Experiences: All Aboard A Magnificent Wild Steed

The Sydney to Hobart yacht race is one of Australia’s great tourist attractions. Yachties from all parts of the globe come to Australia to compete while thousands line Sydney Harbour and Tasmania’s Constitutional Dock to watch the yachts compete in one of the world’s most dangerous and difficult races thanks to the treacherous waters of Bass Strait.  As Pam Temby reports even if you’re not racing, braving the Strait can be a very scary but invigorating experience as she helps bring No Limit, one of the entrants in the 2024 race, back from Hobart to Sydney.

My partner is a sailor. It is his thing not mine, but when he asked me if I wanted to join a crew of five experienced sailors to deliver a 63-foot racing yacht, from Hobart to Sydney I said yes. It was my first time on an ocean delivery, and a first on that infamous stretch of water.

My knowledge of the Hobart delivery was shaped by friends’ stories who in their twenties, had flown down to help sail race boats home. Horrendous stories of crippling sea sickness and accounts of “I thought we were all going to die!” followed every trip. I have seen footage of yachts sailing down giant waves. Waves in the middle of ocean seem incongruous. Isn’t the ocean flat ish? Don’t waves only break on the shore?

Of course, living with a sailor more than half my life had kind of prepped me. I’d listened to his experiences but had never lived them. I wanted to see for myself what it was all about.  I had zero experience. All I had was blind faith that I was in safe hands….and sea sickness tablets.

The wind predictions were on our side, they said. It will be on our tail, and it will be fast they said.  There were discussions of wind directions, currents, screen images of red, green, blue and yellow with lots of arrows swirling this way and that. All new to me.

I hadn’t experienced “fast” on a big yacht. Nor had I experienced what slow or rough or on the nose or other sail terms, or knew what rope did what (sheet, halyard or whatever), what or how to eat and where to sleep or how move around a boat as she lurched and creaked and plunged, in oceans thousands of metres deep.

Below deck was rather like a sweet little cabin/caravan. Kind of the same, but different. Simple bunk beds lined the hull in the saloon, a little stove, sink and secure cupboards in the galley were packed with easy eating racing food; two-minute noodles, chocolate and muesli bars, packet instant coffee, packet instant porridge, packet dehydrated casseroles, and beef jerky for goodness sakes! Where was the gin, the cheeses and the antipasto for cocktail hour. That was what I had signed up for!  It was a relief to see the boat had an actual toilet (fancily known as “the head”) with a door. Piece of cake.

Thick coils of ropes and giant sails lying like huge whales, filled most of the fore and aft space. The navigation station to plan our route felt like hallowed ground. This is where our destiny was plotted, the best direction to find our way home. Our navigator, a cheeky rogue on deck, became bespectacled and intensely serious when he took his seat in the nav station.  Handrails were everywhere. “One hand for you and one hand for the boat, at all times”, was drummed into me.

There was a set of wet weather gear for each of us, a life jacket and lifeline to attach yourself to the boat. It was all very ordered and organised.

As we set off, the skipper briefed us about the journey. The wind was good, the trip will be fast. Wearing life jackets and lifelines was nonnegotiable. He looked at me when he explained that if a wave washes you over the side, the boat will very quickly leave you behind. I became unnerved as he went through the man overboard process- the life jacket pull chord, the importance of activating the personal beacon so the boat can find you. He then gave us all an EPIRB (an emergency position indicating radio beacon) which helps search and rescue in Canberra find you in the middle of the ocean (Canberra? What the hell?) The recommendation was to put it in the leg pocket of our wet weather gear – easier to get to, they said.

Yikes. This was very bloody serious and potentially extremely dangerous. People die sailing and the safety of the crew is paramount. Had I ever been in such a life-threatening situation? Had I ever felt so vulnerable? Had I ever had so many complicated things to remember, let alone carry out, after being tossed into the ocean, to save my life? Never.

Trepidation is what I felt. It was wild and windy from the get-go. As the waves chopped aggressively, I felt the boat’s surging power for the first time. She was like a giant wild horse, bucking and kicking. I felt incredibly small and vulnerable.

My exercise regime had prepared me somewhat for the balance, flexibility and strength I quickly found out I needed. She wanted to go hard, and I hung on for dear life.

There was no gentle cruising. Two people were up on deck at a time for the “watch”, to hold the helm tight and steer, as she accelerated, pitched, rolled and shuddered with the wind, waves and currents. Four were down below mostly sleeping or navigating our course.

Hearing the boat scream and shudder as she bashed into waves at speed, was frightening. As I rested down below, I wondered how the boat wouldn’t break in two with all that force. I quickly learnt to always hold on especially after I was thrown across the galley like a rag doll, smashing into a bunk after I let got for literally two seconds.

When on watch early in the trip, a huge wave flew menacingly over the bow, smashed into and thoroughly soaked those of us on deck. This made me anxious. It felt quite out of control. When the boat broached steeply to the left at high speed, I let out a rather pathetic squeal of fright and panic. I was very quickly moving out of my comfort zone. At night when this powerful beast climbed up frothy waves and then nosedived down them, I closed my eyes and tried to remember what the skipper had told me about activating the life jacket. The dark sea sped by at a crazy speed. If I was washed overboard, I was an absolute goner.

I was so close to being terrified, but I didn’t get there. I knew I was safe.  I was safe because my partner has been sailing most of his life. It is his place.

As I sat on watch with him, both day and night, I observed his incredible skill and concentration in keeping the boat within a safe fast speed and on course, whilst working with her to ride the waves and keep her sails full.

I knew the boat was well looked after and she was mighty strong. These guys were great sailors. They knew and respected the boat, they knew her eagerness, her limitations and power, and they knew the ocean, the wind, the currents and the waves. They were calm but quietly alert the whole trip, which indicated to me that we were ok. Frankly, I was in awe.

As I settled into the rhythm of the boat, and realised there wouldn’t be G&T’s or a cheese platter at cocktail hour, I was able to fully appreciate what I was experiencing.

The screaming and shuddering became background noise. Being thrown off balance continuously was normal. There was watch, and then off watch.  Wet weather gear went on, wet weather gear came off. Meals were very difficult to prepare with no sure footing, but we did it. My bunk became my safe comfortable cocoon.

On deck I felt it all. I felt wind and salt spray and saw the ocean change. From choppy, to a boiling cauldron followed by a scary and magnificent build to giant waves, dancing in all directions. When the wind gusted and whipped the water, the boat responded. When it calmed, she did too.

One night I watched white caps flow down each wave. They looked like ghostly women in white dresses riding the swell. They were mesmerising and I thought maybe these were the sirens I had read of. But I think they were more like maidens of Amphrite, Poseidon’s wife and goddess of the sea who protects sailors through storms and rough waters. Anyways, I chose to believe Amphrite had sent them. It was some comfort on a wild dark night.

Besides a handsome group of dolphins who followed us out of Hobart, their blowhole breaths delightfully audible, I didn’t see any marine life and only saw half a sky of stars.  I did however see loads of phosphorescence (a truly beautiful sparkling light emitted by plankton) and saw many sea birds including albatross, petrels and shearwaters. I learnt that these creatures stay out at sea for long periods and can live for over 30 years. I was anxious on a big boat with experienced sailors. These guys spend their day diving into the vast ocean for food and they sleep amongst the waves.

For most of the 50 hours we took to make the trip, we were close to 60-70 nautical miles offshore. We delivered the boat back to Sydney faster than she did the Sydney to Hobart race. I have bragging rights for sure!

We saw our first ship as we drew close to Sydney and then I saw land. This was it. I had done it.

I then fully understood and appreciated the dangerous and challenging, yet extraordinary and wondrous experience I had put my hand up for. I am proud of myself for taking on the challenge, but more importantly, I am proud of myself for having faith in others to keep me safe.

My partner and the crew are extraordinary. I am in awe of what they know, what they do, why they do it and the rewards they personally and collectively gain.

I watched them spend meditative hours on deck, helming and pondering, laughing and talking, pouring over charts and glowing screens, crawling all over the boat to tinker and fix and sleeping like babies, yet with ears open listening and feeling each movement and noise. Always on alert and all the while keeping everyone safe until the seas calm, the journey ends, the powerful beautiful boat’s sails are dropped, and she quietly floats into her stall to rest.

It was extreme, intense, frightening, challenging, surprising, magical, tiring and wet, and I am so thankful for the experience.

I was never cold, I never vomited and I was never terrified. But never again.

Well…. maybe.