Into the Storm (9 page)

T
he computer weather models used by Bureau of Meteorology forecasters were a veritable alphabet soup. There was the ECMWF model, created by the European Center for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts; the JMA model, from the Japan Meteorological Agency; and the LAPS, from The Australian Limited Area Prediction System. Another Bureau model with higher resolution was the MESO-LAPS. The U.K. global model was UKMO, while the U.S. model was called, simply, US. Finally, there was the Global Assimilation and Prediction model—appropriately called GASP.

Even with all these advanced systems, prior to the start of the race there was no consensus about exactly what was going to happen. Computer modeling of the atmosphere had improved since the development of the first operational systems more than forty years ago, but it is still an inexact science. On December 23, three days before the race, the computer models were forecasting a wide range of expected weather patterns. The European model was forecasting moderate to “fresh” northeasterly winds around Gabo Island at the entrance to the Bass Strait. Other models predicted winds of around 25 to 40 knots from the south.

The next day, the European model forecast southwesterly winds of about 30 knots, not “fresh” northeasterly winds. Other models, including GASP, were suggesting light and variable winds. By Friday, Christmas Day, the models were beginning to agree that a low-pressure system would develop over the Tasman Sea, but they disagreed about its exact location.

There did seem to be some consensus that the winds would be from the south or southwest, with wind speeds between 15 and 30 knots, but significant differences remained. As late as the early morning hours on Saturday, the highest prediction for wind speed was about 35 to 40 knots, with the most detailed LAPS model forecasting a moderate 25.

Around 8 a.m. Saturday, a meteorologist named Peter Dunda examined the latest satellite photographs taken the night before and compared them with the computer model generated by the supercomputer at the Bureau's headquarters.

The forecaster wasn't surprised by the appearance of the
southerly buster
that was common for the Hobart. But he was concerned about a low-pressure area that seemed to be forming east of the Bass Strait. While most of the fleet would be safely out of the way of the system, boats at its perimeter could encounter very strong winds.

About an hour later, Dunda issued a
priority gale warning
to race organizers. He also posted the warning on the website and other public systems, and predicted that winds of 30 to 40 knots would strike the southeast coast of Australia by Sunday night. Shortly before the race began—and unbeknownst to many sailors—that prediction changed.

Around noon, all the global models reached consensus. They were forecasting the development of a deep low that would bring southwesterly winds of about 45 knots—near the high end of the gale force range. And at 1 p.m., precisely the start of the race, the high-resolution MESO-LAPS model predicted westerly winds of 55 knots. The storm would be centered directly on the path that the fleet would be following into the Bass Strait. With the latest computer data, it looked as if the American model—characterized as “bullish” by Clouds Badham—was going to prove right. This was going to be more than a gale.

Forecasters from the Bureau of Meteorology watched the start of the race on television, and they were worried. At 2:14 p.m. on the 26th, just over an hour into the race, the Sydney Bureau office upgraded the
gale warning
to a
storm warning
. This meant that the average wind speeds would be 45 to 55 knots. There were 115 boats sailing into the storm, and if the fleet was caught in these winds without warning, the Bureau would look very bad.

An alert was transmitted by fax to Australia's marine broadcast service, commercial radio and television stations, the Royal Australian Navy, and the Cruising Yacht Club. Beyond the official warnings, some Bureau forecasters took it upon themselves to spread the word.

Meteorologist Kenn Batt had friends in the race, and he was so upset that he became physically ill. Batt understood what the forecast could mean. He had done the 1993 Hobart and had encountered some of the worst weather conditions in the history of the race. That year, only 38 of 104 boats made it to Hobart. And as bad as the weather was in ‘93, this storm looked significantly worse.

Fearing that the race could turn into a “massacre,” Batt and his colleague Brett Gage, though off duty, continued to sound the alarm, contacting Australian Search and Rescue.
The worst that could happen
, thought Gage,
would be a false alarm and interrupted holidays for rescue personnel
. The alternative would be exposure to enormous criticism if the Bureau failed to predict a perilous weather event.

The forecasters had issued a
priority storm warning
, but meteorologists have a technical language that can be very confusing to the uninitiated. According to the Australian Bureau of Meteorology, a
gale warning
is issued for average wind speeds between 34 and 47 knots. A
storm warning
is issued for wind speeds in excess of 48 knots.

Hurricane warnings
apply to average wind speeds in excess of 63 knots. But in 1998, the term
hurricane
was not used for the waters off southeastern Australia. A
storm warning
was the highest level of alert, and storms were considered to be open-ended. The minimum speeds would average more than 48 knots, but the maximum speeds experienced during a storm warning could be anything above that.

Experts at the Bureau of Meteorology were familiar with these distinctions, but many sailors were not. Those who had done the Hobart before knew that big waves—and high, gusty winds—were part of the package. The label put on bad weather didn't make that much difference.

In fact, a number of sailors thought that the
gale warning
issued earlier sounded more extreme than the
storm warning
sent after the start of the race. And few realized that they could encounter
maximum gusts up to 40 percent greater
than the predicted average wind speeds. With the
storm warning
, gusts of 70 knots—more than 80 miles an hour—were to be expected. A storm warning at sea is a frightening forecast, even if the full danger was not well understood by many racers.

The sailors' difficulty in comprehending the weather was further complicated by the complexity of the sea state predictions. Again, more arcane terminology. The term
wind waves
refers to waves generated by local prevailing winds, but the term
swell waves
refers to waves generated by winds from a distant weather system.
Sea state
is the combination of both.

Forecasts of waves also vary according to their location. Coastal wave forecasts are given in meters and use phrases such as
significant wave height
—the average height of the highest one-third of the waves. Forecasts for the high seas use descriptive terms such as
slight, moderate
, and
rough
. Sailors would need a separate table to relate these descriptive terms to the heights they represent. And to clearly understand the forecast, they would need to know that—in open water—a wave of 1.86 times the significant wave height can be expected in every 1,000 waves.

During the race, the storm warning for coastal waters predicted wave heights of about 13 to 23 feet. Storm warnings for the high seas mentioned “rough” seas and “moderate to heavy” swells, which could be expected to result in a combined significant wave height of 23 feet. This meant that individual waves almost twice that size could be expected. And that was not the worst of it.

Sustained winds blowing over open water create patterns that converge in unpredictable ways. Monstrous waves—described as
kings, freaks
, or
rogues
—are created when wind waves, or swell waves, or a combination, join to create a massive wall of water. These rogues can be much, much higher than 1.86 times the predicted wave height. And a boat caught by one of these freak waves can easily be rolled or dismasted.

Sailors who could assemble all the pieces of the weather puzzle would face a menacing forecast. The fleet could expect to be hit with winds of more than 70 knots and waves almost 43 feet high. Boats could be exposed to other waves that were higher than 43 feet, and these rogue waves would arrive unexpectedly. Confronted with this intimidating scenario, a racer might decide to turn back to shore. But to fully grasp what might happen, a sailor would need to have received the updated weather forecast, understood the implications of a
storm warning
, and be able to process the torrent of information and put the puzzle together.

Sayonara
was equipped with fax machines, computers, and state-of-the-art technology. Not only did Ellison and his crew receive the storm warning, they could also see the cyclonic weather pattern taking shape on the screen in front of their eyes. And they had a secret weapon: Clouds Badham. He saw the maelstrom unfolding and alerted Ellison and his other clients.

AFR Midnight Rambler
had no such warning. Bob Thomas had returned from the weather briefing before the race knowing only that it was going to be a bad blow. But that was nothing new for the Hobart. In the afternoon and early evening the Ramblers had been treated to an extraordinary electrical storm with lightning and thunder, but they were streaking south and were relatively unconcerned about the weather.

At 8 p.m., Bob was first alerted to the deteriorating weather during the first race
sked
. Skeds—short for “schedules”—are check-ins designed to establish the position of each boat. Boats are required to report their positions in alphabetical order, indicating their latitude and longitude.

The
storm warning
broadcast during the sked essentially reinforced what Bob already knew: The next day was not going to be pretty. A prefrontal trough, or small front, would pass that evening, and the next day after lunchtime they would be getting into the main storm.

Boats were allowed to transmit only their positions during the sked, though Bob did hear a number of colorful comments on the radio. It was obvious that
AFR Midnight Rambler
wasn't the only boat heading into what everyone knew would be white-knuckle sailing.

Almost all the boats were making great time, but some were dropping out.
ABN Amro
, a favorite to win the Tattersall's Cup, retired from the race with rudder damage and was headed for Batemans Bay. An hour later,
Sledgehammer
reported a broken steering cable and dropped out. An hour after that,
Challenge Again
—one of the best sailing yachts in Australia with two-time Hobart winner Lou Abrahams—lost a man overboard. It took the crew fifteen tense minutes, but they finally succeeded in retrieving the lost sailor alive. While the
Challenge Again
rescue effort was going on, the yacht
Sydney
reported rudder damage and pulled out of the race.

It was only the first day of the race, but the weather was taking its toll on the yachts. Some 1,100 sailors were headed to Hobart, boats were starting to retire, and this was just the beginning.

I
n the south, an upper air jet stream and cold air mass were moving northward. At the same time, a low-pressure system was forming and strengthening in the Bass Strait, just below Wilsons Promontory—the southernmost point of land on the Australian continent. The front was cold enough to leave snow in its tracks, and it gave the Australian Alps an unseasonable dusting of white. The low was still in its infancy, but it was swiftly maturing. Meandering north and deepening, it would soon shift east to greet the Hobart fleet the following day.

No Retreat for the
Rambler

The first front hit the
Midnight Rambler
at 3 a.m. on the 27th. The wind, about 40 knots, had come in with tremendous intensity. And it felt different.
It even tastes different
, Jonno thought. They were so close to land that they could smell the shore.

The Ramblers had gone from sailing with the wind at their backs—scooting down the coast with exhilarating fun—to a hard slog with the wind on their nose. They knew it would be tough, but the shifting wind direction was not a showstopper. In fact, Arthur thought the frontal system was a stroke of good fortune. It helped get the crew organized and provided a shakedown for the new boat. There were some equipment issues, but these “teething problems” got sorted out with the first blast of wind.

During the initial onslaught, Arthur saw Jonno up on the bow struggling to untangle one of the snarled lines. He ran forward to help. The job wasn't easy, and they were fighting the jumble of lines while being drenched by waves breaking over the bow. It was a tenuous situation. Partly submerged, they held onto the boat with one arm, while the other arm was dedicated to untangling the mess.

Deluged by a constant stream of waves, they were miserable yet connected by a bond of friendship and teamwork. Looking at Arthur, Jonno was struck by the irony of their situation. He shouted over the wind, yelling with a grin, “Artie, it's a strange world when yesterday morning you were in the drought-stricken outback of Australia, and now we're being drowned in the Tasman Sea.”

With the wind shifting to the southwest,
AFR Midnight Rambler
was now sailing as directly into the wind as they possibly could. It wasn't a perfect course to Tasmania, but it was good enough. They were on their way to Hobart.

At 9 a.m. on Sunday, average winds of 79 knots, with gusts over 92, were observed at Wilsons Promontory Lighthouse. The lighthouse observations were made at an elevation of over 300 feet, so winds on the water may have been somewhat lower. But winds of 79 knots were rare, and they occurred only during the winter. The readings were enough to send Clouds Badham on a search of his records. In over twenty years of forecasting, he had never seen gusts over 92 knots.

At 11 a.m. the Ramblers were amazed to see Gabo Island at the entrance to the Bass Strait. It had taken them only twenty-two hours, which was extraordinary for a boat the size of theirs. The crew was excited about having made record time, and the weather was changing for the better.

Ed was relieved.
That's it, the Bureau was wrong. It's all over
. The Bureau of Meteorology was often wrong. The sun was shining, and the breeze had died. On the surface, everything looked fantastic. But Bob was uneasy.

There was something about the wind that he didn't like. Twice in his life, and in almost exactly the same spot, Bob had been caught in storms that resulted in fatalities. The wind had been the same both times. It was just like this wind. Bob had no way of knowing what was going to happen, but his sixth sense told him that there was something evil about the wind. It seemed to portend tragedy.

After plowing through 40-knot winds all night,
AFR Midnight Rambler
was now almost stalled. Arthur looked at his brother with relief. “I think we're through the worst of the front. We're going to be okay.” Amazed by the light breeze, Ed called for a big headsail to get the boat going again. But ten minutes later, even before they had time to get the new sail up, the wind started to build.

The onset was sudden and it came with no apparent warning. Clouds on the horizon that had looked ominous at a distance were suddenly on top of them. The rain was coming down hard, and the storm had an extraordinary ferocity. Faced with this new front, Ed was relieved that they hadn't been able to hoist the sail. It would've been ripped to shreds. No one had ever seen anything like this before.

Arthur was in the cockpit calling out the wind speeds from the digital readout of the anemometer: “25 knots, 30 knots, 35 knots, 40 knots, 45 knots, 50 knots.” As the boat was rolling onto its side, Arthur saw the digital readout go blank. He was confused. The instrument goes up to well over 100 knots, so it shouldn't just go blank.

As Arthur looked up at the top of the mast, he realized what had happened. The wind had ripped the anemometer completely off, shearing the metal fittings that secured it. Wind instruments don't just blow off the top of masts, and ten minutes earlier he had been saying that they were through the worst of it. As
AFR Midnight Rambler
was flattened by the wind, Arthur thought to himself,
No one is going to ask me for an opinion on weather forecasting ever again!
¹

AFR Midnight Rambler
was on its side and could not seem to recover. Like the loss of the anemometer, it made no sense. To qualify for the Hobart race, boats were required to have a minimum
righting angle
of 115 degrees. That meant that the boat needed to be able to rotate 25 degrees past horizontal with its mast in the water and still be able to recover.

AFR Midnight Rambler
had a righting angle of 122 degrees, and it was exceptionally stable. But the boat was being held down by the sail, which still ran to the top of the mast. The crew needed to get the sail down quickly to get rid of its massive weight, and they moved with characteristic discipline. Using the routine they had practiced time and again, they sat on the side of the boat and calmly rolled up the mainsail.

AFR Midnight Rambler
popped upright, solving the immediate problem, but they had other decisions to make. They could replace the main with a specialized sail called a
storm trysail
, a small sail designed for heavy weather conditions. The trysail was much smaller than the main, but it would provide stability and some forward movement and control.

Getting a storm trysail up isn't easy, even in gale force winds. The winds buffeting
AFR Midnight Rambler
were worse than gale force, and the rapid onset of the storm allowed no time for preparation.
It doesn't matter
, Ed thought.
Even the storm trysail is too much sail for these conditions
. Out of options, they raised the storm jib. It was the smallest sail they had. There was no further retreat from the wind.

Sword
's Warning

The third sked of the race began at 2:05 p.m. One by one, boats reported their positions in alphabetical order until it was
Sword of Orion's
turn. The
Sword
, about 20 miles ahead of
AFR Midnight Rambler
, had been experiencing wind speeds around 50 knots, gusting to more than 70.

Rob Kothe,
Sword's
owner, was below deck glued to the navigation table, trying to understand what was happening with the weather. Kothe had been engaged in a running argument with Steve Kulmar, who was convinced that the boat should pull out of the race. Kulmar had been in seventeen Hobarts, and he had never seen anything like this before. Even his experience in the '93 race was different. Wind gusts had hit 75 to 80 knots, but there were breaks in the weather and the waves were nothing like this.

Kothe remained unconvinced, and the crew was divided. Dags Senogles wanted to continue, and he urged Kothe to overrule Kulmar. Kulmar was furious at the thought that the decision about whether or not to retire might be made by an owner who had done one Hobart and a relatively inexperienced crew member.

At the beginning of the sked, Kothe had hoped that he would get more clarity about the weather from the Bureau of Meteorology. He also wanted to hear from the maxis, which were already in the Bass Strait.

His hopes were not realized. Boats reported their positions, but no substantial weather information was broadcast. By the time Kothe's turn came, however, he had made a decision. Speaking on the radio with Lew Carter, who was coordinating the skeds from the radio relay vessel,
Young Endeavor
, Kothe stated he wanted to breach protocol. Rather than simply state his position, Kothe wanted permission to report on the weather.

Carter authorized the departure from normal radio procedure.
“Sword of Orion
, I would appreciate that for ourselves and all the fleet, over.”

Kothe's response was astonishing: “We have 50 to 65 knot westerlies with gusts to 78 knots, over.”

Astounded, Carter asked Kothe to confirm the wind speed: “Gusts of 78 knots?”

“78 knots,” Kothe answered.

Carter repeated the message to the rest of the fleet. He then issued a startling request: “I ask all skippers, before proceeding into the Bass Strait or wherever you're proceeding, to give it your utmost consideration as to what you're doing. And talk about it with your crew.”

The
Rambler—
Man Down

Just as the
Sword
's warning was being broadcast to the fleet, Chris Rockell and Mix Bencsik were below deck on the
Midnight Rambler
. They were preparing to go on watch, and Mix was sitting down, putting his trousers on. Because quarters were so cramped, Chris was standing up, trying to do the same.

As Chris balanced on one leg, the boat fell off an enormous wave. With nothing to hold him down, Chris floated through the air “with as much dignity as he could muster” and cracked his head on a bolt that was holding a fitting on the deck. Chris struck the bolt with so much force that a loud crack resonated throughout the boat.

Chris wasn't sure whether the crack was caused by the boat giving a little bit—or by his skull giving a little bit. Intent on finding which was which, he was nervous to touch his head. He had no idea if he was going to touch “hard or squishy.”

There was blood everywhere. It was running down Chris' head and spilling onto the deck of the boat and into the bilges. He looked at his hands, and they were covered with something grayish white. Chris wasn't sure what it was, but his first thought was,
Bloody hell, I've cracked my skull through and I've gone through to my brain
.

Shaken, Chris turned to Mix and asked, “How bad does this look?” With blood everywhere it looked bad, but, fortunately for everyone, the grayish white substance was probably paint or fiberglass from the boat. In any case, it had nothing to do with Chris' brains.

Mix examined the injury and said calmly, “Look, if it's bleeding that much, why don't you put some pressure on it to at least stop the bleeding?” Recovered from the initial shock, Chris thought that was a reasonable suggestion. They found a first aid kit and applied pressure to the wound. Chris began probing for “squishy bits,” trying to see if there were any holes or dents in his skull. The fact that he didn't find any came as quite a relief, and he began to feel considerably better than he had just a few minutes before.
²

Ed had heard the weather report from
Sword of Orion
and was now faced with the added concern of Chris' injury. He was seriously considering the possibility of pulling out of the race. Chris knew exactly what was going through Ed's mind, but he would have no part of it. This was the second Hobart race that Chris had started, and he hadn't finished the first one. Chris was determined to make it to Hobart.

He pleaded with Ed, arguing that the
Rambler
should not pull out on his account. “I've already done my head check,” he explained, “and I'm sure I don't have any holes in it.” As far as Chris was concerned, it was just a bit of blood, and the injury was survivable. His condition should not be a reason for the boat to pull out of the race. He was, after all, a frontline rugby player and—as Bob often joked—a head injury can't hurt a frontline rugby player.

Chris finally convinced Ed that the
AFR Midnight Rambler
should press on, but there was a condition. Chris would stay below while they evaluated whether he was concussed, and they would continue to monitor his condition. The last thing they needed was someone with a concussion wandering around on deck in these conditions.

Chris agreed to stay below in his bunk, but he made sure that he got in the bunk on the windward side of the boat. Even though he was injured, he thought he could still act as ballast—counteracting the force of the wind that was making the boat heel over. He would position himself where his weight would be of the greatest benefit.

There was a gap between the pipe that made up one side of his berth and the hull of the boat. Seeing the opening, Chris hooked his elbow around one section of the pipe and his knee around another. He stayed in that position for the next seven hours.