Into the Storm (3 page)

The Tattersall's trophy, designed by an Australian silversmith, is a beautifully ornate trophy adorned with mermaids and sea horses. At its top is a mermaid on the crest of a wave calling up the winner. After the presentation ceremony, the Tattersall's Cup is held in a place of honor in the trophy cabinet at the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia (CYCA).

In addition to having the names of their boats engraved on the Tattersall's Cup, half models of the overall winners are placed on the wall of the CYCA Members' Bar. These models show the distinctive hull, keel, and rudder shapes over the years. They provide a visual history showing the evolution of ocean racing yacht design.

History aside, having models of their boats memorialized means something more personal: The overall winners of the Sydney to Hobart Race can look up at the wall of the CYCA and see a symbol of their victory in the Everest of ocean racing.

Because the Tattersall's Cup is awarded on the basis of a handicap, the race is a democratic contest. It is open to anyone who owns a boat that meets the safety requirements for a
Category 1
race. In the early years of the competition, this often meant boats that were primarily designed for cruising. As the race became more popular, however, boats became faster and relied more on high technology, including Kevlar and carbon sails and carbon fiber masts.

The sailors who cross the starting line in Sydney are even more diverse than the boats they sail on. Some are millionaires, but many are blue-collar workers. Some are serious and dedicated amateurs. Others are consummate professionals who make their living by racing. They're essentially professional athletes who are very, very good at what they do.

Among the professionals, there are also individual sailors often referred to as
rock stars
. These are crew members who have developed a reputation as champion sailors in high-visibility events—at the Olympics, for example—and are recruited because of their special and unique abilities.

Though they are outstanding sailors, the term is often used pejoratively. Rock stars frequently have little interest in working as members of a team. As the term implies, they want to stand out, to be unique, and to express their opinions loudly. And they're sometimes given special privileges in
jewel positions
. As a result, rock stars make unique contributions, but their personalities and privileges can disrupt the functioning of a team.

For many who enter the Sydney to Hobart Race, the event has nothing to do with money or fame. These sailors compete simply because of their passion for the sport, and they enter year after year. Among these veteran racers, one legendary figure stands out.

I heard about John Walker on my first trip to Australia. Fascinated by his reputation, I was eager to meet John in person and find out what drew him to the race. He shared his story in the living room of his beautiful home, high on a hill north of Sydney. One side of the home was nothing but windows that framed an extraordinary view of his boat,
Impeccable
, resting gently at anchor down the slope.

John was born in Prague, Czechoslovakia, of Jewish ancestry. A talented athlete, he became his country's national figure-skating champion in 1938. Then, during the Nazi occupation of Prague, he was imprisoned in the concentration camps of Auschwitz and Buchenwald.

John spent almost four years in the camps, learning to survive under conditions more horrific than any I could imagine. He emerged from the concentration camps, finished his degree in mechanical engineering, and helped rebuild his family business. The business thrived until Czechoslovakia's Communist Government nationalized the company and took possession of the family's assets.

Desperate to escape from a second totalitarian existence, John was faced with another challenge. As he attempted to leave the country, John was told that he could not get a passport until he paid off all the mortgages on the property that had been confiscated. John and his family managed to scrape together enough money to escape. They immigrated to Australia in 1949, and John eventually established a successful timber business.

I was surprised to learn that John had only begun ocean racing at age 60. He found that he loved the sport and eventually gathered a
sailing family
to complement his
natural family
and his
business family
.

Named Ocean Racing Veteran of the Year on three occasions, John has won awards in almost all of Australia's major ocean classics, and he has come in second and third in the Sydney to Hobart Race.

On the advice of his cardiologist, John skipped the Sydney to Hobart Race the year he had a triple bypass, electing to do a less challenging event. The year I did the race he had just turned 84, and skippered
Impeccable
for his twenty-third trip to Hobart—equaling the record for the oldest skipper.

John's wife, Helen, was not so enthusiastic about his sailing, and a year later I inquired about his plans. I received an e-mail in return saying, “Surprise, surprise, I will be doing the Hobart again. I have to do it while I am young.”

Sure enough, John sailed the Hobart again at age 85, and once more at 86, to become the oldest skipper ever in the history of the Sydney to Hobart Race.

John sailed into Hobart after four days at sea showing no sign of fatigue, his hand firmly on the tiller. The Commodore of the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia presented him with a cake, and reporters asked questions about his exploits. In his quiet sophisticated way, John summed up his feelings: “It was special because of the crews that have been with me for many years. I never set out to create any records. I sail because I love it, the camaraderie with my crew and everything that goes with it.”

John Walker is truly one of the most charming, thoughtful, and kind individuals I have ever met. I keep a photo in my office of John at the helm of
Impeccable
wearing his red foul-weather gear. For me, and many others, he will always be an inspiration.

B
ill Psaltis started sailing just about the time of the first Sydney to Hobart Race. In those days the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia was little more than one in a row of boat sheds and fishing shanties. Bill kept a small boat about two sheds down from the club.

Bill was an inquisitive guy with an accounting background, and he became interested in the Club's finances. At an annual meeting, he pointed out that the Club had more liabilities than assets. Faced with a problem that no one wanted to touch, one of the sailors commented, “All right, wise guy, why don't you be the treasurer?” And with that, Bill Psaltis became Treasurer of the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia at age 22.

The promotion got Bill closer to offshore ocean racing, and—in his first Hobart in 1956—Bill's boat came in second. Bill Psaltis had caught the disease.

I enjoyed it. It motivated me. And apart from the pleasure of being at sea and seeing the sunrise and the sunset, there's that feel that you're achieving something. Comradeship was marvelous in those days.

Four years after that, Bill was sailing on a 54-foot boat—a pretty big vessel for a thirty-year-old. His passion for sailing continued unabated, and he had his eyes set on becoming Commodore of the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia.

In keeping with tradition, becoming Commodore meant that you needed to sail your own boat to Hobart. So Bill bought a famous ocean racing boat called
Lass O'Luss
and sailed her for a number of years in the Hobart. Bill developed his skills as a sailor, and his leadership aspirations were realized as well: Accountant Psaltis became Commodore Psaltis.

It's not surprising that Bill's passion for sailing infected his three boys. Every Friday, Bill would be home from work by 5:30 in the evening. Then he, his wife, Margaret, and their three boys were off to spend most of the weekend on the boat.

There were cruises up and down the coast with the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron. The Psaltis family was in the advanced
Spinnaker division
, restricted to those who would use the big parachute-like sails to catch the wind from behind. The boys were young—10, 8, and 6—but they were capable, and they learned quickly.

All three boys sailed, but Ed and Arthur seemed especially committed to the sport. Bill recalled:

I've got photos of Edward as a little boy and he's always holding a boat. He was always into boats, and Arthur tagged along. It's hard to remember, but looking at the photos, Ed is always sitting next to me on the boat, wherever it may be.

Though he loved sailing, Bill's passion for the sport was almost extinguished in 1968. Sailing in a Hobart race he thought couldn't have been any worse, Bill suddenly found himself in the water, gasping for air, with his boat capsized over him. He remembers praying to God and saying:
If I ever escape this and get out with my life, I will never sail again
. When he got back, he sold
Lass O'Luss
. He had had enough. He would never go sailing again.

That resolve lasted for about a year—until Bill decided to find a boat that could take anything. He spent a week in the United States at Sparkman & Stephens, a famous yacht design firm. Working with top designers, Bill was intent on creating a boat that would be unsinkable—absolutely unsinkable. It had to be able to right itself. It couldn't let water in. And it had to win the Hobart race.

The boatbuilders were good, but they weren't magicians. Bill still has a copy of the letter he received with the discouraging news: “You want the boat to win and you want it to be unsinkable. You can have one or the other, but we can't promise both. Which do you want?”

Shivering at the memory of his brush with death in the Bass Strait, he answered without hesitation. Given the choice, Bill Psaltis wanted to be certain that he would come home on an unsinkable boat. And that's exactly what he got.

Bill got a very good, solid boat named
Meltemi
, after the Greek wind. According to mythology, Meltemi is controlled by Boreas, the god of the North Wind. It blows from the north and sweeps across Greek waters, sometimes swamping small craft and wreaking havoc along the beaches.
Meltemi
was a good racing boat, and Bill did well. He came in second in his division, but he never won the Hobart race. He took away something even more important than a trophy:

The Hobart taught me when things are hardest, that's when you work hardest. When things are easy, you don't take it easy, you think about the next thing you're going to have to do and work it all out before it happens.
¹

Bill Psaltis retired from racing after twenty-three Hobarts, but the story of the Psaltis family was not over. It was, in fact, just beginning.

E
d Psaltis has been sailing since he was two months old, and it's not surprising he shares his father's passion for the sport. As a six-year-old he looked up to his father as a “hero of the Hobart,” and he became immersed in the drama of it all—following races on the radio and television.

From the beginning, Ed dreamed of sailing in a real Sydney to Hobart Race, but his father forbade it until Ed turned 18. Bill had taken Ed's older brother, Charles, when he was 18, then it was Ed's turn, and finally the turn of his younger brother, Arthur. But Bill was careful never to have all three sons on board at the same time.

In Bill's accountant way of looking at things, he worried to himself:
Boy, the whole family could disappear in one go
. He knew too well that there is always a danger for sailors venturing into offshore waters. He was willing to take chances, but he was intent on minimizing the danger: “When conditions are good it's great, but you may have to fight it out and hope for the best.” Like a good accountant, Bill wasn't taking any chances.

In 1979 Ed finally got his first chance to do the Hobart, sailing with his father on the unsinkable
Meltemi
. His first race was pretty scary. Ed had heard horror stories about the Bass Strait, and he knew the race was a fairly difficult thing to do. He was excited but also apprehensive about whether he could handle it.

With the help of his father, his personal hero of the Hobart, Ed stepped up to the challenge. At the finish of the race, he walked triumphantly into the Customs House in Hobart, where he was further inspired by the walls covered with photos of the
sailing greats
—ocean racers who had met the Sydney to Hobart challenge and won. Ed had learned from one of the best, an excellent seaman and sailor who had shown him the way. Now it was up to him.

As he grew older, Ed crewed on a number of well-known yachts, gaining experience and confidence. He came to realize that he knew at least as much about sailing as many owners and decided it was time to strike out on his own.

In 1988, Ed bought his first boat,
Chameleon
. It was too light to compete offshore, but
Chameleon
became a regular challenger in Sydney Harbour winter series races. In the process, Ed began to hone his style of skippering a boat. He stripped the boat of weight wherever he could, floorboards included. His Spartan approach worked: Ed and his crew came from behind in the last race to clinch victory in their division.

Ed was hungry for a more competitive boat, one that could participate in the offshore
main event
—the Hobart. After a careful search, he found a 30-footer called
Nuzulu
and purchased it in partnership with Michael “Mix” Bencsik and another sailor, Peter Ward. Mix's knack for organization was perfect for managing the tangle of ropes and lines that inhabit the cockpit of a racing boat. They were another step closer to building a winning team.

Nuzulu
was the picture of aggression. The boat's black and red color scheme was highlighted by Assegai spears along her sides. The distinctive spear—designed by the legendary Zulu king, Shaka—revolutionized tribal warfare in Southern Africa. It was the perfect symbol for Ed Psaltis and his determined crew. With her raked mast,
Nuzulu
just looked fast. And over the next five years, she was going to prove that she was.

To race in the Hobart, Ed needed a navigator. His eye caught the name of one prospect who had posted on a notice board at the Cruising Yacht Club. Bob Thomas was a commercial captain and a master mariner. He had also done two Hobarts, and that was important. But Bob had another quality that helped differentiate him from the hundreds of aspiring sailors who wanted to do the Hobart.

The deal was sealed when Ed learned that Bob was still playing competitive rugby at the age of 39. To top it off, Bob was playing in the front row. Front rowers are sometimes the butt of rugby jokes, with the reputation of being slow, unskilled, and often a bit thick. But no one doubts that front row rugby players are tough, and Ed was looking for tough as well as smart.

Bob joined the team and was impressed by what was to become Ed's signature style of preparation. They trained for two weeks around Sydney Harbour and capped their groundwork with a trip to Bird Island. It was only 90 miles to Bird Island and back, but the journey gave the team valuable experience on the boat in nighttime conditions.

Sailing in the dark is far different than a day sail, and Ed wanted to use that difference to their advantage. Limited vision, fatigue, and lack of familiarity with a boat make everything more difficult at night, so a racing crew can be exceptional in the daylight but falter when the sun goes down. Ed and his team practiced until they had achieved an intimate knowledge of everything aboard
Nuzulu
. Sails, fittings, lines, and hatches became as familiar in pitch blackness as they were in bright sunlight.

The crew's ability to excel in every condition, along with their unceasing attention to detail, began to emerge as a core capability of the team. And there was another essential characteristic that would distinguish the team: There were
No Rock Stars
.

Though Ed had numerous chances to bring in superior sailors, he refused to push a crew member off the boat to accommodate a
heavy
—a top sailor with rock star credentials. This policy meant that the crew would come to know each other intimately. They would learn each other's strengths, as well as their limitations. Eight years later, this knowledge would contribute to their racing success. More important, it would be essential to their survival.

Three forces converged to create a cohesive
Nuzulu
team. First, their bonding was undoubtedly accelerated by shared experiences in team sports, especially rugby. The fact that most were front rowers—tough guys turned sailors—was one ingredient in their esprit de corps.

Second, the
No Rock Stars
policy cemented their bond. Everyone who consistently showed up for practice and gave their all was assured a place on the boat. There would be no Darwinian selection process. The fundamental assumption was that every competent sailor had a spot on the team. Individually they might not be sailing rock stars, but collectively they had the potential to be a
Rock Star Team
.

Finally, there was Ed Psaltis. Ed was the skipper, a superb sailor, and also the team leader. He was prone to losing his temper and could get so excited in tense situations that he would forget people's names. But Ed was a skipper who understood the power of a rock-solid team, and he worked to build that foundation from the very beginning. Loyalty from both sides, owners and crew, became the unspoken norm. And while Ed exercised leadership, he also assumed the role of player-coach, taking on the toughest jobs. Ed never asked anyone to do what he wouldn't do himself.

The weather during the 1990 Hobart, the team's inaugural race, turned out to be typical for the Hobart, but the finish was atypical for most of the crew. To Bob's great surprise, the team was awarded third place in its division. His initial ambition in racing to Hobart had been to one day crew on a vessel that placed in the top twenty.
Nuzulu
placed fifteenth overall in the race, beating many of the more favored competitors. Bob was excited. But what he didn't know was that the team was destined for accomplishments that would exceed even his wildest dreams.

Three months later,
Nuzulu
was back racing again, this time in another classic Australian challenge, the Mooloolaba Race. Held along the East Coast of Australia, the race from Sydney to Mooloolaba—an aboriginal word meaning “black water snake”—is not the Hobart; nevertheless, the 469-mile course is exceptionally demanding.

Nuzulu
battled its sister ship,
Pemberton III
, tooth and nail the whole way. After
Nuzulu
recovered from a disastrous first night, rarely more than a mile separated the two boats.
Nuzulu
crossed the line first and was proclaimed overall winner. It was a tremendous victory.

Ed would have received the trophy along with Peter Ward, except for a rather long drinking session with the skipper and crew of
Pemberton III
. Although absent at the awards ceremony, Ed was eventually found curled up, fast asleep, nestled next to a coconut palm at the front entry of the club. The crew was disappointed at Ed's absence. Everyone was convinced his acceptance speech would have been exceptionally entertaining.

Nuzulu
went on to win another Mooloolaba in 1994, and, though the team didn't win every race, they regularly finished among the top boats in the event. Ed and his crew were developing a reputation, and they were buoyed by the confidence that came from consistent success.

It soon became clear that the ream's ability to win wasn't restricted to any particular race or any unique set of racing conditions. They were consistently placing in all the major offshore races. The somewhat esoteric race names—like
Blue Water Pointscore
and
Short Ocean Pointscore
—may seem abstract to nonsailors. But in the sailing community, Ed's standing as a talented skipper with a talented team continued to grow.

One of their proudest moments came in the 1991 Sydney to Hobart. The team had done everything right and was leading the race on handicap for quite some time. A hundred miles from the finish line, they could taste victory. All they needed to win was for Huey, the weather god, to keep smiling on them. Even a slow pace would do if the wind stayed in.

It didn't. The wind died down to nothing in Storm Bay, about 60 miles from the finish. It was their first taste of things to come when helicopters and the media swamped the boat as they reached the finish. The crew was delighted at the rousing, warm ovation from the other competitors. They had won their division and were eighth overall.

The team was on a roll, and the sky seemed to be the limit. But their real test was to come with the fiftieth Hobart. It would be their finest moment and their greatest disaster.

The moment of truth for
Nuzulu
came in 1994. The fiftieth Hobart race brought out the largest number of boats in its history—371 yachts showed up for the event. Boats had come from every corner of the globe, and two start lines were needed to accommodate the mammoth fleet.

Nuzulu
was one of the smallest entrants, a tiny boat in a big crowd. And there was one other twist to the race. The handicapping system had been changed entirely that year, so boat designs shifted to accommodate the new rating standard. This effectively meant that
Nuzulu
was in its competitive twilight. The team had a chance to perform really well, but it was also their last shot at the Tattersall's Cup on
Nuzulu
. This was a really big year.

There were other developments as well. Ed's brother Arthur had just come back from working in the United Kingdom and joined the crew for the first time in a long while. Arthur had been away for four years, and he felt like a bit of an outsider because the crew had scored so many successes in his absence. Though part of Arthur felt like a rookie, he also felt connected to the core team.

Years before, Ed, Arthur, and Mix had sailed for hours at a time on the Parramatta River near the Psaltis home. Ed would steer, barking out orders, with Arthur and Mix serving mostly as ballast and sobbing because they were afraid of getting wet. They got more and more adventurous, sailing to nearby islands. In their youthful imaginations, these journeys were smaller versions of the Sydney to Hobart Race. Not like the real thing, of course, but it was all preparation.

Joining the two Psaltis brothers was Ed's brother-in-law, John Whitfeld. “Jonno” was given the unenviable job of
forward hand
, or bowman. As the name implies, the station of the forward hand is in the very front of the boat, where waves come over the highest and hardest. In this position, Jonno was responsible for making sure sail changes went smoothly and for organizing and running the front end of the boat—most of which was underwater much of the time.

The forward hand has, by most accounts, the toughest job on an ocean racing crew. It's much like being a gymnast or a rock climber: Balance, strength, speed, and the ability to think ahead under pressure are all essential skills. Not only is the job difficult, but being a forward hand on
Nuzulu
was even tougher than on one of the big maxis. On a small boat, the bowman is constantly underwater and relentlessly knocked around as the boat careens through the waves.

Forward hands are carefully selected on a racing boat, and Jonno was one of the best. Not only was he nimble, he also demonstrated an unusual ability to withstand and absorb pain. Somehow, Jonno just handled whatever came his way and kept going without complaint. Among a collection of tough guys, he was one of the toughest.

Jonno's value as bowman was impossible to overstate, but one of his most important duties began after the race was over. He was the official crew
exchequer
, responsible for handling the communal drinking funds for the celebration in Hobart. It was a much easier job and a lot more fun than being the forward hand.