“Thanks, Dec. Just love the taste of salt water in my drink,” yelled Kylie over her shoulder, the frothing water seemingly making a beeline for her open can of beer.
They weren’t impressed, to say the least. But shit happens on a racing yacht, even when you’re cruising home after a demanding race, so no one really paid any mind to the drenching as it was an accepted part of sailing. After all, it was just another greenie over the deck, as the yachties would say.
It had been a long, challenging race in the building conditions, and now it was time to have a few beers and chill out on the downwind slide back to the comfort of their pen. They had started at 10:30 this morning in a gentle eight-knot northwesterly breeze, which as is the way on Port Phillip Bay, ended up bending around in a counterclockwise wheel through to the west during the course of the afternoon, and then about two hours ago blowing its tits off from the south, bringing with it a windblown swell that enabled Fig Jam to catch a few waves, lifting its bow out of the water and planing.
“What speed we got on the log, Dec?” said Gordy, loving every minute of the adrenaline rush as seven tons of boat was surfing almost out of control down the face of a following wave.
“Pumping out twelve to fourteen knots, but peaking at fifteens. Looking good, Gordy,” yelled Dec over the noise of the breeze.
“Woo-hoo! Bring it on. I feel the need for speed,” said G, encouraging his son to push the boat harder. He had taught Dec from an early age that there was only one way to sail, and that was on the edge. Anything less than one hundred percent was for pussies.
And Fig Jam was certainly not a”go for a leisurely sail” cruising yacht. It had no creature comforts and was designed for one thing only—to sail fast and win. Which was why they all loved sailing the boat so much; it was a balls and all carbon fiber thirty-six-foot excitement machine that you either loved or hated. There was no compromise for speed, so in the interest of lightness, whatever happened to be on board, if it didn’t make the boat go faster and wasn’t absolutely necessary for basic survival, off it went. And those”luxuries” that did have to be left on board because of class rules weren’t really serviced regularly, so they often didn’t work in any case.
So of course the toilet was useless, which meant pissing over the stern of the yacht was de rigueur for the guys. The girls—Kylie—unfortunately had to do their ablutions into a bucket, which then after running the gauntlet of the prying eyes of all on deck as it was passed up from the privacy of down below, was tipped overboard after a deposit was made. It was all very close really. And as for a stove, well, one had to be on board to secure their class rating but it had never been lit because no one had ever bothered to hook it up. And there were certainly no gear bags allowed to be taken on board—it was strictly wet weather gear only and a sweater if you really had to. Other than that, to save weight all bags were put on the pier before they left the pen.
But most importantly, the icebox worked. And really well. At a push it could fit in three cases of beer plus ice if they were going away on an extended regatta, and even have some room left over for a few bottles of water.
Basically, sailing on Fig Jam was very black and white: sail hard, sail fast, or go home; no compromises allowed. There really wasn’t any middle ground. In fact, the only luxury they allowed themselves was the occasional case or two of beer and maybe a bottle of rum if one of the crew felt flush with funds on the day, so they could either celebrate or commiserate on their way back to the yacht club after a race, depending on how they went.
To the outsider—the landlubber—the world may have been full of mad dogs and Englishmen, but what they often failed to realize was that there were also yachties: a unique and unusually tight-knit, but rarely recognized category of fanatics who hid as businessmen and women, professionals, tradesmen, service staff or whatever during the week, but in true Jekyll and Hyde form morphed into warriors on the water in their spare time.
“Dec, remember we’ve got to sail straight across the shipping channel,” G said to his son.
Dec may have only been twenty-one, but he had been sailing since he was old enough to remember the feeling of salt water splashing onto his face, so it was in his blood. And G was his mentor in the ways of the sea.
“Bullet coming!” yelled Kylie.
Kylie was always the ever-vigilant member of the crew. She was sitting high on the weather rail with her feet dangling over the side looking back from where Fig Jam had just come from, staring straight into the wind. The telltale indication of a darkened patch of water rapidly approaching the yacht from astern was only fifty meters away.
“Big gust coming,” she shouted back to Dec. “Twenty-five knots at least.”
G gave Gordy an urgent nudge in the ribs with his elbow. “Get ready on the boom vang, mate.”
The crew instinctively knew what Kylie’s call meant and immediately morphed from a happy-go-lucky-pass-me-another-can-of-beer attitude into serious action. The yacht was already heeling over on a twenty-degree angle. Dec braced himself against the side of the cockpit in preparation for the gust, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, psyching himself up for action; Sean grabbed the mainsheet and flicked it out of the cam block, ready to feed it out as the pressure hit the sail; Gordy dove for the boom vang in readiness to free it off as soon as Fig Jam started to heel over even further so that Dec could maintain steerage; G started feeding out the spinnaker sheet slightly, reducing the pressure on the rig; Kylie rolled backward off the weather rail in a fluid movement that was perfectly in time with the motion of the yacht, manning the tack line that was attached to windward clew of the asymmetrical spinnaker so she could ease the huge sail forward to spill out pressure if Fig Jam started spinning violently back into the breeze, and the others either jumped onto a winch or sat tight, providing ballast to counter the tipping motion as the wind tried its hardest to flip the yacht over.
And all this activity happened in less than ten seconds. And without a word being said or direction given. Instead the nine crew acted with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, drawing on the memory of countless hours of training and a thousand yacht races.
“Sixteen knots, eighteen knots . . . twenty . . . shit, this is fast . . . twenty-two . . . yeah baby, what a hoot,” yelled Dec over the noise of the breeze, concentrating like he was driving an F1 race car at warp speed, except instead he was steering a seven-ton yacht that was surfing at almost double its theoretical maximum hull speed. He was grinning from ear to ear with an adrenaline-induced smile that was half enjoyment, half fear as Fig Jam sprinted off like a racehorse out of the blocks.
Yeah, this is what it’s all about, was a collective thought that simultaneously invaded the minds of the nine crew as they prepared for the impending onslaught when twenty-five knots of wind hit the sails.
Kylie’s breeze slammed into Fig Jam with the vengeance of a hundred banshees, torturing the integrity of the rig. But it held firm and the yacht bowed to the wind. It was a heavy gust full of moisture and packed a punch that would knock out a lesser boat, but Fig Jam’s carbon fiber rig was built to withstand the forces of nature, so instead she just leaned over like a palm tree in a cyclone, letting the building wind spill out of her sails.
But the gust proved to be all of Kylie’s predicted twenty-five knots and more. Fig Jam wavered.
“Shit, I’m losing it . . . I’ve lost steerage, fire the vang . . . the vang, Gordy . . . Gordy, the bloody vang. Sean, dump the main . . . I can’t hold it.” Dec was in charge and calling the shots.
Without steerage, Fig Jam was rapidly being pushed sideways, out of control. Rounding up violently into the breeze and spinning around on its own axis would normally have been okay, except they were now out of control in the main shipping channel, careering toward a large fixed steel channel marker poking menacingly ten meters out of the water.
And the threatening red pole was looming dangerously closer and closer by the second.
“Dec, for Christ’s sak
e keep her above the marker at all costs. It’ll take out the rig if we clip it. Do you want me to drive?” yelled G to his son.
The channel marker seemed to be acting like a magnet, sucking Fig Jam toward it at frightening speed. The realization hit G that in about ninety seconds they would sideswipe a steel pole that, in the worst-case scenario, wouldn’t just drop the rig, it would sink them.
This was sailing at its most dangerous, yet Dec was confident and in total control, as best as he could be, driving a yacht that had no steerage and a mind of its own.
“Leave him be, G,” said Sean sternly. “Let the lad work his way through it. He can do it.” Sean had been sailing with Dec long enough to know that Dec had the skills and judgment to get them out of this.
G took Sean’s advice into consideration, but he was also ready to dive in and grab the helm from Dec if disaster appeared imminent, which by his estimation would now occur in less than sixty seconds if they held their current course.
Panic time.
Apart from bringing Fig Jam home in one piece, there were eight other crew on board whose safety G had to consider. This was serious, the outcome catastrophic.
Dec was fighting to keep Fig Jam upright. The crew urgently depowered the sails, flattening out the heel.
But not enough! The yacht was following its own agenda, rounding up into the breeze and heading directly toward the looming channel marker.
Fifty seconds.
A collective thought passed through the minds of all on board: Jeeesus, we’re going to hit!
Fig Jam had a death wish. She buried her bow deeply into the next wave, sending a solid wall of angry water washing like a mini tsunami across the deck, over the coach house roof, then rushing into the cockpit, burying everyone in its way.
Forty-five seconds.
Fig Jam just kept rounding up into a full-on broach, heading directly toward the marker as if the pole had a bull’s-eye painted on its side. The yacht dangerously heeled over even further. The deck was vertical, the keel lifting totally out of the water. The leeward side of the yacht disappeared below the waves, which meant the normally vertical mast was now horizontal, kissing the tops of the waves. The can of beer Sean had been savoring only moments before flew across the deck like a missile, immediately washing over the side into the boiling water. Fighting for a toehold on the cockpit floor, Sean glanced at the inclinometer on the cabin side.
Seventy-two degrees. Almost vertical.
“Holy shit! This isn’t looking good,” shouted Sean over the noise of the green water washing across the deck, burying the yacht.
“Hold on guys,” he added, but Sean’s words of warning were drowned out by the urgency of the moment.
Sean desperately threw the mainsheet away. It ran burning through the block with the speed of a whiplash flick. The five-and-a-half-meter carbon fiber boom slammed across the deck and dragged in the water, spilling out the wind from the mainsail.
But the round-up had a momentum of its own and Fig Jam kept turning viciously back into the breeze.
Kylie lost her footing on the now perpendicular deck. One of the other crew had slid across, out of control, crashing into her legs. Somehow he managed to hold on, but Kylie was now airborne. As she awkwardly flew past Sean, like a shot out of a cannon, catching a glimpse of her in his peripheral vision he instinctively threw his arm out, grabbing at whatever he could get hold of with one of his huge builder’s hands.
“Got you!” he grunted.
Then in a serious but half-joking manner, as Kylie was clumsily tumbling past Sean he bellowed, “Where do you think you’re going, lass? We need you on the boat. It’s not that bad that you’ve got to jump ship yet.”
Grabbing hold of Sean’s outstretched arm with her free hand, Kylie painfully dragged herself up to the high side of the pitching deck, her legs threshing around, searching for purchase.
“I’m going nowhere, you big Irish git,” she grunted. “But thanks anyway.”
“Well, it’d be a pain in the arse to have to turn around to pick you up. Spoil all the fun,” scolded Sean. Even with disaster threatening he still retained his sense of humor.
Thirty seconds until impact.
With the boom dragging in the water and the asymmetrical spinnaker flapping like a flag in a storm, Fig Jam was totally at the mercy of the sea. The yacht continued spinning out of control back into the breeze toward the looming threat of the channel marker. She was almost head to wind and started flattening out slightly.
Dec felt a hint of steerage returning.
“I think she’s coming around. Sean, give me some set on the main,” yelled Dec. He was both in control and out of control at the same time.
Fifteen seconds. Less than ten meters to contact. Seven tons of yacht was about to smash into a solid metal pole which would break the boat in half.
“Brace yourselves. Legs in from over the side. We’re going to hit,” screamed G at the top of his voice. Disaster was imminent.
Ten seconds.
Out of nowhere a rogue wave appeared like a gift from the gods, crashing over the stern of Fig Jam, pushing her away from the channel marker and slightly back toward where she had been previously heading at exactly the same time as she flattened out, enough for Dec to get some steerage back.
The rudder bit into the water. Fig Jam responded.
Five seconds. She’s coming around! thought Dec.
The mainsail suddenly ceased being a liability, the boom dangerously slamming back across the deck, the huge sail filling with wind.
Fig Jam was alive again!
With only meters to spare, the rudder bit, the yacht powered up, and she was responsive again. The spinnaker filled with a deafening snap like the ring of a stockman’s whip as the wind caught the flapping sail, the sheets grabbing taut under pressure.
As if a turbocharger had suddenly kicked in, Fig Jam’s bow lifted out of the water and the yacht took off at lightning speed.
A collective thought that was as tangible as if all the crew had yelled it at the tops of their voices could be heard over the deafening breeze: Yes, we’re going to make it! Great work Dec, pulling her out of the broach at the last minute. My God, was that close!
They were safe and at the eleventh hour Fig Jam had survived the ordeal without any damage, but only with a pinch of sailor’s luck. With the grace of God they skidded past the channel marker with less than two meters to spare; otherwise it would have been a visit to Davy Jones’s locker for Fig Jam and no doubt serious injuries for the crew.
Sean was lost in thought, staring over the tops of the waves, seemingly transfixed by a point in the distance. Whatever he was gazing at was for his eyes only, as there was nothing out there other than water and the horizon.
“Mate, you’re a thousand miles from home. What’s on your mind?” said G, looking at Sean and noticing a vacant,”I’m currently not here” sign written all over his body which was as obvious as if he were a contestant on one of those silly game shows where he had to guess the phrase on a sign atop his head.
“Oh, yeah, sorry G. Totally lost in thought there. Got a lot going on at work. It’s been playing on my mind a bit lately.”
“What, Rishi?” queried G. “I think it’s more than his recovery that you’re mulling over, my old friend.”
“Well yeah, there’s more to it than that. But Rishi’s definitely a part of it.”
“The problem or the solution?”
“Both.”
“Sorry mate, you’re sending out mixed signals. You want to talk about it? There’s obviously a problem that you’re trying to work through. You know I’ll always lend an ear, for what it’s worth.”
“G, how’d you know these things? Was it that obvious?” Sean never ceased to be amazed at how G just seemed to know what people were thinking. To him it was uncanny. Like G had some weird third eye insight that enabled him to look inside your head and drag out your innermost thoughts.
After the near miss with the ch
annel marker, once the crew had settled back into the rhythm of the sea and Fig Jam was on a controlled course again, it was collectively decided to drop the kite and cruise back home under mainsail only. As always seemed to be the case on the water, the wind was dying down after the emergency and the waves were abating as the yacht approached land, so the ride was even and manageable. The crew were laid back once more, enjoying the comfort of the slide home, chatting among themselves in small groups either in the cockpit, sitting on the weather rail or standing up leaning on the mast and boom as if they were leaning on the members’ bar back at the club.
The broach they had just been through was merely an accepted as part of sailing and quickly forgotten. But at a later date when bragging rights were required or a story of sailing on the high seas needed embellishing with a little spice and danger, the tale would surely be recounted. It was the way of the dedicated yachtie.
Climbing over G and Sean who were chatting in the cockpit, both of them leaning against the coach house sides on either side of the companionway entrance for comfort, beer in hand, Kylie made her way to the stern of Fig Jam to relieve Dec on the helm. Dec really liked Kylie and they had built up a bond of friendship which was almost familial, with Kylie regarding Dec as her little brother and Dec looking on Kylie as a nonthreatening, impartial mentor and confidant. He often chatted with her, workshopping life’s issues, girlfriends and relationships, his goals and aspirations, and of course, sailing. Although with the latter, Dec certainly had the edge on Kylie because she only had a five-year history with the sport, so instead the tables were turned and Dec was mentor and coach.
“You know, the more I think about it, the more upset I am about Rishi,” said Dec. “I mean, he may be Indian and all, but he’s a great bloke. We really had some good times together. He certainly liked to party.”
“Dec, you’re talking like he’s already got one foot in the grave. He’s not dead yet. What you need to do now is give him support. Show him that you’re there as a friend.”
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 20
