Into the Storm (20 page)

I
am not an accomplished ocean racer. In fact, in comparison with most of the skilled sailors described in this book, I'm clearly an amateur. At the same time, I believe I know enough about sailing to be able to look past the headlines and dig deeper into what makes a great team. To put this in perspective, here is a brief background on my adventures at sea.

I first climbed aboard a sailboat at the United States Naval Academy, where I learned something about
marlinspike seamanship
—essentially, how to tie knots—as well as intramural racing. I learned the names of ropes and lines, and the difference between the two. I learned a little about sails, and that when they were flapping and making a big noise it was called
luffing
and not flapping. And I learned what it was like to cling to a boat that had turned upside down in the Severn River when a storm came up, unexpectedly capsizing a fleet of midshipmen.

Unlike the majority of my classmates, I had little to do with the Navy after graduation—and I had nothing to do with sailing. As an officer in the Marine Corps, my thoughts were far removed from the graceful white sails I had seen on the Chesapeake Bay. In Vietnam, I was much more concerned with securing defensive perimeters, creating fields of fire for automatic weapons, and registering artillery concentrations.

The Navy was still a part of my life, and I have vivid memories of a dark night when my Naval Academy roommate—John Beardsley, the gunnery officer on a destroyer—fired illumination rounds that prevented my company from being overrun. Fortunately for me, the Navy was close by, but I had left the world of recreational sailing far behind.

After returning to civilian life, I got reacquainted with sailing and learned more about the sport than I had absorbed at Annapolis. I crewed on boats that sailed from the Chesapeake up to Connecticut. And I learned more about the tools of navigation—current at the time, but primitive by today's standards. Lacking a GPS, I struggled to master the sextant, radio direction finders, charts, and techniques for estimating my position with
dead reckoning
.

I continued to cruise after moving to Connecticut, accompanying the charming Victor Vroom—a fellow faculty member at Yale—on excursions to the Newport Jazz Festival. We took more extended voyages down the East Coast, but this was all “cruising” sailing. It was far different than racing, but it was sure fun. Nobody cared how fast we went, only that we knew where we were and where we were going.

I finally gave in and bought my own boat, and I enjoyed cruising on Long Island Sound. On occasions I ventured farther, sailing the waters of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, but I hadn't been in a sailboat race since the Naval Academy. Then I met Edgar Smith.

Edgar—sometimes known as “Eddo” for reasons I will explain—is an expert racer from a family of expert sailors. Edgar learned to sail from his father, Gaddis; and his son, Emmet, has represented the United States in international competitions. Edgar owned a boat called
Wasabi
, a popular racing boat known as the J/29. Although the J/29 has been around since the early 1980s, it's a relatively fast boat and perfect for the “around the buoys” races popular in New England.

As a crew member on
Wasabi
I learned a little bit about racing. But my knowledge of ocean racing was developed largely through reading and from conversations with those who had a passion for more serious sailing.

As I began to develop the narrative for this book, I spent time in the Australian racing community. And in talking with the crew of the
Midnight Rambler
, I became more and more intrigued with the sport of offshore ocean racing. I began to comprehend the enormous differences between my sailing experiences—sailing small boats in the Severn, cruising to the Newport Jazz Festival, and racing in Long Island Sound—and the far more demanding sport of offshore racing competition.

My interest in the sport was further heightened by the experience of sailing with the crew of the
Midnight Rambler
in a Sydney race. The event was held in Sydney Harbour, and in many ways it was like one of the local races I had enjoyed in Connecticut. But there was something else.

Sailing aboard the
Midnight Rambler
, I was struck by the seamless interaction I saw among members of the crew. Everything that happened aboard the
AFR Midnight Rambler
seemed to be done quietly, with few words spoken aloud. Unlike the shouting that accompanied a lot of the sailing I had done, crew members seemed to be reading each other's minds. Sailing with the Ramblers, I saw what it was like to have a team that could move into a zone of seemingly effortless coordination.

Absorbing all this, I decided that I needed to find a way to do the Hobart myself. Part of my decision was based on the simple reality that there was a lot I didn't know about ocean racing—in particular, the Sydney to Hobart Race. To write a book that would do justice to the
Midnight Rambler
story, I had to understand the race and I needed to understand the Australian culture.

The country of “Oz,” a slang term often used by Australians, is far different than the United States. I had served with some Aussies (“Ozzies”) in Vietnam, but we didn't have much time to chat about cultural differences. Because the Sydney to Hobart Race seemed so rooted in the Australian culture, however, I wanted to learn more.

There are superficial differences in slang. I discovered, for example, that feeling “crook” had nothing to do with dishonesty. It meant that someone was sick. I also learned why someone could be working so hard that they were going “flat-out like a lizard drinking.” (This is, apparently, the only way lizards can reach the water.) But there were other cultural differences that ran much deeper.

I was intrigued by the way in which rugged Australian individualism seemed to be combined with the ability to collaborate. I wanted to understand how these cultural norms would play out in a demanding ocean race, and I was especially interested in the leadership structure of the team.

The skipper of a racing boat is the ultimate decider, but it's hardly like the Marine Corps. The sailors are civilians, and there are no punitive sanctions for disobedience. How does this work in practice, I wondered? And what is it like to see the structure operate under conditions not unlike combat: high stress, little or no sleep, no time to eat, and real danger?

So, for all these reasons—and because, I confess, the race sounded like a really big adventure—I looked for a boat that would take me aboard. After some searching and networking, I finally found a spot on a 60-foot racing boat. The skipper, Peter Goldsworthy, understood my limitations, but he made it clear that there were no
jewel positions
on his boat. I would be expected to pull my weight as best I could.

With the prospect of the race looming, I did everything I could to be ready. I remembered that, at one point during my trip to Antarctica, I was crossing South Georgia Island. The belated thought occurred to me:
I really should have been in better shape for this
.

It was too late for Antarctica, but I resolved that next time I would be in better physical condition. Consequently, I did my best to prepare physically for the Sydney to Hobart Race, and I was as disciplined as I could be in my training.

As a result of my research, I also knew that this was a serious undertaking. People had died in this race. So I spent as much time as I could possibly spare getting the array of clothing and technology I thought would improve my chances of survival.

I talked with Zach Leonard, then coach of the Yale sailing team (and more recently a member of the U.S. Olympic Coaching squad), about sleep deprivation. I found hydrostatic life jackets that would deploy even if I went over the side unconscious. I found a personal EPIRB—a small battery-powered emergency transmitting device—that would fit under my wet-weather gear. Finally, to prepare for potentially harsh weather conditions, my daughter Holly and I sailed my own boat during the Connecticut winter. Though the Sydney to Hobart Race occurs during their summer, the boats are sailing south toward Antarctica, so it can get cold. Really cold.

When I arrived in Sydney and met the other crew members on my boat, I realized just how much of a rookie I was. My friend Edgar, who accompanied me, had never done the Hobart, but he was a skilled racer. A number of others had done the Hobart, other Australian races, or similar races in other parts of the world. Although not everyone had sailed on the relatively advanced boat we were crewing, clearly everyone knew more than I did.

The situation I found myself in was unfamiliar: I was neither in a formal leadership role nor was I advising leaders. I was a team member with no formal authority, and I was a novice at ocean racing. It was not a comfortable position for me, and I had lots of opportunities to practice one of my dictums: “Cultivate poised incompetence.” I did my best to swallow my pride, work hard, follow orders, and learn about ocean racing. And learn about racing I did, as I tried to absorb every part of the experience.

I learned about the painstaking preparation that goes into an event like the Sydney to Hobart Race. I learned about the austerity of a racing boat and about fundamental safety measures. For example, never put your hand somewhere that a finger could be ripped off by a huge sail attached to an 85-foot mast. And I learned that everybody on the boat seemed to have a nickname.

There was Goldy, the skipper. Then Scotty, Fairweather, Beeks, and Frenchy, who was, of course, British. With all these exotic nicknames, I felt like I was enrolled in the Navy's Top Gun school. I started calling my friend Edgar “Eddo,” and by the time it was all over I became Perk—at least to Jungle, so named for his ability to climb a rope like it was a tropical vine.

Some of my experiences were tedious and routine: sitting on the side of the boat as ballast—a position often derisively referred to as
rail meat
. Some were exciting: plowing into massive waves with the wind tearing the sails apart. But in all these situations I played the role of a student trying to understand the technical complexities of this kind of ocean race. This was far different than anything I had experienced in my own sailing history.

When it was over, I had learned something about ocean racing, and I had learned a lot about the Sydney to Hobart Race. Most of my learning came through sailing, but, as a dedicated researcher, I also spent some time conversing with other sailors in off-duty hours. I learned to enjoy
Cascade Lager
, and I began to understand how ocean racers thought about the world.

At the end of my adventure, I walked into the Shipwright's Arms pub in Tasmania after finishing the Sydney to Hobart Race and bought a round of drinks for my mates on the
AFR Midnight Rambler
. I couldn't claim to be an ocean racer, but I felt ready to write a book.

The
Teamwork at The Edge
strategies that follow reflect the sum total of my learning from observation, interviews, and personal experience. These strategies have helped me and my team, and I believe they can help your team as well.

 

 

T
here are many ways to assemble a team to compete for the Tattersall's trophy. Someone with the financial resources of Larry Ellison can search for the best sailors in the world and put them on retainer. Those who are not billionaires, but whose finances are still substantial, can hire individual superstars who will carry the team with brilliant sailing. Or, like the Ramblers, you can make the team itself a
rock star
.

There is no single right or wrong way to construct a competitive ocean racing team, and there are boats with some exceptionally talented and acclaimed sailors that still place a premium on teamwork. But the culture of
AFR Midnight Rambler
, and a number of other winning boats I studied, is grounded in the belief that there is only one rock star, and that superstar is the team. As Ed Psaltis puts it:

Before the race even started, all the crew felt like they had a say in what was happening. All seven crew members were made to feel that they were part of the team, that they had a role to play, and that they could speak up if they wanted to express their views.
¹

There were no heavies on board. Everyone had to do the whole season as part of the team, and that created a close sense of camaraderie even before the race.
Flat management
is a term that could be used to describe the system. Everyone had a say, regardless of whether they were the skipper or navigator, or had another job in the crew.

The
No Rock Star
policy was put to the test when the crew had to decide whether to sail into the ‘98 storm and slog to Hobart or turn around and run for the safety of Eden on the Australian mainland. Because of the severity of the conditions and the urgency of the situation, there was no formal team meeting. But the decision initially proposed by Ed and Bob—to take the waves on the bow rather than the stern—was supported by everyone on the boat.

This level of alignment can be hard to achieve even under normal sailing conditions. And when the seas are rough and adrenaline is pumping, it is extraordinarily difficult to maintain. But the concept of a
Rock Star Team
is fundamental to
AFR Midnight Rambler
and to a number of other boats that perform consistently well with a committed crew.

The Ramblers have rejected a number of very talented sailors who were eager to do the Hobart but were unwilling to put in the hard miles leading up to the race. They've also rejected people who were willing to put in the time but didn't have the stomach for the Hobart.

It's one thing to sail around the buoys in the harbor, but—as I discovered—quite another to be on the rail in the middle of the Bass Strait. In fact, at one point I thought to myself that a lot of the race experience could be replicated in three steps: First, buy a lot of expensive sailing gear; second, find a commercial laundromat; and third, climb into a large washing machine set on cold and stay there for three or four days. It's not for everyone.

A business team that aspires to excellence may not have the same physical challenges as an ocean racing crew, but lofty goals require sacrifice, dedication, and the ability to persevere. Selecting people with the right levels of confidence and motivation is fundamental, and it would be disingenuous to suggest that—by applying the right teamwork strategies—a crew with incompetent or unmotivated individuals will perform at the highest levels. I know from personal experience that there is no magic
Teamwork at The Edge
formula that will compensate for racing with the wrong crew.

Realistic job previews are important. It's unlikely that people will join the Marine Corps or the Navy SEALs with the expectation that the job will be easy. But enlistment efforts that paint a rosy picture will attract candidates eager to step into that appealing recruiting poster. If the work is going to be tough, it's better to recognize that from the outset.

Sailing teams have a built-in assessment center that can be used to evaluate an individual's commitment and skill. A few rough days on the water will quickly reveal motivation and ability—and the fainthearted are often eager to remove themselves from the team.

Teams in more traditional organizations may not have such a straightforward testing mechanism, but a systematic assessment process can be extremely valuable. I have successfully used targeted approaches such as those proposed in
Who: The A Method for Hiring
, by Geoff Smart and Randy Street. The authors argue that mistakes happen when managers:

 

  Are unclear about what is needed in the job

  Have a weak flow of candidates

  Have trouble discriminating the right candidates from a group of similar-looking applicants

  Lose candidates they really want to join the team
²

 

These seem like obvious factors to consider. But I once naïvely assumed that sound leadership and teamwork principles could make any group of individuals successful. After a few humbling failures, I realized that my early experience in the Marine Corps had led me to believe that anyone on my team would have the desire and ability to accomplish tough assignments.

This assumption was demonstrably wrong. I finally recognized the importance of following a systematic selection process. It was only then that I was able to assemble a
Rock Star Team
capable of competing in our metaphorical Sydney to Hobart Race. Careful selection takes time, energy, and focus, but the outcome is well worth the effort.

A sailboat is a great example of an organization with a highly differentiated set of skill requirements. The forward hand needs to be nimble and willing to endure lots of cold water. The helmsman needs to have an ability to steer a straight course regardless of the weather conditions and to adjust to a constantly changing environment. The navigator needs to understand the weather and to come up with a winning set of maneuvers in a changing environment. And there are some jobs that simply require brute strength.

The Ramblers understood the formula, and they got it right. Jonno was perfect on the bow, Mix organized the lines in the pit, Ed was great at steering, and Bob was an expert navigator. Arthur, Chris, and Gordo all had unique individual skills. But there is more to creating a
Rock Star Team
than just having the right skill set. Personalities need to mesh as well, and teams need to find balance.

Mix, for example, is not only good at organization, but he is also patient—something that Ed is not. Ed candidly admits:

When the breeze is light and the boat is not going very fast, I get impatient very quickly. That rubs off on the whole crew. I've realized over the years that this is my problem, and I'm trying to get better at it. But I'm just not a great light air sailor.

Mix, on the other hand, is fantastic. The guy just hangs on to the wheel with absolute concentration. He doesn't let the slow speed faze him, and he has time and again got the boat out of depressing situations. The rule is, if the breeze is under 5 knots, get Mix on the helm and get Ed off. And I gladly give it up, because I know that Mix can get the boat going faster than I ever could.
³

Each member of the
Rambler
crew might have failed in the wrong job. And the misfit could have arisen from lack of technical skill or from temperament. Over time, however, the Ramblers created a
Rock Star Team
by fitting the sailors together like puzzle pieces. There was absolute clarity about strengths and weaknesses—both in sailing skills and in personality—and that clarity has resulted in exceptional success.

AFR Midnight Rambler
is not the only team to solve the puzzle. When Bill Koch set out to win the 1992 America's Cup on
America
, he specifically organized the team to minimize each person's individual weakness. He evaluated each person on a scale of 1 to 10 on the dimensions of talent, teamwork, and attitude. Not everyone on the final team was good at everything, but they had to be exceptional at one thing. “Each one gave everything he had to his individually designed role,” said Koch, “and each role was designed to maximize particular skills.”
⁴

The American team crossed the finish line in first place, beating their Italian competitors—favored by 100-to-1 odds—by 44 seconds. Koch's formula was identical to that of the Ramblers. Find a diverse team of people who are committed to the goal and committed to teamwork, then get them playing the right position.

Sailors who join a crew as rock stars are highly paid, and they often get something else as well: special privileges. Celebrated helmsmen, for example, might be hired to just steer the boat and, therefore, get more sleep. They can get better meals than the other crew. They're “looked after.”

In many ways this makes sense. They're very good sailors, they have special skills, and they need to be fresh so that they can sail to the best of their ability. If the boat isn't being steered properly, then it can't possibly sail as fast as its potential.