All Piss and Wind (10 page)

It's easy to forget that a lifetime spent ocean racing provides us with a huge storehouse of knowledge and practical experience. A standard, dip-pole spinnaker gybe will look like World War III to first-time crew. The sequence of events required for a peel change-up from the #3 to the #2 genoa is second nature to experienced hands, yet that same process may seem an impenetrable Chinese puzzle to the newcomer.

So we must never assume that beginners will know how to perform even the simplest task. Nor will they know the order in which things must be done, or even understand why a particular process is necessary at all. Ocean-racing skills and commonsense take years to develop. They're largely built on the willingness of regular crew to openly share the details of their craft with newcomers. Holding back that knowledge is appalling vanity – and unsafe.

Keep your cool

Skippers tend to scream at their crew. Levels of agitation and abuse that would be unthinkable in the workplace are the norm on many yachts. This is, of course, counterproductive and defies the principles of effective staff management. But it seems nothing will stop most skippers from bellowing behind the wheel. New crew can find this rather disconcerting. They get a Force 10 bollocking for some minor lapse that on land might provoke no more than a raised eyebrow.

Many would-be ocean racers never return after being on the receiving end of a skipper throwing a full-bore ‘tanty'. This is where the regular crew can help. ‘Don't worry about it, mate. Happens all the time. He's a teensy bit competitive. Always does his block if he thinks we're going to shred his lovely new sails. It'll all be forgotten before we're back at the mooring.' It's fine to defuse these situations by demonising the skipper (they quite like it, actually). And always take the time to reassure any downcast new crewmember that it's only a boat race – and everyone makes mistakes.

Share the knowledge

If the new crewmember survives a few day-races he might be invited to tackle his first passage event. That's the time to quietly pass on the benefits of your own experience and outline the significant differences between flat-water and ocean sailing.

Suggest what to pack, and what to leave ashore. Make sure the new chum has the right clothing and wet-weather gear. Explain the watch system used on your boat, and the safety rules. Demonstrate how to come up safely from below and clip a tether onto the jackstay. Make him promise to get a good, long night of sleep before the race. Be certain he understands that distance ocean-racing is all about stamina and pacing yourself. If first-timers know what's expected of them, then they're much more likely to meet the challenge.

Praise and encourage

Old campaigners – especially owners who spend most of their time in the aft cockpit or in their bunk – tend to forget that pushing big yachts hard for days on end isn't easy work. There's so much for beginners to learn and remember that it's a wonder they don't all become discouraged and quit.

Explaining the ‘how to' basics and correcting faulty technique is best left to the regular crew. A canny skipper will wait until the new recruit has done something well and then offer instant praise. ‘Well
done! Just like a bought one. We'll make a bloody sailor of you yet.' It may only have been a neatly executed tack, but that's precious encouragement for the seagoing greenhorn. Positive reinforcement helps cement the right way of doing things. And remember that the greatest praise of all – the words that are absolutely guaranteed to lift the spirits of any aspiring young yachtie – is your invitation for them to come sailing with you again next week.

O
CEAN RACING
,
LIKE
most organised sports, has an annual cycle. The major events occupy fixed points on the calendar and the offshore community inevitably plan their lives around those dates. For many the climax is Boxing Day, the start of the Sydney–Hobart race. But for me the highlight of the season comes two months earlier. The moment that I look forward to most each year can't be predicted with any great accuracy, although it usually falls somewhere within the last Monday or Tuesday of October. It's when, after three days at sea, the twin peaks of Lord Howe Island first appear over the horizon. Our hearts lift with the sailor's timeless joy of landfall. The crew all crowd on deck to share in the satisfaction of another long journey made together in safety. Veterans cannot smother their smiles as
they anticipate the coming days of fun and relaxation on the world's southernmost tropical island. They know it's undoubtedly the best destination in Australian yachting.

The Gosford–Lord Howe race is a genuine passage event, 414 nautical miles across the Tasman Sea to find a tiny finishing line tucked into the leeward side of an island just six miles long. All but a few hours of the trip are spent beyond the sight of land and other boats, so the feeling of being truly ‘at sea' underscores the whole race and lends it unique character. The Southport and Mooloolaba events may test tactics and navigation more, Hobart stretches our stamina, but only the Lord Howe offers the experience of sustained seafaring. For days it's possible to daydream that this is what it must have been like on the square-riggers, letting your life be entirely dictated by wind, weather, waves and the ceaseless round of watches. There are no coastal landmarks or beacons by which to judge progress or confirm the guesser's last plot. Crossing oceans – if only 400 miles of the Tasman – is the quintessence of offshore sailing. The sense of achievement as Mount Gower and Mount Lidgbird loom into view is unforgettable.

The race owes its existence to a serendipitous confluence of events. Mainland tourism to the island had slumped in the early 1970s with the demise of the romantic (but woefully uneconomic) flying-boat passenger service between Rose Bay in Sydney and the Lord Howe lagoon. The island's tiny economy was in recession. At the same time, a group of Gosford yachtsmen including Peter Rysdyk and Lloyd Prike had taken to cruising over to Lord Howe for their summer holidays. During dinner one night at the Pine Trees guest house, the sailors mused that it might be fun to stage some sort of organised yachting event rather than their casual cruising passage. The then proprietress of Pine Trees, Mrs Beth Kirby, leapt at the idea. ‘I'll give you a fine perpetual trophy if you organise a race,' she told them. The current owner of Pine Trees, Pixie Rourke, still presents that slightly battered silver trophy every year – it was
originally awarded a century ago for some long-forgotten handicap at the Penang Turf Club in Singapore.

Rysdyk's yacht
Onya of Gosford
won the first race in 1974 and the LHI has been contested every year since. It always begins on the last Saturday of October, and is second only in distance to the Sydney–Hobart in the Australian offshore calendar. Past winners include some of our most famous racing yachts:
Helsal
,
Stormy Petrel
,
Sweet Caroline
,
Brindabella
,
Mark Twain
,
Doctor Who
,
Margaret Rintoul
and
Midnight Rambler
. The record for the fastest passage – 33 hours, 34 minutes and 21 seconds – was set by
Merit
in 2002. Good manners prevent me naming the yacht that holds the record for taking the
longest
time to complete the distance, but its time was a whopping 95 hours, 19 minutes and 42 seconds.

The original course took the fleet from the start off Lion Island at the mouth of Pittwater and around Ball's Pyramid, a hazardous spike of rock which lies about 12 miles south-east of the Island. Today's track dispenses with Ball's Pyramid but includes a rounding mark laid close in to Terrigal Beach so that Central Coast spectators can catch a glimpse of the fleet before it heads out into the Tasman. From there it's a straight-line sprint to the finish off Signal Point.

Gosford Sailing Club, the organisers of the Lord Howe, describe it as ‘the most exclusive offshore event in the yachting world'. They have a point. While every other blue-water classic likes to judge its success by the number of entries it attracts, participation in the Gosford–LHI is strictly by invitation and limited to just 20 boats. The reason for that very small fleet is the geography of the island itself. There are no marinas or overnight docking facilities at Lord Howe, so all visiting yachts have to be accommodated on conventional swing moorings within the natural protection of the lagoon. There are only 20 spots available – 15 shallow-draft moorings (for yachts that draw less than 2.2 metres), plus five that can hold larger yachts in one of the deeper entry passages.

Every year there are many more yachts seeking entry than there
are places available. The members of the Race Committee then have the delicate political task of selecting those who will be invited to make the trip and informing the unsuccessful applicants that they will have to wait for another opportunity. Longstanding loyalty to the race is recognised, but does not bestow automatic selection. Most of the larger yachts that miss out on a mooring are then invited to race on a ‘turnaround' basis. Their speed advantage usually gets them to the island a day before the bulk of the fleet, so they can enjoy at least one overnight before having to vacate their mooring for a slower finisher.

The race itself is fairly straightforward. Two huge underwater sea mounts – Barcoo and Taupo – lie directly on the rhumbline. Ocean depth over the Mounts rushes up from thousands of fathoms to just a few hundred feet, often causing marked changes in sea-state and the pattern of currents. The major tactical decision facing skippers and navigators racing to Lord Howe is whether to go north or south of those mounts. If the wind is directly contrary (which is rare at that time of year), the choice becomes moot: everyone just has to knuckle down to an uncomfortable 400-mile slog to windward.

Yachts arriving at the island in darkness face two difficulties. The finishing line is notoriously hard to find, and once they've crossed they must wait out the rest of that night at sea. The entries to the lagoon are just too narrow and dangerous to navigate without the advantages of daylight, and a pilot. Many a fine stew and bottle of rum has been consumed by celebrating crew as their yacht gently reaches back and forth ‘outside' after finishing. Everyone is impatient for the first rays of sun to peep over Old Settlement Beach. Someone from the Wilson family on shore will already be up at dawn and keeping an ear on VHF Channel 12 for overnight arrivals. Within minutes of sun-up a ‘tinnie' scoots out across the reef to guide boats to their assigned mooring.

First-time visitors to the island are always surprised when they
catch the mooring float and start hauling it up to discover that there's no heavy-duty rope running down to the chain – just some light line between the float and the first link. The Lord Howe system is that everyone has to get the first few metres of chain on deck and then rig their own mooring lines directly to it. That ritual unambiguously puts the onus on skippers to ensure that they've secured their boat properly. (Prudent crews rig two separate lines through the chain so there's a back-up if chafing rubs through the rope that is bearing the main load.)

And at last, we're there.

‘Finished with engines?'

‘Yep, knock 'er off!'

After days of racing we drink in the sudden silence, then recognise the distant swish of waves washing gently ashore on the lagoon beach. Above are the majestic Wagnerian cliffs of Mount Lidgbird and Mount Gower, soaring to three times the height of anything on the mainland coast – so high they make their own weather and are usually crowned with fluffy clouds. Lower, the rich green of tropical rainforest vegetation and the familiar shape of the island's unique Kentia palms. Pairs of spotless, pure white terns twist and swoop around the masthead. The water of the lagoon is impossibly blue and clear. Not many newcomers can resist saying out loud what we're all thinking: ‘What an
incredibly
beautiful place this is.'

Before long someone spots the tender punt chugging out to take us ashore. The rubbish is already on deck in large plastic bags, sorted under the strict disposal and recycling rules that help keep Lord Howe so litter-free. A last-minute rush below to check we've all packed everything we'll need for the days ashore. The skipper makes yet another nervous trip to the bow to assure himself the mooring lines will hold. ‘Everyone off? Hatches closed? Water and electrics off? OK, let's
go
!'

The tender crunches softly onto the sand and we trudge up the beach to the minibus waiting to transfer us to our guest-house.

‘G'day, Peter! Good to see you again.'

‘Likewise, mate. Have a good trip? Welcome to the island, everyone. Hop in!'

There's no point picking up your key from front reception – there
is
no front reception, and nobody locks their rooms on Lord Howe anyway.

‘Righto, fellas. Let's give it an hour for everyone to get settled in, phone home and have a shower. See you all down the Bowlos around eleven?'

‘Too bloody right! I can taste that first beer already.'

Under normal circumstances a group of people who'd just been forced to share the same cramped space for three days might reasonably be expected to scatter and seek other company. Yet after a long ocean race, exactly the opposite happens: we all unearth a fresh crew T-shirt, regroup and go straight out drinking together. There's only one ‘public' bar on Lord Howe, and that belongs to the Bowling Club. The ‘Bowlos' – a classic, NSW country-style small licensed club – serves as the unofficial race HQ every year (in fact the Race Director uses a tiny office upstairs during the week).

One of the many unique features of the LHI race is the largescale chart of the course pinned to a downstairs wall at the ‘Bowlos'. The position of every yacht is meticulously plotted twice a day as they call in their lat/long during each radio sked of the race. That map provides a fascinating account of the simultaneously unfolding fortunes of the whole fleet – a complete tactical picture that would have been very difficult for any one yacht to grasp while still racing. The first beer is usually consumed with the crew all crowding around that map, following our yacht's track with their fingers and reliving the race.

‘
Polaris
had a blinder early, but see here – we must have rolled 'em just past the Mounts.'

‘Jeez, look how far north the
Azzurro
mob went on the second night!'

‘Yeah, arsey buggers. Here's where
we
were when that breeze went east. Totally stuffed.'

‘Could have been worse.
Delta Wing
's way down here – almost off the bloody chart – and they're still out there, poor buggers! Be surprised if they get in by sunset tomorrow. Ain't
that
a shame.'

‘OK, who's getting the next round? This is bloody thirsty work.'

And so it goes. The bar slowly fills with other crews and we swap increasingly exaggerated war stories, round after round, usually until dinner and beyond. Half the fun of offshore racing is telling lies about it afterwards. The only people possibly qualified to contradict your tallest stories are other members of the same crew. But they're highly unlikely to insist on the absolute truth as most of them are also busy embroidering recent history for their own self-aggrandisement.

‘Having another?'

‘Shouldn't really, but what the hell, why not? It's not as if we've got a train to catch.'

Wednesday morning is reserved for nursing hangovers; Wednesday afternoon for the traditional cricket match against the locals. Aficionados of willow-wielding will search Wisden in vain for accounts of these annual ‘Yachties v. Islanders' encounters. They are not classified as ‘First Class Fixtures', indeed most of the matches would resist classification of any kind. We only know it's cricket because the participants arm themselves from a pile of recognisable batting equipment that's kept in a wheelbarrow in the greenkeeper's shed at the ‘Bowlos'.

Assembling twelve yachties willing to defend the cricketing honour of the Gosford Sailing Club can often be a problem. The same sailors who thought nothing of working on a heaving foredeck during the 1979 Fastnet storm or 1998 Sydney–Hobart disaster tend to shrink in horror from the prospect of facing fast bowling with a hard ball. In fact, the only notable injuries to have been sustained during these annual Test matches were all suffered by the
visitors while fielding – and all were self-inflicted. Perhaps for that reason a certain amount of anaesthetic pre-hydration before the toss is considered a sporting necessity by both sides (the ground is conveniently situated directly outside the ‘Bowlos'). Things invariably tend to deteriorate from that point. The Island XI have yet to suffer a defeat at the hands of the visitors, although they were once forced to concede a forfeit when their demon opening bowler needed to finish the guttering of the power-station roof and Lord Howe's finest batsman couldn't find anyone else to take a party of well-heeled tourists scuba-diving on the reef. Stumps are invariably drawn around 1600 to allow sufficient time to celebrate the ‘Man of the Match' award at the ‘Bowlos' bar (where else?).

Around 1730 we finish our drinks and troop off on the 25-minute hike to the other end of the island for the Official Presentation Ceremony that's held, weather permitting, on the lawn of the ‘Milky Way' guest house. (If it rains, everyone just stays at the ‘Bowlos' and the presentation comes to us.) The most notable feature of the night is the splendid fish-fry dinner served after the trophy formalities have concluded. It's quite a trick dishing up freshly caught kingfish, chips and salad for 200 starving yachties, but ‘Milky Way' pulls it off with style every year. And their homemade apple pie and lemon meringue tart are the stuff of legend.