All Piss and Wind (22 page)

F
OR MOST
A
USTRALIANS
, ocean racing equals the Sydney to Hobart race. Mention you sail offshore to any new acquaintance and it invariably provokes a question/response sequence that's familiar to everyone in the yachting community.

‘Have you done the Sydney to Hobart race?'

‘Sure, lots of times.'

‘Were you in that really bad one, you know, the one where people got killed?'

‘You mean 1998.'

‘Gee, was it really that long ago?'

‘Yes, it's a while back now, and I'm glad to say that I didn't go south that year. Still sail with a lot of blokes who did, though.'

The conversation then usually dwindles away into the usual mythconceptions and half-hearted remarks about the cost of yachts, seasickness and the incomprehensible appeal of pursuing a sport in which discomfort is guaranteed and death remains a distinct possibility.

‘Oh well, we enjoy it.'

‘Better you than me, mate! But what boat do you sail on? We'll watch out for you next Boxing Day.'

It's hardly surprising that the Sydney–Hobart is the only offshore event to occupy a permanent place in the public mind. The race is a genuine blue-water classic, has been contested for more than 60 years and attracts enormous media attention. (The sheer size and spectacle of the race gives it legitimate news value, but that annual burst of concentrated print and television coverage is also partly motivated by the lack of any other major sporting events in Australia during the week around Christmas.) Nevertheless, the Sydney– Hobart is truly the Melbourne Cup of yachting – a once-every-year festival that generates huge (if short-term) interest among a public that normally wouldn't give the sport a second's thought. And, like the Melbourne Cup, it has – at least until the advent of the 30-knot super-maxis – been an event for stayers, not sprinters.

So what's it really like? Terrific, and terrible. A splendid rite of sailing passage, and a passage of splendid privation and pain. No offshore yachtie considers themselves to have earned a permanent place in the sport until they've completed at least one trip south, yet many never return for a second helping. The regular Sydney– Hobart sailors scoff at these ‘oncers', but secretly we well understand their decision. Only one in six races is ever an easy ride all the way, and the seventh is usually an absolute shocker. But that's not to say that the 25-race veterans – the ‘Hobart Heroes' with their names on the wall at the Cruising Yacht Club in Sydney – are all grizzled old masochists who bash to windward in a pair of tattered King Gee shorts and a torn rugby jersey. In truth, they are often the quiet philosophers of the sport – even-tempered, stoic, deeply experienced and prudent. I did my first Hobart in 1965 and continue to be grateful to all the codgers who've taught me so much about this race over the years. They are the custodians of a cherished tradition that may soon be totally swamped by commercialism. But that's not an issue to canvass here.

A sensible Sydney–Hobart campaign begins many months before Boxing Day. The core of the crew who will be going south should first put in plenty of miles together, including a few overnight sails. To qualify, at least half the crew is now required to have completed a major offshore race or equivalent passage. The boat itself must have ‘substantially' completed a qualifying race of not less than 150 nautical miles within six months of the Sydney–Hobart start. Notwithstanding these requirements imposed by the organising authority, it's simple good seamanship to test out the boat and crew well before the race. Many fine flat-water sailors only discover they're not really cut out for offshore work too late – somewhere off Jervis Bay.

Preparing the boat itself is a long, meticulous process. More than 150 separate items need to be checked off to satisfy the safety audit alone. Have the flares passed their expiry date? Does our hatch-locking system comply with the new regulations? Have we got enough tethers and harnesses? In addition there's a stack of paperwork to prepare and submit, ranging from the Life Raft Inspection Certificate and Verification of Stability documents to signed crew declaration forms and a piece of paper confirming that the boat's EPIRB (Electronic Position Indicating Radio Beacon) is operational. And you aren't going anywhere without first lodging the $500 entry fee.

But it's the practical preparation that consumes most of a crew's pre-race time. Hauling out all the sails, inspecting them for damage and organising the inevitable repairs. Ensuring that the navigational instruments are working properly and have been accurately calibrated. Sending someone up the mast to conduct a thorough check of the rig. Servicing the winches and lubricating every moving part on deck. Assembling the charts required for the passage and return delivery. Conducting the mandatory HF radio signal-strength test with Race Control (and checking that the battery of your backup hand-held VHF radio is fully charged). Topping up the fuel, water
and gas. Buying the provisions for at least five days and pre-cooking the frozen meals that will sustain the crew through the race. Phoning each crewmember on Christmas Eve to check they're still coming – and to urge their wives and girlfriends not to send them down to the boat clutching a cubic metre of home-made fruit cake. We've got
quite
enough food, thanks all the same …

Few boats greet the Boxing Day dawn with everything neatly stowed and no jobs left to do. A last-minute scramble of some kind seems almost compulsory, but wise skippers leave the dock as soon as good manners allow. It quickly settles down a tense crew to be out on the water and free of their final shore-bound concerns. Race rules require every yacht, before the start, to show officials on the committee boat their storm jib and trysail hoisted and properly sheeted. This can be a tiresome chore (particularly repacking those sails), but it's a good way of ensuring that the crew remember where the storm sails are kept, and how to set them.

The minutes tick down to 1300 and the overhead roar of media helicopters begins to build. Many crew grab a quick, simple lunch during this last half hour – ham, cheese and salad rolls is a favourite – so they'll be free to work during the afternoon without the distraction of a growling stomach. This is also the traditional time for everyone to swap handshakes and wish each other good luck for the trip.

‘Have a great one, mate.'

‘Thanks, you too.'

‘Ten minutes!' and things are getting serious. Engines off now, everyone is under sail power. The big boats start their aggressive jostling for the favoured end of the starting line. The noise is now deafening and it's sometimes difficult to even hear the countdown and final gun. ‘We're racing!'

Only the largest boats at the front of the fleet ever get a truly clean start in the Sydney–Hobart. For the rest of us there are so many other boats disturbing our air, and so much wash from spectator craft, that it's usually a struggle to crank the yacht up to even a
reasonable speed. This gets particularly frustrating in light weather or when the fleet has to tack up Sydney Harbour to clear the Heads. First-time yachts with hyped-up crews dash about in all directions, and sometimes, regrettably, the red mist of competitive frenzy descends.

A few years back we were making steady progress up the eastern shore after the start, holding our right-of-way on starboard tack. I was sitting to leeward, keeping a lookout for the skipper. ‘Bloke coming up below you on port tack!' I cried.

‘Tell him to bugger off.'

‘Starboard!' I bellowed, expecting the onrushing lightweight yacht to obey the rules and either tack away or change course to avoid us. But their helmsman didn't alter his heading by a single degree. ‘
STARBOARD!
' I yelled again, a collision now imminent. ‘He's trying to bluff you, skipper. Cut the bastard in half!' (I could suggest this with some confidence as we displaced 13 tons, more than twice the weight of the other yacht.)

‘No, we'll duck his stern. Stand by! Dump the main, ease the genoa, bearing away …' and we did a time-consuming scallop behind the offending yacht, all shaking our fists at their crew and turning the air blue with profanity.

I questioned the skipper. ‘Rather meek and mild of you, boss?'

He cracked a rueful grin. ‘Mate, we haven't come all this way to get involved in a prang five minutes after the gun and be forced to retire.'

I was still trembling with anger. ‘Well, at least we ought to protest!'

‘Nah, couldn't be bothered.'

And he was right. The prospect of having our red protest flag flapping from the backstay for the next 628 nautical miles was too dreary to contemplate. (But there is such a thing as ocean-racing karma. That offending yacht was soon forced to retire with a ripped mainsail and pulled into Twofold Bay.)

After the battle to the Heads, it's a joy to claim some genuine sea room and knuckle down to the days of hard sailing ahead. We're all now anxious for the navigator to calculate what's happening with the current. Normally in summer the ‘set' down the east coast can provide up to two knots of bonus speed. Using data from the instruments and the GPS navigational computer, it doesn't take long to confirm the difference between our raw boatspeed (speed through the water) and actual SOG (speed over the ground). The guesser soon makes his declaration: ‘1.3 knots up our clacker, lads. Go you good thing!'

A curious ritual of the first Sydney–Hobart day is the competition between spectator craft to be the last boat to turn back to Sydney. Some of them accompany the fleet well beyond Botany Bay before heading home. I've always been intrigued by what drives these wannabe wayfarers. Are they trying to prove that they, too, can sail with the best of us? Are they frustrated competitors who don't have the will or resources to enter the race but like to pretend they're part of the event, if only for a few hours? Or were they having a nice day offshore anyway, and just happened to be overtaken by the Sydney–Hobart fleet? Whatever the reasons, they can become a real nuisance as they finally weave their haphazard way north in low sunshine through 50 big yachts all charging in the opposite direction with spinnakers flying.

The Sydney–Hobart is actually four races in one: the dash down the harbour and out the Heads, the sprint south along the NSW coast, the long passage across Bass Strait and down the Tasmanian east coast, and the final stanza from Tasman Island up to the finish in the Derwent River. It's the variety of challenges presented by those four different legs that makes the race unique. Fortunately, the first decent stretch – the sail from South Head to the bottom of Australia's mainland – is usually the easiest. More often than not it's a spinnaker run, or at least a two-sail reach with sheets eased. We reel off the miles down the rhumbline with the comforting sight
of the coast not far off our starboard beam. All too easy.

By early on the second day the Sydney–Hobart ‘virgins' among the crew start mocking the veterans. ‘What's all this rubbish you blokes keep going on with about “the toughest race in the world”? It's a piece of piss!'

Ah, the arrogance of inexperience. ‘Don't count your chickens, boys. We're not even a third of the way. It's a lot longer than you think. Plenty of time yet for us to get caught in a shit-fight.' But life on board is good. Everyone's getting plenty of sleep and food. Before long we're approaching a familiar milestone: 38° south.

Since the 1998 tragedy, a rule in the Sailing Instructions requires each yacht to radio in to the relay vessel within an hour of passing Green Cape, the ‘corner' of the south coast near the NSW/Victoria border that's the accepted departure point for crossing Bass Strait. The skipper must declare that everyone in the crew is fit and happy to continue racing, and that the yacht itself is up to that task. It's difficult to understand quite what this observance is meant to achieve for the organising authority other than maybe helping to mitigate any damages they might face in the event of a compensation claim. But it does serve to concentrate everyone's minds on board.

‘You blokes OK to keep going?'

‘Sure, skipper. No worries.'

Yet deep inside, we're all thinking the same thing: ‘This is the serious part now. This is where boats get into real strife. Time to take a bit more care.'

Bass Strait is daunting because it often combines the two elements that make offshore yachting so tough: contrary winds and steep seas. Anyone who bothers to monitor the prevailing weather systems for Australia's lower south-east corner will know that we receive most of those conditions from Antarctica. That means frequent strong winds from the south – blowing in precisely the opposite direction to the ideal course for the Sydney–Hobart fleet.

Compounding this misery is the fact that Bass Strait is a very shallow stretch of water (hardly remarkable when you remember that Tasmania was once joined to the main Australian land mass). Wind over shallow water makes waves. Big bastards. Not the long, slow swells of the open ocean but short, steep waves that can pound many small craft to a standstill. But there's no turning back now. The time to chicken out was half a day ago when we passed the last truly protected good anchorage at Eden.

The change in sea-state as boats venture out into ‘The Paddock' is often immediate. Nature is letting everyone on board know that this is where sailing stops and seamanship begins. There aren't many Bass Strait crossings that pass without incident. It's where things, and people, get broken – where you find out how truly resilient you are, and what stuff your mates are made of. The physical effort of repeated sail changes in rough weather soon begins to sap your reserves of energy. Within a few hours you're down to raw stamina and little else. The boat is inevitably ‘on its ear', heeled hard over by the force of the wind. Life below becomes awkward, uncomfortable and often dangerous. (Many if not most injuries at sea happen below decks when the cabin sole gets slippery, the boat lurches off a wave and someone misses their handhold. It can be a long way to fall.) Cooking is difficult. The crew may have to endure 30 hours of hard sailing without a hot meal. Many of my Bass Strait crossings have been downright miserable. There are only two I can remember – 1983 and 2002 – that might be described as reasonably pleasant.