Fatal Storm (17 page)

T
he rapidly expanding team of coordinators at AusSAR, in the Australian Maritime Safety Authority headquarters in Canberra, had never seen anything quite like it. Their computer screens indicating the position of EPIRBs were lit up like Christmas trees. The coordinators were focusing their attentions on one particular zone – the north-eastern corner of Bass Strait, between 20 and 80 miles offshore. The sheer scale of the search and rescue, the inability to prioritise targets and the hellish conditions were presenting a mammoth challenge.

Peter Joubert’s robust sloop
Kingurra
was regarded as one yacht which could handle rough weather. In the last horrible Hobart – in 1993 – not only had the boat and crew survived atrocious conditions over a tortuous 18-hour period, but they had also rescued another crew from a sinking yacht before powering on to Hobart and completing the course.

Despite circumstances in the 1998 event being considerably worse, late in the afternoon of the 27th the strong, laminated timber 43-footer was making good progress south under a spitfire jib set from the inner forestay. Like most of the other yachts in that locale – between 30 and 60 miles into Bass Strait –
Kingurra
was close to the centre of the weather bomb. Winds were
beginning to strengthen and were gusting between 60 and 70 knots, and the breaking seas were popping up like pyramids more than 60 feet high. In some cases, despite the size of the waves, a mere six or seven seconds was all it took for the yacht to travel the 60 feet down into the trough and then up to the next crest.

Peter Joubert had been sailing for most of his 74 years, but had never seen a tempest quite like it. He was holding course at around 180 degrees but this was falling unpredictably down to 160 or 140 due to the ferocity of the storm. At that stage
Kingurra
had the waves slightly on its aft quarter. Around 4pm Peter Meikle came on deck for his watch and was similarly astonished at how bad things had become during the four hours he had been below. Meikle suspected what they were experiencing was only a taste of things to come. He had paid close attention to the skeds and in particular the report from
Sword of Orion
stating they had endured some 78 knot gusts.

Meikle went onto the helm and was surprised at how well
Kingurra
was coping. The wind instrument was consistently hitting the maximum 68-knot mark and the waves were breaking all around the yacht. The recipe of sea and storm was not exactly what Meikle envisaged when he convinced his American mate John Campbell to come to Sydney and try for the third time to successfully complete a Hobart race.

At 33 years of age, Meikle had been ocean racing for almost 20 years. In that time he had started in eight Hobarts; four with Joubert. In 1992 he was preparing a yacht at the CYC for that year’s Sydney to Hobart and that’s where he met John Campbell. Campbell was in Australia as part of a lengthy adventure trip around the world, and wandered down to the dock a few days before the big race. He saw Meikle on board and inquired, “Any chance of a spot on the boat?”

“Sorry mate, we’re full,” was the response. “But hey, if you haven’t had any luck, come back tomorrow. You never know what might happen.” By sheer chance one of the crew fell ill and Campbell got his ride. But the mainsail shredded off the NSW coast and they didn’t go the distance.

Meikle offered Campbell a ride the following year on his family’s race yacht,
Fast Forward
, and Campbell accepted. But the 1993 event was the most ferocious prior to the 1998, and
Fast Forward
suffered rudder problems and was forced to retire. Meikle was starting to feel somewhat obliged to get Campbell to Hobart and a ride on
Kingurra
seemed like a sure bet. When it became apparent that there was a crew spot available in the 1998 race, Meikle called Campbell, and promised to pay for his airfare if he didn’t get him to Hobart.

On the afternoon of December 27 Campbell found himself sitting in the cockpit with Meikle, being lashed by spray, wind, waves and rain. He was uncomfortable, chilled, soaked to the bone and tethered by his safety harness, and seriously questioning his decision to sail.

“When I heard the warning from
Sword of Orion
it was kind of like,
whoa!
” said Campbell. “But I never really sensed danger because all I’ve ever known personally of this race is that it blows. Also, everyone had supreme confidence that the boat would be able to handle anything, so I don’t think there was need for panic. The rest of the crew were just kind of hunkering down because there wasn’t all that much to do. I did the same. About every 15 minutes or so we would get a great wave falling all over us. It would fill the cockpit almost to our knees. That reminded me that before we left Sydney I asked the guys how dry the cockpit was in
rough weather and they replied, ‘Oh no, you almost never get water here. Just a little bit of spray.’”

As though someone had flicked a switch, the wind velocity rapidly began to increase. “The wind just went from your typical howling wind to screeching. It was very high pitched – just like a police whistle. I sensed there and then that the conditions had just stepped up a notch.” Communication on board was near impossible due to the howling gales and once again without warning, the seas dramatically rose to meet the gusts. Campbell was determinedly trying to clear the cockpit drains when he was hit. Within minutes he would be in the water, drifting away from the boat and lapsing in and out of consciousness.

The experienced crew had ensured
Kingurra
was well prepared for the worsening conditions. The boom had been lashed to the deck, as it was far too dangerous in those seas to lash it to the leeward rail, for the passing water would certainly rip it from the yacht. It had been secured slightly to windward, clear of the liferaft. This position made it quite uncomfortable for the crew perched on the steeply-angled windward-side cockpit seat, but comfort came a distant second to safety on board. John Campbell was sitting hunched just forward of the wheel and compass binnacle, Peter Meikle was forward of him with his cheek pressed against the windward side of the boom and Damian Horrigan was at the front of the cockpit. Antony Snyders was on the helm. It was just before 7pm and although it was still quite light, visibility was down to little more than half a mile due to the driving wind and rain.

The crew had two options – head for Hobart or head for Eden. They decided to press on in a southerly direction, but it wouldn’t have mattered which course
they had chosen. The following harrowing seconds later blurred in the memories of those on board. An enormous wave thundered in, swamping the yacht and rolling it over. Meikle found himself trapped beneath the cockpit in a tiny air pocket. After about five seconds, the boat rapidly righted itself and Meikle was left sitting alone in the bottom of the cockpit. He had no idea where the other three crewmembers were. The boom had torn the mainsheet winch from the deck.

Horrigan appeared from around the side of the cabin down near the leeward rail having gone out through the lifelines and come back in again. Meikle then spotted two crewmembers hanging from the stern of the boat on their harnesses, one either side of the backstay. Snyders seemed to be suspended quite comfortably, albeit with a shattered knee, but Campbell was hanging under the stern of the boat with his strop around his neck. Meikle called for assistance, unaware there was another significant emergency below deck. A large volume of water had flooded the cabin and Peter Joubert was badly injured. He had blood coming from a gash in his head and was suffering severe shock.

Meikle knew he had to get Campbell back over the side of the yacht. He straddled the pushpit and tried to lift Campbell by his harness strop and managed to get his shoulders to the top of the lifeline, but Meikle was unable to pull him over the top. He lowered him down again, spun him around and was then able to release the strop from his neck. At that point Meikle realised Campbell was unconscious. It didn’t occur to him that he might be dead.

Tony Vautin was dressed in a T-shirt and safety harness. He started to help lift Campbell, and that’s when they got into trouble. Campbell was wearing a wet weather jacket which had his safety harness fitted inside between the jacket and the lining. The lining was slippery
in order for it to be easily removed in an emergency. Campbell was soaking wet and heavy, and as they lifted him the jacket started coming off.

“To our horror – and I will never forget the feeling – the jacket started to turn inside out and he just slipped out the bottom of it,” recalls Meikle. “His right arm came out first and I grabbed his hand and held on to him. He was totally unresponsive. Then his arm slipped out the other side of his jacket. I desperately tried to hang onto his right hand, but he was getting washed around. He was facing me with his eyes closed just making these gurgling sounds. It was as if he was aware that he was slipping out of his jacket. I won’t forget the noises he made as he slipped out. Then another big wave came along and I could hold him no longer. He was torn away from my grasp.”

Following the capsize all the life rings and man-overboard equipment had become knotted and next to useless. Meikle shouted “Man overboard!”, called for someone to write down the yacht’s position, and took a bearing of Campbell’s approximate whereabouts. The storm jib had been torn by the force of the water and was flapping around, but it was still providing enough windage for the yacht to be quickly moving away from Campbell. They hurled a life ring into the water and attempted to engage the motor, which had been powering the bilge pumps, but as they were trying, the engine took a large slurp of water and died. To the horror of those on deck, Campbell drifted away face down. The yacht was headed into the wind as much as possible to slow its progress while the remnants of the jib were lowered to the deck.

The crewmember charged with the vital task of keeping sight of Campbell, Antony Snyders, saw his new seaboots float to the surface as he crested a wave;
followed shortly after by his wet weather pants. Peter Joubert, who was injured when a crewman crashed across the cabin from a top bunk onto him during the roll, had staggered to the nav station and grabbed the HF radio microphone. He pressed the red button indicating the desired frequency and called Lew Carter at Telstra Race Control on board
Young Endeavour.

“This is
Kingurra.
Mayday, mayday, mayday. We have a man overboard and we’d like a helicopter.”

“Who’s gone overboard? What’s his name?” Carter asked.

“John Campbell.”

“What’s he wearing? Has he got a life jacket?”

“Negative. He’s in blue thermal underwear.”

“Have you activated your EPIRB?”

“Not yet.” Joubert then collapsed. He had a ruptured spleen and countless broken ribs.

The EPIRB was activated while Campbell drifted farther and farther away. The decision was made to keep the EPIRB on as it was still not known whether or not
Kingurra
was sinking. The trysail was thrown up on deck but not set. At that point Campbell was about 100 metres away but was only visible when both the yacht and he were on the crests of the waves.
Kingurra
was turned up into the breeze at about 80 degrees, then gybed around, all the while keeping sight of Campbell. Minutes later Alistair Knox popped his head up the hatch from the cabin and announced there was a ship being redirected and a chopper on its way. It was then a waiting game.

Gary Ticehurst had made numerous futile attempts to establish radio contact with
Winston Churchill
while he headed his chopper back to Mallacoota for fuel. There
was no response and he was becoming concerned. The mayday call he had monitored from the yacht kept replaying in his mind. With so many search and rescue helicopters and fixed-wings descending on Mallacoota for fuel, the airport’s limited resource began to rapidly dry up. Ticehurst and the chopper, which had just arrived from Melbourne, had to share what fuel remained.

Police Air Wing had just finished refuelling and Ticehurst was almost done when the local police approached them with news of the
Kingurra
situation. One of the toughest yachts in the fleet had been hammered. Ticehurst held grave fears for the well-being of John Campbell. Police Air Wing was soon scrambled and lifted off, bound for
Kingurra
and Ticehurst and Sinclair followed five minutes later to join the search. Police Air Wing raced away from Mallacoota as though flung from a catapult, roared toward the stricken yacht with a tailwind of at least 70 knots and was in the thick of it within 10 minutes. It was then early evening, with no more than an hour and a half of daylight left.

The giant waves were making keeping sight of Campbell increasingly difficult. They could only see him for about two seconds in every 30, even though he was only around 200 metres away. There were however, two miracles beginning to unfold. Two helicopters – one fitted with rescue equipment – were rapidly approaching the area; and the hands of fate seemed to be supporting Campbell.

“My first memory is of coming out of an unconscious state and seeing the boat in the distance,” said Campbell. “I was completely disorientated. It seemed like the yacht was about half a mile away. I had no idea where I was, how I got there or why I was in the water. Then a
realisation washed over me that this was not a dream. I’m in real trouble here. A couple of things were going on in my mind, one of which was that I wasn’t really sure of my level of consciousness. The guys said they saw me within about 10 seconds of being lost, face down and apparently unconscious but then acknowledging the boat and waving madly towards them. I have no memory of that. Obviously I was conscious sooner than I remembered.”

Campbell was hoping as soon as the yacht saw him they would sail across and pick him up, and he tried swimming towards it, stopping every so often to wave his arms. He had no idea how he had managed to shed all his wet weather gear but he did remember taking off his oversize seaboots. He was certain the yacht was his only hope. Being upwind of
Kingurra
and always wanting to keep the yacht in sight meant he was facing away from the waves. He couldn’t see them coming. The biggest waves repeatedly picked him up, sent him tumbling down the face and submerged him.