abroad at the University of Sydney. There I learned how to surf at Coogee, Bondi and Maroubra, Sydney?s beautiful beaches and drink ?schooners? of Toohey?s beer our Aussie mates had ?shouted? in a ?boat race?. While not at the beach or in the pubs, we learned about Australia?s unique history, economy, environment & politics. I voted for Jimmy Carter by absentee ballot, my first time voting for president.

     It was the best experience of my life and bar none, the other 30 would concur. Indeed it was there, on Bondi Beach, that I became friends and surfing buddies with my boss and client over twenty years later, Clay Biddinger, Rollins ?77. We all stayed with families, rich and poor, city and country- my family was named West- ?Ma?, Les & their 19 yr old son Ross, the same age as me. Just before I left at Christmas time, Les took me up on the roof of their ?flat? in Randwick, overlooking Bondi, Coogee & the island where the sharks bred. Knowing I was a sailor he said to me in his slow, deliberate Aussie drawl, ?Chris, pity you?re not staying ?til next week, there is a big sailboat race, that starts over there near the Heads and hundreds of boats with painted sails stretch the entire horizon & head down to Tassie (Tasmania), about 600 mile south. It?s a breathtaking sight & the whole of Sydney comes out to see them off on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. It?s like your Kentucky Derby or the World Series.? I said, ?You mean spinnakers, right?! Wow, I?ll be back-someday, Les. I don?t know when-and I?ll do it.?

     December 26, 2002 was the day, just over twenty-six years, several gray hairs, fifty pounds, one law school, one wife, three kids, six boats, two St. Bernards, three moves, five jobs, 100,000 United miles and $2,000 US later, I was there. Aboard ?Bright Morning Star? (BMS), an Aussie built Petersen 51, with 10 ?Fair Dinkum? (true blue, genuine) Aussies and one Kiwi, we left the dock of the Sydney Amateur Sailing Club, along with ?Mark Twain?, owned by Hugh O?Neil, also co-owner of BMS. ?Twain? was about to start its 25^th ?Hobart?, a feat never accomplished by a boat. Many individuals had won the ?Heroes of Hobart? award by completing 25 of the 630 nautical mile races, but, assuming it got there this year, she too would become a Hero. Hugh and Dal Wilson, my Sydney host and co-owner of BMS, had survived-and finished- the ?98 race (six ?yachties? from three boats died, twelve boats sank or were abandoned and 55 were rescued from the 80 foot enraged seas , mostly by helicopters) aboard Twain- so she was up to the task. Hugh Treharne, the tactician aboard Australia II, which had taken the ?Auld Mug?, the America?s Cup, away from Dennis Conner & the New York Yacht Club in ?83, had until recently, owned BMS, and had raced it in the ?98 race along with brother Ian ?Bomber? Treharne and ten women from the sailing group ?Women on Water?. Scuttlebutt around Constitution Dock in Sullivan?s Cove, Hobart, was that Alan ?Bondie? Bond, owner of Swan Brewing in Perth, Western Australia, and head of the ?Boxing Kangaroo? syndicate, had given BMS to Treharne as a token of his appreciation for winning the Cup from the Yanks. The skipper, John Bertrand, had become a national hero overnight with the winged keel wonder from Down Under, but it was Treharne that was apparently the genius of the ?afterguard? of the Boxing Kangaroos. National pride swirled through Australia so deeply that the Prime Minister, Bob Hawke, declared, ?Any employer who sacks a worker for not coming in today is a bum?. Hawke, while attending Oxford as a Rhodes scholar, set the country?s most famous drinking record ever. He drank 2.5 pints of beer in 11 seconds to avoid paying a fine for failing to wear his gown to dinner. ?I was too broke for the fine and necessity became the mother of ingestion.  I downed the contents of the pot in eleven seconds, left the Sconcemaster floundering, and entered the Guniness Book of Records with the fastest time ever recorded. This feat was to endear me to some of my fellow Australians more than anything else I ever achieved.?

The pre-race safety and weather briefing, held at the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia in Sydney on Christmas Eve, included detailed, daily weather forecasts from Aussie?s best, instruction from a blue uniformed twenty-something Navy seal-type as to how to fit the ?strop? under your shoulders in case you ?need a lift? from one of their choppers in Bass Straight. The weather prediction was fairly mild, with winds mostly from the East-Northeast  up to 25-30 knots. If that held, we?d all be in for a quick, safe downwind passage, flying our ?chutes? or spinnakers most of the time. After the briefing, all bid each other, ?Happy Christmas-safe race, mate! (pronounced ?mite?)? Christmas morning found me atop the Sydney Harbor Bridge, the largest single span arch bridge in the world, doing the ?BridgeClimb,? ?For the climb of your life?, the day before what would hopefully be the sailboat race of my life. For those competing, Christmas was also Boxing Day Eve, so after the traditional Christmas ?lunch? with Tassie salmon, cray, ham and English ?poppers?, it was down to the boats for last minute preparations and rig adjustments. We stopped at Sturrock?s Ship Chandlery, next to the club after the meeting. John Sturrock, the chandler, who had outfitted and befriended most of the Olympic sailors in 2000 at the nearby Olympic sailing site, was joining us for the race. He and Dal had sailed together since they were 4, 50 years, which gave me a ?no worries, mate? kind of feeling. He was a man?s man, with the face of Australia, standing about 6? 3?. He reminded me of an Australian John Wayne-and he knew his sailing and gear.

On Boxing Day, another member of the crew, Bob ?Millsy? Mills, did the onboard safety briefing in Middle Harbor on the way out to the starting line and handed out ?Man Overboard Procedure? sheets to all. He had done 14 Hobarts and spoke in a deep, gravelly, Aussie accent, ?Any IDIOT that is STUU-PID enough to go overboard???? We all got the message and the challenge- Stay on the damn boat- simple as that. No excuses. Keep your harnesses on and tethers attached to the jacklines at night or in rough weather, or whenever YOU thought it was necessary. No one would think the less of you for being ?hooked up? with a safety line to the boat. Although all on board were experienced sailors, many had never sailed together before, which can be a challenge. ?One hand for you and the other for the boat?, was the age-old adage that Dal reminded us to remember at night on the foredeck changing sails. Right after we left the dock I was chatting with Mick Brennan, ?Brenno? it read on his sea boots, about the ?98 race and ?Gibbo?s? rafting adventure. ?Gibbo? is a Sydney barrister who survived the ?98 race in liferaft, upside down in 80 footers, after Winston Churchill, which competed in the original 1945 race, sank. He lost his three childhood mates aboard Churchill; he tearfully tells his incredible story of horror at sea and survival in a CNN special on the tragedy. It gave a whole new meaning to the old Breton fishing prayer my father had posted on a tarnished bronze plaque on the combing of his 30? 210 racing sailboat, ?Oh God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.? Brenno says, ?Did you meet Gibbo? There he is on the dock- he came down to see us off- great guy-doesn?t do the Hobart anymore?. I had politely said ?G?day, mate? after Gibbo said to me, ?How ya goin?, mate?? on the dock without realizing it was he I had read so much about and seen on CNN. The next night I learned that Brenno was invited to race aboard Churchill in ?98 but passed because he was a ?bit short on the Bob ($) that year?. Dal asked him during the midnight shift, ?I bet you think about that a lot, Mick?? ?Actually, Dal, I try not to think about it at all.? When they discussed how different the owner of Churchill, Richard Winning, was from his brother, Mick, said, ?Oh, yeah, chalk and cheese!? When they asked me if I wanted ?sauce? on my meat pie, Brendan, on board from Melbourne, would interpret when he saw the dumbfounded look on my face, ?ketchup?. I was definitely not in Florida anymore- according to my hand-held GPS, I was 8,240 nautical miles from the buoy off Clearwater Beach, near our home. Mick, a painter by trade, who flew up the Bosn?s chair to the top of the mast to check the rig before the race, was the best driver of the lot of us, a great guy, and as I?d learn later, a proficient prankster as well.  

At 12:50 p.m., the ten-minute warning gun was fired and the dark skies moved in, along with a heavy downpour. A quick debate took place as to the proper headsail choice that would take us past Shark Island, out through the ?Heads? or entrance to Sydney Harbor and begin our trek south. At five minutes to go, Millsy yells, ?Let?s go with the number 2!? I was on the halyard and started winching the sail up, when Mick yelled back, ?Hold it, the bloody thing is ripped! Bring up another sail!? With 57 boats circling the starting line in drenching rains with 50 metres of visibility inside the 5-minute gun, it was a real Chinese fire drill aboard. Three guys scrambled to find the right sail, get it up on deck, reattach the sheets and haul it up the forestay. Somehow we did it with about 2 seconds to go before the start and BOOM!-Sir Edmund Hilary of Mount Everest fame, flown in from New Zealand to be the official starter of the race almost 50 years after climbing Everest, fired the cannon and we were off. Hundreds, if not thousands of spectator boats, escorted the fleet out through the Heads, staying behind the yellow Rolex buoys set out by the race committee. I couldn?t believe how many people came out, both on shore and afloat, given the heavy rain. As we got outside of the Heads, Millsy yelled, ?Prepare to tack!? We looked up and there was a boat on starboard (which has the right of way), with its headsail halfway down, and a man in the water next to the boat. We talked about how to render assistance, when all of a sudden, John Sturrock announced, ?The rubber ducky (inflatable boat from the Australian Yachting Federation, which I was required to join to do the race) has got him- keep going, mate.? A collision had just occurred with a Tassie boat and Peugot Racing, knocking a crewmember overboard, with hull damage so severe to the Tassie boat it was required to retire. The waves were about 2 metres (6 feet), not exactly swimming conditions, on board it was more like being in a washing machine, and the sail changes were coming fast on deck. The first to feel the effects of the rolling seas, was Steve, the Kiwi- he was seasick and was strategically seated to leeward. Janet was next, the only female on board and a doctor. She went down below and her face was green as a Granny Smith apple. I thought, ?Great-I hope nobody gets hurt this afternoon.? I had brought some Transderm Scop patches but hadn?t put them on yet. Seasickness is a physical phenomenon but I?m convinced there is a mental part as well. ?Should I be getting seasick? Do I feel a little something? Maybe I should put on just half a patch.? Not one to read too many directions, ?For the prevention of motion sickness, plan to apply one Transderm Scop patch at least 4 hours before you need it.? Not ten minutes after you need it, IDIOT. Too late- I had it too- half the boat did- and we weren?t even an hour into the race. Coogee Beach, my old haunt, lay about a half mile west and looked pretty tempting. I said to myself, it will pass- but when? I had only been seasick once before- in the North Sea on a small ferry going from Harwich, England to Amsterdam in January, 1979- seas were about twenty feet and EVERBODY was sick- kids, British sailors, the Captain, you name it. I had boldly told one of the British sailors after he told me that everyone would get sick that night, ?Except for me- never been and I?ve been on boats all my life.? Two minutes later I was over the side.

Millsy told us to keep drinking water and asked if I wanted my wet weather jacket- not only was it raining it was cold. I said, ?I?ll go down in awhile and get it?. I couldn?t go down below at the time- it was a struggle to stay up above. He said, ?It?s one thing to be crook, it?s another to be cold AND crook- I?ll get your jacket.? 14 Hobarts-he knew what he was talking about. Later I put on two patches, double the recommended dose (I?m a big guy- I reckoned) about 9 that night I got the courage to go below. I had skipped my first ?off watch? rest (you don?t really sleep) below- we did ?watches? of six people-four hours on, four hours off in the day, and three hours on, three hours off, at night. By the midnight shift I was ?right?. Australians spend half of their time saying, ?You, right, mate?? or ?She?ll be right, mate?. Translation for right is ?okay?. Before I left, I had hooked up with a neighbor, Bruce Kendell, a Kiwi who had ?ran? the Kialoa maxi program for L.A. real estate developer Jim Kilroy for years. He had skippered Kialoa II to line honours victory and a new Hobart record in 1975, 2 days, 14 hours, 36 minutes and 56 seconds (the first yacht to arrive in less than 3 days). The record would last for 21 years, the longest ever. He had not slept the entire way to Hobart and stayed at the helm much of the way. This race is definitely not for the faint of heart.

Day 2 brought sunshine, thousands of mutton birds which migrate from Japan, an albatross or two, and following seas and fair winds which lasted most of the rest of the race. I even read one of Bomber?s books, the ?Penniless Millionare? autographed by Buster Brown, from the library down below in the salon, while crossing Bass Straight. Could this be the same hell raiser that Gibbo and company had fought for their lives in? The race turned out to be the safest (all boats were equipped with a GPS (global positioning system) satellite device that communicated its position, speed and wind direction, not only to race organizers, but to anyone with an internet connection) and fastest as a fleet ever, but it was not without ?drama? as Dal referred to it.

The second night, around midnight, found me flying the spinnaker with a strong northeasterly breeze of about 25 knots, while sipping a cup of hot tea, when I saw it. The Southern Cross, right there to the left of the luff of the asymmetrical spinnaker-as clear as the illuminated speedo which read 15.2 knots- about the only thing visible on the boat at the time. Behind it was a galaxy as big and bright as I had ever seen before. Jeff Paul, at the helm, pointed to the two ?pointers? to the ?Cross? which, when a line is drawn through them and intersects with the long axis of the Cross, is due south. That?s how they got to the South Pole pre-GPS. Amazing, magnificent, magical, I thought when all of a sudden, ?Mate, look abeam!?- a half dozen bottlenose dolphins appeared next to me, riding the bow wave, with phosphorescence streaming behind their fins at15 knots. I guess Steven Stills wasn?t kidding when he wrote, ?When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, you understand now why you came this way?.we got eighty feet of waterline-nicely making way.? Before I left, a friend from Boston, Joe Doherty had sent me an email, saying no sailboat race could keep me away from my family on Christmas. He was sincere and it suddenly took away my excitement for the trip- my family had given me plenty of ?shots across the bow? for this quest, but after I saw the dolphins and the Southern Cross, I said, ?Joe Doherty, this beats egg nog!?, and raised my cup of tea to the sky.

The real drama, however, came on the midnight shift, after I decided it was safe enough to remove my harness, sea boots, glasses and wet weather gear to get some rest. Just as I was about to start sawing wood, I hear John Sturrock cry, ?Hands on deck!?. Not knowing if the words ?Man Overboard!? had preceded the call, I jumped from my berth, sans glasses (I?m blind without them), boots, gear and was the first on deck. The others scrambled below for their boots and harnesses, etc. It was the first time I ever felt like a firefighter- and this was to be a fire drill. Although it was pitch black I could see that Kane, a 250-pound rigger from Gladsone, Mick and Kiwi Steve were ?shrimping? with the asymmetrical chute. Someone had apparently released the spinnaker halyard too fast and the gigantic chute went into the water, was full of thousands of pounds of the sea and was in danger of going under the boat. We were traveling about 15 knots at the time and there was a lot of ?load? on the chute. When I grabbed the foot of the sail, David, the oldest fellow on the boat, who stayed safely, and wisely, in the cockpit to direct traffic, said, ?Be careful, Chris the preventer isn?t on.? The preventer is a line that holds the boom from violently moving back into the boat in reaching and running conditions. In addition, we were sailing at quite a heal and any wave, which I couldn?t see, could have toppled me over the leeward lifelines and ?into the piss?. As I?m pulling with all of my might, I?m thinking, ?98, Gibbo, one hand for you, (both were on the chute), stay hooked up at night, stay on the #&*&!%# boat (the only advice from friend and sailor Jack McDonough from Quincy, MA), any IDIOT?..?. The rules were not being followed, but I couldn?t exactly say, ?Excuse me mates, can you hold onto this chute full of 50,000 lbs of rushing Bass Straight while the only Yank on board ducks down below to get his specs?? In retrospect, I should have brought them with me, along with my harness & boots. In fact, I never should have taken any of them off in the first place. Anyway, we finally got the chute back on deck, in tact, thanks to the fact that it was a new, heavy air Doyle chute- the others on board would have torn like Kleenex in those conditions. When I got down below and put on all my gear, I laid back and felt something burning on my neck. It was my wife?s family heirloom St. Christopher medal she had put around my neck before leaving for the airport. The one I bought at Wal-Mart for $29.99 the day before wasn?t going to cut it, her knowing that I?m a little hard on things, generally. It had worked and was hot from the aerobic ?chute curls? we had been doing. The four lucky pennies I had kept couldn?t have hurt either. As Herb Koelsch from my hometown of Scituate, MA, who had introduced me to offshore sailing at age 12, had told me after his first Bermuda race on Moon Goddess, ?Chris, there?s no atheists in a foxhole.?

On Day 4, we made our ?landfall?, Tasman Island, one of the the southernmost points of Tasmania and Australia, the northern border of the infamous ?Southern Ocean?. Clouds and fog surrounded the top of the island, which is rugged mountain outlined by rock chimneys or basils?, some of which were lost to British gunfire who used the basils for target practice from British warships during WWII. The lighthouse, among the highest and most remote in Australia was obscured by fog. We rounded the corner, carrying the chute and headed north up Storm Bay- still another 50, usually fickle and fluky miles to the finish. Once in Storm Bay we saw 4 other boats, we recognized ?Police Car? and ?Kickinitalong?, and had ourselves a race against something other than the clock. Believe it or not, after the start, we saw only a couple of boats during the entire 630 mile race, usually at night by their required masthead lights. Next mark was the ?Iron Pot? at the mouth of the River Derwent. The Iron Pot was used to boil whales after they had been strung up on the rocks and stripped to their carcasses in the 1800s. Hobart, like Nantucket, had been a major whaling port. Nantucket whalers sailed as far as Tassie, much to the chagrin of the British whalers from Hobart. All over the Iron Pot?s rocky island stood hundreds of penguins- this would indeed be an interesting place. The physical beauty of Tassie was not something I was expecting- to me it was just the end of ?The Race?. The newspaper there is called ?Treasure Island? for a reason- it is simply one of the most beautiful places in the world, largely unspoiled and with less than 500,000 inhabitants.

John Sturrock cheered Mick on at the helm and made a race of it against the other four boats, some of which were not even in our division. No matter, they were racing and so were we and we were going to beat them. We all made guesses of our finish time, mine being the most aggressive at 9:15 Sunday night, the 29^th of December. Dal won with a guess of 11:00 p.m. Sunday. The actual finish was 11:05, a total of 3 days, 10 hours and 6 minutes and 21 seconds. Good enough for only 13^th place out of 16 in our division and 39^th overall. The line honours winner, Alfa Romeo, the fasted maxi in the world, finished in 2 days, four hours, fifty-eight minutes and fifty-two seconds, well ahead of Kialoa?s ?75 record with less breeze. We had arrived over a day earlier than last year when BMS came in third, but we needed more wind ?on the nose? to be competitive with our 28,000 lb. cruising boat. The fastest speed we hit was 15.6 knots, wing-on wing, no less, in the middle of the second night. We had taken down the chute to prevent the ?death rolls?. We averaged about 10 miles per hour overall, in relatively smooth seas. Biggest waves we saw were probably 4 metres or 12 feet. I was looking forward to some 40 foot waves, as I ?ve never seen them, but then again, I?ll be able to enjoy my egg nog like Joe Doherty next Christmas. As Steven Stills wrote in Treetop Flyer, ?I promised my woman, this is gonna? be my last.?

Tony, an engineer from Gladstone, and Dal, made sure the VBs (Victoria Bitter beer) were cold for the finish and Jeff Paul had been promising that Queensland?s Bundaberg Rum ?Bundy & Coke? was better than the Gosling?s Black Seal Rum from Bermuda I had brought with Barritt?s Ginger Beer to make ?Dark N? Stormies?. There was no alcohol allowed during the race, no one announced that-it was just understood- but we sure talked about it a lot! When we arrived at Constitution Dock, many of the family members climbed aboard and the party began. Most of the crew didn?t get off the boat until the following morning. The Bundy & Gosling?s flowed, along with the local Cascade and James Boag brew, and we celebrated a fun and safe voyage. The Australians, who treat kidding and busting each other as a national sport, had a go with ?Yank Chris? after I hit the sack about 3 am. Mick and Kane proceeded to get out my video and digital camera and take pictures of me snoring while they put fruit on my head and said, ?Guess he couldn?t keep up with the Aussies!?

My story would not be complete without mention of the ?Taste of Tasmania? that?s held on the waterfront next to Constitution Dock. Another race, Melbourne to Hobart, arrives at about the same time and it is the height of summer. Street performers, statue posers greet you on your way to the ?Taste?. You buy a plastic wine glass and sample the many excellent Tassie wines and beers along with cheeses, organic fruits, Huon Valley Mushrooms the size of a ripe, Florida orange, Bruny Island oysters, crays (lobster), the best salmon on earth, scallops, all while listening to local bands perform everything from ?Kansas City? to Tassie folk music. It wins- it is worth the trip just to scope out the 90? maxi skiffs and do the ?Taste?. Tasmania is Australia?s most southerly and smallest state. It is about the same size as Switzerland, the Republic of Ireland or West Virginia.

         The Tasmanian coastline is very rocky and dramatic, not unlike Ireland. The waves of the Southern Ocean have worn steep cliffs and rocky outcrops from the volcanic rock, creating a magnificent vista as you make your ?landfall?. Interspersed with the mountains to the sea are white sandy beaches, ?top value? being the magical Wineglass Bay of the Freycinet Peninsula on the east coast, brushed by turquoise seas and stretching for miles. Even in the balmy summer months it isn?t difficult to locate a deserted beach where the only footprints you will find are your own.

Another unique tradition in the ?S2H? once you reach Tassie is the QLD, or ?Quiet Little Drink?. It moves from the Customs House to Irish Murphy?s ?The Best Craic in Town? and is anything but quiet, with sailors telling their stories and finishing places moving up by the ?shout? or round. Many of the sailors wear faded, red Mount Gay hats from regattas around the world, many of which read ?Telstra Sydney Hobart Race 1998?. When you glanced in the eyes of such a sailor, the unspoken communication was, ?Yeah, I did it, mate-and survived-it was hell.? On New Year?s Day, I hired a car from Hertz, the only company with one to spare and it had to be back by 6 p.m. I visited Port Arthur, the convict colony on the Tasman Peninsula, Remarkable Cave, Devil?s Kitchen overlooking the route we sailed around Tasman Island and the picturesque town of Richmond in the wine country, crossing the oldest bridge in Australia. Hobart proper is a throwback to the US 50?s with Victorian architecture, and storekeepers who say, ?Lovely? when you give them correct change and ?Ta? after you say ?Thank you?. Another part of the culture which will warm the heart of every red-blooded American in a depressed economy; there is no tipping and the U.S. dollar is worth $1.60- $1.70 now. (My wife got a really nice black opal and diamond ring- After all, she let me go w/ three kids and two dogs at home over Christmas! I couldn?t find anyone else with such a wife).

My itinerary was scheduled to allow me to attend the Trophy Presentation, perhaps the most unique part of the entire trip. I was honored to be invited aboard Twain to motor down to the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania. It was very British & formal with all rising when the official party arrived. The Governor General, the Queen?s representative to Australia, the Premier of Tasmania (governor), the Lord Mayor of Hobart, Lady Green, and the commodores of the CYC and the Royal Yacht Club of Tasmania, the host in Hobart. We didn?t get a trophy, as BMS had last year, but Hugh did for ?Twain? for being first to finish in the Master?s division and the boat also became an official ?Hero?. It is now for sale for any adventurous types reading this article. The overall winner took off his wristwatch and tossed it into the harbor next to his winning yacht, ?Quest?, and put on his new Rolex in front of the crowd. As soon as the awards were over, the barbie was fired, the shrimp(prawns) and steak sizzled, the pitchers of  Boag?s beer flowed, and the band began to play. Hugh O?Neill & I talked about the connection between Australia and Ireland, ?When I go to Ireland, Chris, I feel like I?m at home.? His father was an Irish sea captain who had emigrated to Australia before WWII, and was reluctant to have kids because of the fear of a Japanese invasion of Australia. After his mother announced that she would go get a baby ?elsewhere?, he acquiesced and Sydney and the Hobart is the better for it. It is truly the people you meet that make the trip Down Under special. As one of only two Americans in the race, I believe, (there were about 600 sailors total), I was proud to have made the long journey of ?good fun?, survive it, make some fast but ?top value? friends and generally hold my own as a ?Fair Dinkum Yankee?.? As a Tampa Bay transplant, I?m also proud the Bucs got to, and won, the Super Bowl.