All Piss and Wind (3 page)

T
HERE'S NO FEELING
quite like racing a boat you've built yourself. It's a pleasure denied to most young sailors these days because the majority of centreboard craft are now constructed of exotic materials, and by such high-tech methods that the task is usually well beyond the resources of even a gifted amateur tradesman. That is a tremendous pity. It pushes up the acquisition cost of quite modest boats; it robs the sport of a wonderful extra dimension; it reduces the general level of practical skills among sailors; and it means that fewer young people will have a reliable grasp of the fundamentals of boat design and construction because they never had the chance to experience those processes first hand.

None of these factors crossed our minds in the 1960s. Back then the sailing cycle was simple: race your boat through the summer, sell it at the end of the season, use that money to build another boat through the winter, race your new boat through the summer, sell it
at the end of the season, and so on. It was a terrific way of staying connected to the sport for 52 weeks of the year, and of preserving the freedom to try out new design ideas. But best of all, it connected the craft of boat-building directly to the sport. Few of my mates were real magicians with wood (certainly not me), but we knew enough carpentry to build a decent little skiff or dinghy together. What we learned during those winter nights and weekends has stayed with us. Today, when circumstances conspire to have me crawling around the innards of a yacht, I usually have a fair idea of how that boat was put together, where the problem might be and what needs to be done to fix it. There's no doubt I owe much of that basic knowledge to the large stretches of time we all used to spend with wood planes and chisels in our hands. The boat that still lingers strongest in my memory from that period is a 14-foot ‘Skate' classer I built in suburban Sydney with my skipper and good friend, Steve Murphy. The story of its construction mirrors a thousand similar projects that were underway that year in garages across Australia. It's worth telling here in some detail.

The Skate was a development class. Certain dimensions were limited – including overall length, maximum beam, depth and girth of the hull at specified stations – but beyond those basic parameters the designer/builder was free to create a unique shape and deck layout. Like all mad-keen centreboard sailors, Steve and I had developed firm ideas about how to squeeze the maximum speed potential from the measured limits. We also believed there was a better approach to deck layout that might make these very tippy speedsters a little easier to sail. Before selling the old boat, we ripped off its deck from the mast back, and built our quick prototype version of the full-length ‘through cockpits' that are now standard on all centreboard boats (and most modern racing yachts). Armed with the knowledge gained through that exercise, we started planning our new boat.

I'd already moved out of home and was living in a small flat on
the water at Seaforth. Our first problem was that Steve's dad couldn't let us take over his garage for three months. He ran a racquet-stringing and picture-framing business from home, and needed unimpeded access to his workbench. Fair enough. We'd have to build our own temporary boat shed, then construct the new Skate inside it. Off we drove to a local second-hand building materials yard and bought big lengths of old hardwood and a pile of rusting corrugated-iron sheets. Steve, trained as an architect, drew a quick plan of how we'd construct an extension to the back of his father's garage. We dug the postholes after work on a Friday and by late Sunday afternoon we had our shed. The whole thing was held together with four-inch bolts and roofing nails, but thirty years later it was still standing, converted into a pleasant greenhouse full of ferns and orchids.

From the outset we were determined that the boat itself would be built from the very best materials. As ever with racing boats, this involved resolving the constant trade-offs between strength, durability and weight. It's reasonable to assume that the basic ‘prestressed box' structure of a small centreboarder will give it inherent structural integrity, but poor choices of wood for the frames and stringers can easily compromise that advantage. Skates carry quite a large rig for their tiny beam and the boat is kept upright by both crew swinging out hard on hiking planks. The forces exerted on the gunnels and fin-case are considerable. We proudly assembled our selections of seasoned cedar, pacific maple and sapele-veneered marine plywood. (Sapele is a beautiful reddish-brown timber from tropical Africa.) Wherever possible we'd use the newfangled two-part glue called Araldite – much lighter than the traditional fixing method of resin-based glue seized with brass screws. Araldite wasn't readily available on a retail basis back then, but through Steve's architecture connections we were able to buy tins of it from the importers. (Later, the same glue was used to fix the tiles to the Sydney Opera House roof.)

And now the fun part. Lofting the boat around prefabricated ‘mould' frames; spending countless hours squinting down the curved lines of the keel, chines and gunnels until we were completely happy with the hull shape; cladding that skeleton with ply; turning the boat – always a wonderful moment – to remove the temporary moulds. Fitting the permanent frames, keel plank and stringers, building and fitting the fin-case, fixing the chain-plates and installing the mast step assembly. As we waited for glue to harden we'd sneak around into the garage and work on the laminated centreboard and rudder. Then things became truly exciting as the deck and cockpit went on and the whole structure was closed. In the middle of winter nights – with our makeshift boat shed open on three sides – this was often cold work. Steve's mum would always materialise around 9.30 bearing a tray of refreshments. Her menu never varied: two small glasses of Golden Circle pineapple juice and bowl of Savoury Shape biscuits. We'd both have killed for a big steaming mug of coffee with a dash of brandy, but you just can't ask mums for stuff like that.

A new suit of Dacron sails was ordered from Jack Herrick's loft in Balmain and when they arrived we set about shaping a set of full-length cane battens for the main. Unseasoned cane can be a difficult material to work, and we needed to stop and re-sharpen the blade of the Stanley plane after only 20 minutes' work. The aluminium mast and boom came from the old Miller & Whitworth chandlery at Cremorne. It was a long drive from Concord West to that shop, but they'd lend us a swaging tool free of charge so we could make up the rigging ourselves. Finally, the climax. After four coats of gleaming Estapol gloss varnish, the magical moment when we screwed down all the deck fittings and could rig up the boat for the first time. She's a little beauty!

One task remained: what to name our magnificent new racer? The previous boat was called
Etaks
(‘Skate' spelled backwards – such wit!), but we'd grown bored with explaining this lame joke at
regattas so
Etaks II
was definitely out. During the long hours of joinery and sanding, we'd amused ourselves listening to old episodes of the
Goon Show
and an obscure LP record I'd found of Spike Milligan reading his own and other people's nonsense verse. One of our favourites from that selection was a hilariously pointless farmyard allegory by John Antrobus in which nothing rhymed or made much sense. One of the key characters in that story was a dog named Big Time Fred. Now, it so happened that the then President of the Australian Skate Association was a certain Fred Walpole of the Gosford Sailing Club. Fred wasn't a bad bloke, but he took himself rather seriously and used to strut about at the National Championships like some tin-pot Napoleon. The coincidence was just too good to pass up.
Big Time Fred
it was, then, and I sealed our cheeky choice of name in large, stick-on lettering around the transom.

As luck would have it, the opening interclub regatta of the new season was hosted by the Gosford club. Before the first race, while we all rigged up on their spacious lawn beside Brisbane Water, the aforementioned Fred moved imperiously between competitors, checking out the latest designs for possible infringements of the class rules. Inevitably, the president paused to admire our elegant new boat. He squatted at the bow to take a closer look at the lines.

‘Sure she measures in, boys?'

‘Oh yes, Mr Walpole. No problems. Got the certificate of registration last week – and she's right on minimum weight.'

Then, ever so slowly, he walked to the stern and read the name. Here it comes, Steve …

‘You boys wouldn't be having a lend of me, would you?'

‘Oh, no, Mr Walpole, not at all! It's a very famous seafaring character from European literature – translated from the Bulgarian, I think – actually spelt with a “Ph”, not an “F”.'

The president marched off to terrorise some other poor crew. Did we get away with it? Who knows.

For the past few years I've served on the Race Committee of the Lord Howe Island Yacht Race, an event that's organised by the same Gosford Sailing Club. As I climb their stairs each month to attend committee meetings, I have to pass beneath a large honour board on which ‘F. Walpole' is inscribed many times. I never fail to seek out old Fred's name and have a quiet chuckle. Surely he's forgiven us by now.

O
NE OF THE MOST
persistent and defamatory myths about yachting is that it's an elite sport. Not elite in its primary meaning of ‘the best', but elite as in ‘a select group or class'. No journalist seems able to resist prefacing the word ‘yachtsman' with ‘millionaire'. Any general description of a substantial keelboat must include gratuitous references to toffs swilling gin on the fantail, exclusive membership of ‘royal' yacht clubs, mentions of faintly connected rich celebrities and endless gawking paragraphs about the ‘money is no object' excesses of yacht ownership.

Here's the truth of it: boats can certainly cost a lot of money, but you usually get the sailors
gratis
. That's the way the sport works, at least in the mainstream. There's a bloke up the back who owns the yacht, pays the bills and must certainly have a healthy bank account (or line of credit) to keep campaigning his expensive toy. In return for this largesse he gets to steer the boat for some of the time. But the other eight or nine people on board – the crew who actually sail
the yacht and derive just as much enjoyment from the exercise as the owner – will usually come from far more modest backgrounds. They're tradesmen, teachers, bank clerks, bus drivers, public servants and even the odd journalist. If you were to average the total annual earnings of a standard Australian offshore crew you'd arrive at a figure much closer to the basic wage than six figures. Genuine silvertails are a tiny minority. The stream of ribald sarcasm and cheek that traditionally flows from the foredeck towards the afterguard is a distinguishing feature of local yachting – proof of its stubbornly egalitarian foundations.

But the same does not hold true for the UK, continental Europe and the US, and it never has. There, the tradition has been that while the wealthy owners of large racing yachts would not dream of competing for anything other than the honour, they are quite happy to pay professional crews to do the sailing for them. The great J-boats that battled for the America's Cup between the Wars may have occasionally had a wing-collared Vanderbilt or Lipton on board, but the sheets were always pulled by an anonymous ship's company of tough men who picked up their paychecks at the end of the day's sailing. In Australia, where the gap between social classes has never been so extreme, yachting managed to preserve an essentially Corinthian ethic. A successful surgeon might be able to comfortably afford running a stout little 35-footer, but he'd draw his crew from ordinary blokes who'd learned their sailing in the robust, low-cost school of open skiffs. Today there are plenty of skilled, highly trained people who earn their livelihoods from sailing and boat-related business activity, but the majority of our crews are still genuine amateurs who sail for love, not money.

And despite the millions of dollars it now costs owners to compete at the highest levels of yachting, not one local event – at least to my knowledge – offers prize money. A recent two-day regatta on Sydney Harbour sponsored by a German automotive manufacturer provided one of its new saloons to the overall winner,
an unseemly development many thoughtful sailors deplored. It is the doggedly amateur ethos of the sport that helps give our antipodean brand of sailing, especially offshore racing, so much of its special larrikin flavour. We don't need the lure of prize money to get out on the water and compete. The sailing itself, and the companionship it offers, are sufficient pleasure and reward. (And in any case, how do you divide one car between ten crewmembers?)

Nevertheless, it would be foolish to deny that campaigning a yacht in the Grand Prix fleets is now beyond the financial reach of all but the seriously rich. It's no longer a cheap sport for owners, even of mid-range boats. So, what are the real dollars involved, and where is this flood of new money into yachting likely to lead us?

Design and construction of a state-of-the-art hull will cost no less than $450,000. Fitting out with winches, steering gear, deck hardware, ropes and electronic instruments takes care of another $150,000 at least. Decent-sized engines start at around $10,000. A competitive carbon rig – mast, shrouds, boom and two spinnaker poles (or bowsprit/prodder) – adds at least $90,000. A life raft, radios and the full complement of safety gear will total a minimum of $20,000. Lastly, a full suit of sails – main, five jibs, four spinnakers and two storm sails – should consume your last $120,000.

Now add the cost of keeping the yacht at a convenient marina, regular antifouling, race entry fees, breakages, maintenance, fuel and return delivery charges. Within twelve months your first one million dollars has swiftly disappeared down that lovely hole in the water you proudly call your boat. And that's only for a mid-range racer. Bob Oatley reportedly spent more than eight million dollars creating
Wild Oats XI
for its 2005 Sydney–Hobart win, and then didn't even have the thrill of being aboard for the victory. By the time he'd made enough money to afford his 100-foot rocket ship, he was too old to sail on it during a long race. For most of us that would be unthinkable, but it's also a distressing pointer to how the big money is now beginning to distort our sport from the top down.

At the front of the fleet – the intense maxi-yacht competition that dockside wags call ‘the arms race' – fully professional crews have become almost de rigueur. It makes perfect sense to the owners. If they've already been prepared to fork out a few lazy million to get a competitive new boat to the starting line, what's another $50,000 or so to secure the services of the best young racing sailors, a navigator and two helmsmen for a fortnight or so to maximise their chances of a win? Those who aren't being paid directly to sail on these monsters are often employees of the boat-builder, rigger and sailmakers who helped create the yacht. Their specialist contributions are provided to owners as a sophisticated form of after-sales service (and have presumably been factored into the original purchase price).

What hope do gifted amateurs have of keeping pace with these rock stars of sailing? Buckley's and none, I'm afraid. Syd Fischer of
Ragamuffin
fame, himself a notoriously hard-nosed offshore competitor for more than 30 years, makes the excellent point that professionalism is contrary to the spirit of the sport because it doesn't give these ‘ordinary' crews a chance. Worse, it must inevitably deny some beginners the opportunity to secure a regular place within the ocean-racing fraternity. It seems sadly counterproductive that one of the longer-term outcomes of this cash-charged hunger for ugly silver trophies might be a diminution of the talent pool that has served Australian yachting so well, and for so long.

In my view, any sensible response to these problems of professionalism must first resist the regulator's reflex resort to some coercive winding back of the clock. There is no practical way to keep big money out of the sport, and no sense in trying. Rather, the object of any new regime should be to moderate – to construct a fair competitive environment in which like races against like, outstanding sailing is properly rewarded, and the crude laying on of dollars does not axiomatically buy success. A start has been made in the currently fashionable Farr 40 One Design class, where the owners
must also drive their boat. The intent of that rule is admirable, but it is also relatively simple to circumvent. All an ambitious owner needs to do is pay a crack tactician to stand beside him throughout the race and call every shot. Any dummy can turn the wheel on command.

If this problem is to be resolved at all, then the solution is more likely to be found in a ‘gentlemen v. players' division of the fleets. Yachts carrying professional crews might race among themselves for a new set of prizes, while the traditional amateur crews would continue competing for the established trophies. No doubt the big-money boys would soon attract all the sponsorship and media attention, but I'll wager the Corinthian lads will have a lot more fun.

There's a final, more philosophical aspect of all this that goes to the very heart of Australian mythology. Our libraries are crammed with books that unquestioningly ascribe the forging of national identity to the dual anvils of the outback and the bush. Every school child is taught how the country was ‘opened up' through the heroics of the great explorers and the stoic rural toil of the early settlers. Our self-image of the Australian character is still defined by the sentimental verses of Banjo Paterson, a horse-loving city solicitor who glorified the bush and its people in romantic melodramas that epitomised the triumph of hardiness and willpower over a hostile environment.

But who really established Australia? Sailors. Not just the great early navigators such as Cook and Flinders, but the thousands of brave and resourceful seamen who followed in their wake. It took immeasurably more courage and skill to bring an unwieldy, over-laden brig through a treacherous and uncharted new coastal entry than to endure a drought on the Western Plains. It was sailors who risked their lives establishing the hundreds of small ports that eventually became our towns and cities. It was sailors who repeatedly braved the hazardous 20,000-mile round trips to Europe and the New World to bring out our population and establish the great
export trades of wheat and wool that underwrote Australia's wealth. It was sailors who for more than a century guaranteed commerce and communications by crewing the thousands of small packet boats and coastal traders that linked the colony, long before interstate roads and railways.

And where is the wealth of folklore and literature commemorating those true nation-builders? It hardly exists. Instead we deify homicidal bushrangers, suicidal swagmen, drunken gold-diggers and a clique of privileged squatters who sought to make quick fortunes on appropriated land they often then rendered unsuitable for cultivation or grazing.

Sailors the world over have been an anonymous, itinerant and underpaid lot. In other words, an underclass. To the land-bound mythmakers their exploits were unseen and therefore uncommemorated. They appear in our folklore only as they seemed once they came ashore – a loud, argumentative rabble, impatient to quench their thirsts and sundry other appetites after long months at sea. Yet these commonly despised men were the class to whom the nation owes its existence. For me, there's a bitter irony behind today's reflex assumption that sailing is an activity reserved for ‘the elite'.