Sustained winds blowing over open water create patterns that converge in unpredictable ways. Monstrous waves—described as kings, freaks, or rogues—are created when wind waves, or swell waves, or a combination, join to create a massive wall of water. These rogues can be much, much higher than 1.86 times the predicted wave height. And a boat caught by one of these freak waves can easily be rolled or dismasted.
Sailors who could assemble all the pieces of the weather puzzle would face a menacing forecast. The fleet could expect to be hit with winds of more than 70 knots and waves almost 43 feet high. Boats could be exposed to other waves that were higher than 43 feet, and these rogue waves would arrive unexpectedly. Confronted with this intimidating scenario, a racer might decide to turn back to shore. But to fully grasp what might happen, a sailor would need to have received the updated weather forecast, understood the implications of a storm warning, and be able to process the torrent of information and put the puzzle together.
Sayonara was equipped with fax machines, computers, and state-of-the-art technology. Not only did Ellison and his crew receive the storm warning, they could also see the cyclonic weather pattern taking shape on the screen in front of their eyes. And they had a secret weapon: Clouds Badham. He saw the maelstrom unfolding and alerted Ellison and his other clients.
AFR Midnight Rambler had no such warning. Bob Thomas had returned from the weather briefing before the race knowing only that it was going to be a bad blow. But that was nothing new for the Hobart. In the afternoon and early evening the Ramblers had been treated to an extraordinary electrical storm with lightning and thunder, but they were streaking south and were relatively unconcerned about the weather.
At 8 p.m., Bob was first alerted to the deteriorating weather during the first race sked. Skeds—short for “schedules”—are check-ins designed to establish the position of each boat. Boats are required to report their positions in alphabetical order, indicating their latitude and longitude.
The storm warning broadcast during the sked essentially reinforced what Bob already knew: The next day was not going to be pretty. A prefrontal trough, or small front, would pass that evening, and the next day after lunchtime they would be getting into the main storm.
Boats were allowed to transmit only their positions during the sked, though Bob did hear a number of colorful comments on the radio. It was obvious that AFR Midnight Rambler wasn't the only boat heading into what everyone knew would be white-knuckle sailing.
Almost all the boats were making great time, but some were dropping out. ABN Amro, a favorite to win the Tattersall's Cup, retired from the race with rudder damage and was headed for Batemans Bay. An hour later, Sledgehammer reported a broken steering cable and dropped out. An hour after that, Challenge Again—one of the best sailing yachts in Australia with two-time Hobart winner Lou Abrahams—lost a man overboard. It took the crew fifteen tense minutes, but they finally succeeded in retrieving the lost sailor alive. While the Challenge Again rescue effort was going on, the yacht Sydney reported rudder damage and pulled out of the race.
It was only the first day of the race, but the weather was taking its toll on the yachts. Some 1,100 sailors were headed to Hobart, boats were starting to retire, and this was just the beginning.
14
AFR Midnight Rambler—Hard or Squishy?
In the south, an upper air jet stream and cold air mass were moving northward. At the same time, a low-pressure system was forming and strengthening in the Bass Strait, just below Wilsons Promontory—the southernmost point of land on the Australian continent. The front was cold enough to leave snow in its tracks, and it gave the Australian Alps an unseasonable dusting of white. The low was still in its infancy, but it was swiftly maturing. Meandering north and deepening, it would soon shift east to greet the Hobart fleet the following day.
No Retreat for the Rambler
The first front hit the Midnight Rambler at 3 a.m. on the 27th. The wind, about 40 knots, had come in with tremendous intensity. And it felt different. It even tastes different, Jonno thought. They were so close to land that they could smell the shore.
The Ramblers had gone from sailing with the wind at their backs—scooting down the coast with exhilarating fun—to a hard slog with the wind on their nose. They knew it would be tough, but the shifting wind direction was not a showstopper. In fact, Arthur thought the frontal system was a stroke of good fortune. It helped get the crew organized and provided a shakedown for the new boat. There were some equipment issues, but these “teething problems” got sorted out with the first blast of wind.
During the initial onslaught, Arthur saw Jonno up on the bow struggling to untangle one of the snarled lines. He ran forward to help. The job wasn't easy, and they were fighting the jumble of lines while being drenched by waves breaking over the bow. It was a tenuous situation. Partly submerged, they held onto the boat with one arm, while the other arm was dedicated to untangling the mess.
Deluged by a constant stream of waves, they were miserable yet connected by a bond of friendship and teamwork. Looking at Arthur, Jonno was struck by the irony of their situation. He shouted over the wind, yelling with a grin, “Artie, it's a strange world when yesterday morning you were in the drought-stricken outback of Australia, and now we're being drowned in the Tasman Sea.”
With the wind shifting to the southwest, AFR Midnight Rambler was now sailing as directly into the wind as they possibly could. It wasn't a perfect course to Tasmania, but it was good enough. They were on their way to Hobart.
At 9 a.m. on Sunday, average winds of 79 knots, with gusts over 92, were observed at Wilsons Promontory Lighthouse. The lighthouse observations were made at an elevation of over 300 feet, so winds on the water may have been somewhat lower. But winds of 79 knots were rare, and they occurred only during the winter. The readings were enough to send Clouds Badham on a search of his records. In over twenty years of forecasting, he had never seen gusts over 92 knots.
At 11 a.m. the Ramblers were amazed to see Gabo Island at the entrance to the Bass Strait. It had taken them only twenty-two hours, which was extraordinary for a boat the size of theirs. The crew was excited about having made record time, and the weather was changing for the better.
Ed was relieved. That's it, the Bureau was wrong. It's all over. The Bureau of Meteorology was often wrong. The sun was shining, and the breeze had died. On the surface, everything looked fantastic. But Bob was uneasy.
There was something about the wind that he didn't like. Twice in his life, and in almost exactly the same spot, Bob had been caught in storms that resulted in fatalities. The wind had been the same both times. It was just like this wind. Bob had no way of knowing what was going to happen, but his sixth sense told him that there was something evil about the wind. It seemed to portend tragedy.
After plowing through 40-knot winds all night, AFR Midnight Rambler was now almost stalled. Arthur looked at his brother with relief. “I think we're through the worst of the front. We're going to be okay.” Amazed by the light breeze, Ed called for a big headsail to get the boat going again. But ten minutes later, even before they had time to get the new sail up, the wind started to build.
The onset was sudden and it came with no apparent warning. Clouds on the horizon that had looked ominous at a distance were suddenly on top of them. The rain was coming down hard, and the storm had an extraordinary ferocity. Faced with this new front, Ed was relieved that they hadn't been able to hoist the sail. It would've been ripped to shreds. No one had ever seen anything like this before.
Arthur was in the cockpit calling out the wind speeds from the digital readout of the anemometer: “25 knots, 30 knots, 35 knots, 40 knots, 45 knots, 50 knots.” As the boat was rolling onto its side, Arthur saw the digital readout go blank. He was confused. The instrument goes up to well over 100 knots, so it shouldn't just go blank.
As Arthur looked up at the top of the mast, he realized what had happened. The wind had ripped the anemometer completely off, shearing the
metal fittings that secured it. Wind instruments don't just blow off the top of masts, and ten minutes earlier he had been saying that they were through the worst of it. As AFR Midnight Rambler was flattened by the wind, Arthur thought to himself, No one is going to ask me for an opinion on weather forecasting ever again!1
AFR Midnight Rambler was on its side and could not seem to recover. Like the loss of the anemometer, it made no sense. To qualify for the Hobart race, boats were required to have a minimum righting angle of 115 degrees. That meant that the boat needed to be able to rotate 25 degrees past horizontal with its mast in the water and still be able to recover.
AFR Midnight Rambler had a righting angle of 122 degrees, and it was exceptionally stable. But the boat was being held down by the sail, which still ran to the top of the mast. The crew needed to get the sail down quickly to get rid of its massive weight, and they moved with characteristic discipline. Using the routine they had practiced time and again, they sat on the side of the boat and calmly rolled up the mainsail.
AFR Midnight Rambler popped upright, solving the immediate problem, but they had other decisions to make. They could replace the main with a specialized sail called a storm trysail, a small sail designed for heavy weather conditions. The trysail was much smaller than the main, but it would provide stability and some forward movement and control.
Getting a storm trysail up isn't easy, even in gale force winds. The winds buffeting AFR Midnight Rambler were worse than gale force, and the rapid onset of the storm allowed no time for preparation. It doesn't matter, Ed thought. Even the storm trysail is too much sail for these conditions. Out of options, they raised the storm jib. It was the smallest sail they had. There was no further retreat from the wind.
Sword's Warning
The third sked of the race began at 2:05 p.m. One by one, boats reported their positions in alphabetical order until it was Sword of Orion's turn. The Sword, about 20 miles ahead of AFR Midnight Rambler, had been experiencing wind speeds around 50 knots, gusting to more than 70.
Rob Kothe, Sword's owner, was below deck glued to the navigation table, trying to understand what was happening with the weather. Kothe had been engaged in a running argument with Steve Kulmar, who was convinced that the boat should pull out of the race. Kulmar had been in seventeen Hobarts, and he had never seen anything like this before. Even his experience in the ’93 race was different. Wind gusts had hit 75 to 80 knots, but there were breaks in the weather and the waves were nothing like this.
Kothe remained unconvinced, and the crew was divided. Dags Senogles wanted to continue, and he urged Kothe to overrule Kulmar. Kulmar was furious at the thought that the decision about whether or not to retire might be made by an owner who had done one Hobart and a relatively inexperienced crew member.
At the beginning of the sked, Kothe had hoped that he would get more clarity about the weather from the Bureau of Meteorology. He also wanted to hear from the maxis, which were already in the Bass Strait.
His hopes were not realized. Boats reported their positions, but no substantial weather information was broadcast. By the time Kothe's turn came, however, he had made a decision. Speaking on the radio with Lew Carter, who was coordinating the skeds from the radio relay vessel, Young Endeavor, Kothe stated he wanted to breach protocol. Rather than simply state his position, Kothe wanted permission to report on the weather.
Carter authorized the departure from normal radio procedure. “Sword of Orion, I would appreciate that for ourselves and all the fleet, over.”
Kothe's response was astonishing: “We have 50 to 65 knot westerlies with gusts to 78 knots, over.”
Astounded, Carter asked Kothe to confirm the wind speed: “Gusts of 78 knots?”
“78 knots,” Kothe answered.
Carter repeated the message to the rest of the fleet. He then issued a startling request: “I ask all skippers, before proceeding into the Bass Strait or wherever you're proceeding, to give it your utmost consideration as to what you're doing. And talk about it with your crew.”
The Rambler—Man Down
Just as the Sword's warning was being broadcast to the fleet, Chris Rockell and Mix Bencsik were below deck on the Midnight Rambler. They were preparing to go on watch, and Mix was sitting down, putting his trousers on. Because quarters were so cramped, Chris was standing up, trying to do the same.
As Chris balanced on one leg, the boat fell off an enormous wave. With nothing to hold him down, Chris floated through the air “with as much dignity as he could muster” and cracked his head on a bolt that was holding a fitting on the deck. Chris struck the bolt with so much force that a loud crack resonated throughout the boat.
Chris wasn't sure whether the crack was caused by the boat giving a little bit—or by his skull giving a little bit. Intent on finding which was which, he was nervous to touch his head. He had no idea if he was going to touch “hard or squishy.”
There was blood everywhere. It was running down Chris’ head and spilling onto the deck of the boat and into the bilges. He looked at his hands, and they were covered with something grayish white. Chris wasn't sure what it was, but his first thought was, Bloody hell, I've cracked my skull through and I've gone through to my brain.
Shaken, Chris turned to Mix and asked, “How bad does this look?” With blood everywhere it looked bad, but, fortunately for everyone, the grayish white substance was probably paint or fiberglass from the boat. In any case, it had nothing to do with Chris’ brains.
Mix examined the injury and said calmly, “Look, if it's bleeding that much, why don't you put some pressure on it to at least stop the bleeding?” Recovered from the initial shock, Chris thought that was a reasonable suggestion. They found a first aid kit and applied pressure to the wound. Chris began probing for “squishy bits,” trying to see if there were any holes or dents in his skull. The fact that he didn't find any came as quite a relief, and he began to feel considerably better than he had just a few minutes before.2
Ed had heard the weather report from Sword of Orion and was now faced with the added concern of Chris’ injury. He was seriously considering the possibility of pulling out of the race. Chris knew exactly what was going through Ed's mind, but he would have no part of it. This was the second Hobart race that Chris had started, and he hadn't finished the first one. Chris was determined to make it to Hobart.
He pleaded with Ed, arguing that the Rambler should not pull out on his account. “I've already done my head check,” he explained, “and I'm sure I don't have any holes in it.” As far as Chris was concerned, it was just a bit of blood, and the injury was survivable. His condition should not be a reason for the boat to pull out of the race. He was, after all, a frontline rugby player and—as Bob often joked—a head injury can't hurt a frontline rugby player.
Chris finally convinced Ed that the AFR Midnight Rambler should press on, but there was a condition. Chris would stay below while they evaluated whether he was concussed, and they would continue to monitor his condition. The last thing they needed was someone with a concussion wandering around on deck in these conditions.
Chris agreed to stay below in his bunk, but he made sure that he got in the bunk on the windward side of the boat. Even though he was injured, he thought he could still act as ballast—counteracting the force of the wind that was making the boat heel over. He would position himself where his weight would be of the greatest benefit.
There was a gap between the pipe that made up one side of his berth and the hull of the boat. Seeing the opening, Chris hooked his elbow around one section of the pipe and his knee around another. He stayed in that position for the next seven hours.
Although Chris was injured, he was still focused on making sure that he was doing everything he could to contribute to the success of the team. Hanging onto the pipe as ballast was Chris’ mental medicine. It gave him a sense of accomplishment and helped him fight the sense of disappointment that he had failed to do his job.
15
VC Offshore St
and Aside—A Twist of Fate
James Hallion, the skipper of VC Offshore Stand Aside, had assembled a hybrid racing team of veterans and rookies. Andy Mariette was one of the most experienced crew members among the twelve sailors aboard. He had done two Hobarts and had been sailing all his life. As Mariette put it, “I've been sailing since I was probably knee high to a boot.”
Simon Clark had also sailed since he was a boy. Much of his experience was blue water ocean sailing, some of which had taken him near Antarctica. Others had shorter sailing resumes. Though Hallion had done one Hobart, it would be his first time sailing this boat. Mike Marshman, like Hallion, had done only one Hobart. And John Culley was doing the race for the first time.
At the 2:00 p.m. sked on December 27, Mariette was below deck at the nav station listening intently to the reports from other boats. When Stand Aside's turn came near the end of the alphabet, Mariette wanted to be ready to report their position. Like everyone else, he was also intensely interested in any weather information that could guide their decision making.
The 41-foot Stand Aside, built in New Zealand, was particularly good at sailing downwind. Like AFR Midnight Rambler, Stand Aside had had a spectacular run down the coast. When the weather worsened on the morning of the 27th, they shifted to a small storm jib.
Even with a small sail, they were still exposed to 70-knot winds when they reached the tops of the big waves. After Stand Aside had been knocked flat, they tried running on bare poles using just the mast and rigging to power the boat.
With no sails, maneuvering became so difficult that Hallion, who was steering, essentially gave up, letting Stand Aside make up her own mind about which direction to head. Sometimes the boat would slide east toward New Zealand, and other times toward Tasmania.
Into the Storm Page 9