By first light they could see that the storm was truly abating. The sun came up with a spectacular display of spreading light, and, for Arthur, the bright sunshine was an undeniable sign. They had really survived the storm—they were going to live.
By noon, conditions had improved so much that they could fully raise the mainsail. They were racing flat-out, and, as a celebratory lunch, the crew feasted on Greek meatballs made by Ed and Arthur's mother, Margaret. It was the first time that anyone had eaten in at least thirty hours.
The meal, as delicious as it was, was followed by something even better. Bob had finally gotten the small handheld GPS working and determined their position. Remarkably, after sailing 200 miles, AFR Midnight Rambler was only a few miles from where Bob thought they would be. With his dead-reckoning skills and a compass, Bob's estimate was spot-on. Captain Cook could hardly have done better.
The Ramblers were elated. They were farther west than they thought they would be, almost on the rhumb line leading directly to Hobart. Depending on what had happened to the other boats, the Rambler could actually be in a position to win the race. Their plan may have worked.
Early on, Ed and Bob had decided to aim high into the wind rather than easing off toward New Zealand. Sailing west meant giving up the additional speed advantage of the East Australian Current, but it had two huge benefits.
First, based purely on the direction of the waves, it was the right choice. Steering away from the waves would have increased the risk of taking a hit beam-on and being rolled. So they tried to attack the waves as directly as they possibly could. It wasn't a racing decision, it was a survival decision. If their chances of surviving had been improved by another move—even turning north—they would have taken that option.
There was a second reason for their decision to aim high. Storms of this power have a predictable pattern. In the northern hemisphere, hurricanes rotate in a counterclockwise direction. In the southern hemisphere, the spiral is clockwise.
The highest wind velocities occur when the direction of the spiral is combined with the direction in which the storm is moving. In the southern hemisphere, this deadly combination occurs in the left-hand semicircle—the most dangerous part of the storm.
Bob knew what the Ramblers needed to do to get through the storm as quickly as possible. The storm was moving southeast, so they had to go as far west as they could, as fast as they could. The Midnight Rambler aimed high and pointed as directly into the wind as the boat could sail.
This was a decision made with survival in mind, but it kept them as close to the rhumb line as they could possibly be. The move also improved their chances of winning the race. But what had the other boats done?
By the 2 p.m. sked on Monday, the Rambler had made it to the northern coast of Tasmania. Bob got the position of every boat he could, racing or not. Plotting their coordinates, it was clear that the balance of the fleet had sailed east toward New Zealand, going with the gale. As a consequence, they were in the storm longer—some, for as long as thirty-six hours—and they had been blown away from the rhumb line.
What this meant, Bob realized, was that during the night the Ramblers had gained a huge amount of ground over their competitors. Not only had they beaten the storm, but the decision they made to minimize risk turned out to be the best racing strategy as well.
The boats that had gone east included a number of bigger and more favored yachts. Ragamuffin, Quest, and Ausmaid were world-class opponents. Ragamuffin was known and respected in ocean racing circles around the globe. They were superb boats, and the Rambler was beating them all.
Even though the bigger boats were farther south, they were also much farther out to sea. To get back to the Tasmanian coast they would have to tack, zigzagging into the wind. That would cost them huge amounts of time as they sailed the extra miles to Hobart.
It was exciting. After listening to the sked, Bob was sure that they had a real chance to win the race. And to cap it off, he realized that they were actually leading in the handicap standings—the ranking that would determine which boat got the Tattersall's Cup. AFR Midnight Rambler was, by a very large margin, winning the race. This was fantastic news.
Bob scrambled up onto the deck to share the news. He had one thing on his mind: We can't screw up now. Bob looked at the mainsail and thought, If we can just stay in one piece, we can win this race. Showing more emotion than he had in the worst of the storm, Ed heard Bob shouting, “We're winning! Just don't break the bloody boat! Reef the main!”
The news lifted everyone's spirits. It jolted them out of the shock of the last twenty hours. They were now in a commanding position. All their hard work could actually pay off. They had done better than the major boats that had survived the storm; they just had to hang in there. The adrenaline was pumping, and they were on their way to the finish line, only 160 miles away.
The journey down the Tasmanian coast was a blur. The Ramblers were exhausted from the storm, but completely absorbed with capitalizing on their position. With the wind from behind, they raised the spinnaker, something they had not done since the first day of the race. They sailed as hard as they dared, intent on not “breaking the boat.”
AFR Midnight Rambler was seventh in the race, with only Sayonara and five other large boats ahead of them. The small boats were far behind, and it wasn't until they got to Tasman Island on the evening of the 29th that they saw other competitors and helicopters. They were getting closer to civilization. Boats were coming in from all directions, but they were much bigger than the Rambler.
They made a hard right turn into Storm Bay, the same stretch of water where Nuzulu had persevered with a makeshift sail just four years before. Within striking distance of the finish line, and with the wind “on the nose,” they zigzagged 45 miles to the Derwent River. They could taste victory. All they had to do was sail the last stretch into Hobart.
The crew was at the edge, both mentally and physically. Everyone was exhausted, sleep deprived, cold, wet, and hungry. The wind began to get “fluky,” and they were facing a strong outgoing tide that was pushing them in the wrong direction.
The Ramblers were struggling to get up the river. They knew precisely how much time they had left to become the overall winners of the race. The clock was ticking.
To compound matters, they still had no navigational instruments other than the handheld GPS, everything below was drenched, and Bob had no nav table for his chart. He probably should have thrown it away, but he was so tired—and so fixated on the chart—that he spread it out on the wet cabin deck.
Bob was focused on trying to locate the Battery Point landmark in Hobart. This led to a fatigued conversation with Ed and “a bit of a stand-up.” Finally, they both admitted that it didn't really matter where Battery Point was. They knew where the finish line was, and that's all that mattered.
The wind was dying, and the pressure to win kept building. The breeze kept coming and going. It would be 20 knots, then nothing. Then 20 knots, then disappear.
The wind was intermittent, and it was shifting directions as well. Had their electronic instruments been intact, at least they would have some understanding of exactly what the wind was doing. Then Jonno suggested another jury-rigged innovation: They broke apart a music cassette and tied a piece of tape to the rigging. The telltale wasn't perfect, but they would have some way to gauge the wind's direction.
Ed was getting frantic. Each time the wind shifted, he would call for a sail change. They had to get the most out of each puff of air. It was maddening, Ed thought: After all we've done and all we've gone through, it's entirely possible that we could lose this race through lack of wind!
Ed was technically right about the sail changes. But practically, by the time the new sail was up, the breeze would be different. With the exhaustion of the crew, it simply wasn't worth the effort.
Up in the bow, Jonno had borne the brunt of the work to change the sails. He looked at Ed with a grimace and said, “Listen, mate. That's enough. If
you want another sail change, you can bloody well do it yourself.” It was the sort of smart-aleck remark that they often made to each other, but this time Jonno was only half joking.
Ed didn't like being told he was wrong. But he also realized that he was so focused on winning the race that he had lost touch with reality. He was changing sails too much, and it wasn't working. The crew was spent.
Tension had reached a breaking point. Watching the exchange, Gordo picked up the last winch handle that they had on the boat. The winch handle is a critical piece of equipment, and without one it would be nearly impossible to adjust the sails. They had started the race with several handles, but all but one had been lost over the side. The second to last winch handle had been dropped by Mix, as his job as pitman relied heavily on cranking the winches.
Gordo moved across the cockpit and looked at Mix. He held out the last remaining winch handle. With a tone both serious and nonchalant, Gordo said, “Just chuck this one over the side, will you, Mix?”
Everyone burst into laughter. It was obviously the worst possible thing that Mix could have done. They would have been reduced to turning the winch with their fingers—clearly, a hopeless task. Gordo the comedian had broken the tension. They could almost see the finish line, and they would work together to get there.
24
Sayonara—A Thousand Years
At 8:03 on Tuesday morning, AFR Midnight Rambler was still scooting down the coast when Larry Ellison and the Big Yank Tank crossed the finish line in Hobart. It was not the victory that Ellison had expected.
Sayonara was first across the line, about three hours ahead of its closest competitor, Brindabella. Hundreds of people were waiting at the docks, and Ellison had achieved his goal of winning line honors. But unlike the usual victory celebration, the mood in Hobart was different.
As Ellison crossed the finish line, he was met by the plaintive sounds of a bagpiper. The melancholy notes intensified what was already a somber atmosphere in Hobart. Australian flags were flying at half-staff in honor of the six sailors who had died. The traditional welcoming fireworks had been canceled.
The media throng was eager to hear Ellison speak, and an emotional Ellison wanted to talk. His remarks were tearful. After crediting the inspirational work of the crew, he went on to make a statement that would forever connect Larry Ellison and the Sydney to Hobart Race:
Never again. Not if I live to be 1000 years old will I do a Hobart race. This is not what it's supposed to be about. Difficult, yes. Dangerous, no. Life-threatening—definitely not.
Ellison went on to describe the race “nightmare,” and to offer prayers for the search crews and the people still in the water. And he gave himself credit for making the decision to tack Sayonara, telling the media, “We got in under the lee of Tasmania, otherwise I'm not sure the boat would have lasted.”
Ellison's assertion that he had saved Sayonara by tacking the boat may have rankled some of the crew. But it was his statement about avoiding the race for a millennium that resonated throughout Hobart.
Lachlan Murdoch, who had stood almost all of his watches in spite of his sickness and amateur status, agreed that the experience was like watching a disaster movie. But he was steadfast in his commitment to continue racing. The race had simply reinforced the importance of preparation and the critical role played by skilled sailors.
When Brindabella arrived, the crew's comments about the storm contrasted with Ellison's. After George Snow was asked about Ellison's vow to avoid the Hobart for a thousand years, Snow responded with a terse “His call.”2
Scott Gilbert, a crew member on Wild Thing, was more vocal:
What I really don't like is when someone gets to Hobart and says, “This is the worst bloody race I've ever been in, I'm never coming back.” That guy should be seriously kicked up the a—…. Regardless of what he thinks about it, it's not up to him to tell the world that the race is no good…and that he'd never do it again.3
Gilbert did not speak for everyone, but his view was consistent with that of many veterans of the race. After his unequivocal statement, Ellison was not a popular figure among many Australian sailors.
Not that it mattered. Less than an hour after he stepped off Sayonara, Ellison was on a private plane headed to Antigua, where his 250-foot motor yacht, Katana, was waiting. Katana was fully equipped with a two-story apartment, giant movie screen, basketball court, and wraparound glass balconies. Ellison was done with the Sydney to Hobart Race and ready for some relaxation.
His rapid departure further annoyed many who stayed in Hobart to reflect on the race and to wait for the results of the search and rescue. Geoff Cropley, an unofficial crew spokesman for Brindabella, acknowledged that the professionals like the crew of Sayonara were good for competition, but he found it difficult to understand how professionals:
…can just fly in, get to Hobart, grab their kitbag and get on the next plane out without hanging around for lunch or a few drinks and reflect on the race…. On Brindabella we're all mates, a bunch of guys who are good sailors. We pay our own way and have a good time.
Cropley's remarks underscored the reality that there are very different worlds of ocean racing. One is a rock star world with wealthy sailors who can hire professionals to crew their expensive boats. Another is a world of talented amateurs who want to experience a challenge with their mates and have a good time.
Nothing precludes a sailor with money from entering the second world of talented amateurs. But sailing alongside friends is far different than hiring rock stars and ensuring their loyalty with lavish retainers. Both worlds come together in the Sydney to Hobart Race.
After the 1998 race, there was no doubt in anyone's mind about Ellison's resolve to avoid future Hobarts. There was also little doubt that he had been shaken by the experience. In Softwar—an “intimate portrait” of Ellison—Matthew Symonds wrote that Ellison “was traumatized by the experience” and “has sworn never to enter the race again.”
In an unusual agreement for a biography, Larry Ellison was given an opportunity to comment on everything in the book and to counter anything that he thought was wrong. In his rejoinder, Ellison insisted he “wasn't ‘traumatized’ by the race.” When he wasn't in his bunk trying to sleep, Ellison wrote, he was “busy in fight mode.” According to Ellison, he simply didn't have time to think about being scared.
With respect to his thousand-year retirement, Ellison remembers making the statement but then recalls a follow-up:
I remember saying, “No, not if I live to be 1000.” Then I thought about it for a moment and said, “Hold it, wait a second, if I live to be 1000, I'll come back…. Mark this down, 1000 years from now we'll be back.”4
Perhaps that's what he said, or what he would like to have said. Since 1998, however, Ellison has limited his sailing to the America's Cup. In the America's Cup “you just go out for a few hours, race around the buoys, and come back for a nice seafood and pasta dinner.” It's all “very civilized.”5
25
Go the Rambler !
Bill Psaltis and his wife, Margaret, knew the storm was coming. But Bill had learned over many years that storms come and go. It's all part of sailing. The Midnight Rambler would be fine. When they started to hear the news of other boats getting into trouble, though, they began to worry about their two sons. And when Winston Churchill went down, everything changed.
Bill believed that Jim Lawler was one of the finest sailors in the world. He was also a very good friend. They had done the Aegean Rally together the year before, and if Jim had asked Bill to sail on the Winston Churchill, he wouldn't have hesitated.
It was shocking that such a seaworthy boat with exceptionally capable sailors aboard had been lost. Bill started to think, Well, maybe the old man is wrong. Maybe these new boats with their new technology are as good as the old ones that break up anyway. Everything that Bill knew about sailing was suddenly being challenged.
When the situation deteriorated further—with boats in trou
ble and sailors washed overboard—there wasn't much sleeping in the Psaltis home. Bill tried to reassure Margaret that Ed and Arthur would be okay, that things like this had happened before. But he knew that, in fact, nothing like this had ever happened before—not since the first race in 1945.
It wasn't good, and Margaret knew that Bill was deeply troubled. They both agonized, wondering whether they would ever see their two boys again. They thought about their grandchildren, and worried even more.
Then all of a sudden, news came on the radio that AFR Midnight Rambler had stayed farther west than the rest of the fleet. The boys had done exactly what Bill would have. The boat was zipping down the coast of Tasmania. The Ramblers had made it through the storm, and they were sailing hard.
Sue Psaltis had been in close contact with Bill and Margaret since the beginning of the race. When the storm hit, they urged her to get down to Hobart and, God willing, greet the Midnight Rambler when it arrived. They volunteered to watch the children, and Sue booked her flight. On Tuesday, December 29, she flew down to Tasmania.
Sue found a room in a hotel right on Constitution Dock, where the smaller boats tie up after they cross the finish line. She immediately ran down to the dock, hoping to get some news. She was hungry for any scrap of information about what was happening at sea.
Making her way through the crowd, Sue stopped a crew member from a big maxi that had just arrived. He knew nothing about the smaller boats. Sue was astonished to discover that he didn't even know the names of other sailors on his boat. He had flown in to do the race and was off to the next event.
Sue called the Tasmania Yacht Club and learned that not only was the AFR Midnight Rambler safe, they were leading the fleet on handicap. It was so exciting to think that they might actually win the race after all this time. But it was also a conflicted set of emotions. People had died in the race. She was filled with pride, but respectful and restrained because of the tragic losses.
Into the Storm Page 16
