Into the Storm (8 page)

T
he
Rambler
was free of the crowd, but the water in the first hours of the race was, as Bob put it, “disturbed.” There were waves going in every direction. The confused sea state had nothing to do with the racing boats but rather an obstacle created by the topography of the coast. The sheer cliffs created a backwash that made sailing difficult for everyone, and especially for a tiny boat.

In spite of the rough water,
AFR Midnight Rambler
rounded the Z Mark, made a sharp right, and headed due south. The rhumb line—the most direct course to Tasmania—was 185 degrees on the compass, and no more maneuvering would be required except to compensate for the wind.
A few days from now
, Bob thought,
we'll be drinking Cascade Lager in Hobart
. He had no idea what a wonderful sight Tasmania would be—all they had to do was get there.

With a predicted nor'easter that afternoon, they knew the boat would accelerate throughout the day, especially once they could hoist
the kite
—the big spinnaker that would enable them to catch the wind. In the meantime, they headed away from shore, pointing as directly into the wind as the boat could sail. By midafternoon their new spinnaker was flying high and the
Rambler
was rapidly moving down the coast. Once again, seemingly out of nowhere, another pleasure boat appeared. This time was even more infuriating. The boat was motoring and adorned with bikini-clad passengers who were out for a good time in the sun.

The rules of the road are very clear in this situation: A sailing vessel always has the right-of-way, regardless of whose bikinis are on deck. Oblivious to any concerns about rules of the road, the spectator boat nearly crashed into the
Rambler
. Angry shouts were exchanged as passengers on the cruiser spilled their martinis and the Ramblers made sarcastic comments. A furious Arthur nearly climbed over the railing to board the other vessel, shouting, “What the hell? Do you have the IQ of a jellyfish?” Then, as quickly as it had begun, the encounter was over.

There was so much free-floating adrenaline on the boat that no one could sleep. Jonno and Mix went below to get some rest, collapsing on the taut polyethylene berths, out of the sun. But Bob's work had just begun. He had charted a course to a point near Jervis Bay about 100 miles south of Sydney. But as always, there was a trade-off. They wanted to sail offshore to the East Australian Current so they could take advantage of the “oceanic conveyer belt.” But they didn't want to waste time sailing unnecessary miles. Bob's plan was to strike just the right balance.

For once, the presence of one of the maxis was a help, not a burden. The navigator on one of the faster boats had the same idea of finding an optimal course, and the big boat zipped past them. Eventually it disappeared, but Ed steered toward its huge sail until the maxi gradually faded from view over the horizon.

Hour by hour, the Ramblers began to understand just what their new boat could do. Although their last boat was 5 feet longer, they were moving much faster than in previous years. Unbelievably, they were now almost keeping up with rivals that would've left them far behind in other races. Even Bruce Taylor's brand-new
Chutzpah
—a larger and more high-tech boat—was within reach. Crew morale skyrocketed. The boat was everything they had hoped for.

As the crew settled into their racing routine, giving Ed a break was the first priority. He had been at the helm steering since well before the start—through the melee in Sydney Harbour, and now down the coast for a long stretch. Arthur took over, steering for three hours or so. Mix followed suit before sunset. They were sailing smoothly, still with the large black spinnaker up, and conditions were improving every minute.

The speed of the wind is a fundamental consideration in sailing, but the significance of wind direction is not quite so obvious. Boats can't sail directly into the wind, but a really good boat can sail at an angle of 20 to 30 degrees to either side. As the wind swings more toward 90 degrees—directly to the left or right—handling becomes easier and speeds increase dramatically. Most boats don't respond well when the wind comes directly behind them, but an ideal wind comes at an angle from the tear—say, 45 degrees to either side. This perfect direction is precisely what evolved as the day progressed.

AFR Midnight Rambler
was screaming down the coast of New South Wales. Combining weather predictions and their current pace, Bob figured that they would make it to the Bass Strait by the next afternoon. This would be a spectacular run for the 35-foot sailboat, about 260 miles in one day.

By dusk the nor'easter was building and growing stronger. It continued to rotate until it was finally blowing directly behind the boat. This made steering
AFR Midnight Rambler
even more challenging. Keeping the boat on course required intense focus and constant adjustment of the tiller. Two hours at the helm was all that anyone could take. As they did earlier, the Ramblers continued to share the load, rotating those responsible for steering the boat.

They were flying down the coast at an ever-increasing rate. The wind was at their back, they were in the East Australian Current, and the combined forces were driving them south. It was all good. And the 4-knot current, along with the northerly breeze, created another advantage. The wind and current flattened the seas, so the
Rambler
had a clear runway to Tasmania.

With the strong wind and level surface,
AFR Midnight Rambler
took off like a Jet Ski as it flew across the water. As the bow cut through the ocean, streams of white water shot into the air on either side. A huge rooster tail of water spewed out the back of the boat, and everyone on the crew was grinning from ear to ear. It was the most exhilarating sailing that they had ever done.

The speed of the new boat was amazing. They were doing over 22 knots. It was a surreal experience, as they sailed into the pitch-black night. There were thunderstorms with lightning everywhere. Jonno was hypnotized by nature's light show and by the sensation of the boat traveling so fast.
We're just smokin'
, he said to himself.

They had never sailed the new boat in heavy weather like this, and part of the excitement was wondering what would happen next. With the wind from behind and the spinnaker out front, the bow of the
Rambler
began to dive into the water. They realized that they would need to put weight in the stern of the boat to keep the nose out of the water and the rudder in the water. It was quite a picture: six crew lined up in the rear of the boat, with one continuous smile, ear-to-ear and face-to-face. “This is awesome,” yelled Chris.

The coastal communities of Ulladulla and Batemans Bay flew by, and the boat was proving eminently steerable. In just under twenty-four hours, they were south of Gabo Island, after a “rollicking spinnaker run.” As exciting as the start was, there was nothing more exhilarating than going that fast in calm seas and being in complete control. That is, in control most of the time.

There were points at which Ed felt control slipping away. With his exceptional ability as a helmsman, Ed could almost always make small corrections that would stabilize the boat. But twice, even his remarkable seamanship didn't work and their knife-edge sailing turned into a broach.

When a sailboat broaches, it violently turns into the wind and flips onto its side. It's like an automobile that suddenly stops, throwing the passengers forward. Anyone on deck needs to swim, hang on, and scramble to avoid getting washed under the rails. People below are thrown out of their berths or pinned to the side of the boat that has suddenly become the floor.

Broaching can be an extraordinarily disruptive and frightening experience, and especially for an unprepared crew. But the Ramblers knew that broaches would likely occur, and they had faith that the boat would recover. As Ed pumped the tiller—the stick that controls the rudder—the crew watched calmly as he shook
AFR Midnight Rambler
back onto her feet.

Everyone moved back into their positions, and minutes after the broach,
AFR Midnight Rambler
was racing again. They were not only recovering quickly, but they were doing it at night.
All that practicing in the dark is paying off
, thought Gordo.
Onward and upward!

There was no serious damage, but Ed realized they needed to put up a smaller sail with the increasing wind. They would still use a spinnaker, but now they would use a smaller one designed for storm conditions. Seconds after Ed shouted the familiar command “All hands on deck!,” Arthur scrambled through the hatch onto the deck.

Eager to answer Ed's call, Arthur didn't stop to put on his wet-weather gear. He climbed onto the deck just as the boat flew down one wave and straight into the back of the next. The
Rambler
was submerged, and Arthur was saturated from head to toe. With no spare clothing, he would stay encrusted with brine until they arrived in Hobart.

With the storm spinnaker up,
AFR Midnight Rambler
was roaring down the waves. The sound of the wind and water was deafening, but their new boat was showing her stuff. They broached a second time, but once again the boat took the punishment and recovered, as if to say,
There's plenty left in me!
It was clear to everyone that they had a tough little craft. They were pressing the limits of the boat and the team, and both were passing the test.

A
FR Midnight Rambler
was flying down the coast, but
Sayonara
was far ahead. With Ellison at the helm, the Big Yank Tank made a spectacular showing with its name emblazoned in kanji script on its spinnaker. George Snow on
Brindabella
was close behind, but there was no question about who was leading the fleet. There were 114 boats in
Sayonara's
wake.

Big puffs of wind would hit the sail, lifting up
Sayonara
and propelling her through the water, creating excitement and adrenaline for everyone, but especially for Ellison. Then it happened. An incredibly strong gust of wind ruptured the sail. The chute was gone—ripped to pieces, taking
Sayonara's
lead with it.

While Ellison's world-class sailors were hoisting a new and smaller spinnaker,
Brindabella
caught up to
Sayonara
and took the lead. Ellison saw his victory escaping and wondered whether the blown sail was his fault. If he had turned the boat a few degrees, could he have saved the chute? He concluded he had been sailing the boat at too high an angle, putting too much pressure on the spinnaker. Thinking he may have been getting tired, he decided he should relinquish the wheel to a professional. Brad Butterworth, who had been Team New Zealand's winning tactician, took over the helm.

Once again
Sayonara
took the lead, and the big maxi was moving close to 20 knots. Ellison was looking back, checking his distance from
Brindabella
, when he heard another explosion. It was the sound of another sail blowing apart.
What the hell was happening?
The wind was gusting to 30 knots, and increasing. They decided to fall back on their sail of last resort—the smallest, strongest, mini spinnaker. This one was indestructible. It was so strong that Ellison was sure the mast would give way before the sail.

Ellison got back on the wheel, alternating driving with Butterworth.
Sayonara
was hitting extraordinary speeds of22, 24, then 26 knots. A pace like that was unheard of for a boat this size, and
Sayonara
seemed on its way to setting a new race record. In twelve hours they had gone twice as far as the previous record set by Ellison's rival, Hasso Plattner, in 1996. That was the good news.
The bad news
, thought Ellison, was
Why the f—k are we going 26 knots?

Ellison's question was immediately followed by an extraordinary blast of wind. It hit
Sayonara
with tremendous force, so hard that it appeared to destroy the indestructible spinnaker. Ellison was dumbfounded.
That's impossible
, he thought,
the sail is unbreakable
. It couldn't be happening.

Ellison was right. The sail didn't break, but the pole that held it to the mast had come apart and was thrashing around. The force of the wind was so great that the metal fitting for the high-tech carbon spinnaker pole had failed. A three-quarter-inch metal alloy thread had been dislodged from the pole with incredible force. Ellison speculated that the wind power must have been around 100,000 pounds.
¹
Now what?

Conditions were changing. The wind that had been blowing from behind was now swinging to their side, so they gave up on the spinnaker. With their remarkable speed,
Sayonara
had almost reached the Bass Strait. Now they had to deal with the familiar southerly buster, a well-known weather occurrence for boats sailing south to Tasmania. The wind rotated from northeast to southeast, and
Sayonara
was sailing as closely hauled, or as directly into the wind, as its advanced design would allow.

As they entered the Strait's shallow water, things got dramatically worse. The flat-backed waves crashed against the bow of the boat, and Ellison struggled to maintain course. The rain and salt spray hit him in the face. It felt like being stabbed with an ice pick.

To Ellison, the faces of 25-foot waves looked like rows of three-story glass office buildings. This was different than the ‘95 race, and this time it was not feeling as cool to be doing the Hobart.
It's a lot worse than last time
, thought Ellison,
but I can do it.
²

Still, the wind continued to build. There was blackness everywhere. The sky was black, the ocean was black, and the horizon was nonexistent. Most of the waves were now obscured by rain and spray, but the waves that Ellison could see were huge. As he steered up the walls of water, the wind would increase dramatically when he reached the top.

Just as Ellison tried to turn the boat toward the wind to adjust,
Sayonara
would slide down into the trough of the wave. In the valleys between the waves, the wind speed would drop and the boat's angle to the wind had to be adjusted again. It was a helmsman's nightmare, especially for an amateur.

Ellison could see almost nothing, and the instruments were no help. Butterworth was trying to help by shouting instructions, but it was no use. After repeated tries, Ellison was beaten. He screamed, “I can't do it, Brad! Take it! Take it! You take it!” Butterworth grabbed the helm. Ellison felt defeated. Less than a day into the race, he felt overwhelmed and routed by the Southern Ocean. He had wanted to find his limits, and he found them in the Bass Strait.

While Ellison was lamenting his limitations as a sailor, the horrific conditions suddenly took a turn for the better. The wind dropped to a much more manageable 10 knots. The waves were still Bass Strait monsters, but the sky, stars, and the horizon had reappeared. Relieved, Ellison relaxed, thinking they were now safe on the other side of the brutal front that had gotten the best of him.

His confidence back, Ellison was ready to race again. But their small storm sails were still up, and
Sayonara
was moving slowly. Ellison was eager to get the big sails up and get moving. Butterworth was more cautious, but the two finally reached a compromise. They would hoist the big jib—the triangular sail forward of the mast—but leave the smaller mainsail in position. With that resolved, at 3 a.m. on Sunday, Ellison went below to check the weather.

Like most of the larger ocean racing boats,
Sayonara's
navigation station was crammed back in the rear of the boat. Ellison made his way to the cramped bench where Mark Rudiger, the boat's navigator, was sitting. Rudiger was intently studying the satellite images that were slowly appearing on his computer screen. Line by line, images appeared, starting with the Australian coast and finally filling the screen to
Sayonara's
, position.

Ellison was once again dumbfounded. What he saw appeared to be an enormous cloud formation, rotating clockwise. It looked like a target, and
Sayonara
was right in the bull's-eye. Ellison asked Rudiger if he had seen this pattern before. There was no response. Rudiger just stared at the screen, shaking his head. Ellison kept talking. “Well, I have. It was on the Weather Channel. It was called Hurricane Helen! We're in the middle of a f—ing hurricane!”

Above deck, Ellison heard Butterworth screaming for the crew to get the big jib down. In less than a minute, the wind had gone from a leisurely 10 knots to more than 50. What Ellison had thought was a passing front was actually the eye of a massive storm.