30

My Hobart

I am not an accomplished ocean racer. In fact, in comparison with most of the skilled sailors described in this book, I'm clearly an amateur. At the same time, I believe I know enough about sailing to be able to look past the headlines and dig deeper into what makes a great team. To put this in perspective, here is a brief background on my adventures at sea.

I first climbed aboard a sailboat at the United States Naval Academy, where I learned something about marlinspike seamanship—essentially, how to tie knots—as well as intramural racing. I learned the names of ropes and lines, and the difference between the two. I learned a little about sails, and that when they were flapping and making a big noise it was called luffing and not flapping. And I learned what it was like to cling to a boat that had turned upside down in the Severn River when a storm came up, unexpectedly capsizing a fleet of midshipmen.

Unlike the majority of my classmates, I had little to do with the Navy after graduation—and I had nothing to do with sailing. As an officer in the Marine Corps, my thoughts were far removed from the graceful white sails I had seen on the Chesapeake Bay. In Vietnam, I was much more concerned with securing defensive perimeters, creating fields of fire for automatic weapons, and registering artillery concentrations.

The Navy was still a part of my life, and I have vivid memories of a dark night when my Naval Academy roommate—John Beardsley, the gunnery officer on a destroyer—fired illumination rounds that prevented my company from being overrun. Fortunately for me, the Navy was close by, but I had left the world of recreational sailing far behind.

After returning to civilian life, I got reacquainted with sailing and learned more about the sport than I had absorbed at Annapolis. I crewed on boats that sailed from the Chesapeake up to Connecticut. And I learned more about the tools of navigation—current at the time, but primitive by today's standards. Lacking a GPS, I struggled to master the sextant, radio direction finders, charts, and techniques for estimating my position with dead reckoning.

I continued to cruise after moving to Connecticut, accompanying the charming Victor Vroom—a fellow faculty member at Yale—on excursions to the Newport Jazz Festival. We took more extended voyages down the East Coast, but this was all “cruising” sailing. It was far different than racing, but it was sure fun. Nobody cared how fast we went, only that we knew where we were and where we were going.

I finally gave in and bought my own boat, and I enjoyed cruising on Long Island Sound. On occasions I ventured farther, sailing the waters of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, but I hadn't been in a sailboat race since the Naval Academy. Then I met Edgar Smith.

Edgar—sometimes known as “Eddo” for reasons I will explain—is an expert racer from a family of expert sailors. Edgar learned to sail from his father, Gaddis; and his son, Emmet, has represented the United States in international competitions. Edgar owned a boat called Wasabi, a popular racing boat known as the J/29. Although the J/29 has been around since the early 1980s, it's a relatively fast boat and perfect for the “around the buoys” races popular in New England.

As a crew member on Wasabi I learned a little bit about racing. But my knowledge of ocean racing was developed largely through reading and from conversations with those who had a passion for more serious sailing.

As I began to develop the narrative for this book, I spent time in the Australian racing community. And in talking with the crew of the Midnight Rambler, I became more and more intrigued with the sport of offshore ocean racing. I began to comprehend the enormous differences between my sailing experiences—sailing small boats in the Severn, cruising to the Newport Jazz Festival, and racing in Long Island Sound—and the far more demanding sport of offshore racing competition.

My interest in the sport was further heightened by the experience of sailing with the crew of the Midnight Rambler in a Sydney race. The event was held in Sydney Harbour, and in many ways it was like one of the local races I had enjoyed in Connecticut. But there was something else.

Sailing aboard the Midnight Rambler, I was struck by the seamless interaction I saw among members of the crew. Everything that happened aboard the AFR Midnight Rambler seemed to be done quietly, with few words spoken aloud. Unlike the shouting that accompanied a lot of the sailing I had done, crew members seemed to be reading each other's minds. Sailing with the Ramblers, I saw what it was like to have a team that could move into a zone of seemingly effortless coordination.

Absorbing all this, I decided that I needed to find a way to do the Hobart myself. Part of my decision was based on the simple reality that there was a lot I didn't know about ocean racing—in particular, the Sydney to Hobart Race. To write a book that would do justice to the Midnight Rambler story, I had to understand the race and I needed to understand the Australian culture.

The country of “Oz,” a slang term often used by Australians, is far different than the United States. I had served with some Aussies (“Ozzies”) in Vietnam, but we didn't have much time to chat about cultural differences. Because the Sydney to Hobart Race seemed so rooted in the Australian culture, however, I wanted to learn more.

There are superficial differences in slang. I discovered, for example, that feeling “crook” had nothing to do with dishonesty. It meant that someone was sick. I also learned why someone could be working so hard that they were going “flat-out like a lizard drinking.” (This is, apparently, the only way lizards can reach the water.) But there were other cultural differences that ran much deeper.

I was intrigued by the way in which rugged Australian individualism seemed to be combined with the ability to collaborate. I wanted to understand how these cultural norms would play out in a demanding ocean race, and I was especially interested in the leadership structure of the team.

The skipper of a racing boat is the ultimate decider, but it's hardly like the Marine Corps. The sailors are civilians, and there are no punitive sanctions for disobedience. How does this work in practice, I wondered? And what is it like to see the structure operate under conditions not unlike combat: high stress, little or no sleep, no time to eat, and real danger?

So, for all these reasons—and because, I confess, the race sounded like a really big adventure—I looked for a boat that would take me aboard. After some searching and networking, I finally found a spot on a 60-foot racing boat. The skipper, Peter Goldsworthy, understood my limitations, but he made it clear that there were no jewel positions on his boat. I would be expected to pull my weight as best I could.

With the prospect of the race looming, I did everything I could to be ready. I remembered that, at one point during my trip to Antarctica, I was crossing South Georgia Island. The belated thought occurred to me: I really should have been in better shape for this.

It was too late for Antarctica, but I resolved that next time I would be in better physical condition. Consequently, I did my best to prepare physically for the Sydney to Hobart Race, and I was as disciplined as I could be in my training.

As a result of my research, I also knew that this was a serious undertaking. People had died in this race. So I spent as much time as I could possibly spare getting the array of clothing and technology I thought would improve my chances of survival.

I talked with Zach Leonard, then coach of the Yale sailing team (and more recently a member of the U.S. Olympic Coaching squad), about sleep deprivation. I found hydrostatic life jackets that would deploy even if I went over the side unconscious. I found a personal EPIRB—a small battery-powered emergency transmitting device—that would fit under my wet-weather gear. Finally, to prepare for potentially harsh weather conditions, my daughter Holly and I sailed my own boat during the Connecticut winter. Though the Sydney to Hobart Race occurs during their summer, the boats are sailing south toward Antarctica, so it can get cold. Really cold.

When I arrived in Sydney and met the other crew members on my boat, I realized just how much of a rookie I was. My friend Edgar, who accompanied me, had never done the Hobart, but he was a skilled racer. A number of others had done the Hobart, other Australian races, or similar races in other parts of the world. Although not everyone had sailed on the relatively advanced boat we were crewing, clearly everyone knew more than I did.

The situation I found myself in was unfamiliar: I was neither in a formal leadership role nor was I advising leaders. I was a team member with no formal authority, and I was a novice at ocean racing. It was not a comfortable position for me, and I had lots of opportunities to practice one of my dictums: “Cultivate poised incompetence.” I did my best to swallow my pride, work hard, follow orders, and learn about ocean racing. And learn about racing I did, as I tried to absorb every part of the experience.

I learned about the painstaking preparation that goes into an event like the Sydney to Hobart Race. I learned about the austerity of a racing boat and about fundamental safety measures. For example, never put your hand somewhere that a finger could be ripped off by a huge sail attached to an 85-foot mast. And I learned that everybody on the boat seemed to have a nickname.

There was Goldy, the skipper. Then Scotty, Fairweather, Beeks, and Frenchy, who was, of course, British. With all these exotic nicknames, I felt like I was enrolled in the Navy's Top Gun school. I started calling my friend Edgar “Eddo,” and by the time it was all over I became Perk—at least to Jungle, so named for his ability to climb a rope like it was a tropical vine.

Some of my experiences were tedious and routine: sitting on the side of the boat as ballast—a position often derisively referred to as rail meat. Some were exciting: plowing into massive waves with the wind tearing the sails apart. But in all these situations I played the role of a student trying to understand the technical complexities of this kind of ocean race. This was far different than anything I had experienced in my own sailing history.

When it was over, I had learned something about ocean racing, and I had learned a lot about the Sydney to Hobart Race. Most of my learning came through sailing, but, as a dedicated researcher, I also spent some time conversing with other sailors in off-duty hours. I learned to enjoy Cascade Lager, and I began to understand how ocean racers thought about the world.

At the end of my adventure, I walked into the Shipwright's Arms pub in Tasmania after finishing the Sydney to Hobart Race and bought a round of drinks for my mates on the AFR Midnight Rambler. I couldn't claim to be an ocean racer, but I felt ready to write a book.

The Teamwork at The Edge strategies that follow reflect the sum total of my learning from observation, interviews, and personal experience. These strategies have helped me and my team, and I believe they can help your team as well.