22

Sayonara—Tack the Boat

By Sunday evening Sayonara was far ahead of AFR Midnight Rambler.¹ It was a fast boat. Not only was the big maxi 48 feet longer than the Rambler, but Ellison had every technological advantage imaginable on his side. Sayonara's hull had been constructed with sheets of lightweight carbon fiber fabric. Its carbon mast, much lighter than aluminum, alone cost more than two AFR Midnight Ramblers. Sayonara was designed for speed, and it was flying across the Bass Strait.

Sayonara, like the other maxis, escaped the worst of the storm. But the boat was still hitting huge waves and strong winds. During one maneuver, as Chris Dickson was turning the boat, Oracle's Phil Kiely was washed across the deck. He landed on one foot and broke his leg.

In an attempt to get their torn mainsail down, another crewman, Joey Allen, was hit in the head by a sail fitting that flew out of his hand. The impact gouged his head and nearly knocked him unconscious. And another, T.A. McCann, sliced his thumb so badly he thought it had been cut off.

Ellison watched the crew struggle, amazed with the impressive display of tenacity and skill. After the sail had been secured, Kiely was carried below by two crew members who had been trained as medics. They cut off his boot, gave him a dose of morphine, and strapped him into his bunk. Then Ellison came over and knelt down to speak with Kiely.

Like Chris Rockell on AFR Midnight Rambler, Kiely did not want Sayonara to pull out of the race on his account. He insisted that he was okay and that they should continue racing in spite of his injury. Ellison agreed, but then reminded him—as if Kiely could forget—that it was his idea to come on the race to begin with.

Throughout the night and early morning, Sayonara continued to suffer casualties. A mainsail trimmer, Bob Wylie, cracked his ribs when he fell against a winch. And Mark “Tugboat” Turner, the chief engineer, sprained his ankle while moving around the boat looking for signs of delamination. The high-tech carbon fiber layers were separating. Little by little, Sayonara was coming apart.

The weather on Monday was even worse than on Sunday. The waves were steeper, and Ellison, along with many of the crew, was seasick. By Monday night he was glued to his bunk, incapacitated. Ellison hadn't eaten anything for twenty-four hours, and any swagger that he had once had about the race being cool had been washed away. He had made up his mind—this would be his last Hobart.

Ellison's ordeal continued throughout the night and into Tuesday. He had thrown up so frequently that he was dehydrated. With nothing left in his stomach, every time he tried to vomit he felt like his insides were being ripped out. Totally exhausted, Ellison wedged himself into his bunk and tried to sleep. But it was hopeless. There was absolutely no way he could fall asleep in this nightmare.

Earlier, when Ellison was on deck, he had seen waves of 40 to 50 feet. Now he heard crew members talking about bigger waves—waves higher than Sayonara's 105-foot mast. It's doubtful that they encountered anything of that size, as they were far south of the weather bomb. The maxi's speed had enabled them to beat the worst of the storm, but the waves were still enormous.

Because of her size, Sayonara didn't have the ability to maneuver like AFR Midnight Rambler. The boat would bury its bow into the steep cliffs of water, then be catapulted straight up to the crest. Ellison felt it was like going up the elevator of a five-story office building, then being pushed off the top floor—every twenty seconds.

While Ellison stayed below, other members of the crew were on deck in the maelstrom, steering and running the boat. Even Lachlan Murdoch, though seasick and worried that the boat might capsize, was on deck during his watches. Murdoch was at the edge, but he would not be beaten by the Hobart. In spite of his fear and nausea, Murdoch resolved to do his job to the best of his ability. Trying to be positive, he was happy that the rain would rinse the vomit off his foul-weather gear.

For Ellison, riding out the storm in his bunk was “no picnic, either.”² Every time Sayonara would go airborne, he would feel weightless for a moment, then crunch back into the bunk when the boat hit the trough of the wave.

The constant pounding took its toll. At one point Ellison watched crewman Zan Drejes pump water from the hull. Noting his bloodshot eyes, Ellison said, “What a bunch of dumb s—ts we are to call this fun.” Drejes responded, “You'll look back on this race with pride, and you'll be out here again someday.”³ Ellison said nothing, but he knew that Drejes was wrong.

Early Tuesday morning, Tugboat was tapping on the hull, trying to determine the extent of Sayonara's delamination problems. There was no doubt that the boat was coming apart. Tugboat was simply trying to assess how quickly it was happening.

Bill Erkelens watched the engineer tapping near the bow and became alarmed. He asked Tugboat how serious the problem was, and the answer was clear. It was very serious. Erkelens went to find Chris Dickson and make the case that they needed to slow down.

Dickson was not sympathetic. They were on the rhumb line—the most direct course to Hobart—and he wanted Sayonara to be the first boat across the line. They didn't know where Brindabella was, and he didn't want to be beaten by George Snow's maxi.

Another crew member expressed his concerns about the delamination problem with navigator Mark Rudiger. Rudiger's response was the same as Dickson's: They needed to hold their current course. It was the most direct route and the quickest way home. Though Rudiger was not persuaded, he agreed to raise the issue with Dickson and Ellison.

That conversation never happened. Below in his bunk, Ellison watched Tugboat drawing circles on the inside of the hull with a red marker. When Ellison asked “Tugsy” what he was doing, Tugboat explained that he was marking the spots where the bow was delaminating.

Ellison was incredulous. There was Tugboat, calmly marking the spots where Sayonara's bow was coming apart. Ellison climbed out of his bunk and made his way back to the navigation station. He asked Rudiger where they were on the chart, and the navigator showed him their position.

They were about 75 miles off the coast of Tasmania, with the wind coming out of the southwest. It was hitting them on the starboard side, and Sayonara was taking a beating. But on their current course, Rudiger explained, they were headed straight to the finish line.

Ellison had seen enough. He was sick, he was afraid, and he was done with this race. He had been done with the race for a long time. He was no longer trying to prove himself. He wanted out. It was clear to him that the only sensible move was to change their course and head west. If they could reach the protection of the Tasmanian coast, they could escape these terrible waves—waves that he was convinced were trying to kill him.

Rudiger pushed back. They didn't know where Brindabella was. If they changed course, Sayonara could lose the race. Ellison didn't care. He was angry, and he was the owner of the boat. “We won't win the race if we sink,” Ellison said. “Tack the f—ing boat.”⁴

Ellison's order ended the debate. Sayonara turned and headed west, and the new angle eased the strain on the boat. Soon after, the weather began to improve, and everything looked brighter.

They had made it through the storm, and the worst was over. For the crew of Sayonara, and for Australian Search and Rescue, it was a blessing. If Sayonara had been caught in the center of the storm like the smaller boats, it could have been much, much worse. With its size and limited maneuverability, the maxi might well have broken apart, leaving more than twenty people adrift in the Bass Strait.

Feeling good, Ellison congratulated himself on his decision. He believed not only that he had saved Sayonara but that he had made a smart tactical decision: “Tacking the boat turned out to be the right thing to do for the race, too. God was smiling on us.”⁵

There is no way of knowing what would have happened if Sayonara had continued on its direct course to Hobart. But Ellison had asserted his power, confident that he had made the right decision. God and Larry Ellison were happy. Chris Dickson and Mark Rudiger had done what they were ordered to do. They had tacked the boat.