Into the Storm (5 page)

T
he crew in the '98 race included two relative newcomers to the
Midnight Rambler
team—Chris Rockell and Gordon Livingstone. Chris was the resident “Kiwi.” He was untested, but New Zealanders came equipped with reputations for being superb sailors.

This would be Chris' second Hobart race. Chris' boat had pulled out the previous year, retiring with damage. Not only was Chris a sailor, he also played front row on a provincial New Zealand rugby team. And he was the picture of what people might imagine a rugby player would look like—or maybe a Marine on a recruiting poster.

Behind his rugged good looks, Chris exuded toughness. He was strong and dependable, and he followed orders without question. Although not an experienced sailor, what Chris lacked in technical ability he made up in determination, strength, and reliability.

Chris was warm and friendly at the bar, but his tough-guy demeanor was not an act. Over drinks, he matter-of-factly shared a school-day story of being bullied by an older classmate. Years later, in a New Zealand rugby game, Chris encountered the same boy who had bullied him as a child. This time, however, Chris was all grown up and the odds were even. As he reflected on that game, he looked pensively at a scar on his knuckle. With a slight grin he noted, “I've still got the scar where his tooth got stuck in my fist.”

Gordon Livingstone—“Gordo”—was the second new member of the team. He had known Arthur from their workdays at Coopers & Lybrand, and was eager to join the crew. In his first sail on the
Midnight Rambler
, however, Gordo was intimidated by Ed's singular focus and passion.

Gordo's baptism by fire took place several years before the '98 race. His initiation came during a short race off the Sydney Heads—the high cliffs that mark the entrance to the harbor. As a rank amateur, Gordo was given a relatively simple job at the back of the boat near Ed. Unfortunately for Gordo, he kept making mistakes with his relatively straightforward assignment. And Ed, who confesses to a heightened level of excitability during races, shouted at Gordo nonstop for hours.

In spite of this rough start, Ed saw in Gordo a desire to learn, and he invited him back. Others might have balked at the invitation, but Gordo was not a quitter. He wanted to give it another go, and he was drawn to Ed's passion. Gordo was also attracted by the strength of the bonds that held the team together and by their staunch commitment to getting things right. Gordo liked what he saw, and he was willing to do whatever it took to become a part of the
AFR Midnight Rambler
crew.

Though both Gordo and Chris were new kids on the block, there were no inner and outer circles. There were “no Hollywood boys,” as Ed put it. Everyone was respected, and all seven crew members were treated as equals.

Everyone brought a unique combination of skills. Gordo was a witty guy who could break the ice by cracking a joke. Sometimes his jokes were told at the expense of others, but he delivered the punch lines in a way that took the edge off difficult situations. Chris brought his strength and determination, and both he and Gordo believed in
the cause
—the team's commitment to teamwork and excellence.

Their assimilation into the team was accelerated by Mix, who brought his own unique style. Mix's formal role on the boat was in
the Pit
. Stationed in the cockpit, he was responsible for organizing the
halyards
—ropes that are fed in from the mast to raise and lower the sails. Without organization, the halyards and the backstays supporting the mast could easily become a tangled mess. Not only would the snarl interfere with performance. It could also become a dangerous trap for sailors trying to move around the boat in heavy weather.

Mix was a great pitman, but his informal role was equally important. Mix patiently translated Ed's sometimes frantic instructions to new members of the crew. He was a buffer between Ed—who could get so carried away that he would yell obscenities—and the rookies, who were eager to perform but confused about what they were supposed to be doing.

With Mix as an intermediary, Chris and Gordo came to understand that Ed's outbursts were nothing personal. It was simply that Ed was extraordinarily focused and emotional about sailing. Once that became clear, Ed's intensity took on a different light. Instead of a liability, it became a huge asset. It was one of the reasons people loved sailing with Ed as a skipper.

The crew also came to appreciate Ed's methodical approach to preparing for the Hobart. The routine never changed. Before each race, Ed created an extensive checklist that inevitably ran to many pages. Each item was assigned to a crew member, and everything had to be checked before the start of the race.

Ed's wife, Sue, matter-of-factly describes him as obsessive about making sure that all the items on the list are in place and done properly. Sue was responsible for rounding up first aid kits, fire extinguishers, and other safety equipment. She was as devoted as Ed to flawless preparation. If something was missing, it needed to be replaced. If something had expired, it needed to be changed. Nothing was left to chance.

The crew went through
AFR Midnight Rambler
with a fine-tooth comb. They got to know every inch of the boat, inside and out. And as always, they stripped out every ounce of excess weight. At one point, Ed instructed Bob to count the number of bolts. Even an extra screwdriver in the toolbox required special permission.

Bob understood Ed's zealous devotion to eliminating extra weight, but Ed's determination also amused him. Flawless preparation was functional, but it was one of the skipper's idiosyncrasies.

Bob delights in recounting one occasion on which Ed was allegedly caught violating his own rule. On a previous voyage, Ed had given Bob considerable grief in a dispute about a plastic sextant. Bob wanted to take the sextant as a backup for navigation in case their electronic instruments failed. The sextant weighed all of 2 ounces. But Ed complained about the unnecessary weight, and he was so insistent that Bob finally acquiesced and left the sextant behind.

Later, according to Bob, he discovered a men's magazine in Ed's sailing pack. Bob took great pains to point out that the magazine weighed three times as much as the sextant. Ed denies ownership of the magazine, insisting that it was part of a “goody bag” given to each boat. Whatever the truth of the matter, the incident provides ammunition for ongoing banter between Bob and Ed.

Part of the crew's preparation involved cleaning everything that they could get their hands on, and one of Gordo's assignments was polishing the boat's kerosene stove. The task involved taking the stove out of its storage spot in the cabin and polishing the stainless steel until it glistened.

The task was clear-cut, and Gordo had no question about what was expected: The stove had to look like it was just out of the box from the store. Gordo dutifully took on the assignment, but he thought the task was somewhat odd. He had enough sailing experience with Ed to know food preparation is a low priority during a race, and he doubted that the stove would ever be used.

Puzzled, Gordo kept wondering why he had been assigned the task. He finally came to realize that polishing the stove was simply an icon. It was part of the mental preparation, and an integral part of Ed's conditioning program.

The Hobart would be tough on both the crew and the equipment, and Ed's goal was to instill confidence. Before an important race, they needed to be sure that the boat was prepared. They needed to know that every nook and cranny on the boat was as tight and shipshape as it could possibly be. Nothing could be ignored, and the gleaming stove was a symbol of their devotion to preparation. At the time, no one knew that their lives would soon depend on this meticulous attention to detail.

Getting the equipment ready was important, but preparation involved more than just the boat and its gear. Team members had to be ready as well, both physically and mentally. Each crew member engaged in a personalized program of physical training. They ran, they swam, and they lifted weights. Anticipating the demands of the race, they pushed themselves to increase their strength and stamina.

Along with individual preparation, the crew worked to develop their capacity for seamless teamwork. Some of their training took place in the relative protection of Sydney Harbour, but much of it occurred outside Sydney Heads and far offshore.

They spent time on tasks that were very basic. They practiced, for example, reefing the mainsails. Reefing involves using short pieces of rope to pull down the bottom of the sail and reduce the area exposed to the wind. The job of reefing isn't technically complicated, and it is unnecessary in light winds and sunshine. But in heavy weather and rough seas, their ability to reef the sails could be critical.

Onlookers who saw the team performing these maneuvers in good weather were often amused. Many wondered,
Why bother?
But each time the crew went through the process, the steps became more familiar. The Ramblers practiced these routines repeatedly until they could hardly stand them. Then they would go through the steps again, making sure that the patterns were completely ingrained.

As a result of their exhaustive preparation, the crew learned to work with seamless precision under all conditions. It was tedious, uncomfortable, and boring. But the time would come when they would be thankful for their effort.

T
he Ramblers were not the only ones preparing for the Sydney to Hobart Race in 1998. As usual, the fleet comprised a diverse mix of vessels—including one venerable boat that had been competing since the first race in 1945.
¹

The
Winston Churchill
was a strong wooden boat, and Jim Lawler, a close friend of Bill Psaltis, was on the crew. Jim was one of the finest sailors that Bill had ever met, and the
Winston Churchill
was the kind of boat that Bill felt good about. If he had been asked to sail on it that year, he would have done it in a flash.

Richard Winning, the owner of the boat, had spent a quarter of a million dollars rebuilding the famous yacht. Since its inaugural race, the
Winston Churchill
had sailed in fifteen Hobarts and circled the world twice. Built in Hobart in 1942, the yacht symbolized classic sailing at its best.

With its teak deck, brass fittings, and white hull, the boat stood in stark contrast to the
Rambler's
fiberglass surfboard. With the latest modifications—including a heavy timber mast fitted with a lighter aluminum section and a brand-new set of sails—the
Winston Churchill
seemed to represent the best of the old and the new. Bill Psaltis would have been much more confident had his boys been aboard a boat like that instead of their sleek racing machine.

Winston Churchill
was an imposing boat, but its real power came from its distinguished crew. In addition to Jim Lawler, John “Steamer” Stanley was aboard. Stanley had sailed in fifteen Hobarts and had quite a record. He began his sailing career at age 11, sailed in numerous long-distance races, and had crewed in the America's Cup. He worked for six months on restoring the vintage boat, and Steamer had recruited others to form a first-rate crew. Two of Richard Winning's childhood friends, John Dean and Michael Bannister, had even joined the crew for the race.

Although a huge amount of time and money had been poured into the boat, the restoration effort may have been imperfect. A former Navy sailor, Greg Bascombe, had just finished scrubbing the bottom of several boats when he noticed something unusual along the waterline of the
Winston Churchill
. Bascombe—aka “Mega” because of his 300-pound weight—swam closer to examine the boat more carefully. To his practiced eye, it appeared that a small section of caulking, used to seal the wooden planks, was missing.

Bascombe was alarmed at the sight of what seemed to be a flaw in the
Churchill
's watertight integrity. Though the gap was small, perhaps a quarter of an inch, it could expand in heavy weather. He got out of the water and walked over to the
Churchill
's dock. Approaching several men he thought were members of the crew, he warned, “There's some caulking missing. You should make sure the owner knows about it.” Bascombe then left, satisfied that he had shared his concerns with the crew. Richard Winning, however, never got the message. Later, no one who sailed on the boat could recall the conversation.

The
Sword of Orion
, owned by Rob Kothe, was a very different design. It lacked the classic lines of the
Winston Churchill
, but it was a superb racing boat. Like Richard Winning, Rob Kothe was a successful entrepreneur. Unlike Winning, however, Kothe was a relative newcomer to the world of sailing.

Kothe bought his first boat in 1997 and achieved some measure of success in that year's Hobart. Buoyed by a second place in his division, Kothe was eager to join the ranks of the sailing greats that he had heard about as a small child. Kothe purchased the
Sword
with the intent purpose of taking home the Tattersall's Cup.

On the surface, there were a number of similarities between
Sword of Orion
and
AFR Midnight Rambler. Sword
was longer—43 feet to the
Rambler's
, 35—but both boats were
balsa core
fiberglass construction with Kevlar sails. They were typical of the modern boat designs that worried Bill Psaltis.

As on the
AFR Midnight Rambler
, some members of
Sword's
crew were expert racers with extensive sailing experience. Like Ed Psaltis, Rob Kothe insisted on a disciplined regimen of training and preparation.
Sword
's schedule included at least two races and one practice sail each week. Kothe required crew members to be on time, to exercise, and to lose weight. And like Psaltis, Kothe was focused on everything that might add a few additional pounds to the boat. He replaced the
Sword's
brass barometer case with a plastic one, and he was always looking to improve the boat's equipment. Finally, like Ed Psaltis, Rob Kothe was a perfectionist. The similarities ended there.

Kothe not only lacked sailing experience, he was also new to the world of team sports. He had flown gliders in airborne regattas, which he saw as similar to sailing because it was competitive and because gliders rely on the wind. But gliding is an individual sport. The pilot controls everything, and the aircraft obeys the pilot's commands without question. Ocean racing is an entirely different sport, one that demands the highest level of coordination among team members with diverse roles.

Though Kothe may not have fully grasped the importance of teamwork, he understood the need for sailing talent. Kothe recruited Darren “Dags” Senogles to take care of the
Sword
, and used his athletic skills in the demanding position of bowman.

Even more important than a talented bowman,
Sword
needed an experienced helmsman. In late September, just months before the race, a mutual friend introduced Kothe to Steve Kulmar.

Kulmar had the kind of sailing pedigree that Kothe was after. Kulmar had been sailing since childhood and had won Australian and world championships. He had done seven Fastnets and seventeen Hobarts—including three in which his boat had won the Tattersall's Cup. The two seemed to hit it off, and Kulmar agreed to join
Sword
as its principal helmsman.

Kulmar wanted to win as much as Kothe, and he aggressively sought additional talent. In 1997, Kulmar had sailed in the U.K. Admiral's Cup with an enthusiastic Olympic sailor named Glyn Charles.

Charles was an accomplished sailor who had aspirations of representing Britain in the Sydney Olympics and eventually winning an Olympic medal. He had impressed Kulmar with both his sailing ability and his personality. Charles' specialty was small boats. But he had competed in four Admiral's Cups, and he had sailed on boats ranging from dinghies to ocean racers.

In 1998, Charles was headed to Australia as a sailing coach for the British Olympic team. As soon as Kulmar found out that Charles was going to be in Sydney, he e-mailed him an invitation to join the crew. Charles replied with a tentative acceptance, to be finalized after discussions in Sydney.

On December 10, just a little over two weeks from the start of the race, Glyn Charles arrived from London. The morning he landed, Charles met Kulmar and Kothe at the Cruising Yacht Club in Sydney. After an extended conversation, the British sailor said he would think about it, and two days later agreed to join the crew. Because of prior commitments, however, he would not be able to train with the crew until December 22—just four days before the race. This would be his first Hobart.

Kothe's decision to bring Charles on board was not universally acclaimed. One young sailor, Tracy Roth, had planned to do the Hobart on
Sword
. She was an accomplished sailor who had done five Atlantic crossings, but she was not a sailing heavy like Glyn Charles. Tracy was cut from the crew, a casualty of Kothe's search for rock stars.

Others who remained on the team were also upset by the decision to bring Kulmar and Charles on board. These crew members had sailed together to train for the event, and they had followed Kothe's strict rules. They hadn't even met the new rock stars.

Their status on
Sword
had now been altered, and there were disagreements about decisions that had already been made. Should they take two mainsails, or stick with one? Should they use a two-watch system in which half the crew was on duty and the other half free, or should they use a three-watch system in which only a third of the crew would be completely free to rest?

The crew of the
Sword
would begin the race with disagreement about these and other questions. Opinions were split. Perhaps most critically, they would sail with unanswered questions about who was leally in charge of the boat. Was it Kothe, the official skipper and owner? Or was it Steve Kulmar, the sailing rock star? And where did Glyn Charles fit into the decision-making hierarchy?

By race time on the 26th, 115 boats had registered for the Sydney to Hobart Race. Their names were as assorted as the design of the boats themselves:
Atara, Business Post Naiad, Miintinta, Pippin, Renegade, Siena, Solo Globe Challenger, Team Jaguar Infinity III, T42 Solandra, VC Offshore Stand Aside
, and
Secret Men's Business
. Bearing a name that would later cause heartbreak and confusion during the race, a boat called the
Midnight Special
would be competing alongside
AFR Midnight Rambler
.

As in every race, the biggest boats—the maxis—would be competing for line honors, trying to be the first to cross the finish line. The largest boat in the fleet was
Nokia
, an 83-foot maxi ketch. Almost every other boat in the race was rigged as a sloop, with two triangular sails.
Nokia
had three, with an extra mast and small sail in the back.

One local favorite was
Brindabella
, skippered by Australian financial executive George Snow. Snow had begun sailing on a man-made lake in Canberra and had moved to Sydney so he could be closer to the water. He developed a reputation as a tough competitor who truly enjoyed the camaraderie of the team sport. A coach as well as a skipper, he was dedicated to ocean racing and had persisted despite setbacks.

In the 1996 race,
Brindabella
did so well that it appeared she would win the esteemed trifecta: crossing the line first with line honors, being declared overall winner on handicap, and breaking the race record with the shortest time to Hobart. When all seemed to be going so well, the mast broke and
Brindabella
was out of the race. Although discouraged, the next year George Snow was back. And in 1997, he achieved what had been a lifetime dream.
Brindabella
crossed the finish line first.

At 75 feet,
Brindabella
was more than twice the size of the
AFR Midnight Rambler
. Like the crew of the
Rambler
, however, Snow's team of twenty-one comprised primarily amateur sailors. They were not novices, and many in the crew had done the Hobart before. But Snow did not hide his disdain for other skippers who might show up at the last minute to step onto a boat consisting of paid professionals. For Snow, “buying the team” was not an option.

Others in the race did not share Snow's reservations about using wealth to buy hired guns and rock stars.
Brindabella
's biggest threat to a second line honors win was anything but amateur. The crew of
Sayonara
consisted of twenty of the best professional sailors in the world.