I ticked off a lifetime goal the other day - that of racing an 18-foot skiff on Sydney Harbour. It is one of those things that I have long wanted to do but have never quite managed. I got to see the last race of the JJ Giltinan - the unofficial world championships for the 18s - three years ago when Howie Hamlin became the first American to win the title. And since then I have had tantalising glimpses of 18 racing from videos like Smack Downunder.
After a quick ring round to some ex-49er mates, I discovered that one of Euan McNicol's crewmen was off skiing in Aspen, so I seized the opportunity and turned up to Double Bay, trapeze harness in hand, ready to do battle for the mighty Club Marine. I was down to do ‘middle' for Euan McNicol and his frontman Tim Austin. I felt like a bit of a spare part while they rolled the boat on its side, stuck the mast in and got the sails on. I did helm an 18 a couple of years ago, but anything I might have remembered about rigging them seemed to have escaped me.
But I hadn't forgotten just how heavy they are when it comes to lifting these beasts down to the water. The sails just have to blow slightly your way when you're holding up the back of the rack and suddenly it feels like the boat has doubled in weight. Not pleasant. At least these days they have carbon racks and carbon masts so they are probably a little easier to manage than they used to be. But in many ways, rigging them up and getting them launched is some of the hardest work involved in sailing an 18.
Actually, that depends very much on what job you are doing. The further forward you are positioned in the boat, the proportionately higher the workload. Of course, everyone's got to run from one side to the other during tacks and gybes, but that's about the limit of the helmsman's exertion. My job, working the mainsheet upwind and gybing the kite downwind, entails a moderate workload - about as much as I could cope with after a couple of weeks living on expenses and overindulging in the bars of Sydney and Hobart. The front man's role requires a young gun - such as we had with Tim - or at the very least, a well-maintained rusting gun. There's not much let up for the front man during a Harbour race, and it makes you feel a bit guilty seeing him puffing and panting away. Well, not that guilty actually. I had enough on my own plate.
Have you ever noticed, whenever you get out of a familiar environment and into a new one, just how much energy it takes merely to exist? Going out on the 18 from the shore into the middle of the Harbour, with the wind gusting and shifting a little unpredictably - even that was leaving me a little breathless. You're using twice as much energy moving around the boat and overcompensating with sail trim because you don't really know what's going to happen next. Once you've got your ‘sea legs' on a new boat, it all gets a little easier. But in the case of Sydney Harbour it's also the scenery that leaves you a little breathless. To your left you can see the city skyline, the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. To your right are Sydney Heads, the route to the Pacific Ocean. And all around you are some of the most sought-after residential properties in the world. Every Sunday at 2.30pm, a fleet of 20 skiffs come out to do battle in this incredible amphitheatre. "I hope you realise just how lucky you guys are," I said, awestruck at my surroundings, to Euan and Tim. "That's why we stay here and don't come to live in England," Euan fired back in typical Aussie fashion.
Euan was a bit rude about the Christmas pudding I was carrying too. I weigh in about 10kg heavier than his usual middleman, and he didn't cease to remind me of that fact, saying it had better blow hard that day. Not only that, but a white Lycra rashvests are not always the most flattering garment. As you'll know if you ever watched Susannah and Trinny on What Not To Wear (of course, I don't, but the wife is always watching it), then white can make you look bigger than you really are. I was wishing for my own rashvest which I'd left back home - black body for a slimmer girth and white arms to enhance those less-than-adequate biceps.
Anyway, there I was feeling a bit breathless and looking like an anaemic Mr Blobby, thinking I ought to get my act together. Luckily Euan and Tim were very understanding and were two of the coolest characters I have sailed with. I got the gist of what was required in a little practice session, and then we were launched out of the startline in about 15 knots of breeze, probably doing not far short of 15 knots boatspeed. Perfect, Euan might even thank me for the Christmas pud, I thought to myself. A good moderate breeze also meant I could ease the mainsheet a little, making life much less strenuous than if I was having to graunch it on in semi-trapezing conditions.
Unfortunately we were soon spat out of the line by the champion pincher Tony Hannan on Maytag. Don't you hate it when you come up against one of those in your fleet? There's always one guy who seems able to point five degrees higher than anyone else, and if you get stuck on the windward side of him then you spend your whole time with the jib half aback and seemingly going nowhere. It's a great weapon to have in your armoury, especially off the start line, but when you're on the receiving end it just seems downright unfair. Just as truck drivers have rev limiters to stop them exceeding the speed limit, boats should be fitted with pinching limiters so that everyone sails at a sensible speed in a more or less socially acceptable direction.
Anyway, it was no time to argue with Hanno and his incredible pointing machine, so we tacked out of there and had to do some serious bearing away to get behind the other starboard tackers and break out into clear breeze on the right hand side of the first beat. Bearing away in one of these things is quite a moment. It requires all three of you to be in tune with each other. The two front men have to ease loads of sheet before the helm can even think about pulling the tiller up to windward, and he's generally reminding you of that fact in quite verbal fashion.
With that ordeal over we can knuckle down and actually get racing. The lovely thing about 18s is that you know when they're in the groove. To borrow Aussie parlance, they ‘hoon' upwind at about 13 or 14 knots but soon drop off the pace if you get the sheeting or steering a little off key. This bit of my role I was slotting into quite quickly, but tacking was a little variable in quality. There's a funny rule about tacking any type of skiff - in fact to some extent any type of dinghy - that if you enter the tack flat you come out flat. But if you enter it slightly heeled, then you come out the other side equally heeled. On an 18-foot skiff that means a steep stumble downhill, soon followed by a steep scrabble up the netting on the new high side. Euan told me that the deck of our boat, Club Marine, had been painted in Allslip, which didn't really help matters. Even so, the other two seemed to run through to the new side like gazelles, with me blundering my way through a few steps behind, more like a wounded rhinoceros. Still no shouting though. I seemed to have picked myself a good team here.
After watching those Diet Coke Grand Prix 18-foot skiff TV shows from the mid-90s, when the racks were three feet wider and the boats were generally more extreme, I remember seeing more extreme behaviour, witnessing on-the-wire punch-ups on quite a regular basis. Headcams have never recorded such interesting footage or language. But no such behaviour was forthcoming on Club Marine. Shame really. It would have all added to the 18 experience, to get chinned for some sloppy footwork through the tack. But I suppose Euan and Tim needed me for the rest of the race, so they kept their fists to themselves. After our poor start, we were pretty pleased to get round the first mark in 5th place. By the next beat we were up to 3rd, and then a late hoist on a tight reach followed by an early takedown when the wind piped up saw us grab the lead for the briefest of moments.
But our magic reading of the variable 10-18 knot southerly, blowing straight off the suburbs, evaded us in the latter stages of the race as we let some of our rivals get out to one side of us and we dropped to 4th by the finish. Not bad though. I was pretty puffed but pretty pleased. That was the opening heat of the Australian Championships and I was relieved to have acquitted myself reasonably well on board Club Marine. In fact, Euan went so far as to say he was going to call his regular middleman still out skiing in Colorado and order him to eat double portions every meal until he comes back home. Praise indeed.
The skiffs are a great scene. Of course it's not that easy to get into it, and some accuse it of being cliquey, which it probably is. But once you're in, it's a very friendly set-up where everyone is known by another name, such as Hanno, Woody or Rissole. If in doubt, just finish off your name with an ‘o' or ‘y'. The skiffs are owned and funded by the 18-foot skiff league through the boat sponsors, so guys like Euan and Tim get to sail fantastically souped-up boats for not very much personal outlay. The downside of this from a competitive point of view is that there isn't as much incentive to pour your own money into a boat that you don't own, so the Aussies have lagged behind the technical development that Richard Woof has put into Britain's reigning world champion boat RMW Marine. Rob Greenhalgh, his brother Pete and middleman Dan Johnson have put in very little time on the water since the last JJ Giltinan, but they must still start as favourites for this year's event, which takes place at the end of February. Wish I was there.
