Fatal Storm (23 page)

Even so, he still struggles to escape regular reminders of what happened aboard
Sword of Orion.
“It seems just when I’ve managed to put it aside and move further away, I turn a page in life and there it is again; something else just bobs up. It might be a week or it might be a month, but it seems there’s always something there that just reminds me.

“The most extraordinary situation came soon after I got my head around things and was starting to move on in life. It was 2000, just before the second anniversary of
the ‘98 race, and I explained to my wife, Libby, that I just didn’t want to be in Australia when the race was being staged, so she, the two girls and I took off for an extended stay in Paris.

“There we were, having a nice relaxing time in our hotel, with the two girls watching television, when suddenly they came running into our bedroom, shouting, ‘Dad, you’re on TV, you’re on TV’. It was a promotion for a documentary about the 1998 Hobart race, and sure enough, the next afternoon there was the program going to air. So I’d gone to the opposite side of the world, trying to be as far away as possible from the memories, and there it was in my face. It just shows that you can never escape.”

Back home, Kulmar reminds himself every day just how lucky he is with his life, and what matters most. “I’ve certainly changed in some ways, because I value my life and my time differently these days. I was never good at suffering fools, so today I just don’t bother with them. Instead of politely putting up with someone I don’t want to be around, I just try to exit. It’s not that I’m rude – although some people think I’m abrupt – it’s just that I value my life too much right now. There are better things to do with my time.

“Today, I’m back in the sport and really enjoying it. Even so, I still remember vividly that after returning home from the ‘98 race I sat down with Libby and my two girls and I promised them I’d never do another ocean race. They have never had to remind me of that, and they never will.”

One way to ensure that was to not equip his new yacht,
Shining Sea
, with the safety gear needed for extended ocean racing. At the same time he promised himself he would never do a race where navigation lights were needed.

“I did break that promise once,” he admitted. “We were competing in a day race at Hamilton Island Race Week and the wind died. We drifted to the finish in the dark, obviously with the navigation lights on. I could cope with that.”

After Glyn Charles had been lost overboard, the yacht that the crew of
Sword of Orion
observed sailing by through the murky conditions was subsequently identified as race competitor
Margaret Rintoul II
, owned by Richard Purcell. Alleged circumstances relating to this incident – where Purcell opted not to turn his yacht back and try to render assistance because such a manoeuvre in the extreme conditions would endanger the safety and survival of his own crew – resulted in a protracted legal battle between Purcell and the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia.

More than five years after the event the yacht club settled a defamation action brought by Purcell relating to comments made on June 1, 1999, about his behaviour during the race.

Beyond an undisclosed financial settlement Purcell received a full apology in the club’s magazine,
Offshore.
It read in part: “It was not intended by the comments made on that occasion to suggest that Richard Purcell was guilty of gross misconduct for failing to render assistance to
Sword of Orion
during the 1998 Sydney to Hobart race in which a storm ravaged the fleet while crossing Bass Strait.”

It was also reported that the Coroner inquiring into the Hobart race tragedy, John Abernethy, declared Purcell could not be criticised for his decision not to turn back.

W
ayne Millar is a giant of a man – about six-foot-six (195 centimetres) tall and powerfully built – and a likeable no-nonsense sort of bloke with a permanent grin on his face. He loves a challenge – both in his business as a coal mine maintenance contractor, and in his sport of ocean racing. Millar’s home is in Townsville in tropical far north Queensland and he is one of a growing number of offshore sailors from that area making a name for themselves.

His yacht
B-52
, a 41-footer that was a sistership to Lou Abrahams’
Challenge Again
and former Hobart race winner
Raptor
, was crewed primarily by locals, including lanky Townsville lawyer and yachting administrator John “JB” Byrne. Having raced against many of the better boats from the south in the August 1998 Hayman Island and Hamilton Island regattas, Millar and the Townsville team decided they would go to Sydney for both the Telstra Cup and Hobart race in December. They expanded their crew to include Ray LaFontaine from Melbourne, and Sydney’s Don “The Admiral” Buckley.

After enjoying some hefty competition in the Telstra Cup they were primed and ready for the Sydney to Hobart. They had pulled out their secret sail, the blooper,
on a couple of occasions and certainly turned some heads. The hope was that the blooper would give them an edge in the early stages of the Hobart, but that wasn’t to be. The wind was not coming from the right angle – from directly behind – for them to use the sail effectively. Still, they enjoyed the ride as they careered down the NSW coast on that first day and into the evening.

Byrne believes they were one of the few crews fully versed on what was happening weather-wise and he’s confident the bureau was doing its job properly. He felt the information available was clearly indicative of what they might be in for, and it was up to each crew to interpret and analyse the data and plot the best course. The
B-52
team had paid particular attention to forecasting as part of their race preparation. They knew that being correctly positioned for any change in wind direction over such a long course could make the difference between winning and losing. Millar had employed the services of Roger Badham and also availed the yacht of weather reports from every relevant coastal station, and even some of the oil rigs in Bass Strait.

They sensed before they left Sydney they were in for a bit of a hiding, this inkling was bolstered during the first night and verified early the next day. As the morning unfolded they were receiving wind updates from the coastal stations in Victoria and the rigs out at sea. They were confident they knew from which direction the wind would blow and how strong it would be.

Will Oxley,
B-52
’s navigator, came on deck around mid-morning with the news that the wind was gusting 70 knots at Wilsons Promontory and that there were some “decent” seas at the oil rigs. As the morning progressed the crew peeled down the sails – No. 4 to the storm jib and the trysails and then continued to try various combinations as the wind strengthened. The waves were on the beam or a
little forward of the beam, and they soon found the storm jib was better than the trysail because the trysail kept trying to round them up into the waves while the storm jib kept pulling the head away, rendering the yacht much easier to control.

They were reasonably pleased with the way things were going and at the time of the 14:05 sked they were the 11th boat on line-honours. Despite their guarded confidence, they were paying close attention to the news coming through. One by one they heard the reports of stricken or retiring yachts – then the reminder to all owners about “responsibility“; Lou Abrahams saying he was going to pull out, or at least temporarily seek shelter in Eden; then from Rob Ainsworth’s
Loki
reporting that they had suffered a fairly major incident – a 180-degree knock-down.

The
B-52
crew agreed to continue south with caution, and in doing so keep the wind and the waves at the right angle. They still felt in control, but had no intention of endangering either the yacht or those on board. They bare-poled it for a spell but that achieved little – it reduced their speed to four or five knots but removed the steerage needed to get over the worst of the waves. At that stage it was blowing around 60 or 70 knots, the seas were around 10 to 12 metres and with the storm jib back up they tore along at a lively but manageable 10 or 11 knots. They’d made the decision to split each watch in half so two crewmembers were on deck and the other two were down below dressed and ready if needed. When darkness fell around 9.30pm they planned to pull the storm jib down and bob around for the night. It would be light again around 3am so they would only be losing around six hours.

By 4.30pm that afternoon the weather had begun to steadily worsen. Like so many other yachts in the race,
B-52
was battling unpredictable seas of epic proportions. Just when the crew thought they had worked out the wave pattern, an unreadable new set would roll in and leave them flummoxed. Millar was about to complete his watch and hand over the helm to Mark Vickers and Russell Kingston. Buckley had been on deck with him. Before they changed over, it was customary for the new team to sit on deck for a bit, have a chat with the retiring crewmembers and generally acclimatise themselves to the wave and weather conditions. Vickers had been paying keen attention to the reports from the oil rigs and wasn’t overly surprised at the situation which greeted him on deck. He began steering and quickly settled in to slowing the boat down to let the big breakers that were right in front go through and then speeding up to get away from others.

“About 20 minutes after I started steering, a couple of waves – well they were a bit more than waves, they were white-capped mountains – came through ahead, so I slowed the boat down to miss them,” he recalls. “The scene was amazing; there was a whole heap of white water just charging across our path. Clouds of spume were being ripped off the top of it. I got the boat back up to speed quickly and just looked up, sort of over my right shoulder, and immediately shouted, ‘Russell, hang on. This one’s going to hurt!’. It was just 10 feet away – four or five metres higher than any other wave and with a steep face. It was a huge curling wave just like you would see on a surf beach. The next thing I knew the boat was upside down.

“The wave hit the mast and the rig first then dumped on us. I thought I’d just gone overboard. I knew I’d gone through the spokes of the steering wheel and it felt as though I was being dragged along beside the boat; it
was that washing machine effect of being tumbled by a wave. Then it stopped and I realised while I still had my eyes open I just couldn’t see. I then knew I was under the upturned boat. I knew I was attached but I couldn’t move so I traced my way back along the harness to the wheel which was only about eight inches away.”

Vickers could not believe what he was feeling. His harness tether was wrapped
twice
around the spoke in the wheel, meaning that his body had been forced through the large gaps between the spokes
four times
! Astonished the yacht had not self-righted, he calmly put his hand to the metal safety harness plate on his chest and unclipped. He then pushed himself down as deep as he could and swam out to one side. As he popped to the surface, gasping for air, he was greeted by the sight of Russell Kingston clinging to the edge of the upturned hull near the stern. Kingston too had had a lucky escape. His first attempt to swim out from under the yacht failed so he stuck his head back up in the cockpit well and found a small pocket of air. He took a deep breath and went under again. That time he was successful. Both men were on the downwind side of the upturned hull.

Vickers was worried they might become entangled in the mess of rigging and be dragged under the stern, but before he could do anything about it a rogue wave lifted him and carried him a good 20 metres away from the yacht. He was wearing his full wet weather gear without a life jacket. Due to the weight and restrictive nature of the gear, he was forced to dog-paddle back to the yacht. As he was swimming he watched the hull begin to sink stern first and was certain it was going to right itself. He had the foresight to check the areas around the keel and rudder to see if there was any damage. When he reached the boat he banged on the hull twice but there was no response.

“I swam around to the stern of the boat and grabbed the backstay. I then just hung on and hoped the thing would come upright. Russell was somewhere up near the bow. We had both worked out that when, or possibly if, the yacht came upright, being near the ends would be safest. That way you wouldn’t be hurled around as much.”

Prior to the yacht named after a bomber being bombed by the mammoth wave, the crew below deck could do little more than lie in their bunks. Moving around presented a serious hazard to health – it was akin to being on the world’s worst rollercoaster. Although the crewmembers were lying down, sleep was near impossible. John Byrne was in the leeward aft quarter berth and the conversation rarely veered from the weather and what best could be done to preserve the boat.

When the wave with
B-52
’s name on it did arrive, the initial sensation in the cabin was that the motion of the boat was not out of the ordinary. It felt as though the yacht had been hit by a stronger gust of wind and had begun to round up into the wind. But this round up was suddenly accompanied by a thunderous crashing noise. Byrne thought the mast was breaking and that their race would surely be run. The next thing he knew the boat was upside down and he had been hinged in and pinned by his bunk against the side of the hull. Sails and other gear had fallen onto the bunk making it impossible to lift. The only way out was to come forward like a snake and climb out over the galley; or more specifically, under the galley and onto what had been the cabin roof.

“I waited there for a couple of seconds, thinking, it’s going to come straight back up, but then when I saw
water pouring in I thought, this is a bit inconvenient to have to get out of here but shit, we could sink. I bolted out of my bunk and found the other guys already there sort of standing around taking stock of each other.”

Millar was already organising for the liferaft to be readied and the EPIRB activated. There were eight crewmembers trapped inside. Byrne distinctly remembers the eerie emerald-green light filtering into the cabin and the deathly quiet despite the chaos outside. They were understandably disoriented, debris was floating all around and right and left, top and bottom had been inverted.

“Even simple things like the engine became confusing because it was upside down,” recalls Byrne. “And I couldn’t work out what had happened with the stove. I thought the round metho tank from the stove was the engine filter, but then I realised the engine was now actually above my head. Fortunately fuel and oil didn’t pour out of the engine and also, the fact that we had gel batteries meant that we didn’t have battery acid going everywhere.”

Before the race Millar and Oxley had watched a video on how British yachtsman Tony Bullimore survived inside his upturned yacht in the Southern Ocean. This was fast becoming a reality for them because their yacht was showing no signs of righting. Millar moved into the bow area to check on the forward hatch. If the yacht sank by the stern then that would probably be their only way out. “It’s amazing what you do in situations like that,” recalls John Byrne. “Ray LaFontaine grabbed the microphone on the radio and said, ‘what about a mayday?’ Will turned to him and said something like, ‘I’ll attend to that when it’s appropriate.’ Ray then let out this textbook perfect mayday. We all just looked at him bemused, as if asking, ‘Who are you calling, Flipper the dolphin? Mate, we’re upside down!’.” Then, without warning, the ghostly
silence was broken by an almighty
whoosh!
and all hell broke loose in the cabin yet again.
B-52
was back upright. It had been inverted for an estimated four minutes.

As the yacht settled Byrne looked down and noticed a pair of seaboots protruding just above the surface of the water in the cabin. He recognised them immediately, grabbed them and pulled as hard as he could. Lindy Axe came to the surface coughing and spluttering. She had been trapped underwater, under the stove, when it had crashed back into place. She appeared to have a nasty gash on her head.

The two men on the outside hung on the best they could when
B-52
self-righted. At the bow, Kingston grabbed the remnants of the storm jib and its sheets and, using the lifting momentum of one of the massive waves, managed to get himself onto the foredeck. Vickers grabbed a stanchion and just clung to it for dear life. Because the cabin had been damaged and pushed out of shape, the crew that had been trapped inside had trouble getting on deck. It was not until LaFontaine literally smashed his way out through the stormboards that anyone could go up and see if Vickers and Kingston were still there.

Kingston spotted LaFontaine closely followed by Steve Anderson as they emerged on deck. After ascertaining how much water was in the cabin he went straight to the bilge pump and started pumping. He then began removing the twisted and tangled rig. Millar and his vanguard began assessing the situation below deck. They were unsure of the structural condition of the yacht and whether or not they should abandon ship. The crew was split in half, one group on deck helping jettison the rig and the other below, working on saving the boat. With two men manning the pumps and others bucketing the
water out it wasn’t long before the level began going down. That could only mean that the yacht, although badly damaged, was not adversely leaking.

“Because [sailing] the boat is very much a team effort, everybody is encouraged to have their own input,” recalls Byrne. “The input from some people was that we should get off because we didn’t want to risk sinking and being trapped. But as things settled down and experience came to the fore, attitudes changed. The thought was that maybe we should put the rafts on deck and inflate them and have them ready to go. That way we wouldn’t have to wait while they inflated if we had to get into them in a hurry. While all that was being discussed, and with the water level continuing to go down, everyone became more certain the boat was going to stay afloat. The comment then was that we didn’t need to inflate the rafts but we should just keep them on deck and tied on. If they were inflated they were going to restrict movement too much and blow around everywhere. Then Lindy, who runs the bow, grabbed some gear bags and put into them things that we might need in a liferaft – bottled water, warm clothes, flare container.”