15

VC Offshore Stand Aside—A Twist of Fate

James Hallion, the skipper of VC Offshore Stand Aside, had assembled a hybrid racing team of veterans and rookies. Andy Mariette was one of the most experienced crew members among the twelve sailors aboard. He had done two Hobarts and had been sailing all his life. As Mariette put it, “I've been sailing since I was probably knee high to a boot.”

Simon Clark had also sailed since he was a boy. Much of his experience was blue water ocean sailing, some of which had taken him near Antarctica. Others had shorter sailing resumes. Though Hallion had done one Hobart, it would be his first time sailing this boat. Mike Marshman, like Hallion, had done only one Hobart. And John Culley was doing the race for the first time.

At the 2:00 p.m. sked on December 27, Mariette was below deck at the nav station listening intently to the reports from other boats. When Stand Aside's turn came near the end of the alphabet, Mariette wanted to be ready to report their position. Like everyone else, he was also intensely interested in any weather information that could guide their decision making.

The 41-foot Stand Aside, built in New Zealand, was particularly good at sailing downwind. Like AFR Midnight Rambler, Stand Aside had had a spectacular run down the coast. When the weather worsened on the morning of the 27th, they shifted to a small storm jib.

Even with a small sail, they were still exposed to 70-knot winds when they reached the tops of the big waves. After Stand Aside had been knocked flat, they tried running on bare poles using just the mast and rigging to power the boat.

With no sails, maneuvering became so difficult that Hallion, who was steering, essentially gave up, letting Stand Aside make up her own mind about which direction to head. Sometimes the boat would slide east toward New Zealand, and other times toward Tasmania.

Stand Aside's course was so erratic that, in an attempt to regain control, the crew decided to raise the storm jib once again. This time, the sail blew out of its tracks. By the 2 p.m. sked, Stand Aside had taken such a beating that no one was surprised at the high wind warning issued by Sword of Orion.

Aboard Young Endeavor, Lew Carter proceeded with his standard protocol for skeds: State the name of the boat; wait for the boat to repeat its name with latitude and longitude; record the position for later verification.

Near the end of the alphabet, Carter came to Hallion's boat: “VC Offshore Stand Aside.” No response. “Nothing heard,” he said and then moved to the next boat on his list. After every boat had been given a chance to report in, Carter repeated the names of boats that had not responded. Once again, there was no answer from Stand Aside.

At some point in the interval between the Sword of Orion's warning and Lew Carter's initial transmission to Stand Aside, Mariette heard a shout on deck. “Watch out! Big wave!”

Marshman saw the wave coming, and he estimated it to be more than 60 feet high. It was an enormous wave, and it was starting to break. Stand Aside was pulled into the bottom of the wave and then catapulted to the top. When the boat reached the crest of the wave, Stand Aside was hit with the full force of the wind. Then everything turned upside down.

About 35 miles southwest of Gabo Island, the boat made a complete rotation, rolling 360 degrees. When Stand Aside finally came back up, Mariette was still sitting in front of the nav station. The force of the spin had been so great that it pinned him to his seat. The cabin roof had collapsed on top of him, but Mariette was in exactly the same position as before the giant wave hit—and was still holding his microphone.

The boat recovered, but Marshman was trapped underwater by the rigging. He had been harnessed to the boat and was pinned by his safety equipment. Though Marshman was drowning, he still had the presence of mind to realize that he was better off attached to the boat than letting go and drifting into the maelstrom. He fought his way to the surface and he gulped for air with a full understanding of how close he had been to death.

Eight crew members were on deck when the wave hit, all but one attached to the boat with a harness. After they recovered from the capsize, the air was filled with people shouting out names, desperate to find out who was on board and who was in the water.

John Culley, who had gone over the side without a harness, surfaced over 100 feet from the boat. Stand Aside was so far away that it seemed hopeless. He looked back at the boat, wondering what would happen next. Miraculously, the force of the wind and the waves drove him back to the boat. He climbed aboard, saved by a twist of fate.

The four crew members who were trapped below during the roll were now on deck, pulling their mates back onto the damaged boat. It wasn't a pretty sight. The inside of the boat was awash with seawater, the mast had broken off, the hull had several fractures, and the boom was twisted sideways.

Marshman had lost the top of his ring finger and was covered with blood. Others had lacerations, gashes, cuts, and damaged cartilage. Food, clothing, and debris were floating around the cabin, and diesel fuel gushed from the motor. A winch handle had been driven through the radio, rendering it useless. The crew was exhausted and injured, and it seemed certain that Stand Aside would sink.

There were two life rafts onboard, one stowed below and one on deck. The crew quickly inflated the first raft and tied it to the stern of the boat. The second stubbornly refused to inflate. In the struggle, a line broke and the second life raft was lost over the side. With only one six-man life raft remaining, the shattered Stand Aside was all they had to keep them alive.

The crew cut away the mast and rigging, and bailed with buckets and manual pumps. To lighten the boat and create a debris trail for rescuers, they threw everything overboard that was not critical to survival. Sorting through the lifeboat ditch bag, they found a handheld radio and began sending Mayday calls. A waterproof camera floated out of the detritus, and their subsequent ordeal was documented in a series of extraordinary photographs.

The crew used every intact piece of safety and emergency equipment they could find. Stand Aside was equipped with an EPIRB (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon) device designed to transmit a distress signal to the satellite system run by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). The crew activated the EPIRB and deployed a red parachute and orange smoke flares. Fearful and anxious, they waited for someone to respond.

The handheld radio had a very limited range, but a helicopter from the Australian Broadcasting Company (ABC) had been filming the race and picked up their distress signal. The pilot, Gary Ticehurst, had a reputation as one of the most skilled chopper pilots in Australia. He had flown helicopters in combat during the Vietnam War, and he attributed his skill to his previous experiences. Over a drink, he had once told a friend that “you get good at flying when some bastard is shooting at you.” Fifteen minutes after Stand Aside's Mayday, Ticehurst was hovering overhead, relaying transmissions and coordinating rescue efforts.

Nearby, skipper Iain Moray had been fighting the waves in an even smaller boat, the 38-foot Siena. Siena was struggling but continuing south and still racing. Moray and navigator Tim Evans—who had been monitoring the radio—heard Stand Aside's distress call. When no one else responded to the Mayday, Moray felt he had no choice. Siena changed course in an effort to locate Stand Aside and render assistance.

Because of the size of the waves, no one on Siena could see Stand Aside. But Moray could see the ABC chopper hovering overhead. They steered toward the helicopter and finally spotted the dismasted yacht.

Moray radioed Ticehurst, trying to figure out what Siena could do to help. The conversation was short and to the point.

“ABC helicopter, this is Siena, over.”

“Siena this is the ABC chopper. I have a message for you from Maritime Safety, over.”

“ABC helicopter, this is Siena. Yes, what is the message, over?”

“Roger, from the Maritime Safety. They are wondering if you feel able to hold in the area of the Stand Aside here in case persons need to take on into a life raft or abandon the ship, abandon the boat prior to the rescue, over.”

Moray agreed to stand by, and the crew of Siena did their best to assist in the rescue effort. They circled the stricken vessel, trying to hold their position. But even with the help of a 20-horsepower engine, it was an extraordinarily difficult task. Then it happened.

Siena was knocked down by a massive rogue wave. Moray was almost thrown out of the boat, and Evans was tossed across the cabin. The top of Siena's mast slammed the water. Evans suffered three broken ribs and a punctured lung. Other crew members were injured, and Moray realized that Siena's safety was in jeopardy. He radioed the ABC chopper, requesting permission to leave.

Ticehurst told Moray that a rescue helicopter would be on the scene shortly, and Siena turned and headed north. Nearly twenty-four hours later, the boat arrived in a small fishing port, and Evans was rushed to the hospital for surgery. By this time he had lost 60 percent of the use of his lung, and pneumonia had set in.¹ His recovery would take months.