Into the Storm

by Dennis N. t. Perkins

  Ed shot back, “No, no, don't be stupid! This is tough, tough right now. I'm okay, let me go.”

  Arthur didn't flinch. “You're not okay. You're already knackered. You've got to let me have a go at steering this boat. I think I can do it. You're tired. Dusk is only an hour away, and we need our best man in the dark if we're to going to survive this. Get the hell down below and get some rest!”

  Ed looked at his brother. He realized that Arthur was right. He had been pushing, pushing, and pushing, but he was struggling to keep going. He had to rest before dark. Exhausted, Ed went below and collapsed.

  Arthur sailed superbly. Sprawled on a berth below, Ed began to understand what had happened. If Arthur hadn't stepped in, he would have been steering at night, physically and emotionally drained, with ragged reflexes. The thought of that was too horrifying to think about. Ed drifted into a half sleep. He was thankful that his brother had given him such a hard dose of reality. Then everything went fuzzy.

  19

  Sword of Orion—Out of Control

  Tension had been building all day on Sword of Orion. Some time before 12 noon on Sunday, December 27, Steve Kulmar confronted owner-skipper Rob Kothe and said in no uncertain terms that conditions were unlike anything he had ever seen in all his sailing experience. Gusts of over 80 knots were hitting them on a regular basis, and Kulmar was concerned about the safety of the crew. He was convinced they should retire.1 In fact, Kulmar thought they should have turned around much earlier—at 9 a.m. But Kothe resisted, saying “We need to wait until the twelve o'clock official radio broadcast.” Kulmar wasn't happy, but he agreed that they would hang on and try to get a fix on the exact position of the low-pressure system. When the twelve o'clock forecast came, it wasn't much help. The broadcast said only that the low-pressure system was in the Eastern Bass Strait.

  Leaving aside the question of where in the Eastern Bass Strait the center of the low-pressure system was located, the forecast was clear about the storm warning. Kothe believed that he had better knowledge of meteorology than anybody else on Sword, and Kulmar, like many others in the race, did not fully understand the implications of the forecast.

  Based on the storm warning, Kothe believed that they should be prepared for winds of 40 to 50 knots, with gusts up to 60 or 65. The extreme weather they were experiencing was far beyond his expectations. It was a puzzle that Kothe wanted to unravel. He was intensely focused on the radio, hoping for any weather information that would help him make sense of the mess they were in.

  The roles and decision-making structure on the Sword of Orion were as confusing as the weather. Rob Kothe was the owner, the skipper, the navigator, and the resident meteorologist. Steve Kulmar was the most experienced Hobart veteran and the principal helmsman. Glyn Charles was a sailing rock star who had done the Fastnet and was considered a senior helmsman. But his experience was largely in small boats, and he had never sailed in weather remotely close to this. Added to the mix was Adam Brown, the third member of the crew qualified to drive the boat as a senior helmsman.

  There are conflicting accounts of exactly what happened on Sword of Orion, but there is consensus about the confusion and lack of alignment. Brown had been steering Sword of Orion since 8 a.m., and conditions were so unmanageable that he often needed help turning the wheel. Glyn Charles had been below since 10 a.m., incapacitated by seasickness. Kulmar continued to lobby Brown and other crew members to turn around, while Kothe stayed below at the nav station trying to decipher the mystery of the storm from radio transmissions. He hadn't been on deck in hours.

  Brown had been on the wheel for five hours when he was finally relieved by Kulmar. Trembling and shaking with exhaustion, Brown went below. He was sitting “like jelly” on the bottom of the stairwell. Seeing his condition, Kothe said, “He's going into shock, for God's sake, give him something to drink.”

  Glyn Charles emerged from below deck around 1 p.m. and spoke with Kulmar. Charles had joined the increasingly loud chorus of voices arguing that they should retire from the race, and he asked Kulmar to try to get Kothe to pull out. Kulmar agreed, and Charles took over the helm while Kulmar went below to, once again, confront Kothe.

  Even with the added weight of Glyn Charles’ opinion, Kothe wasn't convinced. Kothe hadn't had a direct conversation with Charles about the weather, and he felt that Charles was being “lent on” by the others. So in spite of growing resistance, Sword of Orion continued onward with Glyn Charles at the helm.

  Charles was not in good shape. Before he had gone on deck, Kothe suggested that Charles take another seasick tablet. He refused, thinking that the pill would never stay down. Just before climbing topside to take the helm, he had vomited on the shoulder of another crewman.

  Charles was not in top form, but he felt guilty about not doing his part. He was, after all, a rock star and a paid helmsman, and he needed to be earning his keep. In spite of his nausea and weakened condition, Charles was determined to do what he had been paid to do.

  With Charles driving the boat, Kulmar approached the exhausted Brown and continued his lobbying efforts to get Sword out of the race. Kothe finally agreed that the decision about whether to continue should be made by the three helmsmen, and Brown had one vote. Brown wanted out, but, exhausted, he crawled into his sleeping bag and focused on recovering from his ordeal at the helm. A formal vote was never taken.

  After the 2 p.m. sked—when Sword broadcast the weather warning to the fleet—Kothe had intended to go on deck and speak with Charles about the weather. But he became preoccupied with a new assignment: acting as a radio relay for boats whose broadcasts weren't getting through to Young Endeavor.

  It wasn't his choice, Kothe thought, to spend time passing messages back and forth. He just happened to notice that some transmissions weren't getting through and thought that his interventions were important. One boat, Ausmaid, had been out of touch for two skeds, and he relayed their status to Young Endeavor. Kothe believed that he may have prevented a needless search-and-rescue effort. Whether or not he was right, the transmissions required his full attention.

  Finally, around 3:45 p.m. the weather shifted. Blue sky appeared over Sword, and the winds dropped to about 15 knots. The crew thought that this was the center of the storm, but it is more likely that Sword had simply entered a corridor of lighter winds. Still uncertain about what was happening with the storm, Kothe finally made an announcement: “If the wind goes back above 65 knots, we're going to go home.” Kothe never did speak to Charles about the weather.

  Soon after Kothe's declaration, the winds did increase, and he made good on his commitment to turn around. In Kothe's mind, Sword was not “retiring,”—that is, pulling out of the race for good. They were simply turning back for shelter, hoping to continue the race after the storm. For the crew, there was a significant emotional component to the decision. Safety aside, it was a huge relief to be headed back toward land.

  Sword was now only 90 miles from a safe haven, but steering toward Eden would put the waves almost directly behind them. This was the dangerous scenario rejected by AFR Midnight Rambler. Sword would now be running ahead of the monstrous waves, and the potential for losing control greatly increased. Aware of the danger, Kothe suggested going west. They could then take the waves at an angle and be less vulnerable to a knockdown.

  Kothe broadcast their decision to seek shelter at 4:44 p.m. He knew that the announcement would be heard by other skippers, and he hoped that they might follow suit. If Sword was later able to get back in the race, it would improve their competitive position if other boats had dropped out as well.

  Turning Sword around was not easy. It required a sailing maneuver known as a jibe, which involves turning the stern of the boat into the wind. In the process, the boom could swing around quickly and violently, sweeping across the cockpit. Sword jibed, but without a hitch. Charles may have been seasick, but he executed the about-face flawlessly.

  Sword was now on a new course, but not the westerly track they had a
greed on. Instead, Charles was heading north, directly toward Eden. Darren Senogles—Dags—who had just congratulated Charles for his brilliant work in turning Sword around, was now concerned. He asked if Charles was okay. Charles brushed aside his worries and seemed concerned only about the time he had spent below. Feeling guilty about having let the team down, Charles continued to steer the northerly course. The waves continued to pound Sword from behind.

  Dags became increasingly concerned about Charles, and anxiety intensified as he watched him hunkering down inside his foul-weather gear. Charles could barely see past the hood of his jacket. Shouting over the deafening noise of the wind, Dags volunteered to steer. But Charles refused the offer. He seemed fixated on the instruments, almost in a trancelike state. Dags continued to insist that they needed to change course to avoid surfing uncontrollably as waves hit them from the rear.

  Charles seemed oblivious to Dags'advice, instead focusing on the miserable conditions and his leaking wet-weather gear. Dags thought that Charles needed to be relieved at the helm, but the only one with that power was Kothe, and Kothe was down below at the nav station, where he had been all day.

  Other crew members felt the boat sliding down the waves and were worried enough to confront Charles. Carl Watson decided to brave the weather on deck, and he made his way to the rear of the boat to complain about the dangerous course Charles was steering. It was no use. Charles insisted that he had experience with the Fastnet, and he knew what he was doing.

  Down below, Brown felt the boat spinning out of control. He yelled to Kothe that they had to change course or get Charles off the helm. But Kothe, believing that Brown was still recovering from exhaustion, insisted that Charles be left alone.

  Brown felt otherwise. He stuck his head out of the hatch and shouted to Charles and Dags. With the noise of the wind, neither could hear what he was saying. Dags moved closer to Brown, who again shouted that they needed to change course. Then it happened.

  It was the catastrophe that the crew had been trying to avoid. An enormous wave, its face a vertical wall of water, picked up the stern of the boat. Traveling almost 35 knots, the wave turned the boat sideways, covered the deck with foam, and tossed Sword on its side.

  The boat tumbled down the face of the wave and hit the bottom of the trough with tremendous force. Dags saw the top of the mast hit the water, then submerge as Sword lay on its side. Dags panicked as he realized that he was underwater and was still attached to the boat by his safety harness. He thought he would drown. He tried desperately to unhook his tether, but failed. A few seconds later Sword was hit by another wave and flipped back up, having been rolled 360 degrees.

  Dags was now above the surface of the water and still connected to the boat. Had he been able to unhook the safety harness, Dags would have been carried away by the waves and almost certainly drowned. Thankfully, he was still attached, and Dags dragged himself back into the cockpit.

  As with Stand Aside, the 360-degree roll nearly destroyed Sword of Orion. The deck and cabin top were damaged, and the cockpit had been compressed into the hull. The mast was broken and lying in the water, and the spokes from the boat's wheel were buckled. The boom, which normally would be used to secure the bottom of the mainsail, had been lashed to the side of the boat. But it broke free and swept across the deck, smashing the wheel and everything in the cockpit.

  Below deck, Kothe was trapped, with an injured knee, under a pile of sail bags. Looking around, he saw smoke and sparks coming from the long-range high-frequency (HF) radio. Fearing an electrical fire, he managed to turn off the radio and pull the cables from the computer. This left only their shorter-range VHF radio operational.

  The cabin was flooded to the crew's knees, and the hatchway stairs had broken away. The housing to the motor had collapsed. With the broken stairs, debris, and sails floating around, it was difficult to get on deck.

  In the cockpit, Dags recovered from his brush with death and looked desperately for Glyn Charles. He saw only the bright orange strap of Charles’ safety tether, with one end attached to the yacht and the other draped over the side. Dags ran to the lanyard, grabbed it, and pulled it in. There was nothing on the other end except broken stitching where the lanyard had been attached to Charles’ harness.

  Dags frantically scanned the water and saw Charles floating about 100 feet behind the boat. He screamed at Charles to swim back, but Sword was being driven away by the water and the wind. Charles tried to swim. He did all of six strokes, but he could barely lift his arm out of the water. He appeared to be injured, and he couldn't swim as fast as the boat was moving.

  Dags called out for the others to get on deck. Oblivious to the fact that there were injured crew down below, he couldn't understand why only a few people responded. Desperate to rescue Charles, Dags shouted for a rope. He thought that if he could swim toward Charles, and Charles toward him, they could meet somewhere in the middle and both would be dragged back into the boat.

  It took a few precious minutes to find a rope long enough to give them any chance of reaching Charles. When they finally found one, Dags climbed outside the lifelines, preparing to jump into the water. Before he could launch himself, Sword was hit by another bad wave. The boat was pushed more than 300 feet farther away from Charles. The situation now looked hopeless.

  Even if Dags had jumped into the water, he wouldn't have been able to see Charles. And by this time, the distance was too great to swim. They watched Charles bobbing in the distance, ever farther away. It was only when Sword reached the top of a wave that they could see him treading water, fighting the waves and losing the battle.

  Charles would struggle and start to go underwater, then disappear, and then bob back to the surface. The third time Charles went under, he never came back up. Helpless to intervene, Dags and another crew member kept a lookout for a while, scanning the spot where he had last been sighted. He never reappeared.

  With Charles gone, Dags and others began cutting away the wreckage with hacksaws. The mast was broken into pieces, but it was still attached to the yacht. The tangle of wires and metal had folded around the boat, and the snarled rigging was holding Sword with its side exposed to the waves. It was the most vulnerable position, and it invited another roll.

  Those on deck worked to get rid of the remnants of the mast, while the crew below tried to bail. The switches needed to start the motor were gone, and the engine had shifted in its mounting so the bilge pumps were worthless. Water kept pouring in, and the crew needed to do something quickly. They could find only one bucket, but someone found a drawer. They bailed with whatever they could find, trying to keep Sword afloat.

  After activating the boat's EPIRB, they broadcast Mayday transmissions. Then they sat on what remained of Sword of Orion, waiting for rescue. About an hour and a half after the capsize, Steve Kulmar sighted something in the distance, about a thousand yards away. Another boat, the Margaret Rintoul II, was sailing almost directly toward them.

  A call for signals went up, and the flare container was passed to Nigel Russell. Russell had been designated as the Minister in Charge of Flares in more lighthearted times. Russell and Kulmar grabbed the first set of flares and fired them so that the trajectory would take the signal toward the passing vessel.

  Kulmar thought they could see three people on the boat. The weather had abated considerably, and the wind had dropped to around 40 knots, but it was drizzling and they couldn't be sure they saw three people. But there was someone on deck, they knew that.

  Aboard the Margaret Rintoul II, skipper Richard Purcell saw the dismasted yacht. He could see men on Sword's deck, and he definitely saw a flare. He told his navigator, Colin Betts, to advise Young Endeavor that they had sighted the flare. The question was what to do next.

  In a similar situation, Siena had stood by Stand Aside. But they sustained injuries in the process, and Siena had a motor. Margaret Rintoul II didn't have a functioning motor, and it was dangerous to make an attempt to turn the boat in those circumstanc
es without power.

  Purcell didn't know the condition of Sword, but he decided to continue without stopping. He looked to his navigator, Colin Betts—an experienced sailor who had done thirty-five Hobarts—for confirmation that he had made the right decision. He thought he heard Betts say, “You are making the right call.”

  Betts radioed Lew Carter on Young Endeavor, identifying himself with a message: “Lew, it's Colin Betts on Margaret Rintoul II. We have just sighted one flare; it's bearing 090 from our position, approximately half a mile.” Betts recalls giving Carter the latitude and longitude of their position, and saying that the yacht was dismasted. He heard only a response of “Thanks for that.”

  The radio log on Young Endeavor records a transmission from Margaret Rintoul II saying that a red flare had been sighted at 6:45 p.m., but the words “dismasted yacht” were not recorded. Betts was sure he said the words, and Carter was sure he did not hear them. The Margaret Rintoul II continued on its course and sailed by the Sword of Orion. As they passed by, Steve Kulmar estimated that the two boats were less than 300 yards away.

  Responding to Sword's distress signals, Navy helicopter Shark 05 was dispatched by Australian Search and Rescue. The chopper reached the stricken yacht at 10:45 p.m.—about six hours after the boat had been rolled. Shark 05 confirmed that one man had been lost overboard and that the rest of the crew was in no immediate danger. Running low on fuel, with a 100-mile return trip to Merimbula, the helicopter returned to shore.

  Shark 05 was replaced by a second chopper, Shark 20. The weather was so bad that the spiral search pattern Shark 20 was flying kept taking them over the same yacht—not the Sword of Orion, but another vessel. Shark 20 flew over the boat so many times that the yacht finally radioed to ask if the helicopter needed assistance. The misunderstanding provided a rare humorous moment during an extraordinarily difficult and tense search.