Into the Storm

by Dennis N. t. Perkins

  Even with the watch system, the Ramblers were at their limits. The crew had been fighting the weather since eleven o'clock that morning. By 7 p.m. the storm's ferocity was still building. Arthur looked at his watch and thought, It's still getting worse. Eight hours is a long time when you know the next wave may kill you.

  As he tried to comprehend what they'd gotten themselves into, another disaster metaphor popped into his head. This wasn't like a car accident, where things happen and it's over. In a car accident, if you live and you're okay, you can say, “That was close.” This seemed like it was never going to be over. It was ever present and it was getting worse. It was a hard, frightening feeling.

  About 8 p.m., Bob relieved Arthur at the helm. Arthur and Ed were in bunks below, trying to rest. The Rambler was a racing boat. The bunks were tight and uncomfortable. Ed kept thinking, It's like lying in a coffin. It wasn't a good way to think about it, he realized, but coffin was the word that kept coming to mind. The brothers were about 6 inches apart, their heads almost touching. They weren't sleeping; it was impossible. They just lay in their bunks, exhausted.

  Suddenly, Arthur spoke. “Listen to that,” he said. Ed's first reaction was that something had broken. He's heard something come apart, Ed thought. Gear failure in these conditions could mean fatalities. Ed's mind raced: Oh, no, here we go. It's about to happen. Then he said aloud, “No, I can't hear it. What are you talking about? Listen to what?”

  “Ed,” said Arthur. Arthur was very emotional, choked up, close to tears. “You can hear Bob,” he said. “You can hear Bob in the cockpit. You can hear him talk.”

  Ed listened, and he could hear Bob talking to Mix and Jonno on deck saying, “The wind's dropping.” The screaming kettle had stopped. Minutes before, you could be right next to someone and you couldn't hear him. Now you could hear people in the cockpit giving orders. You could hear the world again.

  In the space of a half hour, the wind had gone from 80 knots to 40. The wind was still gale force, but Arthur was elated. A gale was survivable. He was going to see his family again. He was going to do whatever he needed to make it home. No matter what happens, Arthur thought, I'm going to fight harder to get through whatever it throws at us. We're going to keep going.

  Ed became emotional as well, tearing up with the realization of what his brother had just said to him. Arthur was telling Ed that they had survived something ghastly. They had made it through the worst of the horrible storm.

  The two brothers were lying there together, feelings of relief flooding through them. The connection was unspoken. Arthur had communicated everything with one choked-up sentence: Listen to that. When Ed realized what Arthur was saying, he had responded with one word: “Yes.” Nothing more needed to be said. They had gotten through the storm together, and they knew they were going back to the land of the living. Together.

  At that instant, there was a dramatic shift in the race. But it was not over, and they had not reached safety yet. Everything below deck was soaked. There was water everywhere, and their electronics were a disaster. The main GPS had failed, the portable GPS wasn't working, the radio was coming in and out, and they had nothing to navigate with.

  Their wind instruments had been blown off the mast, and all they had left was a compass fixed to the cockpit on deck. Ed thought it was like Captain Cook when he came to Australia. They were in the middle of the Bass Strait with only a compass, sailing by the seat of their pants.

  There were no lighthouses to get a bearing from, and they couldn't use the sextant. The sextant, though antiquated, was a reliable navigational instrument—but only if they could see the stars. And there was no chance of that.

  The Ramblers were not out of danger, but Ed had faith in Bob. Together, they had done eight Hobarts, and Ed had come to know Bob's sixth sense as a navigator. Ed trusted Bob's ability to dead reckon—to estimate their position with nothing but a chart, a compass, and a pencil.

  For the next fourteen hours Bob plotted their course south, estimating their direction, speed, and leeway—the sideways movement caused by the force of the wind and waves. The chart was sopping wet from floating in the seawater and was pretty much unreadable. It was scary not knowing exactly where they were. All they knew was that they were somewhere in the Bass Strait. But they knew where they were going, and, with Bob's navigational skills and a compass, that might be enough.

  They had enough for primitive navigation, but without a radio they had no way of knowing what was happening around them. They didn't know the fate of the sailors who had been on the damaged boats. And they didn't know about the other boats that were hit after Business Post Naiad. The plight of another boat would compound the fears of their loved ones.

  At the time of the 2 p.m. sked, Midnight Special had been within a mile of AFR Midnight Rambler. Midnight Special was doing exceptionally well—but with the wind increasing and boats with experienced sailors turning around, they decided to run for shelter. Their plan was to steer north to Gabo Island, only 38 miles away.

  Turning around may have felt like the safest course, but Midnight Special was hit by large waves again and again. The boat was knocked down repeatedly. Crew members were injured, but the boat seemed to be holding together.

  Around 8 p.m.—almost exactly the same time as the “Listen to that” moment on Midnight Rambler—Peter Carter was at the helm of Midnight Special. Carter had sustained several broken ribs earlier, but was taking his turn on deck when the boat was hit by an enormous wave.

  Midnight Special was rolled 360 degrees and dismasted. The roll wrapped the mast around the boat, but the Midnight Special came back up, half-filled with water. The wave had hit the side of the boat with such force that it smashed the cabin siding, buckled the fiberglass deck, and smashed out all the windows on the port side. It tore a large hole in the top of the cabin where the mast had been.

  Carter, broken ribs and all, operated the bilge pump while others bailed. With a combined effort, the crew managed to get enough water out so that the boat was stable and afloat.

  They drifted some 40 or 50 miles during the night, and early in the morning were able to signal a search aircraft. As the rescue helicopters came on the scene, two crew members were on deck. Carter and five others were down below. Another huge wave came and rolled Midnight Special for a second time, trapping Carter and his mates in the upside-down vessel.

  One person tried to dive through the upside-down hatch but couldn't make it. He was wedged below the surface of the water, drowning. As Carter wondered if this would be the end, another wave flipped the boat upright. All nine members of the crew were eventually rescued. Midnight Special sank just as the last sailor was lifted off.

  Back in Sydney, Ed's wife, Sue, was desperate for news. Her husband, brother, and brother-in-law were all at risk, and the news reports were frightening. When reports of the Midnight Special disaster got out, the phone started ringing. There were frantic calls from confused friends who thought that the Midnight Rambler had been rolled. It was almost too much to bear. Sue thought of her children, and the same words kept running through her mind: Just please get there. Please get there, please be safe.

  22

  Sayonara—Tack the Boat

  By Sunday evening Sayonara was far ahead of AFR Midnight Rambler.1 It was a fast boat. Not only was the big maxi 48 feet longer than the Rambler, but Ellison had every technological advantage imaginable on his side. Sayonara's hull had been constructed with sheets of lightweight carbon fiber fabric. Its carbon mast, much lighter than aluminum, alone cost more than two AFR Midnight Ramblers. Sayonara was designed for speed, and it was flying across the Bass Strait.

  Sayonara, like the other maxis, escaped the worst of the storm. But the boat was still hitting huge waves and strong winds. During one maneuver, as Chris Dickson was turning the boat, Oracle's Phil Kiely was washed across the deck. He landed on one foot and broke his leg.

  In an attempt to get their torn mainsail down, another crewman, Joey Allen, was hit in
the head by a sail fitting that flew out of his hand. The impact gouged his head and nearly knocked him unconscious. And another, T.A. McCann, sliced his thumb so badly he thought it had been cut off.

  Ellison watched the crew struggle, amazed with the impressive display of tenacity and skill. After the sail had been secured, Kiely was carried below by two crew members who had been trained as medics. They cut off his boot, gave him a dose of morphine, and strapped him into his bunk. Then Ellison came over and knelt down to speak with Kiely.

  Like Chris Rockell on AFR Midnight Rambler, Kiely did not want Sayonara to pull out of the race on his account. He insisted that he was okay and that they should continue racing in spite of his injury. Ellison agreed, but then reminded him—as if Kiely could forget—that it was his idea to come on the race to begin with.

  Throughout the night and early morning, Sayonara continued to suffer casualties. A mainsail trimmer, Bob Wylie, cracked his ribs when he fell against a winch. And Mark “Tugboat” Turner, the chief engineer, sprained his ankle while moving around the boat looking for signs of delamination. The high-tech carbon fiber layers were separating. Little by little, Sayonara was coming apart.

  The weather on Monday was even worse than on Sunday. The waves were steeper, and Ellison, along with many of the crew, was seasick. By Monday night he was glued to his bunk, incapacitated. Ellison hadn't eaten anything for twenty-four hours, and any swagger that he had once had about the race being cool had been washed away. He had made up his mind—this would be his last Hobart.

  Ellison's ordeal continued throughout the night and into Tuesday. He had thrown up so frequently that he was dehydrated. With nothing left in his stomach, every time he tried to vomit he felt like his insides were being ripped out. Totally exhausted, Ellison wedged himself into his bunk and tried to sleep. But it was hopeless. There was absolutely no way he could fall asleep in this nightmare.

  Earlier, when Ellison was on deck, he had seen waves of 40 to 50 feet. Now he heard crew members talking about bigger waves—waves higher than Sayonara's 105-foot mast. It's doubtful that they encountered anything of that size, as they were far south of the weather bomb. The maxi's speed had enabled them to beat the worst of the storm, but the waves were still enormous.

  Because of her size, Sayonara didn't have the ability to maneuver like AFR Midnight Rambler. The boat would bury its bow into the steep cliffs of water, then be catapulted straight up to the crest. Ellison felt it was like going up the elevator of a five-story office building, then being pushed off the top floor—every twenty seconds.

  While Ellison stayed below, other members of the crew were on deck in the maelstrom, steering and running the boat. Even Lachlan Murdoch, though seasick and worried that the boat might capsize, was on deck during his watches. Murdoch was at the edge, but he would not be beaten by the Hobart. In spite of his fear and nausea, Murdoch resolved to do his job to the best of his ability. Trying to be positive, he was happy that the rain would rinse the vomit off his foul-weather gear.

  For Ellison, riding out the storm in his bunk was “no picnic, either.”2 Every time Sayonara would go airborne, he would feel weightless for a moment, then crunch back into the bunk when the boat hit the trough of the wave.

  The constant pounding took its toll. At one point Ellison watched crewman Zan Drejes pump water from the hull. Noting his bloodshot eyes, Ellison said, “What a bunch of dumb s—ts we are to call this fun.” Drejes responded, “You'll look back on this race with pride, and you'll be out here again someday.”3 Ellison said nothing, but he knew that Drejes was wrong.

  Early Tuesday morning, Tugboat was tapping on the hull, trying to determine the extent of Sayonara's delamination problems. There was no doubt that the boat was coming apart. Tugboat was simply trying to assess how quickly it was happening.

  Bill Erkelens watched the engineer tapping near the bow and became alarmed. He asked Tugboat how serious the problem was, and the answer was clear. It was very serious. Erkelens went to find Chris Dickson and make the case that they needed to slow down.

  Dickson was not sympathetic. They were on the rhumb line—the most direct course to Hobart—and he wanted Sayonara to be the first boat across the line. They didn't know where Brindabella was, and he didn't want to be beaten by George Snow's maxi.

  Another crew member expressed his concerns about the delamination problem with navigator Mark Rudiger. Rudiger's response was the same as Dickson's: They needed to hold their current course. It was the most direct route and the quickest way home. Though Rudiger was not persuaded, he agreed to raise the issue with Dickson and Ellison.

  That conversation never happened. Below in his bunk, Ellison watched Tugboat drawing circles on the inside of the hull with a red marker. When Ellison asked “Tugsy” what he was doing, Tugboat explained that he was marking the spots where the bow was delaminating.

  Ellison was incredulous. There was Tugboat, calmly marking the spots where Sayonara's bow was coming apart. Ellison climbed out of his bunk and made his way back to the navigation station. He asked Rudiger where they were on the chart, and the navigator showed him their position.

  They were about 75 miles off the coast of Tasmania, with the wind coming out of the southwest. It was hitting them on the starboard side, and Sayonara was taking a beating. But on their current course, Rudiger explained, they were headed straight to the finish line.

  Ellison had seen enough. He was sick, he was afraid, and he was done with this race. He had been done with the race for a long time. He was no longer trying to prove himself. He wanted out. It was clear to him that the only sensible move was to change their course and head west. If they could reach the protection of the Tasmanian coast, they could escape these terrible waves—waves that he was convinced were trying to kill him.

  Rudiger pushed back. They didn't know where Brindabella was. If they changed course, Sayonara could lose the race. Ellison didn't care. He was angry, and he was the owner of the boat. “We won't win the race if we sink,” Ellison said. “Tack the f—ing boat.”4

  Ellison's order ended the debate. Sayonara turned and headed west, and the new angle eased the strain on the boat. Soon after, the weather began to improve, and everything looked brighter.

  They had made it through the storm, and the worst was over. For the crew of Sayonara, and for Australian Search and Rescue, it was a blessing. If Sayonara had been caught in the center of the storm like the smaller boats, it could have been much, much worse. With its size and limited maneuverability, the maxi might well have broken apart, leaving more than twenty people adrift in the Bass Strait.

  Feeling good, Ellison congratulated himself on his decision. He believed not only that he had saved Sayonara but that he had made a smart tactical decision: “Tacking the boat turned out to be the right thing to do for the race, too. God was smiling on us.”5

  There is no way of knowing what would have happened if Sayonara had continued on its direct course to Hobart. But Ellison had asserted his power, confident that he had made the right decision. God and Larry Ellison were happy. Chris Dickson and Mark Rudiger had done what they were ordered to do. They had tacked the boat.

  23

  AFR Midnight Rambler—A Commanding Position

  At 8 p.m. on Sunday, the crew of AFR Midnight Rambler could actually talk to each other on deck without shouting. It was astonishing to go so quickly from the hell they had been trapped in to this moment of relative tranquility. One by one, the crew below climbed up on deck to see what had happened.

  The Ramblers took in their surroundings and looked up into a clearing sky. It was surreal. They talked about stripping off their wet-weather gear, even joking about changing into shorts. Then it dawned on them. This was just the eye of the storm. As the rolling cloud formation from the other side of the storm closed in, they realized they had made it only halfway. They weren't going to be in the sanctuary for long.

  Soon they were back in the fight, though this second round wasn't quite as punishing as th
e first. The wind had dropped to speeds of 45 knots, and the waves were now only as tall as five-story buildings. But the crew was still in survival mode.

  Most of the Ramblers were still seasick and vomiting. Eating was out of the question. And because their eyes had been pounded by the saltwater spray and spew, their vision was blurry. In spite of it all, however, there was a sense of relief. With the drop in wind and the easing of the storm, these horrible conditions seemed almost normal.

  At midnight, AFR Midnight Rambler was sailing in pitch-black darkness. Except for the compass located at the forward end of the cockpit, they had no navigational equipment. Mix and Chris took turns squinting at the tiny compass light and relaying the boat's course to Ed, who was back at the helm.

  At 2 a.m. Monday, they still had no way of plotting their exact position. Fearful that the boat may have been blown too far east to have any chance of winning the race, Ed and Arthur took stock of their situation. As they talked in the darkness, a clear picture emerged. It finally began to sink in that they really were through the worst of it. And the boat was still in good shape. It was time to switch gears—to move from survival back to racing.

  The transition back to racing was remarkably smooth. Gordo thought they were all so bloody relieved to be out of the storm that everyone needed to focus on something else, anything, to occupy their minds. And the faster they went, the faster they would get to Hobart. This time, getting to Hobart would mean more than having a “quiet little drink.” It would mean that they had made it through this ordeal together and beaten the storm.

  The crew started racing again and taking more chances. They raised the mainsail part way, and the Rambler began to pick up speed. By 3 a.m., they were in the middle of the Bass Strait and sailing well. It was just starting to feel right, when they began to hear reports of what had happened to the rest of the fleet. The news was hard to comprehend: Boats dismasted, boats rolled, sailors overboard. The realization that people in front of them and behind them had died was overwhelming.