All Piss and Wind

by David Salter

  As with most sports that have a long history, the one question that provokes the most lively debates in yachting turns on the eternal tensions between old and new: can the traditional ideals of ocean racing be reconciled with today’s extremes of design and technology? This is much more than a generational issue – the ‘good old days’ versus contemporary standards. It goes directly to some of the fundamentals of the sport, including questions of seaworthiness, safety and fair competition.

  My standpoint in this area is essentially conservative, but not reactionary. While I try to keep an open mind on modern developments, for me the most important factor about any ocean-going yacht is its wholesomeness. The design, construction and equipment of a boat should all be adequate to the tasks the owner will expect it to undertake. Of late, there has been a distressing frequency of rig failure and structural damage during quite moderate offshore conditions. That’s telling evidence that many of today’s yachts are either inappropriately designed or seriously under-engineered. It’s a view I’ve often expressed in print and, not surprisingly, it can provoke a pained response from many of the more prominent trophy hunters who spend millions duelling for line honours at the front of the fleet. But only one of those critics has, so far, had the good sense and fairmindedness to put our differences to a practical test.

  Sean Langman is a highly successful Sydney sailor with strong ideas about the sport. As the owner of the dominant boatyard and rigging business on the east coast, he’s also in a position to back those opinions with a deep working knowledge of racing yachts. Sean likes to go fast – preferably faster than everyone else – and isn’t afraid to take unconventional paths to achieving that goal. Offshore, he campaigns Grundig, a lightweight 66-footer that’s more recently been known as AAPT. The boat uses water ballast to reduce its angle of heel and can jump up onto a plane off the wind and sail at incredible speeds. Langman handles the yacht like a giant skiff, flying huge asymmetrical spinnakers off a bowsprit, and delights in pushing the boat to its breaking point – and beyond. But at the same time he has a fondness for classic yachts and still occasionally races Vagrant, his father’s lovely old gaff-rigged ‘Ranger’ classer, an appealingly practical style of boat that’s unique to Sydney Harbour.

  Our differences came to a head one afternoon on the hardstand of Langman’s boatyard at Berry’s Bay. I was still streaked with anti-foul after a day spent rubbing down Bright Morning Star, the robust Peterson 51 that’s been my safe and comfortable ride for thousands of enjoyable offshore miles. A few metres away Sean’s private rocket-ship Grundig bobbed gently alongside her dock. Our topic was seaworthiness. Inevitably, Sean was taking a piece out of me about some recent criticisms I’d published of non-displacement yachts. With characteristic bluntness, he hurled down the gauntlet.

  ‘It’s like religion, mate. You can’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ he declared. ‘Look, let me tell you. If we were facing a really big low-pressure system, then I’d much rather be in my boat than that!’ pointing to the heavy sloop I’d just been working on.

  How so? ‘We’re fast enough to sail round it.’

  But what about if outrunning bad weather involved having to slog to windward?

  A wry grin. ‘Yeah, well, that’s different.’ (It was the pounding that Grundig took while working ‘uphill’ that contributed to Langman’s consecutive Sydney–Hobart retirements in 2000 and 2001.)

  I made a lame play for the diplomatic middle-ground, conceding that, at least for me, ocean racing was essentially a competitive recreation – a hobby where the pleasures of being at sea in a well-found boat with good company easily outweigh any pride that might flow from our eventual position on the results sheet.

  Sean reckoned I needed a dose of reality pills. ‘It’s just not like that any more. Yacht racing has changed.’

  Maybe so, but my faith in the value of traditional displacement boats for offshore work is hard to shake.

  Yachts with a narrow entry, deepish forefoot, moderate central beam and substantial keels tend to handle waves at sea with a confident, comfortable motion. They’re also much easier to steer than today’s flat, super-light flyers that are designed to skip over the ocean. That configuration may be fine when conditions suit their ‘sled’ shape, but more often than not the cost of speed is a ferocious pounding on every second or third wave. Those repeated shocks reverberate through the hull thousands of times during each race. They put the yacht’s structure under enormous load, rattle the crew’s teeth and make real sleep impossible.

  I told Sean that wasn’t my idea of fun at sea. We agreed to differ, but Mr Langman had one more shot in his locker. ‘Tell you what. The only way to know for sure is to come and race with us. You can see for yourself what it’s really like, then decide.’

  He had a point. ‘Fair enough, but I’m not just doing some silly Sunday-arvo toddle around the cans on flat water in the Harbour. A decent offshore overnighter at least, OK?’

  Deal done.

  A few months later I was climbing aboard Grundig’s sugar-scoop stern in persistent Sydney afternoon drizzle while she still hung low in the slings of the travel lift crane a few feet above the water. Sean had kept his word and invited me to crew for him on the Flinders Islet Race, a 90-miler that takes the fleet down to Wollongong and back. For most serious ocean-racers, it’s the last major offshore hit-out before Hobart.

  My first impressions were to note how much development can be achieved by a creative design thinker who enjoys solid sponsorship and virtually unlimited access to boatbuilding resources. For Langman, Grundig has no fixed identity: she’s a ‘platform’ on which to keep evolving his ideas about high-speed ocean racing. The yacht began life in the late 1990s as an Open 60 for Kanga Birtles, then became the deep red Xena. Next she grew by six feet (Open 60 + 10 per cent GST?) and morphed into the silver-grey Grundig, complete with snarling shark’s teeth painted at the stem. That iteration of the boat chased Alfa Romeo up the Derwent to score an extraordinarly close second in the 2002 Sydney–Hobart. The big fibreglass hull was then painted a rich blue with the sponsor’s name proclaimed in huge letters down each side – finished off with full-colour seductive mermaids gracing the bows, painted in authentic Sandman panelvan style.

  With the boat’s competitive racing life nearing its end Langman put Grundig on a serious weight-reduction diet. Determined he wouldn’t ‘die wondering’ about the sloop’s ultimate performance potential, he told me the lightening program cost around $1000 for each kilo of weight saved. An amazing 160 kg came out of the rig alone by replacing the conventional set-up with titanium and PBO (an exotic carbon-fibre textile rope that’s stronger than steel rigging), and stripping all but a dust coat of paint off the mast. Those savings above deck allowed a further 320 kg to be chainsawed off the keel bulb, yielding obvious power/weight ratio gains plus a bonus increase in righting moment. Further significant savings below the waterline flow from the decision to campaign Grundig as a ‘dry’ boat: she carries no antifouling and is hauled out after every race. It helps if you own the boatyard.

  The fixation with weight-saving continues downstairs. No galley, no nav station, no enclosed head, no table, no grab rails, nowhere to sit down, no blankets or sleeping bags, no cabin floor. Moving about below means trying to secure dodgy footing in the small spaces between the maze of frames and stringers. It was all a bit confronting for someone more used to the homely fit-outs of Mark Twain and Bright Morning Star. I stashed my wet-weather gear up one end of a pipe-berth, located the supply of bottled water and tried to take some comfort from knowing that this was only a 12–18-hour race. Langman warmed to his never-ending ‘War on Gravity’ theme at the crew briefing held an hour before the start. We were each allowed just one set of footwear (bare feet are preferred) and forbidden to take sea-bags, mobile phones, wallets or even car keys. Hector, the wisecracking mainsheet hand, tried to stir Sean by saying he’d remembered to cut his toenails but drew the line at dockside circumcision.

  The
light rain continued as we motored towards the 2000hrs start. There was 10–15 knots of S–SE in the harbour with more offshore. It looked like being a tight reach to the Heads, dead muzzler down the coast to the island, a run back to Hornby Light and then a final short work up the harbour. The crew was hoping for just a bit more puff to ensure Grundig would climb onto a plane for the return journey from Flinders. They knew we’d need that extra speed to counteract the size advantages of our main rivals, Nicorette and Brindabella. We’ll see.

  ‘Fifteen minutes, fellas! Let’s have some sails.’ With the rag up it struck me what a simple yacht Grundig was to sail. There are no hydraulics, and a single coffee grinder for the primary winches. Everything is handled with conventional, uncomplicated deck gear. The fixed carbon bowsprit replaces all the troublesome mechanics of spinnaker poles, leaving an uncluttered mast, foredeck and cockpit. It was a pleasure to work in the clear spaces around the boat. Rig loadings are remarkably low – the yacht displaces only eight tonnes – making a stark contrast to the heavy engineering I remembered from my two seasons with Jack Rooklyn’s maxi Apollo twenty years earlier.

  After an initial stint out of harm’s way on Grundig’s runners at the start I soon found myself alone on the grinder to sheet the big asymmetric kite as we hurtled down the harbour. It was surprising to discover the job could be done by just one person – and with a minimum of middle-aged gasping for air between calls of ‘Trim!’. (On Apollo that same task had needed four men and we went to Hobart with a crew of 23. Langman has made the trip with as few as eight.) The secret to these vast savings in manpower is the water ballast. In less than two minutes Grundig can put between two and three tonnes of water in tanks high under the side-deck on the windward side – it’s the equivalent of having more than 40 average-sized blokes perched on the rail. A huge athwartships pipe transfers this army of phantom deck apes across the boat during each tack. For the Flinders Islet race, the crew were so confident we wouldn’t be overpowered during the night that they didn’t even bother running reefing lines on the mainsail.

  Langman is disarmingly happy to concede that ‘she won’t sail well without the water’, and we soon had proof. An electrical fault that was only discovered after the start rendered the ballast pump inoperative. This was no great problem on the flat water of the harbour, but once we began working out to sea the boat was clearly struggling. Heeled, falling away, pounding badly in a modest swell, and seriously slow. We were a very unhappy ship for half an hour until Suds and Barnesy located the malfunction. A thunderous ‘F—k!’ bellowed up the companionway. They’d found the short circuit by the simple expedient of electrocuting themselves. A suspiciously swift and expert job of hot-wiring followed and the vital main tank was soon filling with 2500 litres of seawater. The boat sat up, settled nicely to her lines and piled on speed. I scurried back into my spot on the rail between Noddy and Jammer. ‘What would we have done if they couldn’t get the pump working?’

  The lads squinted into the rain and pondered my question. ‘Early mark. Go home.’

  Easy enough to say off Coogee, a lot harder in the middle of Bass Strait.

  Grundig’s nickname for the regular crew is ‘Slinky’, a reference to those fascinating steel-spring toys that transfer energy through themselves in a centipede-like ripple. When the yacht’s flat for’d sections crash onto a wave that initial impact then echoes down the hull in a rapid sequence of five or six Slinky-style aftershocks. This is precisely the type of pounding that tends to keep me away from modern offshore yachts. The abrupt motion, noise and jarring just don’t seem seaworthy. Flinders Islet was still 40 long, dark miles to windward and I feared an irritating, uncomfortable trip. But as the yacht began to find her rhythm the pounding subsided. What followed was nine hours of truly enjoyable ocean racing. We soon reeled in the two Volvo 60s that had snuck past during our water ballast drought, and then set off after George Snow and Ludde Ingvall.

  Both Nicorette and Brindabella rounded Flinders just ahead of us at 0130, and that’s when the real boat race began. As a lightweight pocket maxi Grundig is optimised to do her best numbers on fairly tight downwind angles. Regrettably, the bearing back to Sydney was dead square. With the breeze staying moderate it might now be difficult to overhaul boats that had the dual advantages of more sail area and waterline length. Could we catch them by South Head? We’d give it a damn good try.

  Up went the favourite masthead asymmetric spinnaker the crew calls ‘Big Blue’. The sudden surge of power translated into an immediate 15 knots of boatspeed. For the next four hours we threw in gybe after gybe, scooting zigzag up the coast towards the loom of Macquarie Light. Langman was now driving his boat skiff-style, feeling for the fastest groove under the kite. I was surprised at how neatly the big boat responded to the helm at speed. We soon passed Brindabella but the newly upgraded Nicorette was proving tougher prey. Off Bondi at dawn the gap was no more than 400 metres. It would all come down to a tacking duel to the finish in Rushcutters Bay. We dropped the spinnaker early and cut inside Nicorette as Sean hardened up beneath Hornby Light. For once, the notoriously patchy breeze at South Head held and we managed to pinch another 100 metres. Race on!

  Two big, thoroughbred yachts crossing tacks at 0600 on an empty Sydney Harbour is exciting stuff. We gambled on better pressure up the western shore and were delighted when a timely lift on starboard tack forced Ludde Ingvall, driving Nicorette, to duck our stern. We knew we had them when we heard that telltale groan of hurriedly eased sheets. Clear ahead! But our euphoria was short-lived. Out of the mist and rain emerged a giant freighter leaving port – and steaming straight for us. Commercial traffic has undisputed right of way. Which side to go? Where’s Ludde? Bugger! Ready about!

  You know the rest. The ship not only pinned us on the wrong tack but stole all our breeze as she took an eternity to pass by. Sean threw the wheel away in disgust. We’d gambled and lost. Nicorette slipped away and crossed the line 51 seconds ahead. Our traditional runners-up call of ‘Nice race, fellas!’ drifted across the water. But everyone on Grundig was having the same thought: they got us this time, but the only race that really counts starts on Boxing Day …

  So, how did sailing Grundig compare with my regular rides on more ‘wholesome’ yachts? After the race Sean and I repaired to a local café to swap opinions over a mountain of high-cholesterol breakfast. Langman owns a wide variety of boats but line honours in the Sydney–Hobart means everything to him. It’s the only major ocean race on the east coast he hasn’t already won. He’s seeking performance levels that simply cannot be delivered by conventional yachts sailed in a restrained way. For my part, I was happy to agree that crewing on Grundig had been a treat – genuinely exhilarating over the short distance, in moderate conditions. But a long-haul passage race through extended foul weather might be another matter altogether.

  Typically, Sean boiled his position down into a simple, absolute statement. ‘Mate, it’s all about righting moment and horsepower.’

  My counter-argument rested on a familiar notion: there’s no right or wrong, good or bad – just two different approaches. We don’t all have to accept the Devil’s trade-off between strength and speed. It’s still possible to go racing in heavier, more conservative yachts that sail to windward with confidence and comfort.

  Grundig’s skipper acknowledged that position but was far from convinced. ‘We just want to get there first.’

  And perhaps that was our most fundamental point of departure. I want to get there too – but have some relaxation and fun along the way.

  Day and night, and night and day,

  Drifting on his dreary way,

  With the solid darkness black

  Closing round his vessel’s track.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines Written among the Euganean Hills, 1818

  THERE’S A SHOP-WORN old saying in the offshore racing community that ‘races are won and lost at night’. Not true. They’re mainly lost. A few boats seem able to maintain their pace through
the hours of darkness while the rest of us go backwards. There can be nothing quite so dispiriting as a morning position sked on the radio confirming that a rival who was abeam at dusk is now miles ahead and over the horizon. The key to understanding this problem of underperformance at night is to first accept one simple fact: the boat doesn’t slow down, it’s the crew.

  On relatively short-passage races such as Sydney–Coffs Harbour or Brisbane–Gladstone there isn’t sufficient time for humans to fully adjust their normal circadian land rhythms to the high-rotation cycle of standing short watches at sea. For the first 48 hours or so we still tend to extract more value from sleep at night, and find it draining to get up and do heavy physical work at odd hours. The inevitable result is fatigue and a loss of ‘edge’. Helmsmen tend to drift off course while crews slip into a conservative, lazy frame of mind. They’ll delay an overdue headsail change or persist with a ‘losing’ tack. For no good reason, the competitive urge to find that extra tenth of a knot often seems to dwindle with the fading light.

  Some of this effect is unavoidable, but there are many aspects of night-racing technique that are useful to review before any yacht is to be driven hard through the hours of darkness. Remember that even in high summer more than a third of a long race will be sailed at night. The same general principles apply to cruising passages. Cruising boats may be sailed far less aggressively than in their trophy-hunting mode, but few crews like to spend any more time getting home than necessary. The following pointers to efficient sailing at night fall roughly within two broad areas: crew care, and sailing skills. Both are equally important. Keep them in balance and, with a bit of sailor’s luck, you should arrive in good shape, and up with the leaders.

  FIRST, THE HOUSEKEEPING ISSUES …