No one on an ocean-racing crew has more stress than the people putting sails up and taking sails down on the front end. Or more fun. Or more injuries.
They’re the cowboys and cowgirls of the Rolex Sydney Hobart Yacht Race. Playing hurt is expected.
Cowgirls are more likely found on a 40-foot boat than a 100 footer, where the ideal cowboy has the build of an N.F.L. lineman and the moves of a running back. When seas are running big and the boat is pitching high, diving low, forging into waves ahead, it’s a bronc-buster’s game on any boat. And don’t get bucked off. There’s no corral.
“My hardest race to Hobart?” Davin Conigrave said. “The 2017 race was exhausting — I spent so much time underwater.”
Surfers know white-water wipeouts. On the point of Matt Allen’s Ichi Ban that year, well at sea on day two, every wave was a wipeout.
“You try not to think about where you are in the world, your folks at home,” Conigrave, a seasoned pro, said. Two spinnakers, the boat’s largest sails, blew out, one after the other. Each time, the flying rags and control lines had to be hauled in against wind and water battling back.
“We were running hard before the wind, max speed,” Conigrave said. “I would try to go to the bow and I’d get washed back. When we finally got there, it took two of us so one could work with both hands while the other held him on board.”
Both men were also tethered, but if you lose your hold, you could be pitched over, still tethered, to drag alongside at speeds that would pull a water skier.
For this year’s race, Conigrave will sail on Whisper, a 62-foot Judel-Vrolijk, alongside the fellow veteran Justin Clougher.
“The very worst emergencies on the front end demand crawling out to the end of the ‘prod’ beyond the deck,” Clougher said. “That’s dangerous; there’s no other word for it.”
With a broken sail managed, it’s time to set the next one, pronto.
Silas Nolan is another professional with a foredeck specialty and a résumé that covers racing worldwide. He worked his way up from small boats to the glory wagons, then sailed enough Hobart races to “almost get sick of it” and turn his sights elsewhere.
Eventually, as a native Aussie, Nolan was drawn back “because Sydney Hobart is unique,” he said.
“It’s only 600 miles, but you’re likely to pass through three weather systems. Elsewhere, you could sail that far in a single system. That is why Hobart is the toughest race.”
If a weather shift delivers a buster in the face, that’s what you came for. Nolan intends to sail this year on Alive, a Reichel Pugh 66.
Stephanie Lyons is no sailing pro, but as a business-risk manager, she might have a leg up. Lyons, a native of Ireland, was carrying a fixation on the sea when she came backpacking through Sydney and never left.
“The Cruising Yacht Club of Australia not only sponsors the Sydney Hobart, they run casual races, too,” she said. “You can walk down on a Wednesday, put your name on the board and get an invitation to go sailing.” That opportunity jump-started Lyons 15 years ago.
As part of an amateur crew, Lyons will have a full menu of duties aboard Richard Williams’s 39-foot Calibre 12, a Cookson 12, but in her fifth Hobart she has a special calling for the bow.
“This size boat is my sweet spot,” she said. “I can lift the sails myself or with another one or two people.” It’s not a small boat, however, and Lyons will be facing the same ocean and her own challenges. As the miles wear on and fatigue sets in, it takes grit to make every change when it matters rather than give in to temptations to slack, just a bit. But winners don’t slack.
“Our skipper is very, very competitive,” she said.
There’s another thing about working the bow. You depend on the driver to smooth the ride, but your weight on the narrow end presses it down, making the boat harder to control.
You depend on teammates behind you to ease lines or take them up, but your voices may be lost in the wind. And every hookup to a new sail must be correct, and quick, however complicated, even if you’re working in a washing machine. And everyone is looking at you.
Between emergencies, you’re likely to be sitting for hours, braced on the high-side rail, contributing body weight to balance the boat, with the rail crunching into your hamstrings, bouncing and taking spray with a view of the next wave, and the next.
Bow specialists also like to confer with the cockpit crew before critical maneuvers. Nolan remembers crawling back to talk to Stu Bannatyne, one of the best drivers in the business, before they got into some hairy moves on one of the most famed of the 100 footers, the Supermaxi Comanche, in 2019.
“Then I went back and griped at Stu because, ‘You were supposed to slow the boat down from 30 knots!’ He said, ‘I did; I slowed to 28.’”
The bowman is also first in line to go up the mast for repairs and, aloft, all the motion of the boat is magnified by the height, so the bowman is whipped and pummeled.
“People have no idea what it’s like up there,” Clougher said. “Your life is in the hands of people on deck. They have to take care of you.”
Even with satellite-view weather data, it’s hard to stay ahead of the changes that are as likely to hit at night as in the day. Keeping a web of sail-control lines in order and having the next sail always ready is a skill in itself. The satisfaction comes in rising to every challenge. And it’s true, of course, that there can be an easy race to Hobart, but then there’s nothing to talk about.
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