9

AFR Midnight Rambler—And They're Away!

The morning of the race, Ed and Bob were down at the boat early. One by one, the other Ramblers showed up. Chris was first, as usual, followed by Mix, and then Gordo, then the smiling Jonno. Well after the designated arrival time of 11 a.m., all the remaining crew had arrived. Everyone, that is, except for Arthur.

Arthur had planned to catch a flight from a family Christmas vacation in the town of Dubbo, in central New South Wales, over 300 miles away. It would be a tight schedule in a perfect world, and travel from the outback is far from perfect. Now Arthur was late and everyone started to get concerned. Ed was particularly upset. Just as Bob was about to ask Ed if he should be worried about a coronary, Arthur showed up. He walked briskly up to the boat and enthusiastically asked, “What's all the fuss about?”

With that hurdle crossed, the crew stowed their bags, a relatively simple task. In keeping with Ed's “travel light” philosophy, only one spare shirt was allowed. After the foul-weather gear was hung up, the nearly empty bags were stowed at predetermined spots, where their almost negligible weight would be of greatest value as ballast.

With everything stowed, the crew said the first of their good-byes to family and friends, then gravitated to the Cruising Yacht Club for the last hot cup of coffee they would enjoy for days.

With that final taste of civilization, the crew headed to the boat, which was conveniently docked right in front of the clubhouse. There were the usual additional farewells, and Ed's father, Bill, gave his traditional rousing pep talk. Then the Ramblers cast off the dock lines and began their journey, playing a game of “dodgem-boats” through the marina and out into the harbor.

Sue Psaltis and the others waved good-bye from the dock. She continued to wave as the boat motored out into Sydney Harbour. She watched as her husband, her brother, her brother-in-law, and her good friends disappeared from view. Sue relaxed a little, but the relief was mixed with worry.

In previous years, Sue would then drive out to the Sydney Heads and watch the start of the race. She liked seeing the panorama of sails making their hard right turn and heading south. This year she had a one-year-old and a two-year-old, and it was too complicated to make the trip. It also felt like saying good-bye twice, and once was enough.

Sue headed over to the home of Mix and his wife, Annabel—whom everyone called “Tink.” The two wives watched the start of the race on television. As always, it was a somewhat disappointing show. The TV cameras focused on the big maxis, and especially Sayonara. The smaller boats were not so spectacular and got much less attention.

Out of sight of the cameras, AFR Midnight Rambler made its way through the armada of spectator craft that would dog them all the way through to the exclusion zone where nonracers were prohibited. Despite the dedication of the police, a few spectator boats always created challenges with their unexpected maneuvers and the accompanying close calls.

The race hadn't started, but the maneuvering required concentration. It would be a nightmare to have some lunatic ruin the race before they even made it to The Heads. Months of labor, sacrifice, and expense would all be down the drain.

Finally, the Rambler broke through to open water and had enough room to hoist the new mainsail. It went up without any major snags, and the sail looked terrific with the logo of the Australian Financial Review emblazoned in bold letters. After the race, Bob mused that “if the sail had known what it was going to be in for, it would probably have tried to stay hidden in its bag.”

Though the TV cameras were largely focused elsewhere, there was one bit of good fortune. Just as they raised their new spinnaker, the television helicopter flew by, and the black sail blossomed—displaying the logo of the Australian Financial Review for all to see. The Ramblers were pleased by the timing, and so were their sponsors at The Fin.

With ten minutes to go, activity at the starting line was at a fever pitch. Navigators and tacticians were focused on their stopwatches. Adrenaline was pumping. All 115 boats were jockeying for the most advantageous position, and it seemed to Bob that everyone wanted to be exactly where the AFR Midnight Rambler was located.

Even if they were in a perfect position at the start, Sayonara or some other maxi could roll over them with their superior speed. But there was little that could be done about that problem. It was simply one of the many disadvantages that the smaller competitors had to tolerate. All they could do was to fight for a good opening position, and they were intently focused on doing exactly that.

The five-minute gun was the harbinger of the mayhem that was about to unfold. Yacht racing starts are both the best and the most stressful part of the competition. They match any sport for the sheer adrenaline rush, and the Ramblers were feeling the surge.

Almost every boat in the southern hemisphere seemed headed toward the Rambler, which was sparring with competitors on the right-hand side of the line. Being small was their one asset, because it made them so maneuverable. They were able to weave through openings between the larger craft, while staying close to the starting line. This bobbing and weaving was much more difficult for the maxis.

A perfect start would mean reaching the starting line just as the canon signaling the beginning of the race went off. That's what the Ramblers were hoping for, but they began their run to the starting line too early. In addition, they had let too many boats get on their windward side—the direction from which the wind was blowing—and they were getting turbulent air from the other sails. This uneven flow of wind created problems, making it harder to adjust their own sails.

Every boat was preoccupied with the same challenge of maneuvering to be in a perfect position, but not crossing the line prematurely. Boats that were too quick off the mark would be given a significant penalty with an adjustment to their handicap. It was a disadvantage that everyone tried to avoid.

Nokia and Sword of Orion had been playing cat and mouse, with Sword cast in the role of mouse. Less than a minute before the gun, Nokia headed directly to Sword on a collision course. According to sailing rules of the road, Sword had the “right-of-way.” But it was only at the last minute that the maxi swerved, making a sudden turn to avoid collision.

The turn came too late, and Nokia's bow crashed into the rear of the smaller boat. Nokia scraped its way up the side of Sword with the cringe-inducing sound of steel against fiberglass. The crew of Sword was enraged, as one crew member took out a knife and threatened to cut down Nokia's sails. Kothe raised a red protest flag, and Dags attempted to repair the damage to the stanchions that support the lifelines.

Nokia's sudden turn forced all the boats on the right side of the starting line to take evasive action. They escaped the collision, but it was like a highway pileup. The air was filled with screams and obscenities as boats took desperate actions to avoid crashing into each other.

Nokia blamed Sword, saying the collision resulted because the smaller boat came in too close and the maxi couldn't maneuver. At the moment, it was a huge source of contention. Robert Kothe sent an e-mail to the CYCA, reporting that Sword of Orion had sustained “severe damage” and that there was a “compression crease” in the mast.

Later in the afternoon, Kothe realized that what appeared to be serious damage to the mast was simply a rub mark. And when the race was over, no protest would be filed. The events of the next days would dwarf the importance of the collision.

The Sword had been damaged and other boats delayed, but the Ramblers received a gift. The confusion had provided them with a much appreciated clean run to the starting line. Watching the melee, Bob thought, I'll have to buy that bloke a beer in Hobart. Then again, I probably won't see him because he'll be four days in the protest room being hung and quartered.

At 1 p.m. the final gun went off, and the 54th Sydney to Hobart Race had begun. One hundred fifteen boats and their eager crews fought their way to the starting line.

The AFR Midnight Rambler was in a perfect position—on the far right end of the line, with clean air. And the Ramblers had a plan. They would make a right turn out of the Sydney Heads, then it was a straight shot to Tasmania—only 628 miles to go.

Within limits, they could control their own destiny by sailing right on the edge of the spectator boats. Then, once they made it to Watsons Bay, the course would widen just enough to make it easier to avoid the larger boats. They would round the first mark and speed straight for the famous marker “Z” offshore.

That was the plan, but plans go awry. After AFR Midnight Rambler passed the Z, a 50-foot pleasure boat came out of nowhere, spoiling the wind and creating turbulent air. They could see the skipper was annoyed that a small yacht was in his way, but he was soon gone. He's probably sailing northeast to Caledonia, thought Bob. The pleasure boat was more fortunate than he could know, given what lay ahead for the sailors headed south.