All Piss and Wind (20 page)

‘Listen, you blokes. This boat's got a perfectly good toilet. Why don't you use it, instead of pissing into that plastic thing?'

Knowing smiles from the oldies. ‘Just wait, boys. You'll see.'

Inevitably we ran into some fresh stuff near the Sea Mounts and conditions turned nasty. We took a reef and a couple of turns on the jib furler but the boat was now heeled hard over. ‘Ah, that's why you use the bottle.'

First victim of the blow was Bettsie, who was dumped out of his bunk when a plastic hook on the retaining lee cloth parted. Our precious guesser hit the cabin sole with a terrible thump but – praise the Lord! – was back at his nav station after a few rounds of painkillers.

And then it rained. Buckets. Soaking straight through our wet-weather gear and seeping down the mast to deposit neat, steady streams of water onto every bunk and sleeping bag. Sir James railed at the heavens. ‘This is all wasted! Bugger off and rain on the land where it's needed!' Yet still it came down, and the deluge only stopped when Ball's Pyramid and Lord Howe drifted into view through the scudding dark clouds low on the eastern horizon.

The slow, conservative trip had taken
Vittoria
75 hours. Clive Wilson, the veteran Port Operations Manager, talked us in through Man o' War Passage and onto our mooring with precise compass headings given over the VHF radio. It was late Tuesday morning – we'd made it with just five hours to spare before the BBQ. Ashore, we learned that some yachts had turned back to Sydney during the severe blow of the first night. Seven crews eventually made it to the island by that evening as we all headed off to Ned's Beach for the BBQ that gives this annual cruise-in-company its nominal purpose. A certain amount of liquid refreshment had already been consumed before the locals turned up with their welcome lashings of food and Lord Howe goodwill. Those few of our company who claimed to remember the rest of the celebrations that night have made the highly defamatory allegation that most of the celebrating yachties were returned to their accommodation laid out on the back trays of the locals' utes. For us, there was barely time to clear our hangovers before we had to begin reprovisioning the boat, collecting fuel and settling our various mooring fees and visitor levies. It had, indeed, been a long way to come for a sausage, but the trip home turned out to be even longer.

Vittoria
's generous owner, Max Whitnall, had escaped from hospital and flew straight over to the island just to see his beloved wooden sloop gently bobbing in the lagoon directly below the cliffs of Mount Gower. He and the ‘boys' ventured out in a tinny to take some snaps and wish we four veterans fair winds and good sailing for the passage back to Sydney. Max can manage most things, but
the weather is beyond even his sphere of influence. The breeze was SW – yet
another
dead muzzler – and after no more than ten hours of reasonably pleasant windward work the barometer began to drop sharply and the skies darkened.

One of the first sailing books I'd devoured as a child was Joshua Slocum's 1900 classic,
Sailing Alone Around the World
. (I still reread it every five years or so.) One of the greatest pieces of advice Slocum gives to seafarers in that book is the importance of understanding weather: ‘
To know the laws that govern the winds, and to know that you know them, will give you an easy mind on your voyage round the world; otherwise you may tremble at the appearance of every cloud.'
Well, I looked at those angry, gunmetal-grey clouds and knew we were in for a serious pizzling.

For the next two days
Vittoria
battled up to 45 knots true wind on the nose and big, battering seas. At times we sailed ‘cat rigged' with just a reefed main, then set the little staysail from
Nerida
hanked onto the inner forestay as a storm jib. It was not quite survival conditions, but damn close. We couldn't cook or even boil the kettle for 36 hours. The electrical bilge-pump system soon went on strike, then the autopilot. Next, the engine choked itself on sludge stirred up from the bottom of the fuel tank by our violent motion. After three heroic attempts to flush the injectors, Norm Hyett declared the donk dead. We'd have to do the last 180 miles on sail-power alone, and conserve what was left of our 12-volt batteries for the radio and navigation lights. There was no way we could make the rhumbline to Sydney and at one stage our best heading gave us a landfall north of Port Stephens. We were all cold, wet, hungry and exhausted, but none of us was about to concede defeat. The grim resignation of the sailor's life prevailed. This was our lot; we just had to make the best of it.

With his natural good humour, Norm made our predicament personal. ‘The next time any of you bastards rings me to go ocean sailing, I'm gonna tell you all to get stuffed, OK? And the minute we get home I'm going to burn my wet-weather gear so I can't go, even
if I bloody well wanted to!' Meanwhile, the unflappable Hardy – at 72 years of age – kept nursing the boat along through long, exhausting tricks at the helm. Col drew on his five decades of offshore experience (and sodden charts) to provide us with the kind of solid navigational information that helps create confidence in difficult conditions. It was inspiring to be at sea with these blokes again.

When the blow finally abated we were 35 miles off Norah Head and facing a long, slow work down the coast. But for two glorious hours the breeze actually came abeam and we could set the spinnaker for the only time in almost ten days of sailing. Spinnaker? What's that? It was 0400 when we finally dropped sails and ghosted alongside the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron pontoon. The trip had taken 86 hours. It was time to just sit in the cockpit together and share a round or two of Mr Boag's best beer. I couldn't help myself. ‘Nice sail, fellas. Everyone set to do it again next year?'

I'm lucky they didn't chuck me in the tide.

VITTORIA
WINE LIST – 2004 LORD HOWE ISLAND BBQ CRUISE

6	Leasingham Bin 7 Clare Valley Riesling
6	Leasingham Bastion Shiraz Cabernet
6	Brookland Valley (Margaret River) Cabernet Merlot
3	Brookland Valley Semillon Sauvignon Blanc
4	Hardy's Oomoo McLaren Vale Shiraz
2	Hardy's Tintara Shiraz
3	Stonehaven Padthaway Chardonnay
6	Stonehaven Coonawarra Padthaway Cabernet Sauvignon
4	Hardy's Show Port
2	Hardy's Black Bottle Brandy
3	Sir James Cuvee Brut (Sparkling)
3	Sir James Pinot Shiraz (Sparkling)
2 doz.	James Boag
2 doz.	Victoria Bitter

T
HE INESCAPABLE DISADVANTAGE
of writing regularly about yachting is that people feel free to bend your ear with their opinions. At mind-numbing length. ‘Got a moment? Good, now here's something you ought to put in that magazine of yours …' Yachties tend to be a talkative lot at the best of times; at the worst of times they unburden themselves with such sustained verbosity that they're often still holding forth long after their command of the English language has wilted under the onslaught. This can be bearable if the conversationalist happens to be buying the drinks and vaguely agrees with the sentiments of my last column, but it's close to torture when they've decided to take issue with some contentious position I've recently proposed. One must always be polite to one's public, but there are limits.

As with most sports that have a long history, the one question that provokes the most lively debates in yachting turns on the eternal tensions between old and new: can the traditional ideals of ocean racing be reconciled with today's extremes of design and
technology? This is much more than a generational issue – the ‘good old days' versus contemporary standards. It goes directly to some of the fundamentals of the sport, including questions of seaworthiness, safety and fair competition.

My standpoint in this area is essentially conservative, but not reactionary. While I try to keep an open mind on modern developments, for me the most important factor about any ocean-going yacht is its wholesomeness. The design, construction and equipment of a boat should all be adequate to the tasks the owner will expect it to undertake. Of late, there has been a distressing frequency of rig failure and structural damage during quite moderate offshore conditions. That's telling evidence that many of today's yachts are either inappropriately designed or seriously under-engineered. It's a view I've often expressed in print and, not surprisingly, it can provoke a pained response from many of the more prominent trophy hunters who spend millions duelling for line honours at the front of the fleet. But only one of those critics has, so far, had the good sense and fairmindedness to put our differences to a practical test.

 

Sean Langman is a highly successful Sydney sailor with strong ideas about the sport. As the owner of the dominant boatyard and rigging business on the east coast, he's also in a position to back those opinions with a deep working knowledge of racing yachts. Sean likes to go fast – preferably faster than everyone else – and isn't afraid to take unconventional paths to achieving that goal. Offshore, he campaigns
Grundig
, a lightweight 66-footer that's more recently been known as
AAPT
. The boat uses water ballast to reduce its angle of heel and can jump up onto a plane off the wind and sail at incredible speeds. Langman handles the yacht like a giant skiff, flying huge asymmetrical spinnakers off a bowsprit, and delights in pushing the boat to its breaking point – and beyond. But at the same time he has a fondness for classic yachts and still occasionally races
Vagrant
,
his father's lovely old gaff-rigged ‘Ranger' classer, an appealingly practical style of boat that's unique to Sydney Harbour.

Our differences came to a head one afternoon on the hardstand of Langman's boatyard at Berry's Bay. I was still streaked with anti-foul after a day spent rubbing down
Bright Morning Star
, the robust Peterson 51 that's been my safe and comfortable ride for thousands of enjoyable offshore miles. A few metres away Sean's private rocket-ship
Grundig
bobbed gently alongside her dock. Our topic was seaworthiness. Inevitably, Sean was taking a piece out of me about some recent criticisms I'd published of non-displacement yachts. With characteristic bluntness, he hurled down the gauntlet.

‘It's like religion, mate. You can't knock it until you've tried it,' he declared. ‘Look, let me tell you. If we were facing a really big low-pressure system, then I'd much rather be in my boat than that!' pointing to the heavy sloop I'd just been working on.

How so? ‘We're fast enough to sail round it.'

But what about if outrunning bad weather involved having to slog to windward?

A wry grin. ‘Yeah, well, that's different.' (It was the pounding that
Grundig
took while working ‘uphill' that contributed to Langman's consecutive Sydney–Hobart retirements in 2000 and 2001.)

I made a lame play for the diplomatic middle-ground, conceding that, at least for me, ocean racing was essentially a competitive recreation – a hobby where the pleasures of being at sea in a well-found boat with good company easily outweigh any pride that might flow from our eventual position on the results sheet.

Sean reckoned I needed a dose of reality pills. ‘It's just not like that any more. Yacht racing has changed.'

Maybe so, but my faith in the value of traditional displacement boats for offshore work is hard to shake.

Yachts with a narrow entry, deepish forefoot, moderate central beam and substantial keels tend to handle waves at sea with a
confident, comfortable motion. They're also much easier to steer than today's flat, super-light flyers that are designed to skip over the ocean. That configuration may be fine when conditions suit their ‘sled' shape, but more often than not the cost of speed is a ferocious pounding on every second or third wave. Those repeated shocks reverberate through the hull thousands of times during each race. They put the yacht's structure under enormous load, rattle the crew's teeth and make real sleep impossible.

I told Sean that wasn't my idea of fun at sea. We agreed to differ, but Mr Langman had one more shot in his locker. ‘Tell you what. The only way to know for sure is to come and race with us. You can see for yourself what it's really like, then decide.'

He had a point. ‘Fair enough, but I'm not just doing some silly Sunday-arvo toddle around the cans on flat water in the Harbour. A decent offshore overnighter at least, OK?'

Deal done.

A few months later I was climbing aboard
Grundig
's sugar-scoop stern in persistent Sydney afternoon drizzle while she still hung low in the slings of the travel lift crane a few feet above the water. Sean had kept his word and invited me to crew for him on the Flinders Islet Race, a 90-miler that takes the fleet down to Wollongong and back. For most serious ocean-racers, it's the last major offshore hit-out before Hobart.

My first impressions were to note how much development can be achieved by a creative design thinker who enjoys solid sponsorship and virtually unlimited access to boatbuilding resources. For Langman,
Grundig
has no fixed identity: she's a ‘platform' on which to keep evolving his ideas about high-speed ocean racing. The yacht began life in the late 1990s as an Open 60 for Kanga Birtles, then became the deep red
Xena
. Next she grew by six feet (Open 60 + 10 per cent GST?) and morphed into the silver-grey
Grundig
, complete with snarling shark's teeth painted at the stem. That iteration of the boat chased
Alfa Romeo
up the Derwent to score an extraordinarly
close second in the 2002 Sydney–Hobart. The big fibreglass hull was then painted a rich blue with the sponsor's name proclaimed in huge letters down each side – finished off with full-colour seductive mermaids gracing the bows, painted in authentic Sandman panelvan style.

With the boat's competitive racing life nearing its end Langman put
Grundig
on a serious weight-reduction diet. Determined he wouldn't ‘die wondering' about the sloop's ultimate performance potential, he told me the lightening program cost around $1000 for each kilo of weight saved. An amazing 160 kg came out of the rig alone by replacing the conventional set-up with titanium and PBO (an exotic carbon-fibre textile rope that's stronger than steel rigging), and stripping all but a dust coat of paint off the mast. Those savings above deck allowed a further 320 kg to be chainsawed off the keel bulb, yielding obvious power/weight ratio gains plus a bonus increase in righting moment. Further significant savings below the waterline flow from the decision to campaign
Grundig
as a ‘dry' boat: she carries no antifouling and is hauled out after every race. It helps if you own the boatyard.

The fixation with weight-saving continues downstairs. No galley, no nav station, no enclosed head, no table, no grab rails, nowhere to sit down, no blankets or sleeping bags, no cabin floor. Moving about below means trying to secure dodgy footing in the small spaces between the maze of frames and stringers. It was all a bit confronting for someone more used to the homely fit-outs of
Mark Twain
and
Bright Morning Star
. I stashed my wet-weather gear up one end of a pipe-berth, located the supply of bottled water and tried to take some comfort from knowing that this was only a 12–18-hour race. Langman warmed to his never-ending ‘War on Gravity' theme at the crew briefing held an hour before the start. We were each allowed just one set of footwear (bare feet are preferred) and forbidden to take sea-bags, mobile phones, wallets or even car keys. Hector, the wisecracking mainsheet hand, tried to stir
Sean by saying he'd remembered to cut his toenails but drew the line at dockside circumcision.

The light rain continued as we motored towards the 2000hrs start. There was 10–15 knots of S–SE in the harbour with more offshore. It looked like being a tight reach to the Heads, dead muzzler down the coast to the island, a run back to Hornby Light and then a final short work up the harbour. The crew was hoping for just a bit more puff to ensure
Grundig
would climb onto a plane for the return journey from Flinders. They knew we'd need that extra speed to counteract the size advantages of our main rivals,
Nicorette
and
Brindabella
. We'll see.

‘Fifteen minutes, fellas! Let's have some sails.' With the rag up it struck me what a simple yacht
Grundig
was to sail. There are no hydraulics, and a single coffee grinder for the primary winches. Everything is handled with conventional, uncomplicated deck gear. The fixed carbon bowsprit replaces all the troublesome mechanics of spinnaker poles, leaving an uncluttered mast, foredeck and cockpit. It was a pleasure to work in the clear spaces around the boat. Rig loadings are remarkably low – the yacht displaces only eight tonnes – making a stark contrast to the heavy engineering I remembered from my two seasons with Jack Rooklyn's maxi
Apollo
twenty years earlier.

After an initial stint out of harm's way on
Grundig
's runners at the start I soon found myself alone on the grinder to sheet the big asymmetric kite as we hurtled down the harbour. It was surprising to discover the job could be done by just one person – and with a minimum of middle-aged gasping for air between calls of ‘Trim!'. (On
Apollo
that same task had needed four men and we went to Hobart with a crew of 23. Langman has made the trip with as few as eight.) The secret to these vast savings in manpower is the water ballast. In less than two minutes
Grundig
can put between two and three tonnes of water in tanks high under the side-deck on the windward side – it's the equivalent of having more than
40 average-sized blokes perched on the rail. A huge athwartships pipe transfers this army of phantom deck apes across the boat during each tack. For the Flinders Islet race, the crew were so confident we wouldn't be overpowered during the night that they didn't even bother running reefing lines on the mainsail.

Langman is disarmingly happy to concede that ‘she won't sail well without the water', and we soon had proof. An electrical fault that was only discovered after the start rendered the ballast pump inoperative. This was no great problem on the flat water of the harbour, but once we began working out to sea the boat was clearly struggling. Heeled, falling away, pounding badly in a modest swell, and seriously slow. We were a very unhappy ship for half an hour until Suds and Barnesy located the malfunction. A thunderous ‘F—k!' bellowed up the companionway. They'd found the short circuit by the simple expedient of electrocuting themselves. A suspiciously swift and expert job of hot-wiring followed and the vital main tank was soon filling with 2500 litres of seawater. The boat sat up, settled nicely to her lines and piled on speed. I scurried back into my spot on the rail between Noddy and Jammer. ‘What would we have done if they couldn't get the pump working?'

The lads squinted into the rain and pondered my question. ‘Early mark. Go home.'

Easy enough to say off Coogee, a lot harder in the middle of Bass Strait.

Grundig
's nickname for the regular crew is ‘Slinky', a reference to those fascinating steel-spring toys that transfer energy through themselves in a centipede-like ripple. When the yacht's flat for'd sections crash onto a wave that initial impact then echoes down the hull in a rapid sequence of five or six Slinky-style aftershocks. This is precisely the type of pounding that tends to keep me away from modern offshore yachts. The abrupt motion, noise and jarring just don't seem seaworthy. Flinders Islet was still 40 long, dark miles to windward and I feared an irritating, uncomfortable trip. But as the yacht began
to find her rhythm the pounding subsided. What followed was nine hours of truly enjoyable ocean racing. We soon reeled in the two Volvo 60s that had snuck past during our water ballast drought, and then set off after George Snow and Ludde Ingvall.

Both
Nicorette
and
Brindabella
rounded Flinders just ahead of us at 0130, and that's when the real boat race began. As a lightweight pocket maxi
Grundig
is optimised to do her best numbers on fairly tight downwind angles. Regrettably, the bearing back to Sydney was dead square. With the breeze staying moderate it might now be difficult to overhaul boats that had the dual advantages of more sail area and waterline length. Could we catch them by South Head? We'd give it a damn good try.