Into the Storm

by Dennis N. t. Perkins

  With everything stowed, the crew said the first of their good-byes to family and friends, then gravitated to the Cruising Yacht Club for the last hot cup of coffee they would enjoy for days.

  With that final taste of civilization, the crew headed to the boat, which was conveniently docked right in front of the clubhouse. There were the usual additional farewells, and Ed's father, Bill, gave his traditional rousing pep talk. Then the Ramblers cast off the dock lines and began their journey, playing a game of “dodgem-boats” through the marina and out into the harbor.

  Sue Psaltis and the others waved good-bye from the dock. She continued to wave as the boat motored out into Sydney Harbour. She watched as her husband, her brother, her brother-in-law, and her good friends disappeared from view. Sue relaxed a little, but the relief was mixed with worry.

  In previous years, Sue would then drive out to the Sydney Heads and watch the start of the race. She liked seeing the panorama of sails making their hard right turn and heading south. This year she had a one-year-old and a two-year-old, and it was too complicated to make the trip. It also felt like saying good-bye twice, and once was enough.

  Sue headed over to the home of Mix and his wife, Annabel—whom everyone called “Tink.” The two wives watched the start of the race on television. As always, it was a somewhat disappointing show. The TV cameras focused on the big maxis, and especially Sayonara. The smaller boats were not so spectacular and got much less attention.

  Out of sight of the cameras, AFR Midnight Rambler made its way through the armada of spectator craft that would dog them all the way through to the exclusion zone where nonracers were prohibited. Despite the dedication of the police, a few spectator boats always created challenges with their unexpected maneuvers and the accompanying close calls.

  The race hadn't started, but the maneuvering required concentration. It would be a nightmare to have some lunatic ruin the race before they even made it to The Heads. Months of labor, sacrifice, and expense would all be down the drain.

  Finally, the Rambler broke through to open water and had enough room to hoist the new mainsail. It went up without any major snags, and the sail looked terrific with the logo of the Australian Financial Review emblazoned in bold letters. After the race, Bob mused that “if the sail had known what it was going to be in for, it would probably have tried to stay hidden in its bag.”

  Though the TV cameras were largely focused elsewhere, there was one bit of good fortune. Just as they raised their new spinnaker, the television helicopter flew by, and the black sail blossomed—displaying the logo of the Australian Financial Review for all to see. The Ramblers were pleased by the timing, and so were their sponsors at The Fin.

  With ten minutes to go, activity at the starting line was at a fever pitch. Navigators and tacticians were focused on their stopwatches. Adrenaline was pumping. All 115 boats were jockeying for the most advantageous position, and it seemed to Bob that everyone wanted to be exactly where the AFR Midnight Rambler was located.

  Even if they were in a perfect position at the start, Sayonara or some other maxi could roll over them with their superior speed. But there was little that could be done about that problem. It was simply one of the many disadvantages that the smaller competitors had to tolerate. All they could do was to fight for a good opening position, and they were intently focused on doing exactly that.

  The five-minute gun was the harbinger of the mayhem that was about to unfold. Yacht racing starts are both the best and the most stressful part of the competition. They match any sport for the sheer adrenaline rush, and the Ramblers were feeling the surge.

  Almost every boat in the southern hemisphere seemed headed toward the Rambler, which was sparring with competitors on the right-hand side of the line. Being small was their one asset, because it made them so maneuverable. They were able to weave through openings between the larger craft, while staying close to the starting line. This bobbing and weaving was much more difficult for the maxis.

  A perfect start would mean reaching the starting line just as the canon signaling the beginning of the race went off. That's what the Ramblers were hoping for, but they began their run to the starting line too early. In addition, they had let too many boats get on their windward side—the direction from which the wind was blowing—and they were getting turbulent air from the other sails. This uneven flow of wind created problems, making it harder to adjust their own sails.

  Every boat was preoccupied with the same challenge of maneuvering to be in a perfect position, but not crossing the line prematurely. Boats that were too quick off the mark would be given a significant penalty with an adjustment to their handicap. It was a disadvantage that everyone tried to avoid.

  Nokia and Sword of Orion had been playing cat and mouse, with Sword cast in the role of mouse. Less than a minute before the gun, Nokia headed directly to Sword on a collision course. According to sailing rules of the road, Sword had the “right-of-way.” But it was only at the last minute that the maxi swerved, making a sudden turn to avoid collision.

  The turn came too late, and Nokia's bow crashed into the rear of the smaller boat. Nokia scraped its way up the side of Sword with the cringe-inducing sound of steel against fiberglass. The crew of Sword was enraged, as one crew member took out a knife and threatened to cut down Nokia's sails. Kothe raised a red protest flag, and Dags attempted to repair the damage to the stanchions that support the lifelines.

  Nokia's sudden turn forced all the boats on the right side of the starting line to take evasive action. They escaped the collision, but it was like a highway pileup. The air was filled with screams and obscenities as boats took desperate actions to avoid crashing into each other.

  Nokia blamed Sword, saying the collision resulted because the smaller boat came in too close and the maxi couldn't maneuver. At the moment, it was a huge source of contention. Robert Kothe sent an e-mail to the CYCA, reporting that Sword of Orion had sustained “severe damage” and that there was a “compression crease” in the mast.

  Later in the afternoon, Kothe realized that what appeared to be serious damage to the mast was simply a rub mark. And when the race was over, no protest would be filed. The events of the next days would dwarf the importance of the collision.

  The Sword had been damaged and other boats delayed, but the Ramblers received a gift. The confusion had provided them with a much appreciated clean run to the starting line. Watching the melee, Bob thought, I'll have to buy that bloke a beer in Hobart. Then again, I probably won't see him because he'll be four days in the protest room being hung and quartered.

  At 1 p.m. the final gun went off, and the 54th Sydney to Hobart Race had begun. One hundred fifteen boats and their eager crews fought their way to the starting line.

  The AFR Midnight Rambler was in a perfect position—on the far right end of the line, with clean air. And the Ramblers had a plan. They would make a right turn out of the Sydney Heads, then it was a straight shot to Tasmania—only 628 miles to go.

  Within limits, they could control their own destiny by sailing right on the edge of the spectator boats. Then, once they made it to Watsons Bay, the course would widen just enough to make it easier to avoid the larger boats. They would round the first mark and speed straight for the famous marker “Z” offshore.

  That was the plan, but plans go awry. After AFR Midnight Rambler passed the Z, a 50-foot pleasure boat came out of nowhere, spoiling the wind and creating turbulent air. They could see the skipper was annoyed that a small yacht was in his way, but he was soon gone. He's probably sailing northeast to Caledonia, thought Bob. The pleasure boat was more fortunate than he could know, given what lay ahead for the sailors headed south.

  10

  Sayonara—The Best Professional Sailors on the Planet

  As AFR Midnight Rambler maneuvered before the starting gun, Larry Ellison had his own concerns.1 This was his moment. He was standing proudly in the limelight at Sayonara's wheel, the focus of hundreds of thousands of spectators and t
elevision cameras. This was his chance to prove that he had arrived as a world-class ocean racer. But it wouldn't be easy. Ellison would have to constantly tack the boat. A tacking maneuver—changing direction so the bow of the boat passes through the wind and the sails swing to the opposite side—requires timing and coordination. Zigzagging through hundreds of other boats was dicey, and a collision could mean the end of the race.

  Ellison was surrounded by some of the finest sailors in the world, but there were two other amateurs aboard Sayonara—Phil Kiely and Lachlan Murdoch. Kiely, the head of Oracle's Australian operations, had grown up in Sydney and had done two Hobarts. His experience was on smaller boats, but he wasn't a complete novice.

  Lachlan Murdoch is the son of news mogul Rupert Murdoch. The elder Murdoch had been aboard Sayonara in 1995 and had shown some spunk when he lost the tip of his finger during a practice sail. After the missing piece was reattached, Murdoch declared himself fit to sail, served coffee during the race, and shared Ellison's line honors victory. Murdoch topped off the race by buying drinks for the crew in Hobart.

  Now it was Lachlan's turn, but this was a new adventure for the young scion. He was a risk taker and a rock climber, but not a professional sailor. Though he had sailed his own boat in the 1997 Hobart, he was not at the level of Ellison's hired guns. The opportunity to sail on Sayonara arose when he met Ellison at a friend's Fourth of July party. Rupert Murdoch was also there, and Ellison extended an invitation. Rupert couldn't do the race, but he suggested his son. Ellison agreed, and Lachlan enthusiastically accepted.

  Except for Lachlan and one other guest, Ellison was surrounded by a superb crew of professional sailors drawn from the ranks of Olympic medalists and New Zealand's national ocean racing team. At least on the water, Ellison was aware of his limitations: “I love working with the Sayonara crew…because I'm not the star. I'm just a pretty good amateur driver. The rest of the Sayonara crew are the best professional sailors on the planet. These guys are unbelievably good at what they do. They're the best.”2

  At the top of the hierarchy of professional sailors was Chris Dickson. Dickson was as intensely competitive as Ellison, with an uncompromising commitment to winning. He had won three International Sailing Association Youth World Championships and had skippered the first New Zealand yacht to compete in the America's Cup. He had completed numerous America's Cup campaigns and competed in the 1993 Round the World Whitbread Race. Ellison's search for “the best sailors in the world” led him straight to Dickson, who would be responsible for sailing Sayonara and managing the crew.

  Dickson had a reputation as an uncompromising taskmaster, and Sayonara's crew had practiced just as relentlessly as AFR Midnight Rambler. Like Ed Psaltis, Dickson was a perfectionist. With the exception of Ellison, Dickson would scream at anyone who failed to meet his expectations. Unlike Psaltis, however, Dickson was not known for making up after harsh words. His reputation was that of a fanatical perfectionist, unforgiving of himself and others.3

  Ellison was at the wheel, but Dickson was standing right behind him shouting out orders. Ellison was doing what he was told, and so far things were going just as planned. The weather was perfect, warm and sunny, not a storm cloud in the sky. The breeze was light and they were surrounded by spectacular scenery. Then things took a turn for the worse.

  In spite of the amount of money that Ellison had invested in Sayonara, not all of the high-tech equipment was working perfectly. During one maneuver a special carbon fiber gear broke in one of their main winches. The winch is a critical part of a sailboat. Lines running from the sails wind around the circular drum and enable sailors to quickly adjust the angle of the sail to the wind for maximum speed. Without a winch it would be an impossible task, especially on a boat the size of Sayonara.

  Dickson was furious. “How the hell can we break one of our main winches before the goddamn race's even started?”4 Ellison was relieved that he didn't bear the brunt of Dickson's wrath, but there was no time to repair the winch before the start of the race. Maneuvering had to be done slowly and carefully, compounding the challenge of getting a good start.

  Dickson made it clear that they should stay away from Nokia, because of their record of colliding with other boats. All Sayonara wanted was a good start, and that's what they got. Ellison was thrilled:

  It was a good start. We rounded the first mark ahead of the rest the fleet…. It was just about as perfect sailing as we could get. We had no idea what was going to happen to us over the next three days. If we had, we would've turned left and gone up north to the Great Barrier Reef. That's where all the sensible people having sensible Christmas holidays go. Instead we turned right and raced down the Australian coast toward the island of Tasmania.5

  With George Snow and Brindabella close on Ellison's heels, Sayonara was the first boat to sail out of the harbor. With hundreds of thousands of people watching and television cameras focused on the Big Yank Tank, Ellison had made the most of his moment.

  11

  AFR Midnight Rambler— Smokin’

  The Rambler was free of the crowd, but the water in the first hours of the race was, as Bob put it, “disturbed.” There were waves going in every direction. The confused sea state had nothing to do with the racing boats but rather an obstacle created by the topography of the coast. The sheer cliffs created a backwash that made sailing difficult for everyone, and especially for a tiny boat.

  In spite of the rough water, AFR Midnight Rambler rounded the Z Mark, made a sharp right, and headed due south. The rhumb line—the most direct course to Tasmania—was 185 degrees on the compass, and no more maneuvering would be required except to compensate for the wind. A few days from now, Bob thought, we'll be drinking Cascade Lager in Hobart. He had no idea what a wonderful sight Tasmania would be—all they had to do was get there.

  With a predicted nor'easter that afternoon, they knew the boat would accelerate throughout the day, especially once they could hoist the kite—the big spinnaker that would enable them to catch the wind. In the meantime, they headed away from shore, pointing as directly into the wind as the boat could sail. By midafternoon their new spinnaker was flying high and the Rambler was rapidly moving down the coast. Once again, seemingly out of nowhere, another pleasure boat appeared. This time was even more infuriating. The boat was motoring and adorned with bikini-clad passengers who were out for a good time in the sun.

  The rules of the road are very clear in this situation: A sailing vessel always has the right-of-way, regardless of whose bikinis are on deck. Oblivious to any concerns about rules of the road, the spectator boat nearly crashed into the Rambler. Angry shouts were exchanged as passengers on the cruiser spilled their martinis and the Ramblers made sarcastic comments. A furious Arthur nearly climbed over the railing to board the other vessel, shouting, “What the hell? Do you have the IQ of a jellyfish?” Then, as quickly as it had begun, the encounter was over.

  There was so much free-floating adrenaline on the boat that no one could sleep. Jonno and Mix went below to get some rest, collapsing on the taut polyethylene berths, out of the sun. But Bob's work had just begun. He had charted a course to a point near Jervis Bay about 100 miles south of Sydney. But as always, there was a trade-off. They wanted to sail offshore to the East Australian Current so they could take advantage of the “oceanic conveyer belt.” But they didn't want to waste time sailing unnecessary miles. Bob's plan was to strike just the right balance.

  For once, the presence of one of the maxis was a help, not a burden. The navigator on one of the faster boats had the same idea of finding an optimal course, and the big boat zipped past them. Eventually it disappeared, but Ed steered toward its huge sail until the maxi gradually faded from view over the horizon.

  Hour by hour, the Ramblers began to understand just what their new boat could do. Although their last boat was 5 feet longer, they were moving much faster than in previous years. Unbelievably, they were now almost keeping up with rivals that would've left them far behind in other rac
es. Even Bruce Taylor's brand-new Chutzpah—a larger and more high-tech boat—was within reach. Crew morale skyrocketed. The boat was everything they had hoped for.

  As the crew settled into their racing routine, giving Ed a break was the first priority. He had been at the helm steering since well before the start—through the melee in Sydney Harbour, and now down the coast for a long stretch. Arthur took over, steering for three hours or so. Mix followed suit before sunset. They were sailing smoothly, still with the large black spinnaker up, and conditions were improving every minute.

  The speed of the wind is a fundamental consideration in sailing, but the significance of wind direction is not quite so obvious. Boats can't sail directly into the wind, but a really good boat can sail at an angle of 20 to 30 degrees to either side. As the wind swings more toward 90 degrees—directly to the left or right—handling becomes easier and speeds increase dramatically. Most boats don't respond well when the wind comes directly behind them, but an ideal wind comes at an angle from the tear—say, 45 degrees to either side. This perfect direction is precisely what evolved as the day progressed.

  AFR Midnight Rambler was screaming down the coast of New South Wales. Combining weather predictions and their current pace, Bob figured that they would make it to the Bass Strait by the next afternoon. This would be a spectacular run for the 35-foot sailboat, about 260 miles in one day.

  By dusk the nor'easter was building and growing stronger. It continued to rotate until it was finally blowing directly behind the boat. This made steering AFR Midnight Rambler even more challenging. Keeping the boat on course required intense focus and constant adjustment of the tiller. Two hours at the helm was all that anyone could take. As they did earlier, the Ramblers continued to share the load, rotating those responsible for steering the boat.