Into the Storm (17 page)

A
t 8:03 on Tuesday morning,
AFR Midnight Rambler
was still scooting down the coast when Larry Ellison and the Big Yank Tank crossed the finish line in Hobart. It was not the victory that Ellison had expected.

Sayonara
was first across the line, about three hours ahead of its closest competitor,
Brindabella
. Hundreds of people were waiting at the docks, and Ellison had achieved his goal of winning line honors. But unlike the usual victory celebration, the mood in Hobart was different.

As Ellison crossed the finish line, he was met by the plaintive sounds of a bagpiper. The melancholy notes intensified what was already a somber atmosphere in Hobart. Australian flags were flying at half-staff in honor of the six sailors who had died. The traditional welcoming fireworks had been canceled.

The media throng was eager to hear Ellison speak, and an emotional Ellison wanted to talk. His remarks were tearful. After crediting the inspirational work of the crew, he went on to make a statement that would forever connect Larry Ellison and the Sydney to Hobart Race:

Never again. Not if I live to be 1000 years old will I do a Hobart race. This is not what it's supposed to be about. Difficult, yes. Dangerous, no. Life-threatening—definitely not.

Ellison went on to describe the race “nightmare,” and to offer prayers for the search crews and the people still in the water. And he gave himself credit for making the decision to tack
Sayonara
, telling the media, “We got in under the lee of Tasmania, otherwise I'm not sure the boat would have lasted.”

Ellison's assertion that he had saved
Sayonara
by tacking the boat may have rankled some of the crew. But it was his statement about avoiding the race for a millennium that resonated throughout Hobart.

Lachlan Murdoch, who had stood almost all of his watches in spite of his sickness and amateur status, agreed that the experience was like watching a disaster movie. But he was steadfast in his commitment to continue racing. The race had simply reinforced the importance of preparation and the critical role played by skilled sailors.

When
Brindabella
arrived, the crew's comments about the storm contrasted with Ellison's. After George Snow was asked about Ellison's vow to avoid the Hobart for a thousand years, Snow responded with a terse “His call.”
²

Scott Gilbert, a crew member on
Wild Thing
, was more vocal:

What I really don't like is when someone gets to Hobart and says, “This is the worst bloody race I've ever been in, I'm never coming back.” That guy should be seriously kicked up the a—…. Regardless of what he thinks about it, it's not up to him to tell the world that the race is no good…and that he'd never do it again.
³

Gilbert did not speak for everyone, but his view was consistent with that of many veterans of the race. After his unequivocal statement, Ellison was not a popular figure among many Australian sailors.

Not that it mattered. Less than an hour after he stepped off
Sayonara
, Ellison was on a private plane headed to Antigua, where his 250-foot motor yacht,
Katana
, was waiting.
Katana
was fully equipped with a two-story apartment, giant movie screen, basketball court, and wraparound glass balconies. Ellison was done with the Sydney to Hobart Race and ready for some relaxation.

His rapid departure further annoyed many who stayed in Hobart to reflect on the race and to wait for the results of the search and rescue. Geoff Cropley, an unofficial crew spokesman for
Brindabella
, acknowledged that the professionals like the crew of
Sayonara
were good for competition, but he found it difficult to understand how professionals:

…can just fly in, get to Hobart, grab their kitbag and get on the next plane out without hanging around for lunch or a few drinks and reflect on the race…. On
Brindabella
we're all mates, a bunch of guys who are good sailors. We pay our own way and have a good time.

Cropley's remarks underscored the reality that there are very different worlds of ocean racing. One is a rock star world with wealthy sailors who can hire professionals to crew their expensive boats. Another is a world of talented amateurs who want to experience a challenge with their mates and have a good time.

Nothing precludes a sailor with money from entering the second world of talented amateurs. But sailing alongside friends is far different than hiring rock stars and ensuring their loyalty with lavish retainers. Both worlds come together in the Sydney to Hobart Race.

After the 1998 race, there was no doubt in anyone's mind about Ellison's resolve to avoid future Hobarts. There was also little doubt that he had been shaken by the experience. In
Softwar
—an “intimate portrait” of Ellison—Matthew Symonds wrote that Ellison “was traumatized by the experience” and “has sworn never to enter the race again.”

In an unusual agreement for a biography, Larry Ellison was given an opportunity to comment on everything in the book and to counter anything that he thought was wrong. In his rejoinder, Ellison insisted he “wasn't ‘traumatized' by the race.” When he wasn't in his bunk trying to sleep, Ellison wrote, he was “busy in fight mode.” According to Ellison, he simply didn't have time to think about being scared.

With respect to his thousand-year retirement, Ellison remembers making the statement but then recalls a follow-up:

I remember saying, “No, not if I live to be 1000.” Then I thought about it for a moment and said, “Hold it, wait a second, if I live to be 1000, I'll come back…. Mark this down, 1000 years from now we'll be back.”
⁴

Perhaps that's what he said, or what he would like to have said. Since 1998, however, Ellison has limited his sailing to the America's Cup. In the America's Cup “you just go out for a few hours, race around the buoys, and come back for a nice seafood and pasta dinner.” It's all “very civilized.”
⁵

B
ill Psaltis and his wife, Margaret, knew the storm was coming. But Bill had learned over many years that storms come and go. It's all part of sailing.
The
Midnight Rambler
would be fine
. When they started to hear the news of other boats getting into trouble, though, they began to worry about their two sons. And when
Winston Churchill
went down, everything changed.

Bill believed that Jim Lawler was one of the finest sailors in the world. He was also a very good friend. They had done the Aegean Rally together the year before, and if Jim had asked Bill to sail on the
Winston Churchill
, he wouldn't have hesitated.

It was shocking that such a seaworthy boat with exceptionally capable sailors aboard had been lost. Bill started to think,
Well, maybe the old man is wrong. Maybe these new boats with their new technology are as good as the old ones that break up anyway
. Everything that Bill knew about sailing was suddenly being challenged.

When the situation deteriorated further—with boats in trouble and sailors washed overboard—there wasn't much sleeping in the Psaltis home. Bill tried to reassure Margaret that Ed and Arthur would be okay, that things like this had happened before. But he knew that, in fact, nothing like this had ever happened before—not since the first race in 1945.

It wasn't good, and Margaret knew that Bill was deeply troubled. They both agonized, wondering whether they would ever see their two boys again. They thought about their grandchildren, and worried even more.

Then all of a sudden, news came on the radio that
AFR Midnight Rambler
had stayed farther west than the rest of the fleet. The boys had done exactly what Bill would have. The boat was zipping down the coast of Tasmania. The Ramblers had made it through the storm, and they were sailing hard.

Sue Psaltis had been in close contact with Bill and Margaret since the beginning of the race. When the storm hit, they urged her to get down to Hobart and, God willing, greet the
Midnight Rambler
when it arrived. They volunteered to watch the children, and Sue booked her flight. On Tuesday, December 29, she flew down to Tasmania.

Sue found a room in a hotel right on Constitution Dock, where the smaller boats tie up after they cross the finish line. She immediately ran down to the dock, hoping to get some news. She was hungry for any scrap of information about what was happening at sea.

Making her way through the crowd, Sue stopped a crew member from a big maxi that had just arrived. He knew nothing about the smaller boats. Sue was astonished to discover that he didn't even know the names of other sailors on his boat. He had flown in to do the race and was off to the next event.

Sue called the Tasmania Yacht Club and learned that not only was the
AFR Midnight Rambler
safe, they were leading the fleet on handicap. It was so exciting to think that they might actually win the race after all this time. But it was also a conflicted set of emotions. People had died in the race. She was filled with pride, but respectful and restrained because of the tragic losses.

Shortly before 5 a.m. on Wednesday the 30th, the Ramblers began to grasp the possibility that they could actually win the race. About 2 miles from the finish, Arthur became convinced that they were going to make it. He said to anyone within hearing distance, “I think Huey is going to let us through.”

Ed had a superstitious feeling about Huey. Huey was temperamental. He brought them good luck and he brought them bad luck. In the last few days he had given them an incredible test and had been fickle when they finally reached the Derwent.

In spite of their ordeal, they had kept at it. Now they could see the finish line. Arthur looked at his brother and said, “You know, Ed, our father's sailed in this race for years, and we've tried for years. I think we're going to make it. I think we're going to do it.” Arthur was close to tears. It was such an incredible achievement, such a relief to be alive.

It was an emotional moment for Arthur, but Ed was quiet. He just continued steering the boat. Somewhat taken aback by Ed's silence, Arthur started trimming the sails. About forty-five seconds later, Arthur felt a big hand on his shoulder. He turned around and looked at Ed. His hand had said it all.

Ed was deep in thought.
This is going to happen. We're going to do what our father tried to accomplish eighteen times without success. We're not doing it for him, but we can be proud of the fact that he has left us a legacy. He taught us how to sail. Now we can, in our own way, repay him with the glory of winning the race
.
¹

AFR Midnight Rambler
sailed across the finish line at 5:04 a.m. There was no kilt-clad bagpiper, not even the traditional sound of “Midnight Rambler” playing on their tape player. Because of the tragedy, the Stones were silent.

The
Rambler
was the smallest boat in ten years to win the Tattersall's Cup. And she was the tenth boat to cross the finish line, close on the heels of many of the much larger maxis.

As the Ramblers took down their sails, they saw a number of big maxis docked off to the side of the river. Because of their size, the boats were much too long to fit at Constitution Dock, where the smaller boats tied up.

The sailors on the maxis stood up when they saw the Ramblers. Bob was surprised. He couldn't imagine that the
maxi boys
even knew that they were alive, much less took notice of the little boat. But it was much more than that. The maxi crews came to the bows of their towering boats and began clapping. They gave the crew of
AFR Midnight Rambler
a standing ovation.

The maxi boys waved to the Ramblers, shouting, “Tie up with us!” Bob thought it would be fun to see their 35-foot boat tied up with an 80-foot boat on either side. But Bill Psaltis had always ended the race inside Constitution Dock, and the Ramblers would follow that tradition.

As unexpected as the standing ovation was from the maxis, something even more surprising was in store. Sue had gotten the news about the
Rambler
some ten minutes after they crossed the finish line. By the time they were headed to their mooring, she was waiting at the edge of the dock.

The sun wasn't yet up, and the light was dim. Sue was bouncing and jumping frantically, shouting, “Go the
Rambler!
Go the
Rambler!”
Ed peered through the darkness, trying to figure out just who was making all the commotion. Perplexed, he turned to his brother and said, “Who the hell is that?”

Arthur looked back amused and said, “Ed, you'd better start thinking about what you're going to say to that woman, because that's your wife.” Ed looked closer and saw that it was, indeed, Sue Psaltis. It was the perfect capstone to the victory. His wife was there in Hobart to greet him, standing next to a case of Cascade Lager—their favorite beer.

The crew was still groggy and dazed. There was some leftover tension from their arguments in the Derwent. Sue's cheers cut through the stress, and everyone started to smile. As they pulled alongside the dock, she jumped on board and gave everyone a hug. She put her arms around Ed and gave him a kiss. Then she went up to her brother, Jonno, and gave him a kiss—followed by a punch in the stomach.

“What did you do that for?” asked Jonno. “The kiss and the punch were both from your wife,” explained Sue. “That punch was in exchange for all the stress that you put her through.”

In the midst of the commotion, Arthur handed Ed a cell phone, saying, “Listen, Dad wants to talk to you, quick. Talk to Dad.” Ed took the phone. He was taken aback to hear his father sobbing. Ed could hear him crying on the other end of the phone, something he had never heard before in his life.

Bill Psaltis came from an era when men didn't cry, and Ed was always taught that crying was soft. It was so strange for him to hear his father being so emotional. Between tears, Bill said, “Thank God, you're both alive. You survived the storm, and you're safe. Thank God, thank God. I'm glad you made it, Ed.”

Ed wanted to say, “Dad, calm down, it's okay.” But before he could get the words out, his father said, “And you've actually won this bloody race that we tried to win for so many years.” It was uplifting for Ed to hear those words and to hear the elation and relief in his father's voice.

Then Bill said, “Before the reporters start talking to you, you must understand that Jim Lawler has died. There are people missing, and they aren't going to find them. Please be humble and take that into account when you talk about the race.”

The conversation was a jumble of emotions—the elation that Bill felt about his sons surviving the lethal storm and winning the race, mixed with the devastation of losing such a close friend. It was a conversation that neither Ed nor Bill will ever forget.

It was an extraordinary moment. Against all odds, the Ramblers had won the race. But because people had died, they couldn't rejoice and show obvious pride in their accomplishment. They were proud, but they were quiet because of the tragedy of the last few days.

For the media, the extraordinary accomplishment of this small boat was completely eclipsed by the disaster. The fact that
AFR Midnight Rambler
had won the race was almost insignificant. The scene of their tiny boat alone at Constitution Dock—a dock that, in previous years, would have been crowded with dozens of other boats—went unnoticed. The press were focused on death and destruction and had little interest in the teamwork and triumph of the Ramblers.

The press may not have cared, but there were people in Hobart who understood exactly what the Ramblers had accomplished. Many of those who got it were at the Shipwright's Arms Pub, off Battery Point.

Ed had been going to the Shipwright's Arms ever since his first race when he was 18. All the greats had gone there for a drink—the
heroes of the Hobart
, as Ed thought of them. He had followed the tradition of going to the pub after every race, and this night would be no exception.

All the Ramblers walked in together, ready for a drink. Because people had died, they were in a somber mood. But they were inwardly elated. They had won the race, and it was a huge achievement.

As the crew walked in, everyone at the packed bar looked up and saw their
Midnight Rambler
shirts. Roger Hickman, a tough competitor and a good friend, started the applause. Soon everyone in the pub was standing up and clapping. It was their second standing ovation, but this one—in a pub filled with people who were Ed's heroes—meant the most to the crew. People who had been doing the race for years—ever since he was a kid—were clapping for them.

Seeing the recognition directed at Ed, her brother, and all the Ramblers was a magical moment for Sue. She remembers, “People knew that they had won. It was an acknowledgment, and they were beaming.”

It was a moment that none of the Ramblers will ever forget. For Ed, having sailors he respected stand up and say, “Guys, you've done it” was better than any trophy he could have possibly imagined.