lirakis safety harness – Page 3

MORE ABOUT THE FARRALLONS

This is a story from a race in 2009 that took place in San Francisco as well. The Coast Guard has asked for a suspension of racing in the Bay until an inquiry is completed into the “Low Speed Chase” tragedy.

Doublehanded Farallones Race

March 30, 2009 – Bay and Ocean

(Click on the photo to enlarge it.)
Heat Wave, along with 10 other racers, waited out the lull near Pt. Bonita and wound up rounding the rocks. Unfortunately, they didn’t finish the race. © 2012 Peter Lyons / www.lyonsimaging.com

For most competitors, the 30th Annual Doublehanded Farallones Race was a bust windwise. But in the drama department, it was the ‘most listened to radio program’ sinceWar of the Worlds.

The event began normally enough early Saturday morning, with 79 starters escorted out the Golden Gate by scraps of westerly and a dying ebb. But the wind pretty much shut off at Point Bonita, and the fleet parked. When folks could still see the lighthouse around noon — when they should have been rounding the island — they started dropping out and heading for home. Ultimately, only 11 boats toughed it out to finish, with Stephen Marco and Curtis Pitts leading the way across the finish line on the Newick 38 trimaran Native after 10 1/2 hours on the course. Second in — and the first monohull — was Trevor Baylis and Paul Allen on the J/100 Brilliant. They finished at 7:35, after 11 1/2 hours. For the rest of the results, log onto www.sfbama.org.

John Woodhull and Bill Wilson of the Hinckley 42 Dream Chaser, along with many other DHF drop-outs, enjoyed a lovely day on the Bay.
Photo Latitude / JR
© 2012 Latitude 38 Publishing, LLC

But if the 2009 Doublehanded Farallones Race itself will be best remembered for its almost 90% attrition, it will also be remembered for one of the most dramatic rescues in recent memory. It played out over the VHF radio on Saturday night and, for anyone listening in (ourselves included), beat out any ‘reality’ show TV could ever cook up. Read about it next.

(Because we wanted to bring you the most up-to-date information on the rescue, we’ll continue the weekend racing roundup on Wednesday’s ‘Lectronic Latitude.)

– latitude / jr

Dramatic Rescue in DHF

March 30, 2009 – Outside the Gate

Heat Wave at the start of the Doublehanded Farallones.
© 2012 Peter Lyons / www.lyonsimaging.com

When longtime Sausalito resident and friend of Latitude Dave Wilhite was diagnosed with leukemia in 2004, he moved to Bellingham, WA, to be close to his parents while he waited to die. Thankfully chemo did its job and Wilhite, 51, is in full remission. “Three months ago, my doctor told me I’d die from getting hit by a bus before I died from leukemia,” he told us last night. “I can’t wait to tell him I almost died in a yacht race.”

Wilhite says he’d been planning to do BAMA’s Doublehanded Farallones Race since January. Since he doesn’t own a boat on the Bay, he asked his old friend Peter Truce of San Rafael if he could borrow his 1994 J/80 Heat Wave. Truce readily agreed and Wilhite began preparing for the race. “This is a tough race,” he said of the nearly 60-mile course around the Farallones and back, “and I never took it lightly.” Indeed, he was meticulous in his preparation of Heat Wave and himself, putting together safety gear, working on the boat and recruiting an excellent crewmember.

Wilhite met Dave Servais, 24, while racing on Puget Sound. After Servais moved to San Diego to pursue his goal of being a professional sailor — he’s a professional rigger and has taught at J/World — the two kept in touch. When it came time to choose crew for the race, Wilhite immediately contacted Servais, who immediately said yes. “We’ve only known each other a couple of years,” he notes, “but we have really great communication and sail well together.”

As noted in the lead story, for most racers, the DHF was a total bust. But a handful held on, including Wilhite and Servais. “I’d spent too much time and money on this race just to bail out,” Wilhite said. So the pair stuck it out with a group of five or six other boats until the wind filled in. On the way back from the rocks, Wilhite reports wind in the low-20s with gusts to 30. A little higher than forecast but not dangerous.

“By a little after 8 p.m., we were beam reaching under jib and a reefed main,” Wilhite recalls. He noted the waves were 12-14 feet with a fairly long period between, a fact the Coast Guard confirmed, though they put the wind speed closer to 40 knots. “Dave (Servais) was setting us up on a wave, reaching across it, when we heard a whuump,” said Wilhite. “The helm turned to slush, the boat slowed and the wave we were shooting broke over us. Then we heard a cracking sound like a tree falling over — that was the sound of the keel ripping off.”

The boat immediately turned turtle, submerging the pair, who were tethered to the boat and wearing PFDs. Wilhite had a short tether while Servais was attached with a long tether. Once the boat settled and they popped up, Wilhite realized his tether was keeping him too close to the water so he pulled out the knife he had stowed in his pocket and cut himself free. “It was weird not to be attached to the boat,” he said. “Dave was holding onto the rudder and there was nothing else to grab, so I held onto the lifelines underwater. My hands are really cramped and cut up today.”

It was then that they noticed why they had flipped — nothing at all was left of the keel. “It ripped off at the root,” Wilhite said. “The only thing sticking out of the bottom of the boat was the bilge pump.” He says he has no idea why the keel fell off — “It’s not something you’re prepared for” — saying there was no evidence they’d hit anything. Some wonder if it’s possible they hit a large sea mammal that was moving in the same direction, but the question quickly becomes irrelevant when you’re holding on for your life in the North Pacific.

Just moments after getting their bearings, the duo realized a Moore 24 — they have no idea which one — was screaming by about 100 yards away. They yelled but went unheard. “My first thought was, ‘Oh my God, we’re going to die.'” Instead of panicking, the two experienced sailors discussed their options. They had a knife and a compact but powerful waterproof LED flashlight that Wilhite had stowed in his pocket. But without a way to communicate, things would turn ugly fast.

Wilhite knew there was a waterproof handheld VHF in a sheet bag in the submerged cockpit. “I was presented with a choice,” Wilhite said. “I remembered a line from Shawshank Redemption: ‘Get busy living or get busy dying.'” So he took a deep breath, let go of the lifeline and swam back under the boat!

Let’s pause for a moment to let that sink in. In 12- to 14-ft seas with 40-knot winds, this man with a pair of cojones the size of Texas and Alaska combined, let go of a perfectly good boat to swim back under it. If you’re looking for a modern-day hero, look no farther than Dave Wilhite.

Miraculously, the VHF didn’t fall out of the sheet bag when the boat flipped. Once Wilhite resurfaced, Servais, who’d managed to pull himself mostly out of the water, took over communications with the Coast Guard, calling a mayday around 8:23 p.m. Servais told the Coast Guard their approximate location — eight miles from the Gate — and that they were near a couple of Moore 24s. The pilot boatCalifornia was near the scene and began searching. Two USCG rescue boats and a helo were dispatched as well.

The crew of California were first to spot Heat Wave, guiding the rescue boats to them. “I was watching the helo work a grid with a spotlight coming right at us,” Wilhite recalls. “I turned around and the pilot boat was right there. I wasn’t going to wait, so I swam over to them.” It took a couple throws of the LifeSling but Wilhite was ultimately pulled aboard California “like a wet seal.” One of the Coast Guard rescue boats plucked Servais from the water a minute later. The time was 9:15 p.m.

“When I taught sailing on the Bay years ago,” Wilhite recalls, “I told my students they had 45 minutes to live if they fell overboard. I was in the water for more than an hour.” He credits wearing high-tech gear and calming himself down for saving his life. “After I realized I wasn’t going to get on top of the boat, I just hung out and conserved energy.”

Wilhite also commends the Coast Guard and crew of California for their amazing rescue efforts — finding a capsized, keel-less, dark blue, 26-ft hull in big seas eight miles offshore on an ebb tide in the pitch dark. Both Wilhite and Servais suffered hypothermia — Wilhite’s being more serious — but were treated and released from the hospital the same night. Both are back at their respective homes, no doubt telling their story to many relieved friends and family. There is no word on Heat Wave‘s whereabouts, though Wilhite reports it was insured.

“This was the second toughest contest of my life,” Wilhite says. “What’s ironic is that I wanted to do this race to prove to myself that I was alive. It would have been sad if I’d died, but I’ve lived a damn good life. It wouldn’t have been a stupid way to go.” For those of us listening to the radio on Saturday night, and for those who know Dave Wilhite and Dave Servais, we can say that we’re beyond thrilled that it turned out the way it did.

LOW SPEED CHASE

the story from sailing anarchy

Bryan Chong is a surviving crew member of the Sydney 38 Low Speed Chase which lost the lives of five people during the disastrous Full Crew Farallones Race in San Francisco. Here, he tells his story.

This letter goes out to a devastated sailing community still confused about the events surrounding the 2012 Full Crew Farallones Race. There have been inaccuracies in the media, mostly stemming from the survivors’ silence as James (“Jay”), Nick and I are still reeling from tragedy and the loss of close friends and loved ones.

I’ve chosen to use Sailing Anarchy for distributing this story because they’re of a kindred spirit and were the favorites amongst the crew of Low Speed Chase and those who already know the answer to the question, “Why would you sail in the ocean on a windy day with big swells?”

I’ve also included the Marin Independent Journal and The Tiburon Ark, as they’re the hometown newspapers in an area teeming with sailors. Many sailors relocate from around the world to Marin and the Tiburon Peninsula in order to live in proximity to the world’s best sailing. Alan Cahill moved from Cork, Ireland to race sailboats professionally in the Bay Area and the Pacific Ocean. He was the best man in our wedding and will be dearly missed while I journey this planet.

This letter does not contain every detail, but my account should provide a basic understanding of our day on the water and what happened after the first wave hit our boat. It is meant both to illustrate how things can look normal until one event changes everything and to begin to address what we can learn. It’s my hope and intention that it will spark a wider dialogue within the sailing community about safety standards and, more importantly, safety practices.

Why do we sail?

A sailor’s mind set is no different from that of any other athlete who chooses to participate in a sport that has some risk. It’s a healthy addiction. Despite the highly publicized deaths of Sonny Bono and Michael Kennedy, skiers all over the world continue to hit the slopes each winter. Sitting on the couch is safer than ripping down a slope, but the reward makes the risk worthwhile.

Next, we should all agree there are a wide variety of interests within the sailing community. Some sailors prefer racing to cruising, small boats to big, or lakes to oceans. We all make personal decisions about the risks we’re willing to take to enjoy our own brand of sailing.

Naturally, I have personal preferences. I most enjoy one-design and ocean racing. I generally consider sailing to be at its finest when you’re coming around a mark alongside 20 identical boats, or when you’re in the ocean with a kite up on a windy day, the wave action is perfect and you’re surfing downwind at speeds usually reserved for powerboats. I was a guest crew member on Low Speed Chase and I got the sense the others were seeking the same downhill ride back from the Farallones as I was. There were eight sailors on board: one professional, six experienced sailors and one sailor excited for his first ocean race.

The Start Line

It’s Saturday April 14, 2012 around 8:30 in the morning. Seven of us are aboard Low Speed Chase as we leave the San Francisco Yacht Club in Belvedere. We head across the bay and swing through the Golden Gate Yacht Club in San Francisco, where Jay hops on from the docks. We motor to the St. Francis race deck start line. Alan grabs the handheld and with the brevity learned from years of flying small planes says, in a heavy Irish accent, “Farallon Race Committee, Sydney 38 Low Speed Chase 38009. Checking in. 8 souls on board.” No response. He repeats and the voice on the receiver sounds back, “Confirmed, Low Speed Chase. Thank you.”

We raise our sails as we traverse the starting area, checking currents and winds and working out a starting strategy. Meanwhile, the crew double-checks sails, lines, safety equipment, and clothing layers. Today our starting strategy, unlike buoy racing in the bay, is simple: avoid an over-early penalty. This is especially true given the light winds and ebb tide.

A few minutes before the start, someone notices that the reef line for the main isn’t tied. Our new Quantum sails were delivered only a couple of days before. They still have that stiff new-sail feel that never lasts long enough. It’s going to be a windy day and we need to rig it before we get out in the ocean. I have a harness in my sail bag but Nick is already wearing his. He clips into a halyard and 5 feet up he goes to tie on the line. Alexis grabs his foot to guide him down the boom, and after a few minutes we are ready to get underway.

“Boom!” First Gun

We are well behind the start line but as the countdown continues we realize our distraction has taken us slightly outside the starting box. The air is still and we’re trying to trim our sails to squeeze everything we can from one knot of wind.

The start gun goes off and we’re still fighting to get inside the box. Ebb is not our friend today and we soon find that we’ve drifted past the start line without going through the designated gate, so we’ll have to backtrack for a proper start. The pressure seems to be hiding just under the Golden Gate Bridge, almost like it’s mocking us. It kind of reminds me of Friday night races in Belvedere Cove when the wind shuts down right before the start but continues to tease you from out in the bay.

Already critical of our “start”, we anxiously wait for the wind to fill so we can make it back to the line. “Should we pop the kite?” gets floated for a second but it’s killed when the wind dies to nothing. We’re floating backwards toward the bridge and our drift takes us abeam of Anita Rock. We decide to anchor to prevent any more backwards “progress”. Jay pulls the anchor from down below and Jordan heaves it into the bay from the bow. Other boats that have started the race now begin to sail – rather, float – past us. A few find humor in our plight and aren’t shy to share. Even Berkeley, a regular crew member on Low Speed Chase who couldn’t make the race due to an injury texts “nice start…” to Alexis from the shore.

Finally, the wind begins to fill in behind us. Dislodging the anchor is another challenge but with a winch, a halyard, and some muscle from Marc, we bring it up it from the bottom of the bay.

By the time we make it across the start line our botched start has cost us over an hour. Our objective for the race has changed now, and the only victory we’re hoping for is to avoid the notorious DFL.

The Uphill Slog

Non-sailors often ask what it’s like to sail in the ocean, and what’s the appeal. I usually compare it to back country skiing or mountain biking. The reward is in the descent. You work through the uphill portion in exchange for the downwind ride when your boat flattens, apparent wind drops to a light breeze and, on the right day, your boat skips along as it planes and surfs down the front side of swells.

As we sail under the Golden Gate Bridge, Peter Lyons clicks a picture from the shore. We tack a few times and set up a starboard lay-line that we will stay on for the rest of the day as we head out to the Farallon Islands. The skies are clear and we’re seeing 20-23 knots. It’s always been hard for me to gauge swell height from the water. Each swell has its own personality. To me it seems the seas are 10-12 feet with larger sets around 15 feet.

The upwind leg is uneventful and we fill the quiet moments with our usual banter. We tease Elmer about his difficulty emptying his bladder. Jordan snaps at Alan for being Alan. All in all, it’s turning out to be a beautiful day on the ocean with conditions as expected. The wind and swells are big but consistent in speed and direction. Nick, Alan, Jordan, Jay and I all take turns on the wheel, maintaining between 7.5 to 8.5 knots of upwind boat-speed.

The mood on the boat is relaxed. We chat about which of our three kites will be safest for the ride home. We’ve accepted our place in the back of the pack now, so there is no need to risk equipment or safety. Our mind set is definitely not aggressive. We peeled to our smallest jib just outside the bridge and there’s no need to reef the main since we aren’t being overpowered.

We set up earlier in the day for a port rounding or “taking it from the top” as I’d heard it referenced amongst sailing buddies. I’ve done a number of day-long ocean races to Monterey, Half Moon Bay and buoys like the lightbucket. This is my first race to the Farallones – a race that I’ve wanted to do for years. My anticipation heightens as our boat approaches the islands.

Around the Island

The Farallon Islands have a rugged, haunting beauty about them but there’s no time for sightseeing as we approach. The waves and wind have steadily built and we start seeing scattered white caps. As the conditions intensify, I’m on the main and Alan – by far the best driver with the most ocean experience – is on the wheel.

We soon approach the first rocky point on the northeast corner of the island. The swells are much larger and the wind has been building. We saw another boat pass a few minutes earlier on an outside line. Behind us, one boat is outside of us and another appears to be on our same line.

There’s a YouTube video titled “Crewed Farallones April 14, 2012” showing the Santa Cruz 50, Deception, and several other boats rounding the island. They would have rounded about an hour before us in similar, if not slightly lighter, conditions. The video shows the difference in swell sizes before, during and after rounding the island. Michael Moradzadeh, who thankfully radioed in the initial distress call, notes that the video doesn’t do justice to the intensity of the day. I agree, but it does provide a good baseline for those who didn’t make the race. As I watch the video, Deception’s route feels eerily similar to our own. In fact, when we passed the first point I think we were just slightly outside of their line.

The South Farallones consist of two primary islands, which together form a crescent with its arms toward the north. Between the two northern points we begin to crack off the sails into a close reach as we head toward the next point. The boat in the “Crewed Farallones” video had about the same amount of sail trim but it appears they turned after we did. Our route takes us inside the line of Deception and closer to the island.

Fellow sailors can relate to trimming sails during intense racing or weather conditions. We assimilate data in a series of snapshots taken from within the boat and across the race course. I suspect that’s the reason sailors show up to race protest rooms with 5 different accounts of an incident that happened at a speed no faster than a run.

I’ve been asked by investigators, friends and family just how close we were to the rocky coastline. Truthfully, this is one of the most difficult questions to answer; my focus was almost purely on the distance to the beginning of the break zone. Staying away from the rocks was a secondary concern to staying away from the breakers – an ocean feature that has scared me since long before this weekend. Swells are fine. Breakers aren’t.

As we approach the second point I estimate we’re inside of 10 boat lengths – which is 128 yards on a Sydney 38 – from the beginning of the break zone. Our distance looks safe and no one on the boat comments. I catch a glance of clear swells off the port side of the boat between the break zone and us. We keep sailing. The boat is heeled toward the island. Alan is driving, I’m trimming main, and everyone else is on the rail.

Then, we come across the largest swell we’ve seen all day. It begins to crest but we pass over it before it breaks. Thirty seconds later, we will not have such luck.

The Wave

I see another wave approaching in the distance. It’s coming from the same direction as the other swells but it’s massive. I’ve seen large waves before but this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen outside of big-wave surf videos.

As the wave approaches it begins to face up, its front flattening as it crests. By the time our boat meets it, there’s no escape route. Alan steers the boat into the wave and the bow of Low Speed Chase ascends the breaking wave, which seconds sooner would have been a giant swell and seconds later would have already broken. Instead, we’re heading into a crashing wall of water with 9-10 knots of boat-speed and it breaks directly on us. I lock my right arm to the bottom lifeline and brace for the impact. The last thing I see is the boat tipping toward vertical with a band of water still above it. A single thought races through my head: “This is going to be bad.”

After the Impact

I was underwater until the boat righted itself. Confused and disoriented I looked around while water cleared off the deck. Nick and I were the only ones still on the boat. The sails were shredded, the mast snapped and every flotation device had been ripped off. We immediately began to try pulling our crewmembers back into the boat but a second wave hit us from behind. This one ripped me off the boat and into the break zone. Nick barely managed to stay aboard as the boat was tossed by the breakers onto the rocks.

I couldn’t tell if I was in the water for a minute or an hour, but according to Nick it was about 15 minutes. People have asked me if I swam for shore. The best way to describe the water in the break zone is a washing machine filled with boulders. You don’t really swim. The water took me where it wanted to take me, and when I was finally able to climb from the surf onto low rocks I heard Nick shouting from the distance for me to get to higher ground. Together we located Jay further down the shoreline. He was out of the surf but trapped on a rock surrounded by cliffs. From what we could see, nobody else had been able to climb to safety.

As for what happened in that first wave, my head was down and I initially thought we might have pitch-poled. Nick, who broke his leg while it was wrapped around a stanchion and had a better view, tells me the boat surfed backwards with the wave for a stretch then rotated 90 degrees counter-clockwise before the wave finally barrel rolled it. This seems logical and explains how we ended up pointed back the same direction we started.

The US Coast Guard and Air National Guard performed the rescue operation with a level of professionalism that reinforces their sterling reputation for assistance during these types of emergencies. We’re incredibly fortunate to have these resources available in our country. If we had been in another ocean off another coast then Jay, Nick and I may not have been rescued.

Correcting the News

There have been various inaccuracies in the news of what happened that Saturday. I believe they stem mostly from misinterpreted information. For example, many sources reported that we attempted to turn the boat around to help other crew members after the first wave hit. This is not accurate. I believe our statement immediately upon being rescued that, “we turned around [while on the boat] to get people out of the water” somehow became “we turned the boat around to get people out of the water”.

Additionally, some assumed Jay, the boat’s owner, was driving. While one person can be the owner, captain, skipper and driver, this is often not the case. Jay loves sailing but uses professionals like Alan to coordinate his sailing program. This had always been the case with Low Speed Chase and it was no different this day.

Reflections

The sailing community might want to know what we could have done differently that day. It all really centers on a broader commitment to safety – preparation that happens before you get on the boat to race. When sailors “talk sailing” it’s usually about winds, currents, tactics, rules or the events of the day – not about safety. I almost never hear conversations about the benefits of different life jacket models, pros and cons of tethers or about practicing man-overboard drills before a race.

That day we had all the mandatory safety equipment including two installed jack lines. Everyone was wearing life jackets and there were 8 tethers on the boat – mine around my neck. Unfortunately, none of us were clipped in when the wave hit. I can’t speak for other ocean sailors, but I’d reached a level of comfort where I’d only tether at night, when using the head off the back of the boat, or when the conditions were really wild. It’s simply a bad habit that formed due to a false sense of security in the ocean. “Besides,” I’d say to myself, “I can just clip in when something bad is about to happen…”

It’s obvious to me now that I should have been clipped into the boat at every possible opportunity. Nevertheless, arguments for mobility and racing effectiveness over safety are not lost on me. Some safety measures can indeed limit maneuvers, but if you’re going to spend an hour driving, trimming or hiking in the same spot, why not clip in? Additionally, there are legitimate concerns about being crushed by the boat. Those 15 minutes in the water were the absolute scariest in my life. The boat was the place to be – inside or out.

Until the accident, I believed that to tether or not was a personal choice. But now, my thinking extends beyond the safety of an individual to that of the team as a whole. Here’s the logic: If I’d been tethered when the first wave hit, I would have needed to unclip to help the others who were overboard, then I’d have been hit by the second wave and still ended up in the water. Crews need to talk as a team about tethering strategies. One person overboard puts the entire crew at risk, as others might need to unclip to quickly maneuver the boat back to their location.

I truly consider myself lucky to have a second chance at life with my wife and 8-week-old son. Looking back, there were a number of factors that might have helped me survive in those waters. After years on the foredeck, I wear shin guards, ankle pads, neoprene kneepads, full-finger gloves, Dubarry boots, full foul-weather gear and no cotton fabrics. I also wear my auto inflate personal floatation device (PFD) for ocean races. Additionally, the well used gym membership my wife got me early last year was invaluable. Luck was truly on my side but I also think that maybe I left the door open for it.

There are other lessons that can and should be learned from the incident. My auto-inflate suspenders inflated as designed. However, my manual override cord was tucked away and unreachable – a practice amongst sailors who are worried about an accidental opening. A PFD with a crotch strap would have been far better. It would have held the device down and freed up my hands to climb out of the water or swim. My built-in PFD harness was also too loose and I was concerned about it slipping off. A rash guard would have been a worthwhile layer for warmth. All flotation devices attached to the back of the boat were ripped off by the first large wave. And it’s important to consider the advantages and disadvantages of each PFD and make sure it matches the conditions. Safety lessons shouldn’t have to be learned the hard way.

Hopefully this incident will spur a wider discussion on sailboat safety. However, the biggest lesson I learned that day wasn’t about any piece of equipment. It was about taking personal responsibility for my own safety. Our EPIRB, a water-activated GPS tracking device, fortunately went off as intended, but who double-checked the batteries that morning? It wasn’t me and I didn’t ask who did.

It’s my wish that no crew or community will ever go through what we’ve endured from this tragic accident. The memorial flotilla on Saturday for my lost crewmates was by far the most touching memorial I’ve ever seen. I watched from the SFYC host boat as over a hundred sailboats and powerboats, many filled to capacity, came together on the water in a display of something beautiful and heartwarming in the midst of a week filled with terrible pain and sorrow.

At a service this weekend, I heard a quote from a 1962 speech by John F. Kennedy to America’s Cup competitors that, in my mind, captures the essence of our fascination with the sea:

“I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it is because in addition to the fact that the sea changes and the light changes, and ships change, it is because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it we are going back from whence we came.”

Alan, Marc, Jordan, Alexis and Elmer. Keep your rig tuned, your kite full and your foulies dry. We’ll one day finish our race together. Comment here.

Bryan Chong
Saturday Crew on Sydney 38 Low Speed Chase

KNOTS

I have always been fascinated by knots. It was what every sailor knew when I was young. I was taught by the professional sailors of the era. My first attempt was the black and white belt.I was 13 years old. I no longer remember the name of the string I used but it was still sold in chandleries expressly for macrame.

These professionals told be of a shop specializing in macrame near the docks in Brooklyn. I took a while, but I hitchhiked and found the shop; however the man who owned it was old and had failing health, so all I could do was to gaze in the window.

I still tie knots, I suppose much like someone who knits. During the America’s Cup Jubilee there was a Frenchman (not the one in the video) tying knots on the dock; we had a duel of sorts, testing the other’s knowledge of knots.

VERY LAST MINUTE

I have written in an earlier post after listening to several of the crew from “Rambler” speak about their experience during the Fastent Race last August. If you can make it, it is a fascinating tale that has a happy ending through a series of “lucky ifs”.

The RAMBLER Incident is STANDING ROOM ONLY!

Tomorrow – Thursday, January 19th.
Sponsored by Points East Magazine.

Photograph from theguardian. Read the full article here.

The wait is almost over! Come to the Museum tomorrow night to hear the full story.

Doors open at 6 for socializing and refreshments provided by

Cisco Brewers and Triple Eight Distillery.

Lecture starts at 7pm with crew members from RAMBLER and Dan O’Connor from

Life Raft and Survival Equiptment.

ALL SEATS HAVE BEEN SOLD. We are currenlty selling tickets as STANDING ROOM ONLY

Call the Museum for more information or email Maggie

$5 for members/ $10 for non members.

MAN OVERBOARD

I was alerted to this article by my good friend Ed Cesare, with whom I have sailed quite a few miles now.

In Ed’s word’s ‘ worth the read”

GOR LEG 2 MOB DETAILS

Cessna Citation MOB chartplotter

more images »

15 JANUARY, 2012 | by Oliver Dewar

In the closing stages of Leg 2 in the double-handed Global Ocean Race (GOR), a harsh lesson was learnt on Class40 Cessna Citation through quick thinking; instinct and training when Conrad Colman and Sam Goodchild dealt quickly with a Man Over Board (MOB) off the west coast of South Island, New Zealand. Now that both skippers have discussed the MOB with their families and Maritime New Zealand and the Rescue Coordination Centre New Zealand are aware of the incident, the GOR can now publish details of the MOB as a valuable illustration of the importance of training and safety at sea for all offshore crews, short-handed or fully-crewed.

Colman and Goodchild had been leading the GOR fleet for 20 days as they crossed the Tasman Sea and closed in on the northern tip of South Island with under 160 miles remaining to the finish line in Wellington after a total of 31 days at sea and 7,500 miles of high latitude sailing through the Indian Ocean’s Roaring Forties. Remarkably, 28 year-old Kiwi, Colman, and his 22 year-old, British co-skipper had met just days before the Leg 2 start gun and while both had logged many miles offshore and on Class40s, their union for Leg 2 produced astonishing speeds – setting the GOR Class40 24-hour run at a new record of 359.1 miles – gaining the respect of the other, seasoned crews in the fleet and repelling continuous challenges from the highly-experienced, Kiwi father-and-son duo of Ross and Campbell Field on Class40 BSL.

In the late afternoon (local) on Tuesday 29 December, as their Akilaria RC2, Cessna Citation, closed in on the western coast of South Island, 57 miles south of Cape Farewell at the entrance to Cook Strait and 33 miles west of the Heaphy River’s mouth at the northern end of the Karamea Bight, the youngest team in the GOR held a 56-mile lead over the Fields on BSL and thoughts of victory, fresh food, steak, hot-water showers and the forthcoming reunion with friends and family were foremost in the minds of the two crew.
A cold front had just swept over Cessna Citation leaving in its wake a big sea and breeze of around ten knots. Colman was on watch at the helm wearing lifejacket and harness: “Conditions were probably three to five metres of swell and we had been beating into wind of around 26-33 knots with fog and rain, so pretty shocking visibility and conditions in general,” Colman recalls. Goodchild was below, cooking food during the lull. “Conrad was driving and I was sitting in the cuddy chatting to him,” adds Goodchild.
Conrad Colman describes the quick change in conditions: “The wind went very quickly from 10 to then 26 then 30, so we had one reef in the main and it was clearly time to change from the Solent to staysail,” he confirms. Goodchild left his remaining food and prepared for the sail change: “I put on my jacket and went up on the foredeck and dropped the jib,” he remembers. “I was a bit overconfident and, in retrospect, crazy not clipping on or wearing my lifejacket, but it was a job that had to be done quickly.” With Colman in the cockpit and Goodchild on the foredeck, both co-skippers spotted one significant wave simultaneously: “I was running the pit during the manoeuvre and Sam ran up and pulled the Solent down on the forestay and as he was doing that, I saw a big wave,” says Colman, immediately bearing away to minimise the wave’s impact. Goodchild caught the wave from the corner of his vision as he hauled the headsail down: “It had a big crest which was about to break and it was going to hit us pretty hard,” he says. “A big wall of spray came over the bow and I thought Sam had ducked down as it obscured him completely from view,” continues Colman.

However, Goodchild was scrabbling to find a handhold: “I tried to hang on, but it threw me out the side and I landed on the jib and made a few attempts to grab stuff, but nothing successful.” The 22 year-old yachtsman was quickly flung over the guardrails: “So I floated passed the cockpit, I saw Conrad and Conrad saw me,” he adds. With water pouring aft, for Colman a clear view of the foredeck was impossible. “Then I looked down to leeward of the boat and there was Sam with this look of amazement on his face going passed the gunwhale in the water.” Colman immediately pushed the helm away and crash-tacked Cessna Citation to try and slow the Class40 down. “Then I ran and picked up the heaving line which, thankfully, I knew exactly where it was and how to use it,” he recalls. “I threw it to him and it landed a metre away and as he reached for it, the boat lurched and pulled it out of his reach.” Goodchild lunged for the line: “It got pretty close and I did a quick sprint-swim but missed it,” he confirms.

As soon as it was clear Goodchild could not reach the bright orange heaving line, Colman’s experience as a sailing instructor cut in: “I ran below to punch the MOB button and make a waypoint, then started sailing away from him and I’m sure it was stressful for Sam as he was in the water watching me sail away.” Instantly, Goodchild’s training took over and any panic and futile paddling was averted: “When I hit the water, I knew instinctively that I must conserve energy, so I tried to get the line when it was close, but it wasn’t going to happen,” says Goodchild. “So I tried to keep an eye on the boat and save energy and it was then that all the small things started to add up.” Goodchild was mid-sail change when he was washed overboard and there was no windward sheet on either of the headsails. “So, to tack and come back and get me, Conrad had to re-reeve the sheet, so it took him about ten minutes to tack. At first, I thought it was fine and he’d just turn around and pick me up,” Goodchild continues. “But it slowly started dawning on me as ten minutes passed that he hadn’t tacked yet and I couldn’t see him and he certainly couldn’t see me.”

Calmly, Goodchild prepared for an extended period in the water: “I was wearing full foulies and boots and mid-layer thermals and they filled up with water,” he explains. “Waves began breaking over my head and started pulling me down, so, slowly but surely, I stated taking them off; mid-layers, smock, everything down to my thermal top.” Shedding the extra weight came at a heavy price: “It started getting cold,” Goodchild confirms. “I had a knife in my smock pocket, so I cut the hood off my smock, which is bright yellow, and gave me something to wave. I ditched everything else – there was no point holding on to anything that wasn’t going to help me.”

Meanwhile, Colman had Cessna Citation back under control. “Once I’d got the sheets sorted, I tacked back around and came back as close as I could to the MOB waypoint,” he explains. “It was gusting up to 32 knots and very poor visibility and it was very difficult to see anything to windward because of all the spray blowing off the top of the waves, so I tried to secure a position to windward of where I thought he was, then hove-to and drifted down to where he was.” Manoeuvring the boat and constantly climbing through the companionway to check the MOB position kept Colman totally physically and mentally occupied. “Having to short tack and gybe while keeping an eye on the chartplotter to see where he was and calculate the drift to where he might be while I knew I had a very, very tight window of opportunity was hard work – it felt like I needed to be seven places at once!”

Colman’s search pattern was successful: “I was tacking and reaching across the position of where I thought he was and slowly working my way downwind and after some time I saw a flash of yellow, just for a split second and I couldn’t be certain it was Sam.” The Kiwi skipper made two more passes while Goodchild conserved as much energy as possible: “I was going up and down in the troughs of waves, so I was a bit selective when I waved [the severed yellow hood], but he saw me and sailed close.” Colman took the chance with a Dan-buoy: “I was able to throw the horseshoe with the flashing light to him,” he explains. “I saw that he’d got it and we both breathed a huge sigh of relief and I was able to put his actual position on the chart plotter and saw he had drifted a fair way.”

It’s likely that the floatation unit arrived just in time. “By this stage, he’d been in the water for 25 minutes at least. I’m a sailing instructor, so not only have I done this manoeuvre many times, I’ve also taught it, and I know that if you’re cold and exhausted and you don’t have floatation, you run out of energy and the ability to stay afloat.” Goodchild confirms his status: “I was getting pretty tired and struggling to swim after about 25 minutes in the water,” he agrees.

With the horseshoe in Goodchild’s grasp, Colman could manoeuvre the boat again: “After I saw he had floatation I could tack away again and come back to him on a reach, then releasing the sheets and stopping the boat to windward of him,” says Colman. “I had coiled a spare sheet to throw to him as I couldn’t use the heaving line again, but in the flurry of activity to stop the boat from landing on top of him, I actually threw another coil if rope which was the staysail halyard.” Despite his situation Goodchild was fully aware of the dilemma on board: “I had the jib halyard in one hand and the Dan-buoy in the other and Conrad couldn’t drop the jib if he wanted to as I was on the end of the halyard, so he cut the jib sheets.”

With Goodchild connected to the boat by the halyard, he worked closer to the boat. “I hauled him in hand-over-hand, deployed the rope ladder and Sam clambered back on,” says Colman. “I think it was the happiest moment of our lives,” he adds, but there was no time for celebration: “I went straight into the cabin, took off all my remaining wet clothes and jumped into the sleeping bag and started warming up while Conrad tidied up the boat,” explains Goodchild. “We continued for about half an hour with just the mainsail up and went under pilot while we recovered from what could have been a big disaster.”

Just over 24 hours later, Cessna Citation crossed the finish line in Wellington Harbour taking first place in GOR Leg 2, but their experience shortly before entering Cook Strait left a lasting impression: Sam has learnt a valuable lesson: “It was a harsh lesson and one I will never forget,” he confirms. “You hear these stories and think, well that’s a bit stupid, but that’s not going to be me, which is a bit arrogant. It only takes a second for something to turn into a big disaster and I’ll be clipping on in future,” he adds.
For 28 year-old Conrad Colman, the rescue is a landmark moment: “My father was killed in an accident on a boat when I was 11 months-old when not wearing the appropriate safety equipment and, of course, that came rushing back,” he explains. “When I first tacked the boat back round I made a very conscious promise that I wasn’t going to let Sam be alone out there.”

Josh Hall, Race Director of the GOR, is a multiple solo circumnavigator: “Sailing has many inherent risks attached, if it did not there would be no spirit of adventure or challenge and would probably not attract many competitors,” says Hall. “Falling overboard is every sailor’s worst nightmare, more so for their families and friends. Sadly, many sailors have been lost from the decks of well-found yachts – some inexperienced and some highly experienced, the sea is not selective,” he continues. “As an event we do our utmost to mitigate the risks through safety equipment and training demands, but the greatest mitigation is the competence of our sailors in extreme circumstances,” explains Hall. “Every sailor I know has at some time been forward to complete a job that needs doing quickly and forgotten their lifejacket or harness, we all go by the grace of God at times. There are of course important lessons to be learned from this incident as it is a stark reminder of how fragile personal safety can be, but the way in which both Conrad and Sam dealt with the situation should be saluted and applauded. We at the race organisation are extremely proud of them both.”

MAN OVERBOARD

First of all, that a video camera was in use is a symptom of the world today. wow. I too have experienced being under a turtled boat and tangled in lines and rigging. It is the event that made me realize that a sheath knife accessible with either hand is essential, not a folding knife.

Have a safe and happy thanksgiving. I guess thanksgiving is a holiday where we reflect on family and friends. I hope you are all able to have a moment of reflection.

SAFETY AT SEA HANDS ON TRAINING

Today I attended a day long “in the water training” seminar in preparation for the upcoming transatlantic race. Taught by Dan O’Connor of Life Raft and Survival. I highly recommend this course to anyone planning any sort of long distance sailing. The crew of “Phaedo” a Gunboat 66, which will also participate in the race were my fellow students. Their questions only improved the quality of the course.

This was very similar to the in the water course I attended before the Fastnet Race given in England.

WATER SAFETY

LONGREACH WATER RESCUE SYSTEM

Anyone who has ever been in or on the water at some point has had at least a passing thought about water rescue. CONTACT with someone in the water is the essential, fundamental premise. There have been various methods over the years. Frankly it has never been an area that has had much effort focused on it, so when a new viable concept appears; it deserves our attention.

Safety at Sea

St. Partick’s day weekend in Newport. The Safety At Sea Seminar also took place. The weather outside was some of the worst we have experienced in some time;sixty knots of wind and over 5 inches of rain.

Personally the trellis I built blew over and broke in several places. It had with stood many storms and I had developed a false sense of security about it sturdiness. Nothing that can’t be repaired.

I am now certified for the next five years as far as US sailing is concerned. On sunday I was certified in CPR and First Aid.

There was some new gear exhibited. Of note was the clothing made by Ursuit.

Overall this was the best organized and best presented Safety at Sea Seminar I have ever attended.

Finally Peter Becker and Stan Schreyer were also being certified before they take off in IMOCA 60’s to set a record between New York and Barcelona.

DAN CIANCI

Dan Cianci was lost overboard off the coast of New Jersey in November 2004. “Snow Lion” had been donated to the Naval Academy. A crew came to Greenwich, Ct. to pick up the boat and take it to Annapolis. In the early morning hours off New Jersey, Dan went overboard and they were not able to get back to him.

Just writing the story tightens my chest. Dan had been on my watch for the 2003 trans-atlantic race, the fastnet race, 2004 Bermuda race, and all the shorter races in between. We had earned each others trust and friendship.