it provided another way for us to stand out from the crowd.
Looking back, one of the lessons I learned from all of this is that when you start out on a new entrepreneurial venture, you might think you know what the roadblocks will be but you don’t really have any idea until after you get started. As an entrepreneur, you’re like a running back in a football game. He knows what hole he’s trying to run through, but once he’s through he’s in the open field and now he has to improvise. At first, the SuperStation’s big hurdle was getting the signal to the satellite but as soon as we did that, I was fighting in Washington with our program suppliers. Once that was sorted out, Nielsen and the advertisers became our problem. The list went on but the key for us was that we kept fighting. We never knew what wall we’d come up against next but whatever it was, we figured out a way to knock it down.
It was really an exciting time. Cable and satellite delivery were about to revolutionize the way people consumed television and viewers’ range of choice would increase in a way that few could have imagined. As a programmer in the middle of all this change, I spent a lot of time trying to invent other channels. A twenty-four-hour sports service made perfect sense and it wasn’t long before ESPN’s plans were developed (they ultimately launched in 1979). An all-movie format was also logical but HBO had a big first-mover advantage there. The other concept that struck me all the way back in 1975, when we first considered satellite delivery for Channel 17, was an all-news channel. To me, it was obvious, but it was also clear that the companies best positioned to do it were the Big Three broadcasters, or one of the news wire services. It would be an expensive venture and they were the only ones with the necessary infrastructure—from studios to bureaus to on-air talent—to pull this off. I assumed it was just a matter of time before one or more of these joined the cable fray with a new channel and for the next few years I read the TV trades to see which one would announce their news channel first.
Honestly, I was surprised that this window remained open long enough to give us the opportunity. The SuperStation was becoming a success, and it was only the beginning.
12
The America’s Cup
In every field that I’ve entered I’ve tried to do my very best. When I got into the television business I owned just two small UHF stations but I wanted to compete with the broadcast networks, and after buying the last-place Braves, winning the World Series was my goal. But in no part of my life was my competitive drive stronger than in my sailing career, and around the time of the SuperStation’s launch, my focus was on winning the sport’s ultimate trophy—the America’s Cup.
I first thought seriously about the America’s Cup in the late 1960s when my ability improved to the point that I was holding my own against the world’s best. By 1970 I was near the pinnacle of the sport, winning the SORC and the 5.5 Meter Gold Cup and performing well in several other high-profile competitions (including a first place finish in the World Ocean Racing Championship and a fourth place finish in the Fastnet Race). The sailing establishment took notice of my achievements and at the end of the season I was named 1970’s Yachtsman of the Year. When the America’s Cup was held that September I didn’t compete, but the Australians asked me to skipper their “trial horse” boat during their training. Helping these guys practice couldn’t match the excitement of the real competition but I did get a sense for how special the America’s Cup competition was and my appetite was whetted for my own run in 1974.
For me, the first step in pursuing the Cup was to be selected by a syndicate—a group of partners who finance the operation, build or acquire the boat, assemble the crew, and so forth. When George Hinman put his team together for a 1974 syndicate, he asked me to join. This was a great recognition for me, as Hinman was well respected in sailing circles and was in a position to pursue the best people in the sport. A great skipper in his own right, Hinman was also a former commodore of the New York Yacht Club. (The club’s custom was for their former chiefs to continue to be referred to as “Commodore,” and this was the case with George.)
While some Cup teams competed with existing boats, Hinman’s syndicate was building a new one specifically for the 1974 Cup races. To design his boat he hired Brit Chance, and the job of building the boat went to Bob Derecktor, who ran a yacht yard in Mamaroneck, New York, and was also considered to be at the top of his field. With this first-rate team assembled, Commodore Hinman’s next task was to raise the funds necessary to build the boat and run the operation. The total cost back then was about $1 million (more than $4 million in today’s dollars), and since this was before corporate sponsorships entered the sport, the money was generally raised from a group of individuals, with a half dozen or so putting up $100,000 or more. With no real financial return to be expected, these contributors were generally wealthy people who loved the sport and liked bei
ng associated with this prestigious event. (For example, included in Hinman’s group of investors that year were Reynolds du Pont and Texas oilman Perry Bass.)
Our boat would be named Mariner, and the plan was for her to be designed and built through the winter and spring of 1973–74 and launched in time for the preliminary trials, which were scheduled to begin in June. We’d spent the better part of the summer competing against other American boats for the right to represent the United States in a best 4 of 7 series against the winner of the foreign trials. By the early 1970s, a team from the United States had held the America’s Cup trophy for more than one hundred years, so the trials were usually the toughest competition. That summer four American yachts would compete. In addition to Mariner were the 1970 Cup winner Intrepid, another older yacht financed by Hinman’s syndicate called Valiant, and a new boat called Courageous.
I went into this campaign with high hopes but the summer of 1974 would prove to be one of the most difficult times in my life. Looking back, it is clear we were doomed from the start. For one thing, Brit Chance and I did not get along. Commodore Hinman had put us together, but if Chance had his choice of skippers or I my choice of designers, this pairing would not have been the result. We were two headstrong individuals and there was tension between us from day one. Fortunately Commodore Hinman allowed me to select my crew and I assembled a good one, consisting mostly of crewmen who had sailed with me over the years. One of the people with whom I didn’t have much experience was Dennis Conner, but I knew he was one of the best and I wanted him on my team.
Mariner would be just the second twelve-meter yacht ever built from aluminum (Courageous being the first) and it featured a radical design. Below the stern was a unique step feature that had never been tried before in a sailing boat. Chance was known for pushing boundaries and we were all concerned that Mariner’s design was a big gamble. When we sailed her, our concerns were confirmed. She was slow. In early June we sailed informally against Courageous and were beaten badly.
The crew and I were convinced that we had a bad boat, but Chance told everyone that my team and I weren’t sailing her properly. Mariner had been built quickly and before we could conclude that the design was a problem, we wanted to be sure we did everything else we could to get her in good sailing condition. Later in June, with minor adjustments made, we sailed in the first of three sets of trials held by the New York Yacht Club, the entity responsible for deciding which boat would represent the United States. We had our backs against the wall and everyone grew increasingly tense. Chance continued to criticize my sailing but Hinman and others were concerned enough about Mariner’s design that we made the decision to rebuild the back third of the boat. Had she been built of wood, we wouldn’t have had this opportunity, but since Mariner’s hull was aluminum, it was possible to make rapid construction changes. Still, our boat would not be ready for the next round of trials in July, and instead, my crew and I watched the races from the sidelines. We were able to size up the other boats and observe their tactics but it was frustrating not being out competing. I tried my best to keep morale up but it wasn’t easy.
The New York Yacht Club’s objective was to choose the fastest boat for the final races against the challenger. To this end there is often some mixing and matching of crews and boats during the trials. Commodore Hinman asked me to skipper Valiant in a handful of these July races. I didn’t do very well in these, and while Courageous and Intrepid emerged as the favorites, my poor showings with Valiant led to more whispers from Chance and others that I might not be the best guy to lead Mariner once her redesign was complete.
This was the insecure situation I found myself in as we prepared for the August trials—the final races to determine who would sail for the Cup in September. Managing both Valiant and Mariner, Commodore Hinman decided to pull Dennis Conner from my crew and let him skipper Valiant. Everyone assumed the new Mariner to be faster than Valiant, so when Conner beat me a couple of times, things really got difficult. Hinman called for a full crew switch, putting the Mariner crew and me on Valiant and shifting Dennis and the Valiant crew to Mariner. I was disappointed but I kept my chin up and, as Valiant’s skipper, I managed to defeat Mariner in a couple of races.
Time was running out and Commodore Hinman had to make a difficult decision. He believed that Mariner was slightly faster than Valiant, but he needed to decide which skipper was going to sail which boat. The next morning the Commodore called Conner and me into his office and delivered the news. I was being reassigned to Valiant. Dennis would not only skipper Mariner but he could also have his pick of crew. I knew that people had been questioning me but when this finally happened it was really tough. In effect, I had been fired. The final trials were only a few days away and my family and friends were coming—including my mother. I briefly considered packing up and going home but decided to stick it out and do my best with Valiant, fully realizing the only yachts with a realistic chance were Courageous and Intrepid.
Dennis Conner couldn’t make Mariner go any faster than I had and when it came time to remove boats from competition, the selection committee eliminated Mariner and Valiant on the same day. It was the end of a long, tough summer and with my crew out of the racing, we all went out for one last party before departing Newport. Courageous wound up representing the United States and easily defeated the Australian challenger in the finals. Dennis Conner had been added to the Courageous crew as tactician and so managed to win his first Cup. For the crew and me it was a relief just to have it over and be able to move on. The lessons learned by such a crushing defeat would stand me in good stead for the rest of my life. When I suffer a setback, I don’t think of myself as losing, I’m simply learning how to win.
My work made it easy for me to put the summer of ’74 behind me and it wasn’t long before I began to consider the Cup’s next running, to be held in 1977. My fate was largely out of my control since I would have to be chosen by one of the syndicates, and coming off the results of 1974 I knew I would not be at the top of their list. In 1976, a man named Lee Loomis was organizing a syndicate to race two boats in the trials. One would be Courageous, the boat that took the prize in 1974, and the other was a newly built boat to be called Independence. The latter would be the syndicate’s “varsity” boat and Ted Hood had already been selected as its skipper. As she would be racing against boats designed specifically to beat her, Courageous wasn’t considered to be a major contender, but after my experience with Mariner I felt more comfortable going with a proven winner than one that was still untested.
When I heard that Loomis was still looking for someone to skipper Courageous I contacted him. He told me they appreciated my interest but that I needed to understand that they still had to raise more money. I decided to make him an offer. I would take care of the cost of the Courageous campaign, but only if they let me sail her all the way through. Win, lose, or draw, I would get to stay with her no matter how much faster (or slower) the other boats might be. I was willing to put my heart and soul—not to mention some cash—into this venture but not if there was any chance of a repeat of my awful experience in 1974.
Loomis agreed to my proposal. Since Courageous wasn’t a new boat and we didn’t have to incur such costs as design, construction, and tank tests, our campaign was budgeted at about $400,000, far less than the $1 million–plus that the rest of the field would pay for theirs. With my own money and some help from friends, we raised the needed funds, and I was good enough at running a lean operation that I knew we could be competitive on a smaller budget.
Courageous was the clear underdog going into the summer trials. Not only was she the number two boat in her own syndicate, the third challenger, Enterprise, was another new yacht designed by world-renowned Olin Stephens and skippered by an Olympic champion named Lowell North. These were formidable competitors and their boat was one of the first to use computer technology not only to design the sails and the hull but also to calculate recommendations during the races themselves. Realizi
ng the deck was stacked against me, I had to make sure my competitors would share their sails with me before putting up money for Courageous. For years, the ethic in these races was for teams to share their sails to help insure that the trials selected the very best boat and crew and didn’t reward one group who might have won only due to superior sails. As a fellow syndicate member, Ted Hood would share with me, but since both he and North were professional sailmakers, I assumed that pride would keep them from working with each other. When North told me he would share with me, I moved ahead with my plans.
Over the years I had managed to develop great loyalty among my crew, and of the eleven men on my team in 1974, seven agreed to sail again three years later. The syndicate provided them with room and board in Newport but they didn’t get any cash compensation and even had to pay their travel expenses to get to and from Rhode Island. In those days, nobody sailed for the money. They did it for the challenge, the competition, a love for the sport, and the camaraderie of the crew. Ocean racing was a sport that demanded attention to detail and I tried to make sure we were well organized and prepared before and during the races.
I worked hard and even if we were up against experienced teams in newer boats, my crew always knew I was doing everything in my power to make sure we had a chance to win. I was tough when I needed to be but I also tried to keep things light whenever possible. As a team, we went through a lot of difficult times together, but we also had a lot of fun.