Before the Sword left the dock to head toward the starting line, Kooky joined the rest of the ten-member crew for a round of rum and Cokes at the CYC’s main bar. Sailors are renowned for their capacity to drink, and theirs may be the only sport in which having a drink or two before the start of competition is not merely acceptable but, for some, de rigueur. Although it was still morning, the bar was packed—and the mood was raucous, like a Saturday night in a college pub. Since girlfriends and wives were part of the crowd, there wasn’t much discussion about the ominous weather forecast. Instead, most of the talk was about Christmas Day activities and the impossible pressures of simultaneously preparing for the race and celebrating the holiday. Beyond lighthearted ribbing and challenges, there was a steady chorus of “good luck, mate” and “see you in Hobart.” Kooky—who, like skippers of many of the other most competitive yachts, had banned alcohol from the Sword—explained his morning cocktail with a pharmacist’s sense of humor. “We might as well have a small sedative to settle our nerves.” Dags had two.
On most yachts, the skipper delivers a pep talk before the start of the race. After the Sword’s crew assembled back on the boat, the only inspirational words came from Steve Kulmar, another relatively recent addition to the crew. Although he was brought on as a principal helmsman, Kulmar, who ran a successful Sydney advertising agency, had a far more expansive idea as to the role he would play on the Sword. Indeed, since he considered himself the yacht’s most experienced crewman, he expected to make most of the big decisions. That Kooky was the skipper seemed to Kulmar an irrelevant detail.
Kulmar always provoked strong reactions. People either loved him or hated him; he left no room for middle ground. A solidly built forty-six-year-old with closely cropped hair that was halfway to gray, he looked a bit like a stern version of Frank Sinatra. While Kulmar’s eyes weren’t blue, they were distinctive, usually so wide open that they looked as if they were about to burst from their sockets. In the office, where he wore Armani suits and his secretary served him oversized cups of cappuccino, Kulmar’s demeanor veered between toughness and vulnerability. He could be charming and solicitous, qualities that helped his company attract a blue-chip list of clients. The way he hesitated in the middle of a thought made him sound like an intellectual, yet his haircut and intensity gave him the appearance of a military officer and a man who was always on the verge of erupting into a tantrum if anything went wrong. Those tantrums weren’t pretty: Kulmar had a towering ego, and even his closest friends complained about the way he tried to seize control of every situation and how he stamped his feet when he failed to get his way.
Before the Sword left the dock, Kulmar addressed the crew as if it were his own. “The yacht is in great shape. We have an excellent crew, and I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t win as long as we push the boat as hard as we can.” His monologue included references to his past victories. In fact, he did have a great record. As a child, he had won several Australian and world championships on twelve- and eighteen-foot boats. As an adult, he had sailed in seven Fastnets and seventeen Hobarts, three of them on boats that won on corrected time. But Dags thought Kulmar’s credential wielding was more than simple egotism. He thought it was part of an effort by Kulmar to take over the boat. And that, Dags thought, was deeply troubling.
Managing the crew of a racing vessel can be complicated. There needs to be a clear line of authority, but decisions must be made fluidly, based on a foundation of mutual understanding about strengths and weaknesses, methods that work and ones that don’t, a common vocabulary as well as unspoken conventions for coordinating complicated procedures in sometimes challenging conditions. There’s too much going on during a race for the skipper to make all the decisions, and no one person can be the expert on everything. In addition, some of the most important calls—which course to take, what sails to fly—can’t be made with scientific certainty. Despite an increased reliance on high tech, most decisions in sailing are still made by human beings. The key to a successful boat is a crew’s ability to express opinions freely, without worrying about potential insults or hurt feelings, and to reach consensus rapidly.
When, late in the game, Kooky recruited Kulmar and Glyn, he was more focused on the individual skills they would bring than on the effect they would have on the rest of the crew. After months of racing as a group, the original crewmen had gotten to know one another and had become comfortable working together. The addition of Kulmar and Glyn changed things.
Dags, who had sailed with Kulmar in the past, had done everything he could to highlight the downside of bringing him on board. “He’s a fantastic helmsman, but he thinks he’s more than that—he thinks he’s a god,” Dags told Kooky. “When he steps on the boat, he’s going to act like he owns it.”
That had a ring of truth to Kooky. When Kooky and Kulmar met at a pub to talk about sailing the Sword, Kulmar was half an hour late. He then enumerated his sailing accomplishments, doing so in such elaborate detail that Kooky had little time to talk about the Sword’s existing crew. Indeed, Kulmar’s tendency to play up his victories had made him unpopular in many yachting circles, where understatement and modesty is the expected norm, but Kooky, who thought his crew was short of top-notch helmsmen, pursued him anyway. For his part, Kulmar left the pub convinced that Kooky was committed to winning the Hobart, but not experienced enough to know how. Rather than viewing that combination as a negative, Kulmar thought it would enable him to run the boat without having to bear the expense of owning it.
The potential for tension between Kulmar and the rest of the crew became apparent even before the Sword left the dock. Kulmar said the crew should adopt a two-watch system in which half the crew was on duty at any time. The others had already agreed to a three-watch system in which one team would sail the boat while the second was on call, relaxing either on deck or below, and the third was free to climb into their bunks and sleep. In a two-watch system, half the crew would be on deck, changing and trimming the sails. The other half would be completely off-duty at any given time. With a three-watch system, it would be easier to push the boat harder, but the crew would get less rest.
“I’ve never done a Hobart with a three-watch system,” Kulmar said. “It’s just not required.”
“No,” said Carl Watson, a balding, forty-five-year-old yachting industry consultant who had been sailing on the Sword for close to a year, “we’ve already decided on three watches.”
Watson was another crewman who had warned Kooky against adding Kulmar and Glyn. He realized that the Sword could use two first-class drivers, but he didn’t like the idea of adding anyone—whether it was Kulmar or an Olympian—to the crew at the last minute. “Glyn might be a fantastic helmsman,” Watson said to Kooky a few days before the race, “but it’s a late call. He doesn’t know anything about the boat—he’s never been on it—and we haven’t even met him.”
Standing on the dock, angry that Kulmar was trying to impose changes, Watson refused to give any ground. “We’re having three watches. There’s a good chance we’re going to get some bad weather, so we need to have more of the crew on duty.”
A little later, Kulmar and Watson had another disagreement. “What’s this?” Kulmar asked, pointing to a large bag that obviously contained a spare mainsail. “We don’t want to take two mains. It’s nothing but extra weight.”
“Yes, we do,” Watson said. “We’re taking it. We’ve already made the decision.”
“This is bullshit,” Kulmar thundered. “It weighs far too much. It’s stupid. I’ve done more Hobarts than anyone on this boat—and it doesn’t make any fucking sense to take two mains.”
“I’ve done exactly the same number of Hobarts as you,” Watson said. “Seventeen.”