With the Tide

Chapter one

A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.  Anon

Late April 2013. Northern Pacific Region Melbourne to Osaka two handed yacht race

The small fleet of ocean racing yachts is heading for Osaka Bay and the finish line of the Melbourne to Osaka race five hundred sea miles away to the north; they have been spread wide across the Philippine Sea by a vicious storm. Impossibly foul weather conditions even with the greater part of the journey behind them the conditions will make that a very difficult task calling on every ounce of the sailor’s skill and courage. The fleet is being pounded by massive seas in one of the busiest seaways in the world. Wind strength is increasing with fifty to sixty knots being recorded whipping up wave heights of six to seven metres or more. Putting that into context for a landsman the wind is raging at up to one hundred and ten kilometres an hour driving seas three stories high with the bulk of an office block. The howling wind drives spray and rain horizontally reducing visibility to metres screaming through the yacht rigging like some monstrous creature possessed laying the boats over on their leeward sides.

This race is for two man crews only and all crews of the fleet are on deck, their four hours watch on watch off rotations forgotten as every effort is required to control the boats as they crash, writhe, twist and contort like half broken stallions under the opposing forces of wind and sea, a moments inattention and they can be destroyed. They’re being blasted by hurricane force winds that pick up barrow loads of sea water to hurl from the wave tops with unbelievable force into red raw faces and eyes that feel as though they have shrivelled in their sockets. The priority now is survival, winning the race is secondary.

Lips are chaffed and tongues swollen, throats feel part pickled by a constant involuntary intake of brine.

Wet weather clothing is now saturated by sea water driven by the howling gale and aided by the sweat from the sailor’s exertions. Dehydration is an ever present hazard as is hypothermia.

Some of the toughest, most experienced sailors are chronically seasick vomiting vile yellow bile from empty stomachs which hangs in beards and drapes wet weather jackets until the next blast of spray cleans it away.

Every hand hold and foot placement must be exact and firm, the strength of the wind is such that a strong man can easily be blown over the side. Energy is spent disproportionately just maintaining contact with the boat rather than controlling it.

Caution dictates that smart sailors are attached by two lifelines in these conditions and clip on and clip off as they move about one lifeline always attached.

Two young mates from Blairgowrie on the Mornington Peninsula are among the competitors aboard one of the smaller yachts in the fleet and bearing the storm a little harder than their rivals.

Wind Spirit is a solid forty two foot Moody piloted by Jake Mc Alistair and his best mate Warren Turner who are well and truly in this dreadful mix. Two very competent experienced young sailors twenty five years old who have won a cabinet full of trophies each and together in different classes of yachts and events. Jake struggles up the companionway with coffees in sealed travellers mugs in a vain attempt to keep them salt water free for he and his fellow sailor and mate.

Mate this is a bitch, do you have a plan? Warren Turner shouts above the storm. He is gripping the wheel and grimacing against the spray. He knows realistically what the plan is, ‘keep on keeping on.’

‘It’s plan A all the way, there is no other way, Jake shouts to be heard over the shrieking of the storm, we do as the old square rigger sailors used to do and just crack on until something breaks. This said with a salt encrusted sardonic grin. Wazza’s coffee is blown out of Jakes hand over the side. Jake imitates the soup Nazi from Seinfeld, No coffee for you."

Stuff it, it keeps me awake anyway. An exhausted Warren responds stoically.

She seems to be handling it okay and I’ve just got the latest Weather Text which says that this is expected to blow over in twelve hours. Jake has his mouth inches from Warren’s ear to be heard, we might make some ground on the toy boats that are laying ahull. Jake is confident that Wind Spirits solid construction although adding weight makes their hull strong enough to handle these extraordinary conditions better than the lightweight high performance boats.

Some of the boats are being sailed under bare poles meaning they have doused all their sails and just the vast pressure of the wind on the bare mast and hull is still applying enough pressure to bowl them along at extraordinary speeds. Some of the sailors will later report logging boat speeds in excess of twenty knots without a stitch of sail as they surfed terrifyingly down the face of the waves.  Others will have their sails reduced (or reefed as its’ called) to just a few square feet of mainsail with no headsail.  Skippers will try trailing a long loop of heavy gauge rope from the stern to act as a brake and keep their boat head to the swells. Forget sea anchors they can be dangerous to deploy and besides this is still a race.

It’s hard to imagine a more frightening scenario than the one confronting the competitors or one more isolating from the rest of the world.

The seas are now massive ocean swells of thirty five to fifty feet topped by storm driven waves sometimes adding another ten or fifteen feet to the walls of water at times crossing transversely across the face of the swells adding further peril to an already perilous situation.

Once inside the system there is only one course of action, push on and survive. Ordinarily a yachts navigator crossing an ocean would plot a course around a storm cell like this, or perhaps the skipper would decide to lay ahull all battened down snug and tight and wait it out. But this is a race, a competition to get from point A to point B in the quickest time utilising the most economical course.

Added to all these dangers they have the odd massive oil tanker or container ship to deal with cutting across their yachts intended track. The commercial ships were able to ‘see’ and identify the yachts with the tracking system known as AIS (Automatic Identifying System) the skippers of these behemoths detected the yachts and their headings and were courteous enough to give the sailors some clearance. Radar was virtually useless due to the impenetrable spray the size of the swells and the depths of their troughs. Small ships would disappear behind them after casting a momentary blip on radar screens from the top of the swells. Yachts could fly a radar reflector on their mast but this was no guarantee of safety and how long would it last in gale force winds?

Pointing the bow up the face of one of these giant swells is terrifying, up, up and over with tons of water sweeping the decks, in danger of pitch-poling, flipping stern over bows with the very real hazard that the crew might be crushed under their own craft. Surviving that might mean finding themselves in the sea with a slender lifeline their only means of recovery back aboard the yacht that will more than likely be dismasted. Sailors have died in these situations becoming hopelessly entangled in the ruined rigging.

Once the crew are all secured back aboard the vessel, the ruined rigging must be urgently cut away with bolt cutters to prevent the hull being holed by the broken mast smashing into it held by its stays.

Terror for the sailors goes to a new level as they climb the face of the wave with the screaming hurricane force wind behind them to find there is no back on the bloody thing.

Daring big wave surfers riding huge fifty foot waves take off to find themselves air-born and free falling into the maelstrom waiting below. Now try that on a forty two foot yacht.

The difference is the yacht has a forward velocity that takes it clear of the wave with the result that it free-falls off the top, landing with a bone jarring crash. Repeat a hundred times. The other risk was to actually surf down the wave front with the distinct risk of burying the bow into the trough of the wave with another version of the pitch pole or alternatively slewing sideways (broaching) and being rolled. All of the above designed to keep the sailors adrenaline levels maxed out. And the thing is they’re all doing it for fun!

The battered fleet are contesting the Melbourne (Australia) to Osaka (Japan) yacht race the competing boats sailed by a crew of only two. This is a tough 5500 nautical mile contest of seamanship and endurance that requires entrants to first qualify in a suitable event providing a test for the sailors and their boat.

Both boat and crew need to be tested to prove they’re capable of handling the ordeal ahead of them and this storm towards the end of the race is the reason why only seasoned crews are permitted to take it on.

Boats hulls are bolstered by the compulsory installation of a water tight bulkhead forward of the mast and another in front of the rudder post in the stern. Other tests are for stability to measure the yachts capacity to ‘stand up’ after being knocked down.

Warren Turner and Jake Mc Alistair, two champion Australian sailors in this challenging ocean race are nearing exhaustion after the long ocean journey. They have sailed in a variety of weather systems and wind strengths but this is without doubt the worst they have ever experienced. Jake is tall with powerful shoulders developed as a boat builder/sailor and keen swimmer like his mother. He is blessed with a fine head of thick blonde curls like his dad and is a couple of inches taller than him at six foot three. His mate Warren is a little shorter at just six foot with dark wavy hair that tends to bleach out in the summer sun. He has the bony frame of his father and a natural strength in his well-tanned limbs that had seen off one or two aggressors who mistakenly thought he would be a pushover. Warren was far from being a pushover at any level and life had instilled in him a permanent rage deep down that could flare dangerously if he were provoked. Sailing and the sea where he was most at peace kept that beast under control.

Taking a rest below is impossible in these circumstances even tied into the bunk. The concussive noise and boat motion makes sleep impossible like trying to sleep in a large tumble dryer with AC/DC playing at full volume. But even those guys would be drowned out by the screaming of a sixty knot wind in the rigging.

The smaller than average fleet of eleven vessels had sailed from Port Phillip Bay roughly a month before. The official start is held off the Portsea pier with lots of colour and excitement among a large spectator fleet. News helicopters buzzed about overhead shooting hours of colourful footage from which only fifteen seconds will make it to the six o’clock news.

The weather was sublime, deep blue skies highlighted by majestic clumps of brilliantly white alto-cumulus cloud scudding overhead in the brisk southerly breeze sending their shadows racing over the cobalt waters of the Bay. The antique cannon aboard a huge sailing catamaran carrying officials and dignitaries signals the start of the race with a loud boom and a cloud of smoke that competes for a moment or two with the clouds and is soon dissipated by the breeze.

With an enthusiastic cheer from the pier crowded with family, friends, supporters and tourist spectators the fleet moves off regally toward the notorious Port Phillip Heads, ‘the Rip’. First they must round a mark laid for the occasion off Queenscliff leaving it on their portside. Most of the spectator fleet will drop off at this point with cheers waves and final blessings for a swift and safe arrival in Japan. Wind Spirit had its sound system pumped up high with "Jimmy Buffet, Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes". Naturally handsome young men like Jake and Warren have left one or two women pining for their early return waving anxiously from the pier.

Once outside the Heads the fleet turns left and makes for the next turning point around Wilsons Promontory then across the paddock (the stretch of Bass Strait between The Prom and Cape Howe the extreme south east corner of Victoria) dodging oil rigs and shipping finally directing their bows north past Gabo Island on the long haul up the east coast into the Solomon Sea and threading a course between the islands into the northern Pacific, Papua to port away to the west, Solomon Islands to starboard away to the east. They say they experience three seasons in this race, summer in the south, autumn at the Equator and winter in the north. Right now it would be hard to make an argument against the winter aspect.

The two young Australian sailors were being tested on every level; they had been inside this storm cell for thirty six hours now, thirty six hours without sleep, food or a hot drink.

Both were teetering on the edge of delirium with fatigue and hypothermia. This is where another subtle equally dangerous condition that can slyly overcome them. Tons of sea water cascading over the decks, a constant assault by bullet like spray into their faces, their wet weather clothing now saturated with sweat and sea water meant dehydration a surprisingly real threat as well. One of them would need to go below and retrieve drinking water, with the yachts extreme movements over the very unfriendly seas this was yet another hazard to overcome. Food supplies have run down to almost zero now and their hunger feeds their fatigue.

Jakey what are the chances of a cold beer and a steak sandwich right now? Wazza screams over the storm with a big sardonic grin on his unshaven salt encrusted dial.

Ha! I’d say buggar all mate but we gotta get somethin’ in our guts before we fall overboard. Jake has to unclip and reattach his safety lines to move into the companionway and get below. There is nothing special about the design of their boat except that it has a central cockpit that provides some protection from the elements. It’s a fairly standard hull that has had its rigging and control lines beefed up.  It has a small galley with a gimballed stove for heating food and water for tea or coffee.  Weight has been one of the main considerations in taking on this trip so most of the comforts have been stripped out except for a very important refrigerator that contains nothing but a very accurately calculated number of beers for the journey. The highlight of each day and change of watch is the shared joy of one cold beer per day. Nothing was going to deprive the boys of that, but right now what they needed more than anything was some plain old aqua dolce. 

Wazza shouts across at Jake as he emerges from below with the water to duck as a huge wave smashes them again. Geez isn’t sailing fun. Again with that grin.

Jake can always be counted on for a timely quote. This time it’s a favourite from Wind in The Willows that Wazza has heard on more than one occasion, none more inappropriate than this.

Believe me my young friend, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.

Chapter two

"There is nothing more admirable than when two people who see eye to eye keep house as man and wife, confounding their enemies and delighting their friends."

Homer, the Odyssey

Blairgowrie on the Mornington Peninsula,  early Spring 1992. 8am.

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Jake, Jake, time to come in, c’mon brekkies on the table. His mum calls from the kitchen against a background of rattling plates in the sink and the radio perpetually tuned to her favourite station Gold FM. Billy Ray Cyrus belting out Achy Breaky Heart for the umpteenth time.

Jake Mc Alistair, four years old was having a fine time playing in the wood heap hunting for the tiny delicate little skinks that lived there. He was determined to stay there playing as long as possible. His mum had other ideas though she was already running a little late in her morning schedule.

What’s this? Jakes sharp little eyes spot something interesting? The only hint that something a little dangerous might be in there was a faint web around a dark silky tunnel leading back into the wood pile between a couple of cut logs. This was an absolutely irresistible mystery to a young enquiring finger which hovered a little uncertainly over the intriguing burrow. At the other end lay a nervous black spider which had taken up a defensive position, curved fangs ready to defend its sanctuary.

"Jake, I’m not kidding I’ll be after you with the wooden spoon if you don’t come in right now." Emphasis on that final word did the trick saving Jake a lot of pain and the spider her venom for her next meal of wood beetle.

Jakes dad had already left for work in Frankston earlier, stopping by his bed to give the sleeping Jake a half remembered kiss on the forehead and a light ruffling of his blonde hair. See ya Jakey, be good fer yer mum. Jake hears the back door slam and dads car turning over in the carport. He gives it a bit of a rev to listen to the exhaust note bounce off the walls of the house. Tezza’s ride was a gorgeous Holden Monaro GTS in yellow with the 308 cubic inch V8 and he loved to make it rumble. That was earlier in the day before Jake decided to check out what was happening in the wood pile.

"Jake, please love we gotta go, ya toast is getting cold."

Rebecca had been a very keen swimmer when younger and competed successfully in competitions for her school and later on she had been a member of the Point Leo Life Saving Club qualifying for her bronze medallion at the age of thirteen. She remained a keen swimmer taking on some of the ocean swims like the Point Leo Swim Classic (five kilometres), the Sorrento Bay Swim (one point two kilometres) but lately she had been opting for the shorter events. Rebecca or Bec as most preferred was physically pretty fit with the strong shoulders and deep chest of a swimmer. She had an engaging smile and flawless skin which she protected under suitable stylish head coverings and seldom suffered sunburn.

The little guy’s bladder is sending him a much more urgent inducement than his mother can conjure and he scampers into the bathroom like boys of his age tend to do, carelessly but with a degree of young manly pride he sprays the ess-bend with a powerful and satisfying stream.

Jake, how many times have I told you to close the door when you use the loo, it sounds like a horse in there. And wash ya hands.

After the usual cut and thrust of hand washing demands the boy slides onto the kitchen chair and begins shovelling his Coco-pops down hungrily stopping every now again for a bite of his Vegemite toast.

It’s an exciting day today Jake, we’re going to the school to enrol you for next year and meet your teacher, you might even meet some of your classmates. I’ll bet Warren will be there, you don’t want to miss him do you?

She’s talking to herself because the little dynamo has escaped to the wide open spaces of the backyard drawn by the strange cackling call of the red wattle birds that inhabited the ti-tree thickets growing in the area. Their call sounds like a raucous voice calling look out, look out. Jake has named them ‘lookout birds’ and loves the noisy creatures.

His mother’s name is Rebecca but she’s always been mum to Jake and he sometimes takes a while to realise who his father is talking to when he calls her Bec. His dad’s name is Terry. This name thing is still a bit of a puzzle to Jake. Rebecca (mum) becomes Bec, Terry (dad) becomes Tezza to his mates and when Granma comes around he is Terrence who calls Grandma Mum?! Rebecca’s mum is called Anthea (Nanna) but Jakes dad calls her the old fruit bat but never in front of Jakes mum.

No one calls him anything but Jake or Jakey. His best friend from a couple of doors down on the other side of the dusty unmade road is Warren and everyone calls him Wazza.

He learns that Wazza’s mum is called Patricia but is called Patty and his dad Gordon is Gordo. This is a proud tribal thing in Australia in those days, nicknames they call them and Jake is gradually catching on. They are always Uncle Gordo and Auntie Pat another charming Aussie tradition.

The Mc Alistair house is a slightly untidy weatherboard three bedder with a corrugated iron roof on a dusty road at the back of Blairgowrie on the Mornington Peninsula. Jake loves the sound of the rain on his tin roof when he is snug and warm in bed.

The Mc Alistair house is about three hundred metres from the shallow waters of Port Phillip Bay where the family go to enjoy the beach life in the warmer weather.

They set off down the dusty dirt road with a beach umbrella, car fridge full of sandwiches and drinks, blow up water toys and towels. Mum carry’s a basket full of other essentials, sun block, fly repellent and even anti-histamine cream for bull-ant bites or jellyfish stings or the damn March flies, those sneaky critters that are so good at settling undetected on tender skin to extract blood and offering thanks with a painful sting.

There are no formal gardens or anything even remotely landscaped about the large one acre block the house occupies. There are one or two tree ferns planted among the native ti-tree which make up the bulk of the floral display at number twenty three. The main feature in the backyard is Terry’s big tin shed and an old brick BBQ plus the mandatory Hills rotary clothes hoist near the laundry door. There is some outdoor furniture of questionable age and quality that only sees service during the summer months at which time they would be reinforced in numbers by ‘the good chairs’ folding timber numbers dragged out of the shed and dusted off when visitors came.

Terry’s precious Monaro was protected from the weather in a large rather ugly carport built over the driveway. The seaward side was built in to keep the salt air away. Bec parked her car, a more sedate Mazda ever so carefully alongside the precious chariot that was further protected by a dust cover in some exotic material.

Garden tools, the lawn mower to hack down the weeds that constitute ‘the lawn’ and everything else are stored in a little tin shed at the back of Terry’s big workshop. Bec calls it a boarding house for the huge Huntsmen spiders that are native to the area.

The street is sparsely populated as the flood of sea-changers was yet to hit and the nights are dark and quiet. When the sky is clear they enjoy unprecedented astral vista’s that could convince the hardest hearted atheist of the existence of God. 

Apart from Wazza Turner’s house which is pretty much the same style as Jake’s there are only one or two others occupied permanently, the rest being holiday homes that only see their owners at long weekends and holiday times. Some of these are pretty basic fibro-cement structures built to a budget after the post war shortages.  The soil was mostly loose sand and a good deal of salt making it tough for gardeners wishing to grow exotic plants. Anyway this was the way the Mc Alistair’s liked it, the smell of the sea greeting them in the morning, the talcum powder dry dust kicking up around their bare legs as they strolled to the beach, the crazy cacophony