Into the Storm
Page 19
To really understand organizational performance—in this case, effective teamwork—we need to make sure that the elements we identify as ingredients really are causes and not just accompaniments. We need to tell a coherent story, and we need to be able to separate the causes from the effects.
Knowing What to Look For
The third challenge in examining the characteristics of effective teams is sorting out all the different factors that can contribute to high performance. Suppose you find the team that you're confident is good and not just lucky. How do you know what the really important ingredients are—the things that make a difference? Here's an example of the problem.
A Wall Street Journal article described a twelve-year study of 361,000 middle-aged American men.5 The research showed that among non-smokers there were 1.09 suicides per 100,000 person-years. The rate increased steadily with the number of cigarettes smoked, reaching 3.78 suicides per 100,000 person-years for people who smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. And there was more.
Not only did the risk of suicide increase steadily with the number of cigarettes smoked, but the relative risk of murder also rose with smoking. Two-pack-a-day smokers were twice as likely to be murdered as nonsmokers.
It was hard to conceive of a way that smoking could cause people to commit suicide, and it was even harder to understand why murderers would be intent on hunting down smokers—preferring them to nonsmoking victims. This appeared to be another case of confusion between cause and effect. It seems much more likely that smoking, suicide, and murder were all part of a much bigger picture. All three increased together, but the research gave no hint about the underlying cause of all three.
If the researchers in the study had spent time living in areas with a high concentration of smokers who were likely to be murdered or commit suicide, they might have reached plausible explanations for the bigger picture of underlying causes. Lacking that firsthand experience, there was little that could be gleaned from statistics alone.
The problem of knowing very specifically what causes what has plagued books about organizational performance. When people are asked about the things that contribute to success, their memories are often biased and incomplete. It's hard to be objective, and we tend to remember the things we want to remember. And if we try to understand underlying causes based on analyzing more “objective” information—for example, financial statements, newspaper articles, and so forth—there is another problem. How do we know that—as distant observers—we're not identifying things that may be related but are relatively unimportant?
My Approach
The reality is that there is no feasible scientific method that will completely resolve all of these problems. If I were a medical researcher, I could randomly assign some patients to receive a dosage of the special teamwork formula—that is, the strategies I believe are important. I could use a control group of teams that employs strategies I don't think are important. I could even assign another group of teams to get a dosage of other randomly generated strategies. I would then see if my teams did better in the experiment, and I would confirm my results within a certain range of probabilities.
I can do laboratory experiments within certain limited situations to learn more about teams. But my ability to understand the dynamics and successes of teams that are really at The Edge is limited. Nonetheless, even if “scientific truth” about successful teamwork is elusive, it is possible to gather significant insights about teams. It is possible to draw reasonable conclusions that will help people and organizations struggling with significant problems.
My approach is based on two primary strategies. First, in an effort to rule out success being the result of luck—of chance alone—I looked at sustained performance over a period of years. Second, I reach my conclusions by getting firsthand experience with the research topic.
I immersed myself in the world of teamwork—particularly teamwork in ocean racing—and even more specifically, the Sydney to Hobart Race. I watched the competitors and interviewed successful ocean racers. And I've sailed with the team of the AFR Midnight Rambler. This immersion has extended over a period of eight years since I first contacted the skipper of the Rambler, Ed Psaltis.
That background gave me a context for understanding the race and a perspective about the ingredients of effective teamwork in ocean racing. But as I began to draw lessons from the race and to write about teamwork, something seemed to be missing. What was missing, I concluded, was that I had never done the Hobart. What I was missing was experience—up close and personal—with the Everest of ocean racing. With some trepidation, I decided to find a way to enter the Sydney to Hobart Race.
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My Hobart
I am not an accomplished ocean racer. In fact, in comparison with most of the skilled sailors described in this book, I'm clearly an amateur. At the same time, I believe I know enough about sailing to be able to look past the headlines and dig deeper into what makes a great team. To put this in perspective, here is a brief background on my adventures at sea.
I first climbed aboard a sailboat at the United States Naval Academy, where I learned something about marlinspike seamanship—essentially, how to tie knots—as well as intramural racing. I learned the names of ropes and lines, and the difference between the two. I learned a little about sails, and that when they were flapping and making a big noise it was called luffing and not flapping. And I learned what it was like to cling to a boat that had turned upside down in the Severn River when a storm came up, unexpectedly capsizing a fleet of midshipmen.
Unlike the majority of my classmates, I had little to do with the Navy after graduation—and I had nothing to do with sailing. As an officer in the Marine Corps, my thoughts were far removed from the graceful white sails I had seen on the Chesapeake Bay. In Vietnam, I was much more concerned with securing defensive perimeters, creating fields of fire for automatic weapons, and registering artillery concentrations.
The Navy was still a part of my life, and I have vivid memories of a dark night when my Naval Academy roommate—John Beardsley, the gunnery officer on a destroyer—fired illumination rounds that prevented my company from being overrun. Fortunately for me, the Navy was close by, but I had left the world of recreational sailing far behind.
After returning to civilian life, I got reacquainted with sailing and learned more about the sport than I had absorbed at Annapolis. I crewed on boats that sailed from the Chesapeake up to Connecticut. And I learned more about the tools of navigation—current at the time, but primitive by today's standards. Lacking a GPS, I struggled to master the sextant, radio direction finders, charts, and techniques for estimating my position with dead reckoning.
I continued to cruise after moving to Connecticut, accompanying the charming Victor Vroom—a fellow faculty member at Yale—on excursions to the Newport Jazz Festival. We took more extended voyages down the East Coast, but this was all “cruising” sailing. It was far different than racing, but it was sure fun. Nobody cared how fast we went, only that we knew where we were and where we were going.
I finally gave in and bought my own boat, and I enjoyed cruising on Long Island Sound. On occasions I ventured farther, sailing the waters of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, but I hadn't been in a sailboat race since the Naval Academy. Then I met Edgar Smith.
Edgar—sometimes known as “Eddo” for reasons I will explain—is an expert racer from a family of expert sailors. Edgar learned to sail from his father, Gaddis; and his son, Emmet, has represented the United States in international competitions. Edgar owned a boat called Wasabi, a popular racing boat known as the J/29. Although the J/29 has been around since the early 1980s, it's a relatively fast boat and perfect for the “around the buoys” races popular in New England.
As a crew member on Wasabi I learned a little bit about racing. But my knowledge of ocean racing was developed largely through reading and from conversations with those who had a passion for more serious sailing.
As I began to dev
elop the narrative for this book, I spent time in the Australian racing community. And in talking with the crew of the Midnight Rambler, I became more and more intrigued with the sport of offshore ocean racing. I began to comprehend the enormous differences between my sailing experiences—sailing small boats in the Severn, cruising to the Newport Jazz Festival, and racing in Long Island Sound—and the far more demanding sport of offshore racing competition.
My interest in the sport was further heightened by the experience of sailing with the crew of the Midnight Rambler in a Sydney race. The event was held in Sydney Harbour, and in many ways it was like one of the local races I had enjoyed in Connecticut. But there was something else.
Sailing aboard the Midnight Rambler, I was struck by the seamless interaction I saw among members of the crew. Everything that happened aboard the AFR Midnight Rambler seemed to be done quietly, with few words spoken aloud. Unlike the shouting that accompanied a lot of the sailing I had done, crew members seemed to be reading each other's minds. Sailing with the Ramblers, I saw what it was like to have a team that could move into a zone of seemingly effortless coordination.
Absorbing all this, I decided that I needed to find a way to do the Hobart myself. Part of my decision was based on the simple reality that there was a lot I didn't know about ocean racing—in particular, the Sydney to Hobart Race. To write a book that would do justice to the Midnight Rambler story, I had to understand the race and I needed to understand the Australian culture.
The country of “Oz,” a slang term often used by Australians, is far different than the United States. I had served with some Aussies (“Ozzies”) in Vietnam, but we didn't have much time to chat about cultural differences. Because the Sydney to Hobart Race seemed so rooted in the Australian culture, however, I wanted to learn more.
There are superficial differences in slang. I discovered, for example, that feeling “crook” had nothing to do with dishonesty. It meant that someone was sick. I also learned why someone could be working so hard that they were going “flat-out like a lizard drinking.” (This is, apparently, the only way lizards can reach the water.) But there were other cultural differences that ran much deeper.
I was intrigued by the way in which rugged Australian individualism seemed to be combined with the ability to collaborate. I wanted to understand how these cultural norms would play out in a demanding ocean race, and I was especially interested in the leadership structure of the team.
The skipper of a racing boat is the ultimate decider, but it's hardly like the Marine Corps. The sailors are civilians, and there are no punitive sanctions for disobedience. How does this work in practice, I wondered? And what is it like to see the structure operate under conditions not unlike combat: high stress, little or no sleep, no time to eat, and real danger?
So, for all these reasons—and because, I confess, the race sounded like a really big adventure—I looked for a boat that would take me aboard. After some searching and networking, I finally found a spot on a 60-foot racing boat. The skipper, Peter Goldsworthy, understood my limitations, but he made it clear that there were no jewel positions on his boat. I would be expected to pull my weight as best I could.
With the prospect of the race looming, I did everything I could to be ready. I remembered that, at one point during my trip to Antarctica, I was crossing South Georgia Island. The belated thought occurred to me: I really should have been in better shape for this.
It was too late for Antarctica, but I resolved that next time I would be in better physical condition. Consequently, I did my best to prepare physically for the Sydney to Hobart Race, and I was as disciplined as I could be in my training.
As a result of my research, I also knew that this was a serious undertaking. People had died in this race. So I spent as much time as I could possibly spare getting the array of clothing and technology I thought would improve my chances of survival.
I talked with Zach Leonard, then coach of the Yale sailing team (and more recently a member of the U.S. Olympic Coaching squad), about sleep deprivation. I found hydrostatic life jackets that would deploy even if I went over the side unconscious. I found a personal EPIRB—a small battery-powered emergency transmitting device—that would fit under my wet-weather gear. Finally, to prepare for potentially harsh weather conditions, my daughter Holly and I sailed my own boat during the Connecticut winter. Though the Sydney to Hobart Race occurs during their summer, the boats are sailing south toward Antarctica, so it can get cold. Really cold.
When I arrived in Sydney and met the other crew members on my boat, I realized just how much of a rookie I was. My friend Edgar, who accompanied me, had never done the Hobart, but he was a skilled racer. A number of others had done the Hobart, other Australian races, or similar races in other parts of the world. Although not everyone had sailed on the relatively advanced boat we were crewing, clearly everyone knew more than I did.
The situation I found myself in was unfamiliar: I was neither in a formal leadership role nor was I advising leaders. I was a team member with no formal authority, and I was a novice at ocean racing. It was not a comfortable position for me, and I had lots of opportunities to practice one of my dictums: “Cultivate poised incompetence.” I did my best to swallow my pride, work hard, follow orders, and learn about ocean racing. And learn about racing I did, as I tried to absorb every part of the experience.
I learned about the painstaking preparation that goes into an event like the Sydney to Hobart Race. I learned about the austerity of a racing boat and about fundamental safety measures. For example, never put your hand somewhere that a finger could be ripped off by a huge sail attached to an 85-foot mast. And I learned that everybody on the boat seemed to have a nickname.
There was Goldy, the skipper. Then Scotty, Fairweather, Beeks, and Frenchy, who was, of course, British. With all these exotic nicknames, I felt like I was enrolled in the Navy's Top Gun school. I started calling my friend Edgar “Eddo,” and by the time it was all over I became Perk—at least to Jungle, so named for his ability to climb a rope like it was a tropical vine.
Some of my experiences were tedious and routine: sitting on the side of the boat as ballast—a position often derisively referred to as rail meat. Some were exciting: plowing into massive waves with the wind tearing the sails apart. But in all these situations I played the role of a student trying to understand the technical complexities of this kind of ocean race. This was far different than anything I had experienced in my own sailing history.
When it was over, I had learned something about ocean racing, and I had learned a lot about the Sydney to Hobart Race. Most of my learning came through sailing, but, as a dedicated researcher, I also spent some time conversing with other sailors in off-duty hours. I learned to enjoy Cascade Lager, and I began to understand how ocean racers thought about the world.
At the end of my adventure, I walked into the Shipwright's Arms pub in Tasmania after finishing the Sydney to Hobart Race and bought a round of drinks for my mates on the AFR Midnight Rambler. I couldn't claim to be an ocean racer, but I felt ready to write a book.
The Teamwork at The Edge strategies that follow reflect the sum total of my learning from observation, interviews, and personal experience. These strategies have helped me and my team, and I believe they can help your team as well.
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Team Unity
Strategy #1
Make the team the rock star.
There are many ways to assemble a team to compete for the Tattersall's trophy. Someone with the financial resources of Larry Ellison can search for the best sailors in the world and put them on retainer. Those who are not billionaires, but whose finances are still substantial, can hire individual superstars who will carry the team with brilliant sailing. Or, like the Ramblers, you can make the team itself a rock star.
There is no single right or wrong way to construct a competitive ocean racing team, and there are boats with some exceptionally talented and acclaimed sailors that still place a premium
on teamwork. But the culture of AFR Midnight Rambler, and a number of other winning boats I studied, is grounded in the belief that there is only one rock star, and that superstar is the team. As Ed Psaltis puts it:
Before the race even started, all the crew felt like they had a say in what was happening. All seven crew members were made to feel that they were part of the team, that they had a role to play, and that they could speak up if they wanted to express their views.1
There were no heavies on board. Everyone had to do the whole season as part of the team, and that created a close sense of camaraderie even before the race. Flat management is a term that could be used to describe the system. Everyone had a say, regardless of whether they were the skipper or navigator, or had another job in the crew.
The No Rock Star policy was put to the test when the crew had to decide whether to sail into the ‘98 storm and slog to Hobart or turn around and run for the safety of Eden on the Australian mainland. Because of the severity of the conditions and the urgency of the situation, there was no formal team meeting. But the decision initially proposed by Ed and Bob—to take the waves on the bow rather than the stern—was supported by everyone on the boat.
This level of alignment can be hard to achieve even under normal sailing conditions. And when the seas are rough and adrenaline is pumping, it is extraordinarily difficult to maintain. But the concept of a Rock Star Team is fundamental to AFR Midnight Rambler and to a number of other boats that perform consistently well with a committed crew.
Tactics for Teamwork at The Edge