The Quiet American

by Tom Pratt on 23 Mar 2005 Tim Platt travelled from Marblehead, Massachusetts, for the chance to race to Hobart in 2004. This is his story of the great race viewed through American eyes.

As Printed In, And Courtesy Of Australian Yachting.

On a hot early morning three days before Christmas, I made my way slowly by bus and train from Sydney International Airport to board the 38' yacht Epsilon at Rushcutters Bay.

My objective: the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia, a co-host along with the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania of a veritable icon of Australia's summer sport, the 60th running of the Sydney-Hobart Yacht Race.

My seven new crewmates, a versatile group of Aussie blokes with combined experience of more than 100,000 miles of offshore sailing and racing, extended a unique greeting to me as the boat's only full-blown Yank.

A picture from a cherished Lipton Ice Tea advertisement would foretell my imminent immersion in the Sailing World of OZ:

'More refreshing than a quiet American.'

The crew gave me my first lesson on the importance of being quiet, when they sincerely incorrectly heard the word 'racks' when I pointed to the hazard that earlier this fall had upended the yacht Financial Times in front of the Sydney Opera House.

Apparently, my reference, with a proper Bostonian twist, to 'rahhhks' did not comport with the expected Aussie onunciation, 'rawwwks'. Thereafter, they rarely missed an opportunity to joke about the racks.

And of course, they laughed at my buoy to their 'boy' at all roundings.

We would spend the remaining time before Boxing Day in earnest preparation for the race.

This much we shared in common with the other boats bobbing quietly alongside pontoons protruding westerly from the CYCA's pier.

In many respects, however, our experience would differ from the higher-end campaigns of the other 115 boats in the fleet, many of which had corporate sponsorships and most of which were backed by RO's courting coverage in yachting's largest annual media event.

Michael 'Trompy' Tromp. Epsilon's owner is a soft-spoken world-class 33-year old sailor who had built the boat by hand in his own garage over a three-year period, following his return from sailing a different vessel around the world.

Trompy had been kind enough to invite me to fill out his crew after he and his regular Hobart crew Amy Jordan had joined me last summer in the '04 Newport-Bermuda Race.

As had been the case in 2001 when Trompy scored a Division C win in the Hobart Race, we would launch this effort sharing expenses and without new sails and halyards. Accordingly, the crew slept on board both before and after the race, and we ignored the cool damp weather on Christmas Day to enjoy a daylong picnic in the nearby park.

The weather prospects and bluebird skies of race-day morning were considerably brighter than the Bureau of Meteorology's preliminary forecast of only two days earlier, whose calls for a southerly buster had left skippers and crew anxious and family members tense with inevitable comparisons to the tragic 1998 race.

Thus, when we checked in with a race committee vessel at 1130 hours near Chowder Head and across from Shark Island flying the required trysail and storm jib, hundreds of spectator boats and thousands of shoreside fans shared our excitement and enthusiasm in looking forward to a spinnaker run before northeasterly breezes of 20+ knots for the first 24-30 hours.


As a smaller boat, Epsilon started on the fleet's second line, 200 yards behind the super-maxis and the other Division A and B yachts.

A blatant foul by a barging boat moments before the gun largely wiped out the advantage we had created by being at the line with a clear lane and accelerating boat speed. When coupled with the lowest handicap not only in our 19-boat Division C but also lower than any entry in Division D, our slow start gave us time to observe not only the supermaxi Nicorette place her bet on an easterly strategy by banging a left after she was the first to round the glorious Heads at the eastern end of Sydney Harbor, but also a long parade of chutes setting in front of us that, following the other supermaxis Skandia and Konica Minolta, would mostly pursue a rhumb line course of 182'.


The initial forecasts called for the wind to shift gradually to the southwest by Monday evening, so we decided to play the trailing East Australia Current approximately 10 miles offshore but otherwise favoring the inside or western lane down the coast.

The favorable northerly continued through Monday sunrise, but as the wind swung to the west and we exited the trailing current, we decided to head southwest in towards the Coast, both to obtain relative shelter from the expected storm swell but also to leverage our advantage to come from the forecasted southwesterly winds.

Initially, this strategy paid dividends. It appeared that, as one of the western-most boats in the fleet, we would be well positioned to ride the storm and the waves on a long starboard tack as we headed east, back across the rhumb line.

By Monday afternoon, we had found the storm that, over the next 60 hours, would bring sustained breezes between 40-60 knots, average swells of 5-7 meters, top waves of 9-10 meters, and steady rain and even hail.

In typical Aussie fashion, 'pretty strong breeze' became the understated label for the storm.

During some of the first squalls on Monday, our B&G wind instruments would display steady readings between 75-87 knots!

Given the wind direction and storm conditions, the trip log would be considerably longer than the approximate 200-mile rhumb line distance across the Strait.

Trompy took this responsibility seriously, and it was only after full consultation and careful deliberation that we left Gabo Island behind us on Monday night as we ventured out in to Bass Strait, rather than seeking shelter in Eden, a small fishing village on the southerly coast of New South Wales.

Unlike boats and landbound spectators with Internet access, we would not learn until much later that this choice would soon advance our relative Class and fleet position, as the Race would become one of attrition.

Under Trompy's watchful eye, our priorities were preservation first, racing second: sail the boat fast and hard while preserving the crew, the boat, the rig, the sails and the running rigging, in approximately that order of priority.

We would be puffed, wet and bloody cold for more than two days, making it a time for uncommon determination.

We set the storm jib, and usually carried three full reefs in the main. The night watches were particularly difficult, with low temperatures ranging from a low of 7°C (@ 43°F), so we limited their duration to three hours.

Minimum dress included polypro Daks, thermals, jumpers and other middle layers, Gore-Tex® foulies, sea boots, beanies, offshore winter sailing gloves, and water-resistant torches for night work.

In the trying physical and emotional conditions of the storm, three members of Epsilon's crew would become seasick, but each performed full duties on- and off-watch despite spewing regularly over the side, sleeping poorly and feeling nauseous - all in an Aussie-day's work.

A more pervasive malady was gunwale bum, which in a midnight moment induced by sleep deprivation was shortened amid hearty laughs to 'Oh sailor boy, I have a Moist Arrrrssse.'

The stormy seas also shortened our appetites, which was fortunate, because the galley and its contents were pitching and heaving for the duration of the Gale.

We feasted on such Aussie staples as Milo and biscuits for brekky, scroggin and Tim Tams for supper, and fruit and granola bars for snacks.

Tuesday's skeds brought reports that Skandia had been compelled to retire due to extensive damage to her hull.

Elsewhere, Nicorette's early Eastern strategy seemed to be vindicated by the 55' Jason-Ker designed British yacht, Aera, whic