Lalonde, Terry - KIALOA US-1

A TASMAN TALE
By T. E. Lalonde
“Kialoa II” by Gary Miltimore, oil 1973
The wind was blowing lightly down the Derwent River and as such we were
slowly working to weather with our huge number one genoa. It seemed a particularly
dark evening, this no doubt due to an overcast layer precluding the subtle light from the
stars. Damp and tired, I had gone forward for some quiet contemplation and positioned
myself on the lee side of the headstay leaning against the rather substantive pulpit. This
is one of the few isolated places on the yacht. John Boulton, an ebullient, portly and
good natured soul, came forward and said, “are you all right?” He is always one to have
others’ interests at heart. However, his statement caught me off guard as in my mind I
was just enjoying a moment’s solitude as well as keeping a watch as we progressed up
this dark estuary. Upon reflection, however, I realized I was a bit depressed, for not only
did we not set a record in the esteemed Sydney to Hobart race, but we would be finishing
behind Kialoa II*…again. We had finished behind Kialoa, or KII, in every one of the
races in the series, and this was the last chance to get even. My slight feelings of
despondency were the result of our not having sailed very well. Amongst other mistakes,
we had sailed the antithesis of a great circle route, or even Rhumb line for that matter.
We had gone much farther off shore than other yachts, and thus sailed a longer course,
allegedly looking for favorable current. This was called a “flyer”, and in yachting, as
well as in most areas of life, it rarely pays, particularly when viscerally and analytically
wrong.
Eventually a spotlight lit up the night, and we were officially clocked in as having
finished the race. As this occurred we began our turn to port and into Constitution Dock.
This basin is a historic center in Hobart and is surrounded by old, granite buildings
testifying to its importance over the last couple of hundred years. Every year, just after
Christmas, the harbor is emptied of its collection of working vessels and yachts, and
becomes the finish point for the Sydney to Hobart race, arguably the most prestigious
ocean race in the world. There, tied to the pier, in her typical first to finish fashion, was
Kialoa II. She looked particularly proper and attractive with her more traditional lines
including overhangs forward and aft, a pleasing shear line and stately bow. She was one
of the most beautiful of the big ocean racers. This stood in stark contrast to the craft I
was on, the rating-maximized Ondine II, which had been designed to stretch the
handicapping rule to the limit. She should have been a ninety-foot yacht, but had her
ends cut off to accommodate nuances of this rule, and as such, she was quite awkward
looking.
To add insult to injury, Kialoa had been properly put away and made to look
shipshape, including sail covers on main and mizzen. She had her Los Angeles Yacht
Club burgee hoisted and even had the colorful blue and white flag of the Los Angeles
Harbor Commission flying as Jim Kilroy, the owner/skipper, was a commissioner. (This
flag was later pilfered.) For yachts capable of gaining line honors, finishing first, this is
always something to strive for, that is to have everything cleaned up and put away, and
the crew enjoying libations at the bar all before the second yacht finishes, sort of a “rub”.
I had become accustomed to finishing behind Kialoa. In spite of the fact that Ondine had
finished first in this race in 1968, Kialoa beat Ondine in this race and every one of the
Southern Cross Series of races this year. Being behind Kialoa was something I had
grown accustomed to, even in the Whitney Series raced in Southern California I had
chased her aboard the beautiful and older yacht Baruna. In the Whitney series Kialoa, or
KII as the crew refers to her, set five new records in six races.
Positioned not as noticeably in the basin was another yacht, new, fast, shinyblack, which had beaten us by about five minutes. She had finished first in the previous
years Sydney to Hobart, and would be heading home with a plethora of local knowledge
in the Transtasman Sea Race as scratch boat, allegedly fastest with the highest rating.
*There were five Kialoas numbered I through V and are often referred to as KI, KII etc.
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however, we were spared the experience of such southerly-generated storms and their
hostility.
More than any other race of my experience this race seemed destined to become
routine. The days began to appear one as another. Not that routine meant boring nor of
limited efforts; as quite the contrary, these middle days were full of work and constant
action. We were following along the top of a high-pressure system, which seemed to
pulsate on a daily basis, such that we would start the day on a close reach, the wind more
on the side of the boat, which would gradually freshen and turn to a broad reach.
Eventually, each day we would go to reaching with spinnakers with the wind freshening
and subsiding causing changes necessary in the weight of the spinnaker to be used. The
increases in wind velocity, and its tendency to move aft during the day, required untold
sail changes. None of us on the boat had ever experienced so many sail changes in one
race, and, I suspect, none were to experience as many again. Bruce was later quoted in a
newspaper as saying “(he)…never worked so hard nor changed so many sails.”
The repetitions were along the lines of the following: occasional use of the genoa,
but usually the 170% jib-top and staysail in the morning, followed by the 1.5 ounce
spinnaker transitioning to the 2.2 ounce spinnaker and then the 3 ounce spinnaker, and
then back down through the spinnaker inventory to the jib-top and start all over again.
All of this was accompanied by the requisite staysails both fore and aft, as well as
occasional mizzen spinnakers.
KII was a simple, yet elegant yacht. Below deck she started with a windowed
navigator’s area above the engine room, and a companionway down to a comfortable
galley and main saloon, at the end of which was a bulkhead separating a singular
stateroom, which one passed through to the forepeak and sail locker. She was very open
below and in this particular race this feature lent itself to a sail preparation assembly line.
To prevent spinnakers of such large size, 3,300 square feet, from opening whilst
they are being hoisted, they are raised in “stops”. These “stops” are comprised of pieces
of wool or yarn tied at about five to ten foot intervals, dependent upon the weight of the
spinnaker, so that as the sail is raised it looks a little like a string of giant sausages. The
preparation for this involves “running the luff tapes”, the edges of the sail, to make sure
that the spinnaker does not have any twists. This is necessary as when these sails are
taken down they are usually dumped down the fore-hatch in a pile, most likely wet. The
spinnakers were run through the yacht during this process, stretching from the forepeak to
the navigator’s area. Thus, the inside of Kialoa constantly looked like the proverbial
Chinese laundry run amok. The process generally required three crew members to check
and keep the sail tangle free and bunched together while the wool ties were put in place.
This process began to resemble a production line that was forever in operation. Usually
the spinnaker when finished would be placed in a bag, but during this race it would often
just go back on deck to be reset, yielding a new spinnaker to go through the procedure.
In addition to this ongoing process, the headsails had to be folded and placed in their
proper bags, only to be brought back out in a matter of hours or less.
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And so the crew went day to day in a repetitive manner, each day being a
duplicate of the prior day. It was as though we were practicing to get that day correct.
The sun would come up, we would go through a seemingly set sequence of continual sail
changes. The sun would set and we would go through that night’s set sequence of sail
changes. This continued until two unfavorable events occurred.
On Kialoa it was not unusual to have an available, daily beer allocation. This
perhaps a tribute to the historic ration of grog used to keep an overworked and often
abused crew from mutiny. Beer had been loaded on before the race, chilled and been
consumed at the rate of two beers per day, per crew member. As we neared the north end
of New Zealand and our repetitious, as opposed to monotonous, days ended…then a
seemingly unbelievable event occurred…we ran out of beer! Mutiny seemed not an
option, but a considerable amount of abuse was directed around in search of some culprit.
Various scenarios were vociferously and vehemently explored. Did someone or other
drink more that their prescribed allotment? Had someone made a mess of a seemingly
simple provisioning calculation, something that Bruce adamantly denied? Had someone
used an unreasonable expectation on our ability to significantly break the record?
Regardless, we were out of beer and at a time when the real work was about to begin.
Bruce and the very able tactician and co-navigator, Magnus Halverson, had kept a
continual watch on the positions of other yachts in the race as they reported in for their
noon time roll calls. We were increasingly satisfied by continually extending our lead,
which had become significant. As we neared Cape Reinga, which sits at the end of a
long spit of sand dunes called the ninety mile beach at the top of New Zealand, we ran
out of another, more important, commodity. The wind quit. Thus, the second untoward
event presented itself.
With the loss of the wind, the inevitable occurred, and shortly after dawn, there on
the horizon behind us appeared another yacht. Although seventy miles from Reinga we
had been forty-eight miles ahead of the yacht that had set the fastest time in the prior
year’s Sydney to Hobart race, but here she came, riding out the last vestiges of the breeze
we had left behind us. As Buccaneer, long on local knowledge that would now be
critical, closed on us, the breeze frustratingly, toyed with attempts to fill in fits and starts,
tending towards the southwest. Late in the day we were again becalmed, this time off the
Cavalli Islands. This small cluster of islands is at the north end of a beautiful area known
as the Bay of Islands. Captain Cook in 1769 named the area when he stumbled across
New Zealand in search of the South Continent and subsequently spent four months
sailing and charting this island country. The greater area is comprised of secluded bays
and 140 islands. It is beautiful, but a veritable obstacle course for yachts especially in
light air, and worse yet, a place where that local knowledge would be invaluable. It was
such that from here to the finish Buccaneer with her crew of locals would have a distinct
advantage. However, we were not without “an ace in the hole”. Kialoa had four on
board who had sailed extensively in Southern California, a place frustratingly known for
its light, fluky winds…especially at night.
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Light air sailing can be very burdensome, and will tax one’s perseverance.
Seldom is there a complete absence of wind, but it will come in soft little gossamers from
varying directions. The trick is to not let the yacht become completely becalmed, and to
rapidly try to capture whatever trickle of air there might be about, being ever diligent to
marshal any breath of airflow. In nighttime light air sailing in Southern California on a
very competitive class A yacht, an especially fast light-air yacht, the owner would smoke
a cigar and we would watch the smoke gently-slowly move out across a blackened sea
allowing us to determine hints of wind and its direction. No one on Kialoa smoked, but
we did know other tricks, e.g. we separated the two layers of toilet paper, and carefully
tore it into thin strips which we hung all over the yacht. The slightest hint of air would
gently move these paper tell-tales. The thinnest and most fragile of sails would be used.
The drifter, a hankless headsail, would be used when the air tended to move forward,
while a half-ounce spinnaker would be used as the whispers moved aft. Sometimes these
sails would be exchanged a number of times within mere minutes. This called for a
certain delicacy from the crew so as to perform the changes with alacrity, yet without
tearing these diaphanous negligees of the yacht by snagging them or stepping on them. I
do not think any of us had sailed so intently as through this night and the following day.
Later in the evening Buccaneer went inside of us, much closer than we were
comfortable in going (read: local knowledge pays), and got about one half mile ahead of
us with only 89 miles to go. This occurred off these same Cavalli Islands as we had
made little progress. We had chosen to stay farther off-shore heading towards the Hen
and Chickens group of islands, named by Captain Cook who first sighted them also in
1769. We were experiencing light rain, this a sure way of making the lighter sails less
effective in the slight wind conditions.
The close sparing and frequent changing of the lead made for great news
coverage. New Zealand, and Australia perhaps to a slightly lesser extent, closely follows
yachting events. This opposed to yachting in America where it is a virtually unheralded
sport. Thus it was a unique experience for those of us accustomed to competing in this
otherwise unknown activity. In fact, aircraft throughout the day had buzzed us, and
though we were not listening to the radio, there were continuous news flashes as we
sailed down the coast. Even Bruce’s mother was interviewed on the radio, and there
were front-page pictures of both Kialoa and Buccaneer on all the papers. The degree to
which New Zealanders were following this race, and in large part due to the return of a
warrior son as well as the largest American racing yacht ever entered, would become
much more apparent as the race unfolded.
***
Bruce had left New Zealand, via Sydney, in 1969 to oversee the American yacht
Rapture, a Columbia 50, while it was shipped to Europe for some cruising and racing.
Stuart (“Stuey” or “Stu”) Williamson, a dynamic bon vivant, had sailed on Rapture in
San Francisco and joined up with her in Sweden during the summer to race in the Scaw
race. Here he met Bruce and they became best of friends. They both sailed in the Cowes
Race Week and, fortune would have it, tied up on the outside of Ted Turner’s American
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Eagle and Jim Kilroy’s Kialoa II. Amongst other turns of fate, they happened to befriend
John “The Bolt” Boulton, yacht racing’s good time emissary, mentioned earlier. Actually
it was probably the other way around as John befriends everyone, and is everyone’s
source for knowing what activities are taking place, the social director. This all occurred
as Bruce and Stuey had to traverse both Kialoa and Eagle to get to their boat, being on
the outside of the dock. Stu was flying back to the States to teach his biology classes and
asked Bruce what he was going to do as his employ on Rapture was coming to an end.
Bruce, ever positive, said, “he would crew on Kialoa”, and he, being Bruce, would do
what it took to make that happen. He not only crewed, he soon became skipper of Kialoa
when the original skipper retired. He had done well in his chosen field of endeavor and
was now returning home triumphant in charge of a multimillion-dollar yacht after but two
years aboard her. This speaks highly of Bruce’s abilities and Jim’s ability to recognize
and trust in them.
Thus, as we battled in a chess-move fashion down the East Coast of New Zealand,
we had become the primary news event. This must have been to the great chagrin of
Boeing Aircraft as they were vying for the news with the arrival of the first Boeing 747
into the country. Unfortunately, they were relegated to the latter pages of the daily New
Zealand papers as Kialoa vs. Buccaneer commanded page one of every paper. Perhaps
we should have really stuck it to Boeing by having Douglas Aircraft on our mainsail or
hull. We could have been justified in doing so as Kialoa had a significant amount of
input from Douglas in her design and construction, in particular aluminum welding and
forming.
I must admit, the first time I saw Kialoa II, I was duly impressed. You might say
awed. It was before the start of a race near the Los Angeles entrance buoy. I was on a
pretty, thirty-five foot Holiday yawl named Ghoster and Kialoa motored past with just
her mainsail up. Her bow towered over us, not to mention her mighty sloop rig. I
noticed that her forward sections had been rippled (later to be corrected with the addition
of some strengthening ribs) on her journey home from a Mexican coastal race. This was
in late 1964 or early 1965. She represented many firsts, not just in her race history but in
her design and construction. She was the first yacht of her size to have her lines lofted
and structural engineering done by computer. A company was created primarily to build
Kialoa II, Yacht Dynamics, and it was to build but a few other aluminum yachts. It was a
consortium involving Kilroy, Douglas Aircraft, Alcoa, Reynolds and Kaiser aluminum
companies all having a hand in her construct, the end result being the first yacht of her
size constructed of aluminum.
Kialoa was modified a number of times during her intense racing career. She was
made a yawl in 1967. A year later the original rudder was reduced in size and made a
trim tab with the addition of a new, spade rudder, and she gained 3000 pounds of ballast
in the keel. For our race in early 1972 she was in peak performance. And fortunately she
was doing as well as she ever would in light air conditions.
***
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The sailing was as keen as it could get. No opportunity was missed, nor any
slacking of diligence witnessed. We simply sailed KII as well as she could have been
sailed. We were constantly working the sails with subtle changes that would have been
imperceptible to most sailors. At night there was always someone with a flashlight
checking sail trim.
There were a couple of times where Buccaneer got close enough for us to call
back and forth as there were many friends on both yachts, and it did make for some
lightening of the otherwise tense situation. There was another possible factor that could
influence our ability to out perform the competition. On one of our close encounters,
around six in the evening, the Buccaneer crew advised us they were enjoying cocktails in
their comfortable, enclosed cockpit. This was done somewhat as a good-natured rub as
they already knew of our dearth of beer. Had we beer or cocktails they would have
remained below in solitude as we were much to intent to let up on our efforts.
The log entry for midnight, 2400, on the January 11, 1972 simply says “Passed
Buccaneer to windward about 50 yds apart”. This in Bruce’s hand writing, and no doubt
he was both slightly relieved and excited to make this entry. But there was surely little to
celebrate about as the very next entry “0045” January 12, 1972 says “Abeam Tutukaka
Light – with Buccaneer 100 ft back”. It was to be a long hard fought battle that night.
No one slept. By early morning we were in a flat calm trying to make any progress with
the drifter up and strained concentration to recognize the slightest bit of air movement.
Buccaneer was to starboard, closer to the land once again. In a game of inches we
worked our way around the east edge of a large calm area. Slowly we managed to crawl
towards little hints of air and on to Auckland and the finish. The area is full of little
islands, and we had been dogging in and around them as we sparred. Buccaneer being
west of us, maneuvered into a bit of the lee of the 1300-foot Hen Island and as the
owner/skipper, Tom Clark, said after the race “we followed her until we fell into a big
flatty!” And so it was that the race was won and lost early in the morning off the Hen
and Chicken Islands.
Obviously we were not aware that we were going to win, all we knew was that we
managed to squeak, ever so slowly, away from our formidable competition. By dawn
Buccaneer was not to be seen, but we were barely moving towards the finish, and she
seemed sure to re-enter the picture. The crew, which had a demonstrated capability of
celebrating boisterously ashore, had exhibited the seriousness, intensity and concentration
necessary to beat all other contestants. Importantly, the crew had acted in a very
cohesive manner, especially considering over 40% had never sailed on Kialoa or on the
same team together. There was a clearly identified time for celebration necessary to ease
the tensions of racing, and there was a time to work seriously and develop the tensions
that would need to be released through a celebration.
We were worried about the whereabouts of our primary competition. This was
especially so, when by 0700 in the morning we once again became engulfed in “flat
calm”, and out came the drifter and the tissue “tell tales”. This occurred off Rodney
Point, which is about 30 miles from the finish. Buccaneer had to be lurking somewhere,
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but where? However, gradually an east-south-east light breeze began to fill in and started
us moving. By one o’clock, we were able to raise a spinnaker and start a proper march
towards the finish.
Entering Hauraki Gulf and crossing to the entrance into Auckland we were
running mostly square to the wind in a nice twelve to fifteen knot breeze. The finish was
well inside Auckland harbor. As we began to get closer to the land, which was slightly
elevated with a bluff running along our course, we all began to wonder what we were
seeing along the hillsides and beach areas. We already had noticed quite a bit of small
motor yacht traffic, more than one would expect for a Wednesday afternoon. The hillside
seemed covered in some strange foliage. Soon it became obvious; this unusual
ornamentation was comprised of people and cars…lots of them. Slowly, as if in a dream
sequence, we began putting the pieces of the puzzle together. By now the armada of
small craft was trailing along with us, and was there to see us finish! Perhaps if we had
been reading the papers or listening to the radio, we would have been better prepared.
One speedy craft full of good-natured, Wednesday sailors pulled along side to
wish us well and even offered some beer. They managed to throw us enough beers for
the crew, parched by now and just this side of mutiny, we all enjoyed our first cold New
Zealand beer. In retrospect this receipt of victuals was technically probably illegal, but
the New Zealanders would never have protested once they understood our plight.
Ah, but the best was yet to come. We were unable to lay the finish on our present
downwind tack and it would be necessary to execute a jibe, which is to put the wind on
the other side of the sails. This would require disconnecting the spinnaker pole, that
which holds the large spinnaker steady to the yacht, and bringing it down and dipping
through the headstay where it would be reconnected to the other side of the sail. At the
same time, the wind being directly behind us, the mainsail and mizzen had to pass
through the eye of the wind and centerline of the yacht in order to move to the opposite
side. If the main is not brought in properly and timely, it will crash across the boat in a
dangerous and inelegant manner. Now none of us were self-conscious enough to suffer
stage fright, but this was the first and probably the only time we would have to perform a
jibe maneuver in front of ten thousand people! It was an absolutely flawless jibe.
Ordinarily the spinnaker in such a situation will oscillate and often collapse in part or in
whole, and the main will slap recklessly as it comes across. The spinnaker did not even
move an inch, its luff was motionless, the main went through the wind and onto the other
side as if a well lubricated, smooth, swinging door. In addition, Stu, who had been
advised by Bruce to put up the biggest mizzen staysail on board, jibed the mizzen and
reset the staysail flawlessly. Numerous people ashore later asked us about this jibe
maneuver and all to this day believe that it is as we always did it, a myth, which we
perpetrated. I doubt whether we could ever duplicate such smoothness. We had finished
in 8 days, 2 hours, 10 minutes and 28 seconds and beaten Buccaneer by 1 and ½ hours.
At the finish the Royal Akarana Yacht Club played the Stars-Spangle Banner to round
out the spectacular reception.
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Kialoa II Finishing in Auckland
***
The great “unwind” was necessary and trying to mimic the same festivities as had
been created on the Hobart ferryboat event, we hired a small, old, rusting, inter-island
freighter to go out and try and watch some of the other yachts finishing. Her appropriate
sounding name was the “Kaiwaka”, and she was a ship that no doubt could have deserved
her own novel. The requisite ill-sounding rock band’s gear was loaded on with a cargo
net, as were numerous cases of beer. Guests were charged a fee and off we went.
Through the course of the evening much frivolity took place. At one point very late, and
being fascinated by mechanical creations, I went down into the engine room to observe
the large, low RPM, three cylinder motor. The chief, and only crewman, was
demonstrating how slow it would run and how it operated. This big dark looking
creation, covered in oil and grime, was pounding along as though someone were beating
a slow cadence on a base drum. Wheezing and thumping each internal explosion would
pulsate through the slimy floor plates. It was dark, dank and oily in this cavern, which
was accessed by a slippery vertical ladder in lieu of stairs. The two of us were toying
with the engine when all of a sudden there was a clatter, thump and moan. We turned to
see a surely broken body at the bottom of the access ladder as someone had slipped and
fallen from near the top. It was the captain of this corroded old vessel, Mark Williams.
My first concern was that he was seriously injured, for by all rights he should have been.
Fortunately, he had seen fit to make all his limbs supple through the copious use of the
previously loaded brew, and was unhurt. And thus, another actor took a pratfall utilizing
a sort of stairs, but this was not the last nor best. We never spotted any of the other
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yachts as the fourth place yacht finished a full four days behind us. By early morning we
limped back to the harbor and off loaded a sleepy mob of guests and crew.
We fortunately arrived in time for the planned photo shoot on Kialoa. The Yacht,
being famous now in this country of just under three million people, had marketing value.
Bruce was requested to allow her to be used for a fashion model shoot. After due
contemplation, which weighed in at just under three seconds, he agreed. We arrived at
the yacht and quickly shaved, wet down our hair, applied deodorant and anxiously
awaited the lovely, nubile young ladies to arrive. They did, and like children visiting the
zoo with the beasts of prey leering at them through the bars, the crew paced back and
forth trying to act as charming as possible under the conditions. Ultimately this ripe
troupe was herded down the dock and away to safety by the shepherd, otherwise
photographer, but not before there were some good smiles, laughs and giggles on both
sides of the bars.
Yacht racing is so respected in New Zealand and our accomplishments were so
renowned, we could go no place with out some acclaim, nor were we able to buy a beer.
We were always treated to the later due to the good-natured aspects of the citizens and as
a tribute to our victory. One evening we had congregated at the Leopard Tavern near the
marina, whose format was typical of the influence of British rule. It was divided into the
Pub or public room, primarily a men’s only drinking area with hard floors and damage
proof walls, the mixed couple’s area and finally an upstairs cocktail and dining area. We
of course started in the Pub, where I had the pleasure of meeting Bruce’s father, who had
come there no doubt to share in the lime light of his now famous son. After imbibing
some…well a lot…of beers with the locals and the crew of Buccaneer, where the sailing
master, John McCormick, showed us how he could get a free jug of beer by seeming to
accidentally dropping his dentures into someone else’s pitcher, we ventured to the now
well attended area of the couples bar. Here, try as we might, we could not pay for a beer.
Not wanting to disappoint anyone, of course, nor to seem unappreciative, we were
compelled to please all offerors by our acceptance of their kindness. By now the evening
was well underway and the kind of din associated with the loosening of social constraints
and abandoning of individual shyness was present. There is a sort of self perpetuating
clamor that arises as each raises his voice to be overheard above the next. Such was the
setting of the Leopard tavern this particular evening.
The mixed couple’s room was a sort of gaudy area with an over abundance of red,
flocked wallpaper. The bar was more ornate than that of the pub and ran along the wall
that would have been directly behind the pub bar. At the far end of the room, which was
cramped enough to offer forced social interaction, there was a doorway. Through this
narrow portal there were four steps up to a landing, at which point there were stairs
disappearing off to the right. In all, this opening and its elevated landing bore a direct
resemblance to a puppet’s stage, short of having a curtain to draw back and forth. This
was the access to the more formal, upstairs, drinking and dining area.
John Pigott, an alter ego of sorts and as mentioned an ex-Ondine shipmate, and I
were using all our practiced charms “chatting” with a couple of the ladies, when all of a
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sudden there came a horrendous commotion and clatter. The room seemed to vibrate
with this disturbance and it was disconcerting enough that a complete and eerie silence
ensued as though a mute button had been applied to the scene…and all heads turned,
seemingly geared somehow together, towards the opening at the end of the room. Dick
Neville entered stage right onto the landing, upside down, blazer over his head with limbs
flogging this way and that like some discarded rag doll as he culminated his fall down the
stairs. The room was motionless until such time as Dick started gathering himself
together with an absurd, foolish and guilty grin on his face. He did this by untangling
himself from his upside down position in an articulating and angular manner as if strings
were lifting his limbs from above. He thus proved that he was not hurt. At that point all
heads as one turned back to their original positions, the mute button was released and the
clamor started exactly as it had left off. I turned to John and said, “looks like the kid has
graduated”.
And so it was that Dick Neville had graduated to journeyman status. It was
obviously a level of attainment and a field on endeavor that he relished, as he has
remained active in yachting through racing and eventually officiating. Years later he
would become the commodore of a prestigious yacht club, however, in a commodore’s
jacket or not, I will always picture him at the bottom of those stairs laughing and try to
brush it off as though perhaps no one would notice.
John Pigott eventually went back to a more vocational enjoyment of the sea and
ultimately, after captaining large ocean going tankers, became the manager of a sizable
barge operation out of Portland Oregon. John Boulton, who was not a crew member of
the Tasman Race, has done well in life, always in and around the sea and always with a
smile and retinue of fun loving and laughing friends.
Jim Kilroy had courageously turned over his world famous yacht to a young New
Zealander for a triumphant return to his native land. What an honor for this young sailor,
and what a trust exhibited by the yacht’s owner. Jim was an excellent judge of character
and was able to see people’s abilities. He was not let down as Kialoa II was first to
finish, beat the local favorite, and in spite of being becalmed several times, broke the
existing record held by Fidelis by 25 minutes and 20 seconds. As with wining in most
endeavors, there were a multitude of facets involved. We had a proven, fast yacht, but
not the fastest, and we were able to accurately predict and utilize the weather and
conditions, but most importantly we sailed harder than the competition. Additionally, we
had not taken a “flyer” in any sense of the word. We constantly assessed all information
and alternatives available to us and made reasoned decisions. We were ready to, and did
take, calculated risks, properly assessed, but never just risks. We were the only yacht to
sail the great circle route to Cape Reinga, which is 13 miles shorter than a straight line as
placed on a chart, the “rhumb line”. This decision, no doubt, caused us a portion of the
plethora of sail changes we experienced, but it paid off. In those elements of an
undertaking upon which you can have control or influence, it is important to maximize
one’s efforts. We could control how the yacht was sailed and we put forth 110 percent
exertion in doing so. We never let up, worked harder than the next guy and were
rewarded by winning.
17
TRANSATLANTIC RETROSPECTIVE
By T. E. Lalonde
“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.” Andre
Gide
The sun was out, but not glaring due to its having to penetrate the moisture of high
clouds and the humidity of the lower reaches. The sea was a gray calm, not particularly
reflective. A haze was in the air which created a penumbra between sea and sky. From the start
at Brenton Reef Light, a temporary looking, spindly-legged structure sticking awkwardly out of
the water, the yacht did not have to go far before being swallowed by this indistinguishable zone;
and the land was gone. The crew, most with puffy eyes and less than sparkling personalities,
residuals of the night before, moved about the ship performing their duties. We started the race
with a light number one genoa jib, full main and mizzen.
The sea was, in fact, particularly calm and the wind a light four to five knots. This was a
misleading approach to this race, and could easily lull one into thinking they were about to
undertake an easy task. One benefit, however, was that it allowed for a gentle ease into the race
and a platform to dissipate the crapulous effects of the obligatory departure festivities, such
festivities necessary to cut loose the bonds with civilization. In about three knots of wind we
ended up going to a drifter, the lightest of headsails. Before long, and because we were the
“scratch” boat, fastest per our handicap rating, we had lost sight of the others in the race. Were
one to look aft, all you would see was our wake stretching in a straight line across the dull leaden
grayness of the sea, disappearing into the blankness where the horizon would have been. It was
as if a curtain had descended and excluded the rest of mankind from our arena. It was not to
open again until the finish. Behind this curtain is where our play was to be acted out.
There was so much moisture in the air as to be thick and foreboding, in addition there
was the telltale falling barometer and a halo around the sun. When temperature and dew point
numerically approach one another, there is haze and a risk of fog. The crossover point when the
air cannot hold any more moisture, and it is given off as cloud, happens when the temperature
drops to meet the dew point. This happened as the evening set in, thick fog.
***
This yacht race had been approached as many had been, as a means of enjoying
camaraderie, competition, an esoteric means of travel and sport, as well as attaining a terminus in
some unique spot of the world. One of the strongest motivations was to see and be with one’s
friends, this weighed heavily on the commitment to do a race. The gentleness of this start would
mask the fact that this endeavor would be overly weighted on the experience aspect…as in a life
experience.
Writing from the perspective of thirty years since these events one might ask, why record
it now? Because, it was a distinctive period of yacht racing which has not been accurately nor
completely recorded. Thus the timing is now as we have already begun to see the drips of wax
falling from the diminishing candle of an era. There are those who have already departed
without contributing to this record. If we are not to capture this unique moment in history it will
be lost, never to be shared with others, who are perhaps about to take those first steps in their
own grand adventures, steps which will structure the course of their lives in unforseen ways.
***
The first act of this real life play started elsewhere. The newly developing Mission Viejo,
California in 1975 with its faux Spanish architecture, in repetitious off-white houses, certainly
stood in stark contrast to Newport, Rhode Island, my destination. Why was I sitting there trying
to sidestep a “white lie”? Less than two years before and in part driven by a need to compete in
the business world, with perhaps a bit of guilt having built over my vagabond ways, I had left
long distance yacht racing and joined the large corporation. I had been successful attaining the
top ranked national sales position. Yet I had also come to the conclusion that to casually climb
some meandering, tenured, and unrewarding corporate ladder was not for me. I was putting
myself in a position to be free of any bonds and thus able to think without restraint. At thirtytwo this would not be considered a typical action, but then who needs to be typical as there are
more than enough citizens of this category. Although this decision was recognized as a forced
course change in my life, there was also something intangible about the drive to leave everything
and go race.
So sitting there at the regional manager’s home turning in the keys to the mundane
corporate car, I was being plied with additional bonuses to stay on with the company. Once
again, in a weak attempt to be “polite”, I had declined with the excuse of having to follow
destiny by means of the Transatlantic Race. I could hear the telephone conversation between the
manager in the hallway with his boss on the other side of the country… “No, I offered him
that…yes three months leave with pay…no…he declined”. I was not thinking in terms of being
complemented, but sorry for them. I realized that great fortune, not to mention adventure, does
not come to those who peacefully wait in line. I did not know what course my life might take
from there, but I was willing to put myself in a position of having to find out. Little did I know
how fortuitous this would be, for within a year I was offered a position with the entrepreneurial
company that could support and fund the racing of the Kialoas. There is a natural tendency to
hesitancy, but one must be willing to move forward and see what providence has to offer.
“Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now”, Goethe.
A close sailing friend, the “Artist”, and I had flown back to Newport Rhode Island, a
quintessential sailing town. Founded in 1639, Newport has always been a great seaport. During
the Gilded Age grand villas were built as summer homes by the likes of Vanderbilt, Astor,
Belmont, Duke, Auchincloss. I am sure that just a summer home by itself, even on this scale,
could become boring. What was needed was a diversion and yachting filled the requirement
2
precisely. And so it was and so did Newport become the yachting capital of North America. For
a long time it was the veritable center of yacht racing in this country. In the 1930’s the
America’s Cup was brought to Newport where it remained until 1983. Newport was to be the
start venue of the 1975 Transatlantic.
A couple of us were staying in one of the great mansions of Newport; it had been the
Heinz family mansion. Unfortunately, Bonniecrest as it was called had been somewhat
tastelessly developed to include condominiums on the grounds with the sizable granite main
building divided into apartments, this probably in an attempt to sustain it during tougher
economic times. The apartment in which we were staying was comprised of the great room
carved into a somewhat awkward, large bachelor-flat accessed by sliding doors to the rear of the
structure.
The evening before the start there was the obligatory departure party (read: ribald
behavior just this side of debauchery as catalyzed by friends from all over the two hemispheres
gathering for another adventure). Having returned to the flat before anyone else, I fumbled
around to find a light switch, finding one that controlled a somewhat ineffective little lamp,
lending but little light to this great room/hall with its twenty-five foot vaulted ceilings. This
room had a walk-in sized fireplace, lots of dark granite and carved moldings around the
numerous recesses and dark corners. All in all, it looked like a set for a horror movie. And, of
course, it was a blustery night. I crawled into my bed with occasional glimpses to make sure that
an evil and black-cloaked form was not skulking within in some dark corner. Eventually, I
descended into the arms of Morpheus, per chance to dream. I am not sure how long I had
languished thus, but was jolted into wakefulness by the fumbling crash of the sliding door being
thrown open. The draperies blew or flew into the room and some great hulking figure
immediately followed, his arms stretched straight out groping as he entered grunting and
snorting. And earlier I had been concerned and on the lookout for perhaps a vampire. Little did
I know it was going to be a great zombie! I came straight out of the bed grasping for orientation,
and although we all are quite aware that such things do not exist, there is a brief moment when
all those scary movies of our youth bring question to such knowledge.
This visitor had been one of the last to leave the departure festivities. And, he was thus
well imbibed, so much so that he had great difficulty with the door, curtains and just about
everything else in his way upon entering the darkened room. All of his flailing attempts to enter
were accompanied with grunts, groans and incompressible chatter, which no doubt seemed to
make complete sense to him. Who should this great phantom be but Nick Hylton, the
penultimate sailor. I am sure in his childhood he did little more than dream of sailing the seven
seas. He always looked and acted the part of a sailor with trimmed goatee, pipe and all the other
props. Everyone used hooded foul weather gear, but not Nick, who had a Sou’Wester cap as part
of his attire…much more sailor like. He was also, well, very large, with a hint of acromegalia
coursing through his veins. The lighting of that evening was such that I was unable to make out
his chiseled Nordic face…all I knew at that instant was that it was the largest zombie on the
planet! Nick, however, is the opposite of threatening when you know him as a person, a giant,
teddy-bear with personality to match. More importantly, in a pinch or a critical situation one
could have no better man at his side. I had met and sailed with Nick on Ondine II where he was
3
the ship’s captain. We sailed together from Fiji to Australia thence on to the Sydney-Hobart
race. For this race he had come from afar to be a part…and be with his friends, as had we all.
***
Every Maxi yacht racer starts a distance race with the hope of setting a record. The
record for the Transatlantic Race is a particularly renowned accomplishment. It had been set as
the culmination of numerous races across the Atlantic, the first of which was held in 1866. All
the early races involved the grand yachts of the robber baron era. Hiring the best-paid crews and
experts, often with the owner playing little role apart from the signing of checks, and not
infrequently remaining ashore was the usual form of racing. Unfortunately, once again, there
seems to be a current trend towards such paid and less Corinthian racing. Kialoa, K III as the
crew calls her, was known for having one of the best crews, but no one was paid to participate,
apart from the skipper and a deck hand.
The record setting race was sailed as the “1905 Kaiser’s Cup Ocean Race”. It involved
all the intrigue, propaganda and secrecy of the pre-war era, and was ostensibly sailed to
determine which of three countries had supremacy of the sea. Eleven yachts competed and
appropriately, and perhaps prophetically, the competition settled down between the Atlantic and
the 158-foot Hamburg, thus Germany against the upstart United States. The yacht “Atlantic”,
named for the ocean she would conquer and set the record for crossing under sail, was a 184foot, beautiful and black, three-masted schooner. The three-time America’s Cup winner, famed
skipper Charlie Barr, drove it relentlessly under a cloud of canvas to attain the record. The
Atlantic finished the 2925 nm race from Sandy Hook, New Jersey to the Lizard at the south of
England in 12 days, 4 hours and 1 minute an average of 10.32 knots. This record would stand
for 100 years, and as part of the 100th anniversary a race would be held during which Mari-Cha
IV would break Charlie Barr's record by more than 60 hours. There had been passage records
that would beat the Atlantic’s, but these differ from race records, because in setting a new
passage record, a yacht is able to wait for favorable weather conditions before starting. The race
record must be set in a race, which must start at a predetermined time, and is thus controlled by
weather of the moment and other race conditions.
An example of these non-race crossings and almost 100 years later, the passage record
would be shattered on October 9th, 2003 by the same, very non-traditional, 140 foot Mari Cha
IV, crossing in six days, 17 hours, 52 minutes, 18.05 knots fully 75% faster than Atlantic’s
crossing. Importantly on board was an ex-Kialoa crewmember, an example of the racing
diaspora of the Kialoa’s team. However, in 1975, a certain lady and her tarantella effects would
assure that no one had a viable chance at Atlantic’s record.
***
At the Skipper’s meeting the race committee said, “there is a low off Hatteras…it will
move south and you will have a cakewalk.” However, on June 26th before the start of the race,
and unbeknownst to the Kialoa, “the low” had a different idea. It planned to become another
race participant. It had begun earlier to take shape just north of the western Bahamas. She was
practicing her routine, strengthening and perfecting her moves. Her name was Amy, and she was
4
created to test Kialoa’s construct as well as the crew’s fortitude, a tropical storm-hurricane. Amy
would ebb and flow in strength and approach, but not consistently remain above the threshold of
hurricane status. This meant she had top wind speeds of just over 70 mph, and she happened to
be the first hurricane of the season. In that she never made shore and was not, therefore, overly
destructive, her name has not been retired and at some point in time some other mariners are
likely to experience her namesake’s wrath. We were to see wind strengths of her hurricane
status first hand. She needed the nutrition of the Gulf Stream to keep her strength, and thus
followed it north. By the 28th, one day before the start of the race, she had developed gale force
winds, and that night as she skirted the North Carolina outer banks, she turned sharply east.
On the 29th, the start day for the Transatlantic Yacht Race from Newport, Road Island to
Cowes, England, Amy was lingering to the south as if waiting for the start flag. She was idling
at Latitude 33.80 and Longitude 73.80, somewhat holding position, while we started at roughly
Latitude 41.27 and Longitude 71.16. But Amy was building her strength and began riding the
Gulf Stream like a military aircraft flying an intercept, arching its path so as to meet and test us
in the worst of possible en route locations. From this position she meandered northeastward for
three days, toying with us…lurking, awaiting a match with Kialoa in order to test her and the
crew. The thrust of the storm was such, that with her counter clockwise rotation, as she moved
north and east in front of us, we were forced to steer ever higher as in these conditions we could
only point about 35 to 40 degrees off the wind. The alternative would have been to tack which
would put us decidedly away from our course. There were two smaller-slower competitors,
being farther behind and positioned differently in respect to Amy’s winds, who were able to, and
chose to, bear off to the South, and thus sail ultimately in more favorable winds. One of these
was the yacht Robin, the smallest yacht in the race. She “kept getting headed southeast…and
tacked to the northwest for about 5 hours, then tacked back,” said Lee van Gamert, the yacht’s
skipper. By the next morning the breeze had started backing and she was able to start reaching,
early on going to a jib top.
The placid nature of our starting conditions was truly delusive. What was the meaning of
the lulling experience with such a languid start to such a rapid transition into a life-threatening
situation? Within a mere nine hours we had changed from the lightest, gossamer sails to a small
and heavy number 3 jib top and put two reefs into the main as well. The mizzen was furled and
not to be used again for sometime, in fact, it had become a large aerodynamic drag on the yacht.
So much for transitioning or phasing into something so significant as we began to experience
gale force winds and beyond.
It was not long before we realized what we were in for…a hell of a ride, or perhaps the
ride from Hell. The weather built rapidly. We soon had a sustained 30 knots of breeze with
gusts much above that figure. The sea began to build and take on an awkward, confused
appearance. It reminded me of Bass Straight, the body of water separating Tasmania from the
rest of Australia. This a narrow venturi of water driven erratic by the similar shallowness,
currents and strong winds, prone to developing steep waves of an irregular nature. The sea
became most uncomfortable.
Kialoa, new to the world, was like a charging horse prepared to look death in the eye,
unafraid to tuck and slam her head meaningfully into a counter charging sea. She would do so
5
with a great shudder felt from stem to stern, and gouging out a great abundance of water, which
as the bow came tossing up, would be thrown down the deck in a torrent of angry surf, making it
all but impossible to go forward. This was repeated time and again like a creature exchanging
blows with an opponent, one concussion after another. Night brought a new element as we were
unable to witness the building fury of the sea and what she was about to throw at us. There is a
different form of trepidation that develops when one knows what is out there but unable to see it.
In this blackness, white crests rolled down towards us like some marching piebald walls about to
take our measure. The bow lights would hint at the tumult being experienced at the forward end.
Heeling gravely, with the starboard lifelines under water, the red port light reached forlornly
skyward, its dull red glow illuminated the expressway speeds and lateral path of the water which
was coming off the sea in great spindrifts. The green of the starboard light would intermittently
give off a hint of its mostly submerged existence. Occasionally after a deep fall and slam both
lights would disappear for what seemed an interminable length of time as the bow struggled to
rid itself of tons of foaming liquid. This would be followed by the boat gradually accelerating,
only to be shaken by another tremendous plunge and a shuddering stop, causing the helmsman to
be pitched forward into the wheel. The spars, not to be forgotten, would give off threatening
rattles of the shrouds, complaining about the bad treatment. At some point during the evening,
we began shedding secured bits of the boat, not the least of which was the starboard spinnaker
pole. It no doubt had filled with water and gained enough mass to tear from the deck the oneinch by five-inch welded tang which secured it. The fact that such a violent act could occur
unnoticed, as it happened, demonstrates the overall “sound and fury” of the gale.
The log entry at 0510 on July the 1st in Jim’s precise hand writing states “Stb Spinn Pole
Missing…” In only 1 and ¾ days we had begun to break apart… Ordinarily there would have
been gravity associated with an expensive and pertinent piece of equipment going astray, but
under the current situation it became a jousting point between the two watches, each claiming the
other watch had lost the pole during their respective stewardship.
***
The man leading the efforts to make fun of the loss of the spinnaker pole was Jim Kilroy,
which is interesting in that it would seem he had the most to loose by its absence. John B.
Kilroy, known as Jim to all his friends, was the captain, owner, creator, patriarch, organizer and
prime mover for all the Kialoas. He is one of the most amazing people that you could wish to
know. What men believe about themselves has a great deal to do with determining the success
or failure of their efforts in the vicissitudes and opportunities of life. "Whether you think you
can or think you can't, you're right." - Henry Ford. Jim always knew he could and surrounded
himself with those who thought they could also, and had little time for those who thought they
couldn’t.
A captain of ships or industry, and Jim was both, must at the same moment be empathetic
and decisive. He exhibited an incredible ability to listen to all opinions and to assimilate the
inputs, reorganize them, analyze, and then recast them as his own ideas either in total or as a
modification to an original premise he might have had. He would factor all of this type of
information into his final decision. To listen to others without the shielding guards of age, ego or
success is a trick not learned by many. As we grow we tend to be defensive in nature, pride
6
often not allowing that someone else might have a better idea or that ours might not be the best,
thus, not listening to new inputs or ideas. Jim always listened to everyone, and could rapidly
access the viability of outside offerings. He clearly accepted the multiple and individualized
approaches that may exist in solving any problem.
A captain must also be the leader and manager of the crew. The speed of the leader is the
speed of the gang. Jim could be hard to keep up with at times. You cannot be around someone
as successful in so many facets of life, one who has developed distinct formulae for life’s puzzles
and challenges, without adapting or learning some of these traits. These influences “rubbed off”
to a greater or lesser extent depending upon one’s ability to identify them and their efficacy to
life’s achievements, and one’s ability to understand our inherently defensive nature, i.e. being
open to ideas/input.
To be competitive in business and yacht racing one knows winning is the reward, second
is not an option. One must have a very accurate and realistic assessment of the competition and
the task at hand. In addition, the element and role of luck involved must be understood and
accepted; the trick is to identify all those facets of an undertaking that one can have an impact
on, and then weigh each to one’s favor. Jim always strove to do such weighing so as to achieve
110%, leaving the competition to be in the 90 to 100% range. Proper and detailed preparation
allows such weighting. Kialoa’s preparation had begun years in advance through untold other
races and experiences. Her design, engineering, construction, outfitting and crew had been
painstakingly assessed and guided. This is the job of a captain/leader in any undertaking. Jim
possesses unparalleled focus, drive and energy to attain these results.
***
This preparation gave some reassurance as one listened to the wind through the shrouds
giving out a deep moaning, haunting resonance that no doubt in some ancient ship would have
led to the legend of the Song of the Sirens. Jim confided that when at the helm the waves were
like vertical walls, and the yacht would climb their face at an acute angle, he fantasized the boat
might be pitched over backwards. To rid himself of this vision, he would sing to himself and
pretend to be dodging potholes in a highway. I, however, whilst on the helm would swear in the
most contemptible manner each time I was slammed into the wheel when the yacht fell off one
of these walls, stopping at the bottom of the next one in line.
The increasing winds and the shallow nature of the sea made the waves steeper and they
began to march closer together. They were beginning to significantly crest, each one becoming
something one might expect to witness in a shore break of surf. The wind began to peak at
around 70 knots steady on the anemometer with outbursts whose shear intensity would make the
boat shudder as if momentarily shirking at the thought of it all, not unlike a horse shaking its
shoulders and chortling. Water in splashes and sheets would be lifted up over the arch of the
weather rail and would flicker past in an erratic manner as affected by the vortices created by
objects in its path. At times in poor lighting this had the effect of rapid, erratic apparitions
fleeting past…perhaps the disturbed souls of all those lost seamen over which we were passing.
Communication became difficult as one had to rely on fragments of discourse as sentences and
even words were shredded by the competing gale. One had to stare intently at the individual,
7
yelling and motioning, as though in a heated argument, so as to better understand by facial
expression, what each was trying to relay…all the while being careful not to expose your face to
the sting of the whipping spray. The crew all wore safety harnesses which were clipped on to
some secure bit of the yacht, including the lifelines. These would work fairly well to stop one
from sliding too far along the deck, but were one to go overboard they would part in an instant
due to the incredible forces exerted by the dragging of a body through the water. Were such an
event to occur, especially at night, there would be little or no hope of recovery…just another
statistic in an already statistically significant geographical area.
The sea is notoriously unforgiving. Never get presumptuous at sea and with nature, she
will set you straight and you will be in store for a sobering lesson. Mankind has as an innate
self-misconception, i.e. the ability to think much more of its own significance than an impartial
third party observation would support. This is true on the mass scale of our species as well as
individually. This inflated self-assessment or overestimate of our significance and ourselves can
be rapidly set straight by witnessing the omnipotence of nature in its full force and glory. We are
but “a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more …”
Witness at sea level the truculence of a hurricane and you will become properly adjusted as to
the scale of your significance and what Shakespeare meant.
***
We were most fortunate that K III had been designed and constructed with distance,
rough water racing in mind. In fact, her preparation, as well as the crew’s, had begun years
earlier and included Kialoas I and II. She was well suited for this endeavor and stood in contrast
to smooth-water, bay racing yachts, i.e. in-shore vs. off-shore. In deep water racing a large
factor is the vessel’s ability to finish the race without some massive failure. The option of being
towed back across the bay to the yacht club does not exist, and there is especially no room for a
yacht to fold like a jack knife, disappearing beneath the water in but a moment as has happened
in America’s Cup racing. In this era Maxis were constructed to take all the stress that Mother
Nature could deliver whilst being out miles from shore. The yacht would, and was expected to,
be taken to the limit, or just ever so slightly this side of the limit. The rule being always keep
one or two percent between you and the ragged edge as the difference could be seconds or at best
a minute in the overall race, whereas, the consequences of stepping over the edge would be
measured in hours of elapsed time, if not something much worse.
Yankees have always been proud of their fast sailing vessels. This is a justified pride
which was proven in 1851 when the yacht America ran circles, not only around the Isle of
Wight, but around all the yachts in the race when she took the famous America’s Cup.
Designing for speed would soon become even more of a commercial necessity. The great fishing
ports of New England, Gloucester in particular, were born to feed a hungry nation by catching
and salting fish, preserving it for market. This changed forever in the last half of the 1800’s
when ice was cut in the winter and stored throughout the year to be used in keeping the fish
fresh. This combined with the development of the railroads meant that fresh fish could be gotten
to market all along the East Coast. It also meant that speed was necessary from the great fishingschooners that plied the Grand Banks and greater region. The schooners soon developed a racing
design by necessity, and piled on the canvas to see who would be first to shore, thus
8
commanding top dollar for their catch. The development and designing for commercial speed
would go hand in hand with, and influence decades of fast sailing yachts. The sea bottom over
which we were sailing was strewn with the bones of untold numbers of sailors from these great
vessels. We were certainly not the first to pile on canvas to an extreme for the conditions we
were experiencing. Many before us had been in similar gales with similar need for speed. Too
many had seen their vessels driven under by the countervailing forces of nature and the desire for
speed. Any suffering or extremes we were to experience would pale in comparison to the
hundreds of thousands who had gone before…and the tens of thousands who had perished in
these same areas. Gloucester would loose one hundred men a year to the sea. There have been
10,000 ships lost since the mid-sixteen hundreds off this coast. Unbelievably there had been
over one hundred men and several ships lost in only one storm. Our hull was to pass over many
of these lost vessels.
Enough years had passed from the personal and economic devastation of the second
Great War and the ensuing Korean and Viet Nam episodes. A period of economic advancement
allowed the wealth necessary to create grand racing yachts once again, and with this a desire to
reinstate distance racing. As in the past, these yachts would include at least some creature
comforts, i.e. improved interiors. This was a time of navigating by sextant, unpaid crews, races
measured in distances of thousands of miles and starting and ending in completely different
continents. All things ebb and flow and this unique stage could be once again attained.
However, it stands in contrast to today’s generally shorter races on stripped out shells.
Currently, the Maxi Yachts tend towards day races with gaunt, mechanical, cold and functional
interiors, and crews, stepping aboard…to never learn, completely, one another’s names. The
days of Kialoa were in contrast. The yachts sailed on their own bottoms with delivery crews to
distant races, as being shipped to a race was not an option. The racing crews would follow of
their own accord and expense. The members not only knew each other’s names, but details of
their lives and intricacies of their personalities. Kialoa was more of a family in structure with the
complete list of available crew seldom reaching a large number. It was one of the honors of
yacht racing in this era to have one’s name on this exclusive list.
9
Kialoa was not only one of the world’s fastest racing sailboats but a fine yacht, richly
detailed in warm woods and thoughtfully laid out below decks. From the helmsman’s cockpit
there was a hatch and steep stair to the master stateroom which was comprised of an upper
double berth to port and on starboard both lower and upper berths. There was a head forward on
the starboard side of this stateroom which included a shower. On the port side of the head area
there was a companionway which included a complete and modern navigator’s stateroom. Just
forward of this was the main salon containing the primary hatchway. The galley was on the port
side with a center console. To starboard was a comfortable settee and dining area, above which
was the cook’s bunk…er sarcophagus (more on this later). Moving forward from the main salon
there was another hatchway, and standing at the base of which there was a stateroom to the port
with separate head and a companion way and head to the starboard leading to the fore-peak area.
This companionway could be closed off to create another stateroom. Ahead of this area were a
small workstation and the sail locker with hatch to pass sails up onto the foredeck.
We were also fortunate that Kialoa III was beautiful, as a yacht must look proper. She
had exquisite lines and to this day turns every head in any harbor she enters. At the time, who
knew this was to become one of the most famous ocean-racing yachts…and crews. For example
I can think of no other racing yacht that has had a drink invented by, and named after, her. The
recipe for a Kialoa can be found in almost any good bartender’s guide. I am sure this is because
of the racing history of the yacht and not the party behavior of the crew…must be.
***
No one was in a mood to drink Kialoas even though maneuvering below decks would
seem serene in comparison to the cacophony of the main deck. That was until one of the
10
charging walls of water would stop the boat dead, or the ocean would disappear from under the
entire front half of the hull causing her to plummet and slam against the pit thus created. One
would be driven to his knees, it being impossible to stand against the gravity force given off by
such acceleration followed by an abrupt stop. This was made so much worse by having to
negotiate in a world turned forty-five degrees to the horizon; any movement required grasping
hand over hand the overhead rails while using a butting motion with your body along the
bulkhead in the companionway in order to move. The interior world was half deck, half
wall…and everything wet…very wet and slippery. Moving forward past the navigator’s
stateroom and reaching the main saloon the bulkhead ended which required supporting all your
weight by hanging on to the overhead rails and what cabinetry or anything else you could grab.
The trick was to time a forward motion to throw your body towards the settee, most likely to be
stopped by bracing against a couple of shipmates. The one in the most leeward position had to
suffer the weight of those above him. At meals food had to be passed about from hand to hand.
Although there were gimbaled sections to the table, it was impossible to keep the food in place.
Everyone had to curl up in some manner, bracing against anything available, and with food in
lap, pocket, between the legs or some other contortionist cranny, eat like so many timid little
rodents in their warren.
On a night watch I was dressed and had worked my way forward to get a drink of water
before climbing to the deck. In the dim watch-change lights of the interior I noticed Nick, who
was forward in the starboard stateroom, using gray duck tape to secure garbage bags onto his feet
in preparation for going on watch. It seems this ‘penultimate sailor’ had neglected to bring his
boots, and his feet being of Herculean proportions, there were no others that would fit. Necessity
had prevailed and he was improvising so as to keep his feet warm and dry. In keeping with
absolute protocol, he did take considerable ribbing for this which brought repeat smiles to
everyone’s face.
I had been wise enough, I thought, to request for the lower starboard bunk in the aft
stateroom. This decision was made having consulted the North Atlantic wind rose charts for our
time of year so as to determine which would be the favorable board or tack. For the majority of
the trip this would mean not having to climb awkwardly upward to get into the bunk, and once
there, having to sleep against a hard bunk board. In the era of great sailing ships the trip from
England to India would be made in the preferred, and more expensive, format of port-out bound
and starboard-home from which we get the word posh. Although posh was not a word that came
to mind, the word more comfortable did. In this lower bunk position one could better nestle for
purposes of sleeping or reading. However, were a plumb bob hung from the overhead whilst on
the wind to port, it would pass through this bunk and the drawer under the bunk, mine, as being
the lowest level of the yacht. Thus it was a great place to collect water.
We had been pounding and exposed to a constant shower of water for three days, clothing
was soaked through and through. However, this was only part of it. Due to the cold
temperatures and submersing tendency of the yacht, it required all the hatches be kept well
secured, thus below decks was a veritable steam room of moisture without the heating element.
Every four or six hours the watches would exchange places, the off watch going below and
bringing in a new round of water and soaked foul weather gear. The inside of the boat was
dripping with condensate. The bunk blankets were wet, and it became normal to just crawl into a
11
wet bunk to attempt any type of sleep. Just about the time I would drift off there was a “bink” on
the forehead…too tired to care I would do nothing and would finally drift off again. “Bink!” A
damnable drip of water would land on my forehead or face...a Chinese water torture… “All right
I’ll sign the papers…I confess!” Through necessity, it became a habit to tie a towel to the
overhead handrails, thus catching the water, temporarily. Of course, this would allow only an
hour or so sleep before the towel being saturated; and it would start again…“bink”. Out of the
bunk, wring out the towel, tie it up, and jump back in before some violent motion of the yacht
would put you on the cabin sole. I guess this was a just reward for such a well thought out plan
for one’s posh position.
Below the bunk were assigned drawers where limited personal gear was stored. Having
experienced days of drenching, I was driven to the point where I was ready for some dry gear,
anything dry. I opened my drawer only to find it and all my belongings sloshing back and forth
like some isolated little tide pool. I knelt as though genuflecting, contemplating the shock and
horror of it all, and with spinning mind thought, “perhaps my blue blazer is still dry, it’s in the
hanging locker”. I worked my way around the corner to point out this personal calamity to
Bruce, who was in the navigator’s stateroom area.
Bruce was always the intrepid and confident man. He had been both a catalyst and
guiding force in the development and construction of Kialoa III, and he knew the boat as no
other. Also, Bruce and I were best of friends, such that he might be willing to exchange thoughts
with me which might not be shared with others. When he confided in his typical taciturn manner
that we were taking on water and he could not figure from where, nor was he able to keep ahead
of it, well, this had meaning beyond just a minor alarm. However, typical to his nature these
comments were expressed somewhere between perplexity and an analyzing concern. Bruce
could descend into deep analytical thought over things most would just take for granted or be
purely puzzled by. At this point the issue had not been shared with others. We had a leak that
had to be fixed. In fact, not being able to keep ahead of the leak could be construed to mean that,
technically, we were sinking. What if it got worse? Should it have gotten worse would we have
time to reach a port?
Ultimately, floors were taken up, flashlights directed at every recess and still the culprit
could not be found. Finally, Bruce had Tinker, the mate, crawl into the lazaret, a storage area at
the extreme end of the yacht, and thus exposed to a wiping action during the most violent jarring,
where, after moving crates of food stuffs, he found a box had knocked a hose from its throughhull attachment. But the water remained. The bilge pump was unable to keep up with it, or rid
the boat of this brine. We even did something considered an anathema during a yacht race. We
ran off the wind away from our goal in an attempt to pump the boat from an upright position.
We were to run off the wind two additional times before the race was over. Finally, after further
ferreting, Bruce with a wry smile, characteristic shake of the head and once again his typical
paucity of words pointed out that he had found the leak and that the problem was the out-flow
hose had come off the bilge pump. We had just been re-circulating the bilge water for some
time.
As mentioned, Bruce, a New Zealand transplant, was one of the seminal figures in the
construct and racing of Kialoa III. He was driven by some early and deep needs to out perform
12
and get acknowledgment for having done so. Broad and thick-backed, he was a large and
muscular man, which seemed to fit his sometimes stern demeanor. I don’t think I ever saw him
with his shirtsleeves buttoned as he had large hands and wrists, and as such, he never could get
shirts to fit around them. Boldly sure of himself and with defined goals in and for his life, he
always strove to set and attain objectives that would seem far too distant for most. His selfassuredness was contagious and always calming in the worst of situations. Many a crew had
willingly trusted their life to Bruce when he was in command of the various Kialoas. This
calming and trust was never more apparent than after the Transatlantic race when Kialoa sailed
on her own bottom from England to Australia for the Sydney to Hobart race. In the southern
ocean, amongst giant swells and breeze, she was tossed like a piece of jetsam, and not
responding to the helm while cascading down a wall of water was driven onto her beam ends
putting her mast in the water were she lay for some time. Though not being part of this
experience, several of those on board have related it to me, and each have paid due regards to
Bruce’s calm and resolve. He was a much recognized figure in the yachting world and due to
some innate need for recognition could be a bit too vain at times. For this he would incur the
sarcasm and retort from the crew. Any hubris on his part was generally well earned, as is often
to be expected with such driven types.
By some quirk one of several books I had with me was “Alive: The Story of the Andes
Survivors” by Piers Paul Read. During the height the gale with its concomitant pounding and
water dripping everywhere, I would burrow into my wet bunk, turn on the reading light and try
for a respite in someone else’s tragic adventure. It struck me as somewhat prophetic or ironic yet
humorous that I would be reading of others whose challenges seemed so much more grave and
with such dire consequences. A true story the book is about a 1973 plane crash in the Andes,
where a young soccer team struggled for survival on a frozen peak. After ten weeks they were
rescued but not before having to resort to cannibalism and other extremes to survive. Musing
over the plight of their great endeavor put our adventure in better perspective. Further, I felt
much encouraged when Bruce reassured me that we had several weeks of food on board.
Reading the book did draw some hypothetical parallels. The soccer team spent a lot of time
contemplating imminent death. And though at times our little adventure would give one signs of
the potential gravity of the situation, i.e. new and untested boat, truculent and changing weather
etc., it never occurred other than but a passing thought that life could end suddenly. Perhaps this
is due to an underlying comfort that there always was a much greater plan for one’s life. Lying
in a soaking wet bunk, bouncing up and down, surrounded by sometimes thunderous noises
created by opposing forces meeting so violently, did however make me wonder what my parents
would have thought had they seen me…“he’s really gone quite mad you know!” This did bring
a chuckle to my mind.
The yacht, being sealed tight in an attempt to prevent the leakage of water into the
interior as the deck was constantly awash, became uncomfortably damp; such that the below
decks became some giant petri dish, a scientific experiment, where odors seemed to grow and
magnify. Wet foul weather gear combined with the clothing worn beneath, and usually slept in
to maintain the warmth, provided a perfect medium to hold and grow the essence and bouquet of
Cro-Magnon man. This environment, without the benefit of showers and with toilets utilized by
a crew of seventeen in a confined area, created an aggressive odor which was not beyond humor.
When going off watch, it was not that you would recoil at going below and bolt back up on deck,
13
but one would at least give pause whilst descending the companionway ladder into this miasma.
Finally it became the habit of those on deck as the watch was changing and about to go below, to
open the hatches a few minutes before doing so, at the risk of shipping more water below, so as
to “air out” the interior. This of course was uncomfortable to those below rousting out of their
tepid, damp bunks, such that it gave cause to look forward to doing the same when it was their
turn to go off watch. One can only imagine the pressures on the crews of earlier submarines.
Lying soaking wet in a bunk at 45 degrees to the horizon, condensate dripping
relentlessly, trying to sleep then suddenly the yacht would again seemingly strike a wall and bury
her bow. A cascade of water would rumble as it washed down the deck overhead, occasional
comments from the watch on deck would be heard but not discerned. A strange thought of “what
if someone were carried overboard” and then the shake of your head and try to get some sleep.
When awake, it made moving around down below extremely difficult. You can tolerate a certain
amount of serious blows and thunderous crashes of the ship, but at some point it becomes more
than annoying. In these situations swearing, an old sailor’s trait, has always worked for me.
It was amongst this bedlam that Bruce had chosen to put a chart of the North Atlantic on
the athwartships bulkhead which runs across the yacht at the forward end of the main salon.
Upon this chart he had marked our daily positions. Not one to put up with such a cold, clinical
display of mere numbers and lines depicting our march across the sea, Gary Miltimore, the
Artist, saw fit to illustrate on a daily basis our progress. The Artist, insouciant, incorrigible, full
of a right brain innocence, was once described as having certain elements that the rest of the
crew needed so as to enhance their own characters and become more whole. He never had an
enemy. He is one of those souls who can go through life and befriend everyone, in whatever
social status, without the least variation in approach or hint of adapting to a difference in cast or
environment. Having started this iconographic diary under the most adverse conditions, it was
necessary for him to hold on to the overhead rails, hook one leg up and around the forward
companion way bulkhead, wedge the other leg into the settee sofa and finally do his daily
artwork with his free hand. In this manner his body was probably close to level with the horizon,
but forty-five degrees to the interior of the yacht. This contorted stance was not unlike a gecko,
which by means of suction cups stuck to some grossly angled wall. The fact that he found it
necessary to twist his tongue outside his mouth, some times caressing his mustache, completed
the reptilian visage. During the height of the gale his concentration and pen stroke would be
interrupted or made to error by the jolting of the boat, this would entail an almost simultaneous
expletive, which would resound throughout the interior. His efforts would lead to a great and
anticipated daily enjoyment for the entire crew as it became a ritual to see how the previous day
had been depicted. The Artist was a key and salubrious element of the crew. The strength of his
soul and character are assured and demonstrated by the fact that, throughout the years, he has
successfully managed to compete in the difficult world of supporting one’s self and family by
means of art alone. He has a well justified reputation for paintings in oils and water colors as
well as graphic arts for racing yachts, all, as with his life, in a maritime theme. His subject
matter for endeavors is favorably enhanced through experiences such as we had before us.
Sketching became even more difficult. Once the last reef is in the mainsail and the
smallest headsail available is straining boldly up forward, and yet the yacht is still over powered,
it is necessary to go to the storm trysail and a storm fore staysail. Both are made, needless to
14
say, of very heavy, unwieldy material. The trysail is a loose-footed, triangular sail that is hoisted
in lieu of the mainsail. It is connected at the end of the boom by a sheet, but is not connected
along the boom in any manner. The storm forestaysail is a small staysail flown inboard of the
bow. When viewed from abeam and without the benefit of wind and sea as a justification, the
trysail and storm forestaysail appear pitifully small and look out of place against the scale of the
larger yacht. However, when viewed from on board and with the context of a raging sea and
tempestuous wind, one wonders why “we waited so long in putting them up and do we have
anything smaller”.
By the fourth day we had been battling along under such a rig for a considerable time
with gusts in the 60 to 70 knot range. The ocean was an unruly brew of confused palisades and
moats. The sky and sea were indistinguishable at any great distance as the visibility was poor
due to the amount of moisture and spray in the air. At around 1300 the wind had moderated
slightly, but not the sea. Having already dropped the trysail, we decided to change from the
storm fore-staysail to a number four genoa, a small sail raised on the head-stay at the stem of the
boat and built as if made of one quarter inch plywood. In that this would require some crew
being on the bow, which was still plunging and scooping mounds of water, we decided to run off
once again. This would stabilize the boat, somewhat, and keep the bow out of the water long
enough to raise this new sail. This is a maneuver that must be planned in detail yet done quickly
as by running off the wind the yacht is also sailing away from its destination...the equivalent of
going backwards on the racecourse. Having raised the sail we sheeted it in taught…too taught in
my opinion as the rig had been freed up somewhat by running off and would soon load up once
again putting more strain on this new sail. Bruce and I had a rare, and minor, disagreement
about this. But in that communication between us was so difficult, due to the roar, it sounded
like we were yelling at one another, which in effect we were, but without anger. We turned the
boat back into the wind and proceeded once again into our “bang and scoop” efforts to reach
England. Suddenly, and with a sound akin to a mortar going off, the headsail exploded. In mere
moments it was shredding itself to death in the wind. And so, once again it was necessary to run
off the wind in order to raise the number 4 jib-top, also a small headsail but of a different cut.
That evening Bruce was at the helm and I was curled up on the deck with the rest of the
watch suffering the constant drubbing and drenching. It is impossible to get comfortable while
lying on a metal drum, bouncing, holding on, shivering and wet. Laying there in a little huddle
of white-hooded drones like so many fish upon the deck, I happened to be face to face with Gary,
The Artist. He had earlier developed a sinus infection, and he confided that it had gotten much
worse. Being the resident microbiologist on board, I was given the mission of going below to
get some antibiotics.
Moving about the deck, especially at night, was a challenge. Imagine mountain climbing
on a steeply angled wall, in near absolute darkness with a frenzied wind, a pouring rain, and with
the mountain constantly attempting to throw you off like some unbroken mustang. One must
grasp for ledges and objects that can support his entire weight whilst attaining the next footing.
All the while far below you was the hissing-roaring rampage of angry water swallowing the life
lines and anything else that might come close. Stepping over other crew members provided
additional obstacles prone to contemptuously cursing you if you happened to be clumsy.
Reaching the main hatch, one had to awkwardly climb in and descend a ladder that was wet and
15
steeply angled in two directions. It was not unusual to be thrown off the ladder and end up
dangling from the overhead. Additionally, there was nothing soft on such a journey, and one
could expect to be slammed against unyielding metal at various points.
Being night, the off watch was asleep, and walking/crawling in the dark like some
tethered yo-yo I worked my way through the moving maze of the main saloon to the forward
port head where the medicine was kept. This required my going through the port stateroom,
where two crewmembers were trying for some much-deserved sleep. I closed the head door and
sat on the floor of this tilted telephone-booth type of confine as some swami, and began opening
and looking into the large plastic boxes with their lids securely taped shut. No doubt one of the
doctors that occasionally sailed with us had thoughtfully prepared these supplies. The boxes
were obviously packed with great and meticulous care on a level, dry table. Suddenly, I felt the
bow falling; I attempted to brace myself but levitated as did the contents of the box and with a
thunderous crash KIII slammed into the sea…a noise that cannot be described and is difficult to
even imagine. The problem was the contents of the box, which I was so carefully reviewing, did
not see fit to descend directly back as it had come out. Loud expletive! “Quiet you’ll wake the
off watch”, I thought. And thus, here I was in this topsy-turvy cell trying to put a three
dimensional jigsaw puzzle back together, while holding a flashlight in my mouth, and trying not
to split my head open in one of the violent shakings. After an inordinate amount of frustrating
time, I had put everything back. Returning and banging about, crawling hand over hand through
the main saloon, I could hear the dishes and cutlery rattling and crashing in their cabinets. I went
up the steep ladder which was angled at 45 degrees to the horizon, and once back on deck, I had
the strongest compulsion to cram all the pills down the Artist’s throat, being the mild mannered
person that I am.
One could easily get hurt while trying to maneuver down below. Bruce knocked a tooth
out when he was thrown against the radios in the navigator’s station, a place he had to spend a lot
of time as we were the radio ship for the fleet. It turned out he had knocked off a cap of one of
his front teeth. I tried to convince him to leave it off as his smile with a large gapping hole was
quite amusing to the rest of the crew in this otherwise serious situation, and besides he sounded
funny sibilating on the radio. However, he chose to glue it back in place with some handy
industrial strength glue.
There are numerous routine functions of life that must be attended to regardless of the
conditions, eating being one of them, though no one had a great appetite. Essential,
unrecognized, and thankless is the job of cooking for seventeen hungry creatures. Cooking on a
large yacht, at best, could be a stage for humorous venting or a means of sharing the camaraderie
and the adventure. I have always questioned why someone would put up with this toil, but I was
glad that someone did. It could turn wretched in a hurry. A yacht heeled heavily to one side,
dripping with condensate, deck slippery with spilt food, the smell of various ingredients wafting
around the nostrils would turn the galley into some great odoriferous pit. Bracing in the
awkward-shaped stretch of a crippled yoga practitioner, trying to stir some bubbling cauldron of
gruel and then the boat would take a particularly hard slam putting your efforts all over the deck
would make one…well…swear. It would also make most cooks ill.
16
Bobby “Blue Eyes” Harris was a successful insurance broker, bon vivant, good natured
and a humorous man with balding head, a little droll and always with the warmest of smiles and
heart. And of course his enthusiastic, illuminating blue-eyes rounded out his countenance quite
well. In fact his eyes were those of Santa Claus, and while one considers that concept, the
realization comes that Bob was in many respects, visually and in demeanor, a Santa. He was
also our cook, and prone to keeping all spirits high amongst the two watches, not that it was
needed of course. You would slide into the settee for an evening meal and Bobby Blue Eyes
would say, “you know you guys are my favorite watch”…”I’m not sure about those other guys
however.” Of course this is exactly what he had said to the other watch a half-hour earlier and
everyone knew it. It was Bob’s way, always happy, always ready to act in a jocular manner.
It had gotten wretched. Early on Bob became deathly ill, seasick. I remember going
down below only to see little more than his hooked proboscis protruding above the leeward bunk
board. This was enough to permit the observation of a sea-foam, green pallor. He appeared
motionless as in death, and the experience was as though one were visiting an open casket
service for the cook. This lasted for days, as he was very sick, such that we were concerned.
After the race and after his recovery he was overheard to say, “That’s it! I am selling everything
related to the sea, including my Sabot!” It is enough to say that Bob did not enjoy this race.
But what to do? Though the crew was not in a particularly hungry state as the yacht had
become so violent and unpredictable in the hurricane created seas that, to a person, keeping food
down was an issue. We had to have some sustenance. No one wanted to cook. What seemed
like an improbably savior stepped forward, Richard.
Richard Colyear, the banker, well bred, well schooled and affluent would have been an
English aristocrat save for the lack of an accent, always proper in a very practiced sense. Either
some of this came from, or was particularly beneficial to, his having to deal in that often ruthless
world of high level finance where there was a constant need to separate those certain charlatans
from having access to your money, and where you had to keep those using your money on track
and above board. This required a certain savoir-faire. However, it always seemed that Richard
was on the verge of wanting to say, “do you realize how hard it is to be Richard Colyear…being
so proper all the time?” But Richard enjoyed the sailing and the crew, and I believe he enjoyed
the lack of pretense in everything involving the crew. There was a truth and honesty about those
on board that was not only on the surface but went straight through to the core. This was no
doubt refreshing for Richard and a relaxing way of dropping, to an extent, his guard. The crew
liked Richard and he was accepted as a member, further he made up one of the unique facets that
gave character to the reflection made by Kialoa in its sailing world.
Who would have thought Richard could cook in any sense of the word? I am not sure
whether or not I could have descended into that steamy abyss, prepared meals, and cleaned up
after the mob had dined. But Richard did. He was, also, the only one on board who enjoyed a
cigarette, an act tolerated by the crew. One evening my watch was on deck taking the first of the
night watches. By necessity the crew had curled up along the centerline of the boat due to the
large amounts of water being lifted and dumped over the weather rail and the raging and violent
rapids roaring past just below and to leeward. The watch was in a position aft of the coffee
grinders (those sizable pedestals and winch handles that drove the largest of the drums used for
17
sail trimming). It was cold; and there was such a constant drubbing from the blowing sea spray
the crew in white ghostly gowns had to huddle in a single mass like so many pups in a litter. I
was on the helm, driving as best I could. It was impossible to look into the violence of the wind
as the sting of the water hitting my face would force me to slouch my head so as the side of my
hood would take the brunt of the onslaught, steering by the compass and feel of the boat. On the
waves you would try to shove the boat up into the wind across the larger ones and feather it
down the backside. This worked well until one would come along with no backside, just a shear
cliff. These were the great slams we took.
Richard came up on deck after having finished the disdainful job of cooking and cleaning
the galley. He had obviously cleaned himself, shaved, washed and combed his hair, something
that none of us had done since leaving Newport and no easy task in these conditions. He, also, to
the envy of all, wore a clean, dry, heavy-knit, expensive-looking white sweater. Being hot from
all the work below, what he did not have was a top to his foul weather gear, just the bib overalls
with braces. He lit his cigarette, took one drag, which softly lit in an orange glow his dark curly
hair and cleanly shaven face, when with a bang we slammed into a sea on the forward quarter.
This sent a column of water arching up and over the weather lifelines and directly, as though
through a funnel, onto Richard’s head and down the flared opening of his overalls. Richard with
hair matted down his face, a half inch of his new cigarette between his fingers and the rest at a
right angle pointing, soakingly at the deck, maintained perfect aplomb, even though his overalls
were full of water like some large, liquid, fat-man. In his absolutely unshakable manner and
with perfect cadence to his elocution he said, “Well, you might have told me that would happen.”
The crew needed this, as it is a laugh we can still hear today upon those rare occasions when we
get together.
***
On July 3rd, five days into our challenge, the log shows an entry “Steer no higher than
087 degrees magnetic to clear Sable Island.” We were close to having to tack in order to clear
Nova Scotia as Amy kept pushing us so far north.
Sable Island, a long wispy island, looking like some giant protozoan organism, known for
its wild horses and shipwrecks, is nothing much more than a 20-mile by 1-mile wide sand bar
and shoal area. Since 1583 there have been over 350 recorded shipwrecks on this island, which
has gained it the ignominious appellation the “Graveyard of the Atlantic”. The ghosts of literally
thousands of sailors lurk beneath the surface in this area. The Gulf Stream and Labrador Current
converge at Sable and along the Grand Banks, causing a mix of strong and varying currents in
the area. In addition, this brew of warm and cold water causes the habitual fog of this region,
125 days per year. The Grand Banks are a great crucible for storms because of these currents
and the tracks that storms typically take, leading them to this area from their birthing grounds in
the Caribbean, Great Lakes or off Cape Hatteras. In dense fog one has to rely on the aptly
named form of navigation known as “dead reckoning”, whereby one keeps tallying track of the
ships speed and direction for navigational purposes. When the variables of strong current and
fog are thrown into the equation this form of navigation can be fraught with errors. The stacked
bones beneath the surface duly record a history of these errors.
18
One could justifiably ask “why would you undertake such unheralded risks?” The
answer is that it is about personal achievement and not for an audience or recognition. Being an
inherently dangerous sport, racing a sailboat across an ocean is not for all, in fact probably for
very few. Henry David Thoreau told us most people “live lives of quiet desperation”. Most are
never made aware of what they can do or to what heights they can attain. First, one must accept
that risks are a part of life; they are usually commensurate with the rewards. One, along with
having initiative, must be willing to take some risks in order to advance beyond the norm in any
field of endeavor. There are those who go through life with but a glazed view of the realities of
it all. Many are able to keep this insipid, coddled orientation throughout their dreary saunter
along and through the vale of tears, until their return to the earth. This is often accompanied by a
necessity of being assuaged by unrealistic, and therefore unrealized, wants and goals, oblivious
to the actual possibilities as dictated by reality and efforts put forth. Unfortunately, often a
consequence of this path is that these souls can become so imbued with their own lack of
accomplishment and realization that they find it necessary to lash out at those they perceive as
having been successful in one field of endeavor or other, becoming spiteful and slanderous. It is
far easier to hate others for their success than hate oneself for the lack thereof.
On the other hand, there are those that need to explore the limits of the real world, to
experience the extremes in life and what it has to offer. It is not enough for them to read or hear
of adventure, violence and tragedy, and then only to turn it aside. They must see it first hand.
Such experiences better position these individuals to deal with the more mundane aspects of it
all, and yields a greater perspective on the verity of the many other facets of existence. To
experience the unreasonable strength and unmitigated fury of nature, in an exposed manner,
enhances one’s orientation for life’s other situations. For example, in these situations emotion is
never allowed to dominate or reign supreme, more a cold calculative reasoning is imperative
under stress. Control must be maintained of non-productive reactions that might exist in some
degree or another, such that logic, analysis and rational actions will make sure that every move
or decision is made to be the best possible for the situation at hand. This teaches focus. I had
been in similar situations as Amy, but of shorter duration, where you could tell in the eyes of
certain of the crew that they were not going to be much help, and could even turn into a
detriment. They were best told what single, non-critical tasks they should do. No such persons
were present for this race, long since having been culled from “the list”.
There was never any great sense of danger reflected in the crew, or at least a sense of
pending danger that perhaps should have been commensurate with the conditions and situation.
This could have been written off as youthful insouciance and/or lack of any great obligations to
others combined with a confidence in the team and the ship. It could also be that there are those
who have an underlying feeling or sense of a greater calling or fate. Be it factual or not, it gives
an assuredness of action and can occasionally assume the form of courage or presumptuousness,
particularly in the other theaters of acting out one’s life.
***
By Independence Day gradually the rage of Amy began to subside, but not before three
yachts of the twelve-boat fleet had to drop out. Unfortunately, one those was Carina, who had to
go in to Nantucket when her Captain was thrown across the boat in one particularly hard slam
19
and been seriously injured. Her namesakes had made eight of the transatlantics since this kind of
yachting was revived in 1955. Another yacht, which was dismasted during the pounding, was
War Baby. This had previously been Ted Turner’s American Eagle, a twelve meter, inshore bayracer.
Gradually, we had moved north to colder waters. While Amy passed ahead of us, we
were left with her thick moisture remaining on top of cold water. Again the temperature fell to
meet the due point with the result of unyielding fog. We were to be engulfed in this gray, murky
little setting for over five days. It was to get cold also, with the temperature dropping to 38
degrees. In that all one’s clothing was wet, keeping warm was an effort. The foul weather gear
tended to keep all the body heat in, which was good, but it did not allow the wet undergarments
to breathe. The result, of course, was each of us had our own little compost experiment going.
When it came time to pull the foul weather gear top over one’s head, it could have the same
effect as having taken too much full-strength horseradish causing one’s face to involuntarily
corkscrew in to an aardvark look. Days later, the sun broke through mistily for but an hour or so,
and the entire crew reveled in dashing all over the deck so as to hang their clothing on the
lifelines and any other equipment. What a picture it would have made, Kialoa as an exploded
Chinese laundry.
The fog had us strangely moving along in a little world on a stage offered up by Kialoa
and a vacuous audience area varying from fifty to one hundred feet around her. It was a small
play shared only by those on board. Dense, very dense, fog…dripping fog. Everything
including the players had a glistening quality caused by the condensing of this ground level
cloud as it touched anything. It was in this little arena of solitude that we heard a deep resonant
moan. Some distant leviathan was staking out its claim to this portion of ocean. Initially there
was an emotion somewhere between being comforted by the presents of other humans in such a
remote region of the world and the feeling of an intrusion. However, the moans turned to
significant warning blasts from this creature and a different emotion prevailed. We, in counter
part, did offer a retort of sorts with whispers from our effete little air horn, nervously that is. Our
horn offered up a sound in comparison that one would envision coming from a chick, having
fallen out of the nest, chirping “please don’t step on me”. This was more than a passing concern
creating a period of tension as we fully recognized that we did not “paint” a significant radar
picture. Further, there were the memories of the 1972 Transatlantic, on Kialoa II when we had
nearly been run down on a bright, clear day, whilst having demonstrable right of way, by a
freighter between the Azores and Spain. That was a poignant example of the lack of attention
paid by crews of these large vessels. There is something about fog and the increased density of
the air that absorbs or muffles sound. So when the resonant and rhythmic blasts grew louder the
danger was evident and real, and the tension grew, everyone listening, intently trying to discern
the position of this intruding vessel like prey aware of the approaching wolf. This anxiety grew
to a peak as we could clearly hear the slosh… slosh … slosh of the propellers breaking the
surface of the water. This was going to be a close pass, and hopefully not one of those many
instances of a smaller vessel disappearing from the seas. She did pass, close, and we could not
only hear the noise of the propellers but the clear drone of the engine. It was a memorable
experience, being trapped, blindly, in a cocoon of fog while a much greater force intruded with
potential consequences of such significance. One is forever now able to relate to a rabbit
anxious in its lair.
20
***
Race committees in their concern for the participant’s safety establish a mark on the
transatlantic course above which one is not allowed to stray. This is called point Alpha and
represents the lowest point as determined by the Coast Guard of the likelihood for southerly
drifting of icebergs for the particular time of year. Thus it is established to keep yachts out of the
area off the East Coast known as Iceberg Alley. It was this same day of our crossing paths with
the mysterious, shrouded vessel that we reached point Alpha, a mark of the course. The Titanic
should have had such a point Alpha on her ill-fated voyage, but then who would have
remembered her? Unbeknownst to us she lay with whatever was left of her 1500 passengers
almost 250 miles due south of our point Alpha, but then she met her fate in April of 1912,
several months earlier in the season than we were. Her resting-place would not even be
discovered until ten years after our crossing.
Our race nemesis, erstwhile tropical depression Amy and now extratropical storm Amy,
had passed almost this exact location 24 hours earlier heading North, and now being on the
bottom of the low, we had been running under main and mizzen spinnakers set on a port tack.
We proceeded in these foggy conditions for a couple more days.
The fog gradually yielded to a more-unstable atmosphere, no doubt the dissipating
remnants of Amy parading across the Atlantic with us. We began to experience rain in hissing
showers, which in keeping with the continued wetness of the trip was offset somewhat by being
fresh water, and with larger droplets than the fog and drizzle we had lately been receiving.
During the second day of the rain showers more distinct squalls were in the offing. The third day
the squalls were eerily masked in layered gray skies, discernible only by their darkness versus
the remainder of the clouds. Strangely there was not a lot of wind with these systems and we
were ghosting along with the vessel near upright. But what developed in place of wind was
lightening.
Around mid-day on the 9th a considerable amount of lightning had been to the north of us,
gradually moving on a converging path. Hidden in the gossamer layers of grayness, one
particularly foreboding thunder cell was moving towards us like some marauding specter. It
appeared as if a hooded figure in black, whose craggy fingers were ragged, white spears cast
down at the surface in rhythmical sequences. The crackling, resonant boom of the thunder
moved closer in timing to the light flashes. However, as the cell converged, the lightning
mysteriously stopped for what seemed like an interminable period. I remember standing next to
the mizzenmast with Bruce steering. It was too quiet as we drifted along in the light rain, our
inviting aluminum masts pointing almost directly skyward; the only lightning rods around. We
were both looking to port at this looming vision with haunted eyes, could this be the pale rider? I
said, “I don’t like this Bruce”. This statement was the only noise in this otherwise hushed
situation. That is until the loudest noise any of us had ever experienced occurred. It is difficult
to explain such a explosion when at its center, the incredible brightness of the lightning flash
instantaneous with the sonic boom of the exploding air, followed by the air crackling like grease
in a skillet and combined with the burnt smell of the spent electrical charge. Somehow the deck
seemed to resonate with its own boom. This latter noise probably created by the group levitation
21
and subsequent dropping of the on-deck watch, who to a man had assumed a look that one would
have expected on the face of William Tell’s son as the apple was split. There was a noiseless
pause. Suddenly the two hatches simultaneously slammed open and the off watch spewed on
deck as if one, stuttering and stammering like a bunch of startled raccoons, only to be confronted
with the motionless, agape stares of white hooded druids, as if having witnessed some grand
experiment gone awry.
There had been a bluish luminescent that ran down the stainless steel backstay through
the aft stateroom, which combined with the God-awful boom were the clues to the off watch that
we had been hit. Another clue was the smell of all the burnt electronics. All our on deck
instruments had gone blank. Bruce charged below to assess the damage as I grabbed the helm.
Damage it was indeed, virtually all electronics were out, instruments, navigational devices and
radios (so much for the fleet’s radio ship). Typical to Bruce and his unparalleled grasp of so
many mechanical and electrical disciplines, he had everything operable again within three hours.
I remember walking past the navigator’s stateroom, seeing Bruce with solder, soldering iron and
wire all over the chart table. He turned and said, “Look at this…here’s where it burnt out”. He
was holding a ten-inch by eight-inch circuit board, which clearly showed a “smoked” section.
My amazement was that he would have thought to bring a spare circuit board for a sophisticated
piece of navigation equipment. This was a tribute to his thoughtful, organized life, expertise and
experience. I have yet to meet a person with talents in so many diverse disciplines; he was never
intimidated by any undertaking.
***
In mid-ocean, after days of trekking remotely across its great expanse, far away from the
normal distractions and comforts of life, there is a feeling that one cannot have much of an
impact in the world other than concentrating on the work at hand. In fact the world beyond the
horizon of just a few miles does not seem to even exist. This realization allows the brain to
explore deeper thoughts of existence and the journey of life associated with it. This is less
through a feeling of helplessness, but more a removed aspect. No matter what may be happening
elsewhere in the world, there is no element of it capable of touching you here in the middle of the
North Atlantic. In fact the only thing shared with the rest of mankind is the inexorable passage
of time.
Once this mindset has manifested itself and with reference only to the confined world and
singular populace of the yacht, it is easy to incorrectly begin to regard the sea as a great and
fallow void bereft of other life. This is never the case and nature is wont to remind sailors of this
possibly fatal error in perception. We had been lulled into such acceptance of our little world as
being total, when someone spotted a large dolphin and then another and another. Before long the
sea was almost horizon to horizon in dolphins, definitely the largest pod any of us had ever
witnessed. They came up to the yacht and like so many times before played with us for miles,
running and jumping off the bow wave, jumping beside us, chirping and whistling, darting in and
out. I am sure they were as interested in us as we were in them. Perhaps they had been lulled
into thinking they were the only things in or on the sea apart from their prey and were surprised
to find us intruding into their perfect world…but I think not. This event, which was to go on for
more than a day, gave the “Artist” the perfect representation for his requisite, daily artwork, and
22
shortly after dinner our evening pictorial chart of crossing the sea was illustrated with “The day
of jumping dolphins”.
Once again alone on this imponderable and immense convex-surface, one has time to
contemplate those who have gone before, perhaps on this exact spot, but without a trace. It is
worthy to think of those thousands of settlers who challenged these same waters several hundred
years ago in less dependable craft, their families and all their meager belongings carted with
them. They were the bold, the brave, and the risk takers. They were willing to leave the
lingering serfdom of Europe for a chance at self-reliance in a distant, unknown and wild country.
This in effect was a Darwinian selection process. Those confident pioneers, opposed to
autocratic dictates, would challenge a new upstart land for a piece of earth that they could
leverage into their future. In contrast, those left behind would have a greater acquiescence to
serfdom and aversion to chance innate to their genes. The French observer de Tocqueville,
touring in the 1830’s, would observe that the greatest differences between Europe and America
was the reliance on government as opposed to self and community reliance. From the
perspective of a few hundred years, it is interesting to observe this Darwinian path that lead to a
singular super power, while those “who stayed behind”, those risk averse, appear to have been
left with a destiny of broken, overly-supportive governing systems. And, they too often rely on
their vituperative responses against those they perceive as successful and perhaps more confident
as their only means of compensating, if only in their own minds, for their own lack of
accomplishment. This affliction is a fundamental element of human nature, and is a reaction to
envy. It can be witnessed on a national level but is most familiar on an individual basis. There
was never any such “back biting” on Kialoa as the crew was much more confident and
accomplished than that.
***
Drifting along at four or five knots under spinnakers through a damp void we proceeded.
Dark as a coalmine with out a light, dark enough for sensory deprivation, this is what the nights
were like with overcast and fog precluding even a hint of light from the stars. Seven pair of eyes
became so adapted that the subtle glow from the binnacle would seem enough to light up the
cockpit area, the repeaters for the wind and speed instruments, a dim source of light amid-ships.
The bow and stern lights seemed but a hint into the infinite darkness. These light sources are
minuscule, and it is a tribute to the amazing flexibility and range of the human eye to be able to
act in these situations. It was such that the crew, maneuvering as shadows in hooded white foul
weather gear, could scarcely be discerned by one another, even in the closest proximity. One
had to know the boat, and furthermore, the current rigging of those particular sails that were
serving. Flashlights were generally avoided because they could ruin the entire watch’s night
vision for fifteen minutes or much more. It is amazing, but you could negotiate around slowly
by a sort of sailing Braille, feeling your way, hesitating and thinking, “the mizzen sheet should
be just ahead of my right foot”. These periods could involve long stretches without conversation
or noise, apart from the subtle hissing sound of the yacht parting the water. It was like this when
someone emerged, phantom like, from below deck, momentarily allowing a soft shaft of light to
penetrate upwards from the cave below. This weak glow seemed absorbed into the blackness a
mere ten or twelve foot above deck height, thus defining the upper limits of our soft and very
damp cocoon. As this apparition came up on deck, Tripper, believing it was Stuey, gave a
23
gigantic, surprise bear hug from behind at the same time exclaiming “Stuey”. This seemed to fit
into the setting of the rest of the crew and was not regarded as an out of place reaction to Stuey’s
arrival.
However, the otherwise peaceful and quiet situation was interrupted by
"Ah...Tripper...I'm not Stu...” “OH! Sorry JIM, I thought you were Stu", Tripper said in his grass
roots Aussie accent. This of course did interrupt the quietude as all hands within earshot burst
out laughing…including Jim. Even though this was a free and even society, there was a certain
protocol expected in regards to the owner of the yacht. Jim, however, required no special
treatment, and in fact, enjoyed immensely the camaraderie and just being part of the crew.
During this period of yacht racing a large part of the special nature of the experience was
due to the unique collection of characters that acted out their roles together upon a stage of
ocean. I question the probability of the coming together of so many unique, strongly defined and
energized personalities. It might have been an example of the Theory of Complexity, at the edge
of Order and Chaos, or perhaps some Divine intervention or experiment. Whatever, the siren
call of a yacht race would bring these individuals from all corners of the world, less like a trek to
Lourdes or the pilgrimage to Mecca and more like the Green River Rendezvous of legendary
trappers of the early 1800’s. All shared components of the combined successes of Kialoa in
some form or other. The relationships were rich and enduring. After some thirty years the lives
and personalities still fit, seamlessly, back together as though time and the currents of life had
not mattered nor take a toll, such that, the drifting in different directions has had no effect.
Perhaps this is because we were all integral in the shaping of one another’s character. We all had
some of the same building blocks, in a state of disarray perhaps. But it was the events played out
on and around the sea with others, of similar composition, that helped to arrange our individual
building blocks to be even better fitting and defined, and thus yielding a greater result. We
learned from one another. Life was profoundly molded by these experiences. Further, one’s
personal clay is never completely dry, or at least should never be considered as such, but there
are times when the molding process can be accelerated or magnified by events and experiences.
The adventures on Kialoa were such times.
It was not unusual for members of the off watch to come up on deck to enjoy the humor
and comradeship of the others. However, Stuey was part of our watch and shared the aft
stateroom with me and the Artist. Stuart Williamson, Stu or Stuey, a biology teacher, could join
the race without excuse in that it was summer vacation. Were it during the school year, he would
have taken leave from his job based upon, perhaps, the fourth or fifth time his grandmother had
passed away or become seriously ill. He had sailed on Kialoas for over four years. Best
described as an effervescent individual who has a passion for travel, people and the sea. I am
sure his picture is in the dictionary next to the word “globetrotter”, and if it is not, it should be.
Stu has a remarkable confiding, unfeigned personality with more than a modicum of humor in
his presentations of, and interactions with, life’s twists. He is a romantic and a driving force to
make all recognize the import and relevance of the situations at hand. One could always depend
upon Stu to perform his task and beyond, each undertaking most often accompanied by a
rambling, humorous soliloquy. Stu was in charge of the mizzen, no simple task considering its
size was greater than many of the other class A main masts. Often you could hear Stu at the
back of the yacht as he raised sails on the mizzen, carrying on a multi-sided conversation such
that, were you to turn around, you would expect to see a five or six man crew at work. He would
24
invariably race the main mast crew in setting sails and getting his portion of the ship squared
away.
There was no task below any member, all tasks were distributed or taken equally. This
was certainly no faux Marxist experiment; it was simply the description of a perfectly organized
team effort. Of course, every person played a key role in select maneuvers, and should one let
you down it could unleash consequences that could be quite dire. During the general operations
of the yacht everyone knew what needed to be done, the chores less attractive than others were
always undertaken without having to be assigned. There were other yachts with a more
structured hierarchy, which, I am sure, never allowed them to tap into their complete potential.
Kialoa, a reflection of Jim’s philosophy, had one mission, to get the best out of the yacht without
barren pretense.
A frequent visitor to our watch was John Pigott. A man with many uniquely successful
aspects to his persona, all entwined with a great sense of humor. The form of challenge we were
undertaking does not lend itself to demure people. John was a good example. The consequences
of this composition would be carried ashore where the crew could exhibit tendencies that are the
opposite of timid types. One evening after we had finally reached Cowes, John Piggot and I had
ventured out for a quiet little drink (not to be confused with the sailing Olympian event also
known as a “Quiet Little Drink”). We stumbled across a characteristic British pub, low ceiling
height, jammed with people, tight quarters so as to create a forced interaction. Everyone was
singing folk songs and sea chanteys. We enjoyed the festivities and sang along with the few that
we knew. At some point one of the protagonists, who had been playing a guitar or other such
instrument, in a condescending manner that only the English know how to use when talking to
one of the colonials, asked if we knew any American folk songs…if in fact there were any
American folk songs. His question and patronizing deportment seemed to set off a snickering
challenge amongst the crowd. Now John, who through shear strength of character can wear the
appellation “The Pig” without a qualm, and one who, being incomparably articulate, and who
enjoys an audience more than most, flashed his wide, warm, Cheshire grin. Full of confidence
and with more than a hint of sarcasm, he unleashed his rapier wit to accept the challenge. This
was done in his typical audience-captivating manner with a significant amount of disparaging
comment. We looked at one another. Now what are we going to do? There is some truth to the
fact that many, if not most, American folk songs are derivative of other countries. With little
thought and the creative alacrity derived from more than a couple of pints, we came up with
“Battle of New Orleans”. Not exactly a folk song as it was written in the 1950’s…but what did
the listeners know. Amazingly we remembered most all of the lyrics, but we truly shined on the
chorus…which we belted out:
We fired our guns and the British kept a'comin’.
There wasn't nigh as many as there was a while ago.
We fired once more and they began to runnin'
down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico.
The place got relatively quiet. Damn Yankees. John’s stage presence and, well…
impudence, allowed him to completely control this unknown environment, filled with strangers
as though some great public or theatrical figure had entering and was commanding their
25
attention. It was all done with more than a modicum of humor and I doubt that there was any
significant “ruffled feathers”…well maybe a few. The crew of Kialoa was a moral and ethical
lot, strong of character, yet not afraid to let jesting step on a couple of toes.
***
Yacht racing has ebbed and flowed over various iterations that strangely have not strayed
that much over time. Improvements primarily through new materials and changes in the rules
have dictated any big changes in yacht design. A new material comes along that is incredibly
strong and light and it allows the designers to shift the yacht’s design to take advantage of it.
Rules, sometimes overly influenced by the designer’s profit reasons, cause and require design
changes. Trends seem to be cyclical in nature. And the truth be known, most seemingly
revolutionary designs have clear roots in the past. The current trend is for stripped out, ultra
light day racers that do not particularly lend themselves to some of the more endurance type of
off shore racing. The required usage of the sextant, the chronograph and sight reduction tables
have long since disappeared, thus navigating has become more of a computer game. Our
automobiles tell us to turn at the next intersection, as it is with yachts. I wonder if the same
sensations are experienced when a pending course will put you upon an area of unfriendly reefs,
at night, and your evening star shots are critical. In our ever accelerating high technology world
“How time has ticked a heaven round the stars” (Dylan Thomas). It took a few thousand years
to develop accurate timepieces in order to be able to determine longitude accurately. Today one
has three-dimensional displays from a screen, reads a gauge, listens to an audible warning,
punches up another chart. Sailing is about innovation, but it is also about a heritage of practiced
and age old skills. Besides, manual/celestial navigation is a learned skill, which can be
rewarding. The navigator’s personal sextant and his chronometer were honored badges of his
profession, well earned.
A particularly troubling advent in contemporary yachting is the use of a motor during a
race and for purposes of assisting in the racing. This use of a motor is not for direct propulsion,
but to run hydraulic pressure systems or pumps to shift large amounts of water ballast. This has
allowed for the development of huge dingy-type yachts with the ability to swing giant keels from
one side to the other, or to pump water aboard for ballast when needed or over board when not
required. Winches can more rapidly be turned with the push of a button, and thus fewer crew
members are necessary to manipulate large sails, etc.
Although these yachts are exciting and enticing, and they can virtually shatter existing
records, are they truthful to a basic, historic tenet of yachting? It should be obvious that yacht
racing is not just about racing on the water, were it so, motorized boats would make much more
sense. Yacht racing has traditionally been a contest with others in a clash against the elements,
whilst using these same elements for propulsion. A critical aspect has been utilizing solely
man’s given powers in the challenge.
When does unrestrained mechanization and
computerization of this form of racing cause it to become so distant from traditional monohulled, yacht racing as to damage the sport by reducing its recondite and/or esoteric appeal? Do
these dingy/yachts evolve into glass cockpits, fully automated sails, perhaps hydrofoils, etc. with
only the sharing of the usage of the wind and sea to historic racing?
26
Kialoa III held the record for the coveted Sydney to Hobart Race for 25 years, only to
have it repeatedly shattered by these motor assisted yachts to a present record that is but sixtyseven percent of the time required by Kialoa to sail the distance. Truly there should be a new
class for these “non-trad” yachts, just as there is to separate multi-hulls from mono-hulls.
Another great change, which is again a revisiting of the past, is the usage of professional
crews. Crews, which perhaps, drive the yacht beyond reason for personal gain, that have little
attachment with “she” who would allow them the opportunity to perform. Fly or drive to the
race, live on board a tender or in a hotel, try to memorize the names of crew members and get
back to the yacht club for cocktails before dark does not an ocean race make. Racing has
somewhat shied away from transoceanic, epic, endeavors and adventures orienting itself toward
something more akin to one design, daylight racing. A longer race with, at least, some
semblance of accommodations and the ability to enjoy the known comfort of long-term
relationships with shipmates seems foreign. Building the life long camaraderie that was attained
on Kialoa is not as likely today. This is not true of all races or crews, but is definitely a trend in
racing today. Something that must be greatly missed is leaving one great yachting center and
racing across seas to another foreign great yachting center, new to those on board. This is as
opposed to jumping in and out, on and off, and spending one’s entire time racing around buoys
in the same location. The rewards of seeing the finish come up slowly over the horizon,
allowing the full anticipation and preparation for some new experience is difficult to describe,
and no doubt experienced by few in today’s racing world. But then with all things being
cyclical, this too will likely change, and there are some recent signs of it doing so. Distance, offshore racing still exists, not withstanding the somewhat maniacal single-handed racing, in the
exciting Whitbread (now Volvo) around the world races. This recent class of seventy foot
around the world, giant dinghy-racers is an exciting form of non-traditional racing that will
perhaps bring more interest to the sport.
***
By the eleventh of July the sailing had settled into more of a routine, rhythmical nature.
We finally had plenty of breeze and there were on going sail changes, but there was not anything
out of the ordinary; except, we had a visitor from land. We welcomed this non-aquatic life form,
and took it as a good omen. Stu, our resident ornithologist, went so far as to provide it with
water as it hid in one of the winch handle compartments. After two watches it had rested enough
and flew off.
A certain anxiousness settles in after the challenge of racing across a great ocean when
one realizes that soon he would be walking upon the “undulating land”. In some great irony,
after a long sea voyage, the immovable quality of terra firma seems to be at odds to what should
be. The sailor walks expecting the platform to move-undulate; this by means of an ingrained
compensation creates the “swagger” known for ages to sailors fresh ashore. There was an
understated excitement as we closed upon the finish. The sky as though to welcome us, had
opened up and the sun was shining. In retrospect, it had been as though the sky and sea had
swallowed Kialoa during the intervening days. But the curtain had been raised and we had
passed our test, and now were being given back to the land…well not the complete challenge had
passed. The breeze had been freshening and continued to do so, such that by the time we were
27
close to the finish we were in 18 to 20 plus knots of wind and running hard in a short-coupled
sea. The yacht being ketch rigged, with two large masts, carried her canvas somewhat lower
than others rigged as sloops with a single large mast, and was thus slightly more stable. Because
of the strengthening breeze we were able to run relatively square to the wind, as such we had the
spinnaker pole well back and a large “shooter” flying well away from the yacht pulling hard on
the opposite side of the spinnaker. With two large billowing downwind sails pulling, one on
each side, Kialoa was relatively stable, although rolling a bit. Importantly, when one includes
the large spinnaker and wide shooter a broad spread of canvas is created, whereby the girth of the
yacht’s sails was comparable to her height. This is something to behold and would look great for
the finish…not that we expected anyone to see. The seas were not particularly even, and the
awkward swell, being close together, made carrying a vast array of sails a bit precarious.
Unfortunately it was necessary to jibe in order to reach the finish. To do this the “shooter” had
to be dropped making the boat quite unstable as the spinnaker wanted to pull the boat up into the
wind, correcting with the helm/rudder made the boat role on her side and a disconcerting
harmonic effect begins. During this time of instability, it is necessary to release the spinnaker
pole and bring it through and under the headstay, while the mainsail is brought to amidships, thus
giving full exposure of the wind into the spinnaker. This accentuates the unsteadiness of the
situation. At this critical point the spinnaker is operating at its whim and flying free. As the
yacht commences to roll, the thirty plus foot metal spinnaker pole is dropped, flailing around
dangerously, whilst the bowman, in this situation me, tries to hook up a 5/16 inch steel cable into
a clamping jaw at its end. The object is to release the pole, which allows the spinnaker to lift up
somewhat, and drive the boat so as to keep it directly behind and under the free flying spinnaker.
Good luck to the helmsman in these choppy and rolling seas.
The pole was released and the boat immediately began a turn that was countered or
perhaps over-countered with the helm. This started the out of phase harmonics of the situation.
The boat rolled violently and the pole, as it was being lowered, came at the headstay like some
giant samurai sword, ultimately slamming into the pulpit only to swing truculently out again as
the boat rolled in the opposite direction. It was like trying to conquer some giant, horizontal and
erratic pendulum. The connection was made and the pole raised on the opposite side while the
mainsail was brought across the centerline of the boat and secured to the “new” leeward port
side. The shooter was raised rapidly on the starboard side. The problem being that it had been
snagged somewhere during all the chaos of the jibbing maneuver. I remember looking up and
seeing a little rip, but the sail was pulling so hard that a “little” rip was not going to be tolerated.
And it wasn’t. Within a couple of minutes the shooter turned into a confetti exhibit, shredding
itself to pieces. It was rapidly brought down, what was left of it, and thus begot the finish picture
with the ten-foot bow wave, but without half of the sail area flying up front.
The race finish was off the Nab Tower Lighthouse, a strange looking and unorthodox
construct located to direct ships to the deep-water channel for Portsmouth and Southampton. We
rapidly closed on this giant post protruding from the sea. Fifty seven years prior some truly
creative minds had concluded that in order to stop the ravages of the German U-boats in 1918,
eight forty-foot diameter cylinders, standing ninety feet tall and mounted on eighty foot hollow
concrete bases would be built. They would be towed into position and their concrete bases
flooded. They were to be subsequently linked together, across the straits, by steel booms and
nets. Thus, the English Channel would be closed to the dreaded Bosch. A project of desperation
28
and questionable merit, it is probably fortunate that the war ended with only one tower being
constructed, that being Nab Tower. In 1920 it was towed out and replaced an aging Nab Light
Vessel by being sunk at the eastern end of the Spithead approaches. From 1920 through 1983
only three lonely lighthouse keepers were its staff. Fortunately for us in July of 1975 one, our
only outside audience, would be on duty with a camera to capture our finish sans shooter. The
photo shows the yacht rolling to weather with an eight to ten foot bow wave jumping up well
above the lifelines, a true definition of a charging steed.
***
We had done well finishing in fourteen days, twenty-two hours, forty-seven minutes and
twelve seconds. We were first to finish and first in class, however, the small yacht Robin, who
had benefited from the favorable wind side of Amy, was to correct out on handicap, thus placing
us in second on overall corrected time with first in Class I.
We finished on July the 14th, Bastille Day. Motoring into Cowes on a nice sunny day
was a reflection that our trial or performance was over and that we had passed. It was a colorful
spectacle with yachts from all over the world gathered for the Cowes Week Regatta. As we slid
into our slip Royce Neville, Dick’s father and trade representative to the UK from Tasmania met
us. More importantly, he wisely had a couple of cases of cold beer with which to celebrate our
arrival. We were very grateful of Royce’s thoughtfulness, and it was to be the only recognition
of our having completed a race across one of the world’s oceans. This finish was in contrast to
most race finishes in this regard, quiet and unrecognized, which seemed unusual as the race had
been sailed to commemorate the Bi-Centenary of the Royal Thames Yacht Club.
The peculiarities of the race did not end with the unheralded finish. The race distance for
purposes of calculating the handicap rating was calculated incorrectly on a distance of 3160
miles, however, the actual distance was 2,930.35 miles, if one averages the computations of the
British Admiralty and the US Coast Guard. This inaccuracy was brought to the attention of the
race officials both before and during the race, and was filed as an official protest the day after we
had arrived. Even though the race officials had said they would “make a decision after all the
yachts had finished”, they chose to “sweep it under the rug” by having the International Jury
declare, due to a technicality, that the official protest was not valid. Lesson learned: officials
will opt for the solution that involves the least efforts on their behalf when they can. Had this
error been corrected KIII would have won in a clean sweep. However, there was no ill will felt
against Robin. In fact, when her engine would not start after her finish and she had to sail into
the marina late at night, she side tied to Kialoa and was offered dry bunks in which to sleep by
Bruce.
It was, however, a great race and enjoyed by all. Little did we know that there would not
be another significant Transatlantic for yachts of this type until the New York Yacht Club's 1997
Transatlantic Race followed by the DaimlerChrysler North Atlantic Challenge 2003, from New
York to Germany.
On the evening in Cowes after the finish of the race a number of us, including a couple of
wives and girlfriends, were gathered below deck enjoying cocktails, and more importantly the
29
humor, wit and repartee of such gatherings. Tall tails of survival, sailing fast and jobs well done
were being woven. At some point Jim was standing at the end of the settee telling of awakening
the night before and complaining about itching under each arm. As he was telling of this,
somewhat hunched over and in a simian posture, he tucked each hand up under his armpits and
made a scratching motion, at which point I interrupted and said “don’t tell me you had an
overwhelming craving for a banana…right?” A peal of laughter interrupted the story. The
loudest participant of which was Jim.
Humor when used as a social lubricant, and particularly when it is comprised of
numerous teasing or potentially taunting comments, requires intelligence as well as sophisticated
knowledge and wisdom about the intellect, disposition and reactions of other people. To
anticipate what is and what others will find funny, one must have subtle and tacit knowledge
about other people's tastes. The crew knew one another through and through, and this crew
included more than a mainstream collection of intellect and ability for lightning fast repartee.
Humor was a mainstay, a cement, an ameliorating potion. No one was spared or allowed not to
participate, including Jim, who would revel in such times.
The repeated laughter of the evening could be heard all over the quaint and historic
marina. We were asked the next day what on earth could have been going on as people were
expecting that there must have been a full and large party underway. The setting of the historic
little town, boats with multi-colored pennants from many other nations gathered to participate in
Cowes week, and the finest of all, stately tied at the end of the dock, with the Kialoa family
laughing in grand form drew an apt conclusion to an adventure of a lifetime.
Nab Tower Finish
30
1977 TRANSPAC MEMOIR
By T. E. Lalonde
It was a gray overcast day, not atypical to a late June and early July along the coast in
Southern California. What is known locally as a coastal eddy had set up and brought in a damp
marine layer. The color of the day did not reflect the attitude of the crew. The bunks had been
assigned, the new tee shirts and hats had been distributed, personal gear put away and the
watches established.
The sea off of Point Fermin was covered with a kaleidoscopic profusion of colorful
yachts and crews, parading to and fro awaiting the westerly breeze to fill in and the start flags to
be raised. Gradually the start area cleared and the Class A division I yachts, having raised their
headsails, began to appear a little more agitated. Tension entered the swirl of emotion associated
with departing civilization for the next week or so; flags were hoisted, guns sounded and the
great jockeying for position began to take place. Moving 80,000 pounds of racing yacht around
amongst comparable masses of limited responsiveness, in conflicting directions,
is...well...always entertaining. This is especially so when the goal is for all to meet at the exact
same point of the starting line at the same moment in time, i.e. the favored-end pin simultaneous
with the report from the start gun. We did well, and the long beat to the west-end of Catalina had
begun. The crew with their bright red shirts were perched along the starboard weather rail
creating a contrast with the colors of the sea and boat, and thus stood out, as they should. Stories
were told and conversations were typical to renewing of bonds and friendships, which are both
parts of the rewards of ocean racing and a necessity to the efforts that were to lie ahead.
Racing from the mainland in California to the Hawaiian Islands is a grand and old
tradition, and it is certainly the preeminent race on the West Coast. The first Transpac race took
place in 1906. It had originally been planned to start in San Francisco, but an untimely and
famous April earthquake got in the way. It was moved to start in Los Angeles and has started
there ever since. This race would be its 29th running. In the competition for various trophies
there would be sixty-seven yachts of varying size and shape charging across 2225 nautical miles
of ocean from Point Fermin buoy to Diamond Head Light, near Honolulu. This might take nine
to twelve days depending upon conditions and the speed of the yachts. In general, size
determines speed, and to make for competition amongst all the yachts a complicated handicap
rating system had been devised and refined over decades of racing. The result is that there would
be thirty-five foot to seventy-nine foot yachts divided into Division I with Classes A through D
and Division II with Classes A through C.
After our respectable start we were first around the west-end of Catalina. Gradually the
mindset associated with living in a dense urban environment rolled off the horizon along with the
landmass that supports so many million beings. Sailing is about many things. It is about giving
one’s mind a recharge by visiting the most remote of the Earth’s areas, the distant sea. It is not,
per se, about doing nothing as on an inactive respite. In contrast it does allow plenty of time
away from the ordinary distractions to one’s contemplation of life and its complexities.
By degrees, and as expected, the wind began to “clock” or rotate and we were able to free
up the sails. Ultimately we went to our jib topsails. This is fun. The power of a strong reach can
be sensed in several ways, just letting the 3/8” plow-steel cable ease out on the headsail drum lets
anyone within earshot know “she’s charging”, and that this will not be a cocktail cruise. The
sound from the stainless steel portion of the drum as it objects to the sawing friction of the cable
is somewhere between a moaning resonance and a screeching cry. A deep vibration is felt and
heard in the farthest reaches of the boat. For the uninitiated this wake up call is enough to let
them know that the tremendous forces involved in a Maxi Racer, if unleashed unexpectedly, by a
breakage for example, can cause the greatest of harm. Because Kialoa was rigged as a mighty
ketch, we were in our medium with an advantage as we were able to offer a wider and greater
area of sails to the wind as well as more stability through the sea. After a couple days of this
power reaching we established a respectable lead in the fleet, but we were aware that our
competition was capable of catching us. The breeze continued to freshen, while the sea
displayed more of the set swell of the open ocean and the overcast dissipated. We were soon on
a broad headsail reach with straining jib top and staysails, both fore and mizzen. The motion of
the boat in these conditions is very rhythmical. Movement both below and above deck can be
somewhat anticipated, versus the sudden jolts of a hard weather leg.
***
Kialoa was perfection in her conception, design and execution of the construction, with
well-coordinated efforts and input from the entire spectrum of yacht racing, all opinions were
listened to and given consideration…very typical of Jim Kilroy’s experienced methodology. She
campaigned at what could have been the zenith of ocean racing, where races would start in one
location and culminate at some distant place, and where the rules dictated welcome requirements
to include interiors and some creature comforts. As such, getting off watch in the late afternoon
on such a blustery reach, one could maneuver below using the well positioned overhead hand
rail, walking as though in a mystery house at an angle to the horizon. Then, slipping into a
comfortable settee along the fine-wood, gimbaled table, join the crew and have an excellent
cooked meal with perhaps a glass of wine in the soft glow of the cabin lights. And the
camaraderie, oh yes the camaraderie…the random nature of life and it’s peregrinations, the oneof-a-kind crossing of paths almost seemed to defy probability when it came to the assemblage of
Kialoa’s crew. They came from various boats and various experiences and backgrounds as well
as parts of the world. The unique quality of some of the characters is what is amazing, all well
defined and confident in their personage. The sobriquets are telltale: Fang, Pig, Tink, Goose,
Bolt to name but a few. Names that are not easy to wear by the feint of heart. Intelligent and
quick witted all, the conversations and humor/repartee was something to behold and enjoy, all
expressed and enhanced by the colors of accents and colloquialisms. The humor might have
been self-deprecating or at someone’s expense, no matter, as all were confident and balanced in
their beings enough to absorb any jests. This rarefied world would not accept barren pretense,
nor personality quirks. Without the psychological testing of the navy’s submarine program this
well vetted group of individuals had been culled not only from the world at large, but more
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importantly from the sailing fraternity. At the time this crew was the envy of the sailing world,
but was not one to flaunt that fact. The crew was perhaps most reflective of Jim’s approach to
business, i.e. attempt to select the best, cultivate their strengths, create a culture of contributions
from all by listening and reward them well. The later point in the case of sailing was winning.
***
In the summer months the Pacific between the mainland and Hawaii, is dominated by a
large high-pressure system. This bulge in the atmosphere causes the air to descend back to earth,
generally outward and away from the center …the winds generated by this falling air mass are
light and variable. A good sailing strategy is to skirt this high-pressure center until reaching the
stronger and more consistent north east trade winds. Get too close to the high and you run out of
wind, get too far away and you are sailing a much greater distance to the finish. It is a balancing
act of keeping good boat speed against the shortest course that would take you well into the high.
The sea had moderated and the breeze was settling in to the fifteen to eighteen knot
range. We were running well under spinnakers. One morning Drifter appeared on the horizon as
the sun came up. By late afternoon we could not see her on the opposite horizon. Due to the
curvature of the earth, which is more apparent at sea, this represented a gain of, perhaps, twenty
miles. However, this was the first time we had ever felt to be on a spectator boat, disheartening
perhaps, but to be expected. In the quest to ever manipulate the rules two yachts had been
designed exclusively to compete in the Transpac and other similar down-wind West Coast races.
These were very light and specifically designed to surf amazingly well under a smaller spread of
sail on these long Pacific swells. First Merlin had been designed as a “cheater”, surfing boat
aimed at winning the Transpac, which is predominately a down wind race with significant
surfing opportunities. She was not a displacement hull like Kialoa III, which drove through the
water. The second yacht, Drifter, was designed and built to copy and compete with Merlin in
conditions favoring both of them. In this race Merlin was to beat Windward Passage’s old
record by 22 hours, Drifter finished behind Merlin by 15 minutes. These were a new generation
of boats, built around a single purpose, the downwind. They were called sleds. As with all
things in life there are tradeoffs. We had the advantage going to weather and on the power
reaching, but now it was their medium. One learns through these experiences that no other has
all the advantages and that it is best to play to your own strengths.
Once again we were alone on this great emptiness, astride a grand contrivance catapulted
along by nature’s forces and managed by the will and energy of a most cohesive crew.
Gradually we entered the domain of the stronger Trade winds and started into the heavier
surfing. This is accompanied by great and serious strains on the yacht, with a motion that is not
as predictably rhythmical as we had been experiencing. It was surrounded by this great
loneliness, pulled by the oscillating forces of the main spinnaker, slatsail, mainsail, shooter,
mizzen and mizzen spinnaker staysail, a colorful display of several thousand square feet of sail
area, that we spotted Windward Passage. The differences in the design of the yachts in this era
was perhaps more divergent than at other times. Kialoa was a more traditional aluminum
displacement hull driven by a broad spread of canvas distributed more evenly fore and aft by her
sizable main and mizzen masts. In contrast, Windward Passage had a larger spinnaker and
smaller mizzen. But more importantly her wooden hull was more like a giant dinghy with a
3
broad beam carried aft to her transom. She loved to surf. Once we got into the down wind
running typical to the trade winds, Windward Passage caught up with us and we vied for the lead
over several days in sight of one another. This became a grand chess game where the pawns
were the scattered squalls amassed in vertical splendor. This game was spread out on a large
liquid chessboard; except we, not being the pawns, were but little creatures forced to play out at
their feet. The object of this sport was to chase these waltzing squalls and position the yacht for
the favorable winds that inhabit certain portions of the surface under them. Depending upon how
you played, you would receive a “lift” or “header”, wind shifts pointing the boat up into the wind
or down which is combined with an increase or decrease in wind speed. These jousts in and
around these pylons of nature were accomplished with a sequence of jibes, bringing the boat's
stern through the wind, and through sail changes. This theater is made more important by the fact
that Windward Passage was the perpetual and venerate competition. The crews well knew each
other and were of a similar ilk, not to mention friends.
Because of these large splendors parading across our paths, the wind had become shifty;
as mentioned, the wind varies in intensity and direction depending upon your position relative to
the squalls. The winds generally die behind the squall. After several days of weaving in and
around under this great array, jockeying with Windward Passage, she disappeared into the
murkiness that descends from the billowing mass above. She went around the North side of a
particular cell. We sat in the lesser wind of the south side and never saw her again until tying up
next to her at the dock with their arrival party underway.
***
Yacht racing on the grand scale of Maxi racers is inherently expensive. If not the most
expensive sport, it is in the top three. In the era of Kialoa it was particularly expensive, because
there were no forms of advertising endorsements available nor allowed, and there certainly was
no prize money. One could argue that the plastered, billboard-advertising look of some of the
racing yachts today detracts from their aesthetics. Additionally, in the realm of sports this had
been generally an unheralded undertaking. Why then would someone commit so much of their
resources and energy to experience, at great expense, risks and discomfort? For most it includes
all the adventure and rewards of witnessing nature in her un-filtered greatness, the competition,
the camaraderie of a team sport; these motivations are typical to all involved in sailing. But for
others, and including me and in my opinion Jim Kilroy, it was regeneration and an intentional
reality check or adjustment to one’s perspective, both necessary to keep a competitive edge in
those other aspects of life. In the enforced isolation of ocean racing, undisturbed by intrusions,
one becomes so immersed in a completely different endeavor from the day to day life that select,
over-worked areas of the brain get to regenerate or catch their breath. Although the same
principals of achievement may apply, the fact that you are forced to exercise them in a
completely different, intense and perhaps purer medium allows for the honing of technique and
appreciation of the fine points of the mechanics involved in the pursuit of success.
Those successful enough to underwrite these great racing yachts have generally evolved
by self-efforts to positions of influence and power. A driving and necessary force is always a
significant conception of self, an ego. It is easy from the perspective of a constant series of
successes in life to begin to believe that one’s own doing has solely brought about every
4
accomplishment. This “rich-pocket arrogance” will often cause one to attempt to duplicate his
successes in a completely different medium and expect similar and equal results. This tendency
can have significant and negative consequences. Yacht racing can cure this inclination and/or
bring a needed focus on the numerous elements necessary for success. It is a noble adjuster, the
“reality check”. It can be a humbling and frustrating experience. I have seen this frustration in
others as well as experienced it myself. It reminds one of man’s scale, and/or his insignificance
in the grand picture. To be successful in life one must learn to control as many of the variables
as possible in any situation, stacking them in one’s own favor, minimizing the risks, adjusting
where finite resources shall be applied. In the business world for example, the successful learn
to “get their hands around” most or all of the variables of an undertaking, apply talent and efforts
accordingly, and make decisions based upon detailed analysis and some “gut reaction”. The
positive results or success can generally be estimated within small margins. Unknowns can all
but be eliminated or at least minimized. Ah…but in yacht racing, you can employ, buy or attract
the best architects, constructors, tacticians, crew, sails and in general expertise, but you cannot
control the infinite number of variables that nature or luck can throw your way. An unexpected
wind-shift, squall, current or that one unknown condition will put you back, appropriately, into
the herd of humanity. This is not to say the rules or tricks of life’s other successes do not apply
to yacht racing. They do. Assembling a talented team, respecting all opinions, open discussions
of tactics and detailed analysis of the information available, weighing results, and finally making
a decision, apply. The operative phrase here being “making a decision”. Yacht racing, in
particular, teaches that you have to make a decision and take chances, and once a decision is
made, it is to be stuck with, as equivocation, the fault of so many lives, will not be tolerated.
Along with recognizing that you never have all the answers, this experience also taught me, and
others, to remain optimistic and never let up on the hard work necessary to win. If you are
thrown a disfavorable wind shift, do not reduce your enthusiasm or efforts for the next shift may
be to your favor, and the key is to be well positioned to take advantage of it. Further, in the great
picture of life, success is comprised of numerous facets, not the least of which is luck, which is
probably somewhat evenly distributed. One must strive to recognize luck for what it is, just as
recognizing opportunities, often a form of luck, and take advantage of them or it. Lastly, it
teaches that with hard work, a realistic, analytical and rational approach you are able to compete
at any level, and as such should set goals and aspirations that are always well ahead of any
current position. Life can be much larger and rewarding if you strive to make it so.
***
It was during the heavier downwind surfing conditions that I remember coming up on
deck in the middle of the night hearing the roar of the boat going fast under two spinnakers,
shooter, main and mizzen. I was just getting my bearings in the blackness when Jim said, “here
take this”…puffy eyed and still thinking of the fantasies of sleep, I was on the helm…blinking.
Next thing I knew we were on a sizable wave a little crooked. She rolled with a tremendous
force and the main boom began to drag in the water, the roar deafening. I had to lay hard into
the helm, and wide eyes abounded. She came back up on her feet but not before, with a burst,
the boom vang, a block and tackle device that holds the boom down, broke. Even the reefed
mizzen boom had drug in the water. I was wide-awake then and I did get a heap of sarcastic
abuse for having broken the boom vang. Lesson; make sure you are awake before you wander
near the helm. Though surfing in the blackness of night is exhilarating, it can be risky with the
5
boat rolling from side to side just waiting for you to not pay complete attention. One listens over
his shoulder to try and determine the size and attitude of the next wave, which will pick the stern
up and initially try to yaw the boat to weather. You countervail with helm down to leeward but
not too much as she will want to enter the danger zone of the wind getting behind the
mainsail…the “dreaded broach”, and at night this would be disastrous. But kept in the middle of
these tendencies and nudged just so, she would grab a hold and take off on the wave with
noticeable acceleration. This act was accompanied with a tumultuous roar, the white water
marching back from the bow finally reaching the area of the main shrouds, and clearly visible in
the dark above deck level. It is a sign of Kialoa’s strength and operations that we only broke a
boom vang. The same cannot be said of others in the fleet. Whilst we were charging along with
relatively insignificant failures, there were squalls running elsewhere through the fleet and five
boats were ultimately dismasted, many sails blown out along with much other damage.
Having stood the late watch at night, breakfast and the bunk were welcome occurrences.
As typical with the two watches on Kialoa we had divided the 24 hours into what’s known as a
Swedish system. This called for three four-hour watches from 6 PM to 6 AM that would
alternate so as during one night your watch would stand two four-hour watches and the next
night one four-hour watch. The day was split into two 6-hour watches. Once we had gotten into
the area of strong breeze and heavy surfing under a 2.2 ounce full main spinnaker and
comparable mizzen spinnaker, we were concerned about chafe on the spinnaker halyards. In the
rolling of the seas and the constant swaying of the boat, the spinnaker would oscillate from side
to side, which caused the head (top) to move back and forth. This constant motion, and the
pulsing of the spinnaker with the gusty nature of the breeze, caused the halyard to work both
laterally and in and out. By necessity of design the top block turns the halyard 90 degrees. It is
at this point of greatest load that the halyard cable has to suffer constant chaffing friction against
the block sheave. It is the habit of an experienced crew to adjust this halyard in or out a little bit
to allow such wear to be spread over a larger area. This was done periodically; however,
ultimately the entire end of the halyard becomes stressed and frayed. The consequence: a parting
of the cable. Now a 5/16 inch plow steel cable does not “go into the night” peacefully. The
rated strength is about ten thousand pounds. When it parts it makes a hell of a noise which
resonates down the aluminum mast into the aluminum hull like the sound of a small car having
been dropped on deck. This has a lot in common with the base instrument in a marimba steel
drum band only much larger. The entire boat lets you know something is dreadfully wrong.
It was a nice sunny day with gusty breeze. I was down below in the off watch in my
bunk peacefully asleep when what I thought was a cannon went off. It is amazing what
adrenaline can do to an otherwise sleeping person. I was on deck in my underwear, through the
open sail hatch before the shoot was halfway down! I hollered for Jim, who was on the helm, to
head up so as not to run over the shoot which was billowing out in front of the boat. Putting the
spinnaker under the boat would have caused major problems. I also yelled to let the after guy
forward to facilitate the shoot coming down on the lee side of the boat. By the time the shoot
was hitting the water it drove back against the starboard/lee rail to be gathered by both the on and
the entire off watch. At this point we were two to three minutes into this event. Turning back
forward, packed in stops, a new spinnaker was coming on deck, unsolicited. The alternate
halyard was lead around, the spinnaker pole was dropped and the after guy hooked to the new
shoot, the sheet was taken off the old and now wet one and brought forward as the new one was
6
being raised. The total time was probably in the four to five minute range, a new spinnaker was
flying and the new halyard was being uncoiled on deck ready for someone to go aloft and re-lead
it.
No one had been called. Everyone knew precisely what to do. This was Kialoa’s way, a
team that knew each other instinctively. There was no need for protocol, instructions or
oversight, just get the job done with an economy of words and confusion. Big-boat, ocean racing
by its nature requires a selective sieve through which the participants must have passed. To have
entered this realm is to have left the greatest majority of the populace behind. One is required to
have a unique blend of strengths, traits and abilities. It is not enough to be just a sailor, but you
are often required to act like a high-wire exhibitionist, one who is not concerned with performing
on a moving, violent platform without a net. In addition, one must have the skills of a heavy
equipment operator, able to recognize the difference in scale of the tremendous loads associated
with a Maxi boat versus a dingy, yet also possessing the nuance of a dingy racer. Although the
crew had general positions and roles to play, all could fill any of the required positions in an all
hands situation like this. The crew had acted as one and with tremendous alacrity, they had done
their jobs. This was an example of the discipline, coordination and confidence that had been
developed through thousands of miles of racing together, and learning from one another as we
never stop learning, or at least should not allow ourselves to stop.
These same forces that result from pulling an eighty-thousand pound yacht through the
water by a large spinnaker, connected in only three corners by cables, were to cause another gear
failure. The halyard that holds the top of the spinnaker is required to make two ninety-degree
turns, around sheaves in its course from the deck level to the top of the mast. As mentioned, this
puts great pressure on the halyard and gear. From the deck winch to the mast there is a
threatening-looking sheave that takes this tremendous load. At one point the tang securing the
sheave to the deck let go on the starboard halyard, with of course, a bang. This required some
creative engineering to pull the halyard back to the mast in a manner that it could still be used
and would not destroy itself. The crew also did this in a coordinated, efficient manner.
Having such strongly defined and fascinatingly unique characters act in such singular
manners is a tribute to the organization and management of Kialoa. Some how when I dissect
the crew as a unit and look at the individuals who made it up, I am amazed at the dissimilarity of
the parts…but then how could they be so unique were it not so. Perhaps one of the most
unparalleled members in these regards was Dave Kilponen, Fang. Fang, a name that Dave had
the market cornered on long before other more professional comedians had taken to using it.
This appellation was earned at an early age by taking a tumble down a flight of stairs, which
temporarily left his front tooth at an angle of ninety degrees to the rest. He was a bespectacled,
mustachioed often seemingly disheveled looking individual who had his life prioritized. First
there was humor, then everything else. Visually he could be described as jolly, which was no
doubt the inner man showing through. He enjoyed life and it enjoyed him, and as such he was
therefore very likable. Although he had tried other forms of existence he always came back to
the sea, at which he was very good. Men who are drawn to the sea, having once committed
themselves to its hazards and adventures are compelled to go back again and again. Fang
ultimately went on to becoming a much-respected international judge of yacht races and
consultant to various America’s Cup racing teams.
7
Fang was a navigator and “popped” up on deck on a sunny afternoon and said “Right”!
Now “Right” in Australian is a catch all phrase meaning such things as “here goes”, “we’re
going to do such and such”, “just what I expected” or “now listen” etc. In this instance it was the
“now listen” variant. There was a long pause after which he said “this is it, we’re going straight
to the Molokai Channel…this will be the last jibe!” Well this in its self out of context would not
seem that unusual; however, there was one troubling factor. We were well over 600 miles out
from Molokai. “Right!” This was about to be the world’s longest call on a racing lay line. As
such Fang was required to suffer the abuse of numerous taunts… “ah…stay out of the rum would
you!” “Fang you’re hallucinating, get out of the sun!” However, he did it, after about two and
one half days we were at the entrance to the Molokai Channel and on the same board, never
having jibed again since Fang’s statement. It should be pointed out that the call on this jibe was
the culmination of a great debate by several experienced tacticians and navigators on board. This
was typical to the business approach to decisions on board Kialoa. One learns that no one has
the market cornered on knowledge, ability or lack thereof. And from these types of interactions
and similar experiences we all learned to always deal from a level perspective in personal
interactions, never up nor down to anyone and contribute were we could.
Now in sailor’s lore the Molokai Channel ranks high on the list of daunting places along
with the likes of Bass Straight, which separates mainland Australia from Tasmania. The winds
and seas are forced to go through a venturi and are thus required to demonstrate Bernoulli’s
Principle, “when an incompressible fluid moves into a region having a different and reduced
cross-sectional area it undergoes a change in speed effect which accelerates and magnifies its
nature.” Said another way; the Molokai Channel is not meant for Sunday sailors, especially
when carrying a full press of canvas. There is a deservedly famous picture of the 1969
dismasting of the 78-foot yacht Mir in Molokai. In this photograph she is straining beyond
belief, having been pushed sideways on her beam ends by the mighty seas, all sails pulling hard
and the spinnaker pole determined to act like an arrow…through the mast...which it did! This
picture and concept was flickering in each of the crew’s minds that bright sunny day that we
charge into the Channel with “a bone fully in her teeth”. There was a small repeater gauge
amidships for the ship’s log reading in knots. At times the crew resembled a group of stock
brokers looking “at the board” as their favorite stock left the charts. The log would peg at
something just over twenty knots, and it was pegging in the large rushing swells.
The spinnaker, when running relatively square to the wind, has a tendency to want to
drive the ship erratically, wanting to turn and pull to the side. The shooter, pulling from the
opposite side of the yacht, counteracts these bad characteristics of the spinnaker. When jibbing it
is necessary to drop the shooter, ergo, the spinnaker can carry on its wayward ways. It was
necessary to jibe. At this point Bruce was on the helm, the shooter was dropped, and the boat got
erratic. Bruce was not one to easily get excited, but when approaching such a point his voice had
a tendency to get shrill, and this it did… “get the shooter back up…get the shooter back up”, he
yelled as he tried to keep control of the rolling yacht. None of us wanted to become the next Mir
picture. We were able to get the shooter back up and the yacht regained a modicum of control.
8
Exiting he Molokai Channel
After we were about three-quarters the way through the channel with Jim on the helm, we
caught the longest surfing ride imaginable. The entire crew was hooting and hollering. The bow
wave was back at the main shrouds and fully five feet above deck level. There was a kind of
eerie, harmonic singing coming from the components of the hull and rudder, which seemed a
dissonant mix with the more violent and tumultuous roar of the water. We were carried along in
the outstretched hands of this mighty wave for a most unbelievable length of time, all the while
the log was pegged at 20 plus knots. From this grand swell the run to the finish line at Diamond
Head was truly anti-climatic, where one had time to look at the scattered signs of civilization
along the shore. Finally, with a bright Hawaiian day we paraded into the Ala Wai Yacht harbor
to the expectant wives, girlfriends and leis, so to say.
***
A kind of intimacy develops based upon a long series of shared experiences, adventures,
and dangers. There is plenty enough time in the confines of a yacht to decipher the true mettle of
a man. And it can be said that the mettle of each of the Kialoa crew was of a high standard and
each shared a mutual acceptance and respect of one another as such. All were brought together
seeking adventure on the sea, and perhaps this is the fundamental building block that was
common in the makeup of their various truly unique personalities. There was a degree of
nomadism that was part of their nature requiring its satisfaction to become whole. Also, the
desire to act together is driven by means of some factor of selectivity, this need to perform as a
team is probably more primal or inherent in mankind’s fundamental structure. It dates back, no
doubt, to some prehistoric requirements of troglodytes having to work together to bring down
some massive mastodon for dinner. Yacht racing and the sea provides satisfaction to these
needs.
The components of these various collected personalities can convert the same energy and
teamwork required in dangerous and violent situations to become rather ribald ashore, especially
after a long and hard race culminating in some distant land. This phenomenon in those past days
9
of the great sailing ships was known as “Jack Ashore”, it is a form of great release necessary in
the transition of leaving the solitude of the sea and rejoining society. This activity provided
some bawdy events and memories, all on the proper side of moral correctness, sometimes
marginally however.
We had finished the race and done very well. Our actual time was about nine days, two
and one half-hours. Kialoa’s corrected time was about eight days eleven and one half hours,
approximately seven hours off the prior record and six hours lower than any other corrected time.
Our corrected time put us first in Class A division 1, and first overall. And we were fifth to
finish behind archrival Windward Passage and the two new sleds, Merlin and Drifter with an
earlier New Zealand built sled, Ragtime, squeezing in for third to finish. This Transpac win
added to an already noteworthy record for Kialoa in 1977, e.g. first to finish in the Saint
Petersburg to Fort Lauderdale (including a new elapsed time record, and first overall), wins in
the Ocean Triangle, Miami-Nassau, Nassau Cup races, a first overall Miami to Montego Bay
Race. These wins along with the Transpac victory were to be followed by a first in the World
famous Sydney to Hobart race, where Kialoa held a long-standing record, all of which rounded
out a spectacular year for 1977. In fact the record of wins from 1975 through 1977 allowed
Kialoa to win the coveted World Ocean Racing Championship, which is determined by the bestcombined record over a predetermined group of races. Kialoa’s worst placing in this series was
second, arguably wining her the reputation as being the best racing yacht ever.
It had been a good race and now it was time for rejoining society via the crew party,
which was held at the pool area of a Tahitian looking hotel, a festive setting. There were tents,
tables and chairs…food and drink a' plenty. The event was combined with a birthday party,
which required the compulsory cake and icing. Laughs, giggles, dancing and singing were in
abundance. I remember getting a face full of birthday cake, ostensibly because it was my
birthday, but I was probably not the only one to receive this treatment. And, at some point a
number of attendees ended in the pool, fully clothed. It was a grand affair and the residue of
cake, glasses, plates, paper and other hardware that remained reflected the good time that had
been had by all and a befitting finale to a truly memorable race.
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