Fatal Storm (11 page)

“Wouldn’t you know it, just as I unclipped we got hit by a rogue wave right at the stern, under the boat. It knocked the stern to leeward, caused the boat to go into a broach and laid her over on her side. I had been on my knees, with my knees against the cabin side. As soon as we broached I overbalanced – I slid across the cabin top on my stomach – straight over the safety rail and into the piss. I didn’t even touch the rail. I was flying. I remember grabbing hold of a winch as I went but it was slippery and I lost my grip. It’s hard to stop my weight in full flight – 147 kilos. What I didn’t realise at the time was that I had a waterproof torch in my hand and took it with me.

“I was fully rigged in my full wet weather gear, thermal underwear and seaboots. The first thing I realised though was that the water was warm. It was a small consolation. One of the crew thought quickly enough to grab another floating torch, turn it on and
hurl it into the water towards where I was. That would also help identify where I was when they could turn back.”

While some crewmembers struggled to release the man-overboard buoy and life ring, others concentrated on keeping Schipper spotted. To lose sight of him could well cost him his life.

“When I surfaced the boat was probably 10 or 15 metres from me and moving away, still at a reasonable pace. The first thing I could think of was that the weight of water in my boots and gear would be pulling me under. I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to swim for the boat. My immediate thought as soon as I hit the drink was, don’t panic. For an instant I remembered what John Quinn said after he’d spent five hours in the water in the 1993 race – he just tried not to panic.

“After about 10 or 15 seconds I realised I had the torch in my hand. I had held onto it as I went over the side. I turned it on, and it worked. Hallelujah. I was able to shine the torch on the boat. They had stopped probably 250 metres from me. I knew they’d see me with the torch – but that wasn’t my thought at the time. I wanted to get my harness off and my other gear so I could tread water more easily. But it was bloody impossible to get my harness off because every time I stopped using my arms to tread water I started to sink. I just had to continue breast stroking.

“I eventually got one boot and a sock off. That was bloody difficult because, like so many others, I’d taped my boots on to keep the water out. It was a lot of effort for a small result. Every time I tried to do something with the harness or my boots I started going under. The guys seemed to take forever to get back to me. Obviously they’d had their problems getting sails down and trying not to get any lines over the side and around the rudder or propeller. All I can say was that I was
feeling very, very lonely. I was already exhausted. I was breathing heavy, probably because of the adrenalin rush. I was tiring but I just kept treading water.

“When I saw the boat coming towards me I was still worried. I didn’t know if they could still see me. I kept trying to shine the torch at them from above my head. The rest of the time it was just under the surface. Before long I realised they had me spotted. That was a relief. But the first time they made a run at me to pick me up I thought I was going to get the bloody bow right through my head. Fortunately it missed.”

“It was pretty scary for Skippy,” recalls Col Anderson, “but I had to get the boat really close to him. I had to be really certain that I had positioned the boat almost on top of him so the guys could grab him. It ended up that getting the yacht there was the easy bit. Getting him back aboard was hard.”

Strong, eager hands grabbed whatever they could that was attached to Schipper and clung desperately to it. Their arms were now his lifelines. The crew were lying on their stomachs on the deck, leaning out over the side and all the while the yacht was bucking like a bronco and the waves were trying to tear him away. If he was ripped from their grasp he would almost certainly drown.

“A couple of the young guys grabbed me,” Schipper recalled while wiping away tears. “Suddenly I saw them as my kids. They were clinging onto me; they didn’t want to let me go. They were going to save me. They were terrific. They were all over me, leaning down over the side, hanging onto me, attaching bloody ropes everywhere so they wouldn’t lose me.”

The dramas continued. The rough seas, Schipper’s bulk, and problems with a special sling designed to lift crew back onto a yacht’s deck made it a perilous and daunting task.

“The biggest problem for everyone was that I was so bloody exhausted I just couldn’t help them. Every time I got near to being in the sling I slipped out. Eventually they clipped a halyard onto my safety harness as well as the sling and finally winched me up to deck level. Then, while I was still suspended, they guided me into the cockpit and lowered me into the cabin. I just collapsed.” Schipper was back on deck little more than 10 minutes after going over the side. Abrahams checked with him and the rest of the crew on how they felt about the drama. The decision was to continue in the race.

“The crew was fantastic. Bloody professional. I was very, very fortunate. I had nine good guys backing me up in an extremely difficult situation.”

O
n December 27, 1998 Mother Nature dropped a meteorological bomb on the hapless Sydney to Hobart fleet. Many of the crews, and even some of the weather services, had little comprehension of what was brewing in the north-east corner of Bass Strait. Weather faxes were beginning to confirm that the low, which for days had deliberated over where it would unleash its brutal winds – south of Tasmania, west of Tasmania, or in Bass Strait – had now made up its mind. The race forecast issued from weather forecasters in Sydney at 0213hrs read as follows:

WIND: W/SW winds 25/35 knots, with stronger gusts. Winds increasing to the south of Merimbula offshore, reaching 40/50 knots this afternoon as low deepens.

WAVES: 2 to 3 metres, rising to 4 to 5 metres offshore in the south.

SWELL: 1 to 2 metres, rising to 3 to 4 metres offshore south of Merimbula.

From the time the fleet had experienced the south-westerly change in the early hours of the day through to
mid-morning, sailing conditions had been deteriorating markedly. As forecast, the wind was increasing in strength to between 30 and 40 knots and the waves were growing in stature and number. The first 12 hours of racing had seen hard downwind running, then, after the change, the yachts were reaching across the wind. Little wonder that the two leaders,
Sayonara
and
Brindabella
, were now well into Bass Strait and setting a race record pace. There was speculation by some pundits that if the speedy conditions prevailed the magical two-day barrier might be broken – more than 14 hours would be carved off the record.

At around 9am Roger Badham reported on the worsening weather to a media contact.

The situation is starting to look very grim, especially for the boats that will enter Bass Strait later this afternoon and night. The 6am observations showed Wilsons Promontory with 71 knots of mean wind speed. The Prom. over reads some 25 per cent to 33 per cent in wind speed but regardless, this was a very significant observation. Fifty to 60 knots seems certain.

Badham suggested the “nastiest” winds were probably in a thin elongated band on the western flank of the low pressure system which would be dragged over the fleet as the system moved east into the Tasman Sea later in the day. The strength of the west-sou’westerly winds had forced the majority of yachts east of the rhumb line – the 585-mile direct passage between Sydney and the first corner in the course, Tasman Island, at the entrance to Storm Bay. They were all benefiting from the south-flowing current.

Some navigators and tacticians had purposefully set a course that was well offshore because they believed it
would prove to be the fastest. Other crews had found themselves 30 and 40 miles offshore simply because of the influence of the wind and waves. Regardless, all these yachts now had their last remaining sanctuary before Bass Strait – Eden – almost directly upwind. Some crews were already discussing their options – to continue racing or to head for a safe haven on the NSW coast. Others, like the maxi
Marchioness
, had the decision made for them through equipment failure. John Messenger had had trouble slowing his yacht down, even with a No. 4 headsail and three reefs during the morning. They finally came to grief when the baby stay (the baby stay extends from around halfway up the mast to the middle of the foredeck and controls the pumping action of the mast in rough weather) broke. They considered fixing the fitting but after reading the latest weather fax they decided their race was over.
Marchioness
was tacked and steered back towards Sydney.

Grant Wharington had seen a crack develop in the carbon fibre mast of his new yacht,
Wild Thing
, when it nose-dived. Race control was advised at 6.30am that the maxi had retired and was heading for Eden. It was a disappointing result for what had been considered a line honours favourite.

By mid-morning Roger Badham was becoming increasingly concerned. Wilsons Promontory, in Bass Strait and less than 100 miles to the west of the rhumb line, had recorded a wind gust of 92 knots. It reaffirmed his belief that the yachts would be hit with strong winds and terrible seas right off the south-east tip of Gabo Island – the area where the confluence of the currents would be at its worst. He again confirmed that the fiercest conditions would be between 3pm that day and 3am the following morning and predicted that more than half the fleet would be knocked out.

This is Badham’s explanation of how the storm developed:

Intense low pressure systems frequently develop across the waters around eastern Australia and the Sydney to Hobart storm was right up there among the worst of them. This particular low pressure system was a classic text-book development of a “frontal” or “secondary” low pressure system. The original front and associated upper trough and vorticity centre burst up from the Southern Ocean into the western region of the Great Australian Bight on December 23. On Christmas Eve and during Christmas Day the system began to intensify as it became strongly baroclinic – the associated jet stream winds becoming much stronger and wrapping around the whole vorticity centre.

Late on Christmas Day, tell-tale cirrus “leaf” type cloud began to appear on the NE side of the towering cumulus and thunderstorm clouds – these so called “leaf” type clouds indicating strong upper shear and that surface convergence was guaranteed to follow. A low pressure system would develop in 24 to 30 hours, but where? Even at this time, the computer forecast models were not 100 per cent certain on the exact location; it was still most likely to develop just off the Tasmanian coast…most probably between Flinders Island to the north and Maria Island to the south. At no stage, right up to when the low actually began to develop, did any of the models indicate that the low would “spin-up” within Bass Strait, west of the rhumb line.

On Boxing Day, as the race started, the
complex meteorology was unfolding. Only during Boxing Day, as the upper low and vorticity centre entered western Bass Strait, did it become apparent that the surface low was actually going to form in eastern Bass Strait and not off the Tasmanian coast. The surface low pressure system deepened as air aloft was drawn away in the jet stream at a faster rate than the air could feed in at the earth’s surface. The barometer readings over east Bass Strait were already quite low and continued to fall, but at Wilsons Promontory between 3am and 6am on the morning of December 27, the surface pressure fell 8.1hPa in three hours. Good sailors would be aware that such a severe pressure fall heralded Force 10 – or 50 knots of wind speed.

The morning of the 27th over south-east Australia was no normal summer morning. As the cold upper air spread across the highlands of Victoria and NSW snow began to fall; good falls! The computer models gave forecasters exceptionally good guidance on every aspect of this weather system, except for the exact location of where the low was going to develop. With hindsight, the USA global model (the MRF standing for Medium Range Forecast) picked the development many days ahead of time. As far back as December 21, the MRF model output for December 27 indicated that a 986hPa low would develop immediately east of Flinders Island with SW winds of 40 to 45 knots over eastern Bass Strait. In fact, the MRF model consistently went for this development, while the other major models were much more uncertain in both the timing and position of the
developing low pressure system. It is certainly unusual for such an intense and rapid development to take place over Bass Strait during December, so it was logical for forecasters to expect the actual location (of development) to be further south. It is useful to gain an insight into how the forecasters can be lulled into false thinking. For the two week period leading up to Christmas, the ECMWF (European global model) had been the preferred model on nearly every day but in the days leading up to the race, this model did not offer consistent guidance with the low pressure system. Both the GASP (Australia) and ECMWF models showed that the development would be weaker and more likely to be east or sou’east of Tasmania and certainly not the intense system that actually developed over eastern Bass Strait.

John Quinn, the man who was rescued after spending five hours in a horribly turbulent and storm-ravaged ocean off the NSW coast in the 1993 race, decided that he and his crew aboard
Polaris
would seek shelter and see what developed before deciding to continue or retire. Quinn was a veteran of 17 Sydney to Hobart races.

“We knew before the start that we were going to get a little bit of a blow. Initially we were talking about 30 to 45 knots, but as we went south the expectations went up to 45 to 55. We’d had a good run down the coast on the first day with a good set [current] behind us. The old
Polaris
was going like a bloody bullet actually. We were being pushed a bit out to sea probably because the set had a bit of an easterly component. After the front came
in we changed to two reefs in the main and a No. 4 jib. We were just slightly ‘sprung’ because I was sailing higher than course. I really wanted to be back on the rhumb line or just inside it by the time we got to Gabo.

“I suppose the wind was maxing out at a little bit above 30 knots at that stage. We ran the weather fax which gave us a prognosis for 11am the next day and immediately saw it had changed a lot from the previous day’s prognosis. It showed a low in the same position, but instead of being at 990hPa it was down at 984hPa. I just said to the guys, ‘Oh shit, this is not good. This is another ‘93. There’s going to be a lot of damage tonight’. The fax just showed this bloody tight little bloody eyeball, down at 984, just squashed between a high and the land. In reality it looked as if it was going to be a bit worse than ‘93. I added only one comment, ‘We’re going for shelter’. I passed the weather fax around, and there was nobody who disagreed.”

Quinn knew the best option was to tack the yacht and aim it directly at the coast. A bay just south of Eden was the eventual target. The new course meant
Polaris
was sailing away from the low toward hopefully better conditions, after which they would continue on to Hobart. Quinn had been enjoying a race within a race as there were two sisterships to
Polaris
competing – Tony Mowbray’s
Solo Globe Challenger
and Peter Heanley’s
Ruff N Tumble
, both from Lake Macquarie, north of Sydney. They were fibreglass Cole 43 designs – sweetly proportioned 43-foot yachts that were around 20 years old. Mowbray, a sailmaker from Newcastle, had once owned
Polaris.
In 1984 he sailed it non-stop around Australia with one other crew “just for the heck of it”. It was a 54-day voyage.

He had bought
Solo Globe Challenger
in Melbourne six months before the Hobart race but at that stage had
no intention of competing. His goal was considerably greater – to set sail in October 1999 on a single-handed non-stop odyssey around the world. He planned to follow the course taken by Australia’s Kay Cottee in 1988 and intended to use the voyage to raise money for the local John Hunter Children’s Hospital. While he was preparing the yacht friends suggested he enter the Sydney to Hobart and offered to help with the substantial financial requirements. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

The yacht’s rig came out for five weeks and was completely rebuilt to the standard required for the circumnavigation. In the end the engineering specifications far exceeded what the average Hobart race could dish up. Mowbray decided to combine experience and youth in the race crew. His mentor, Bobby Snape, who was to make this his 23rd trip south, was his first choice for the team of eight.

“We weren’t going out there with guns ablaze and trying to win,” said Mowbray. “We were going to have a go, for sure, but really we we’re only just in there to make up the numbers. At the same time I spent a lot of time getting the boat ready because I’m not the sort of person that goes to sea undercooked.”

After a great run down the coast that saw them ahead of their arch rivals, the
Solo Globe Challenger
crew were justly content. Early on Sunday morning, when the breeze started to clock around to the north and north west, they gybed the yacht and headed back inshore to maximise their advantage. Mowbray noticed the wind strength was beginning to fluctuate. Towards the end of the morning, they were south east of Gabo Island, approximately 30 miles into Bass Strait and had done a respectable 210 miles in 25 hours.

Rob Kothe and the crew of
Sword of Orion
had been closely monitoring two concerns overnight and into the morning of the 27th – the crease in their mast and the weather. Kothe found weather analysis and application very satisfying. It was a bit like reading a good book – the more you got into it the more you enjoyed it. He was using the SatCom C unit and weather fax and was keeping close tabs on the reports on the radio channels. When the wind began to move towards the north then north west around midnight, they dumped the spinnaker and went to a poled-out No. 3 headsail. The best current was along the edge of the continental shelf and by 2 or 3am they were still making good time. When the wind started to move towards the west then south west early in the morning, they went to a double reef sail.

At around 3am a problem was discovered aboard
Sword of Orion
– bananas! Young crewmember Sam Hunt was rummaging through the galley looking for a snack when he found them.

“Superstition on ‘The Sword’ says you don’t have bananas aboard,” said Kothe. “Sam decided they were the reason for our start line ‘bingle’ with
Nokia
– so he made us eat all the bananas. Then he discovered a banana cake! That was just as bad as having bananas, so he made us eat all the banana cake because we didn’t need any more bad luck. There we were, all sitting around stuffing ourselves with bananas then banana cake. As it turned out it would be the last solid meal we’d eat for quite a while. We were all fuelled up.”

As
Sword of Orion
sailed into a rugged grey dawn Kothe was listening on the radio to the Bass Strait oil rigs reporting their weather conditions. He started to hear 987hPa as a barometric pressure reading and called Eden Coastguard and asked them what was happening in their vicinity. As the winds increased in strength, the crew
continued to reduce sail but still had no thoughts of retiring. The wind was then starting to top 40 knots. The fast-flowing east-coast current and wild waves coming in from the west were starting to collide. There was no doubt that the yachts in the middle to back of the fleet would be the ones that would feel the full force of the blow.