I drove through a sleeping city and savoured streets bereft of the usual traffic mayhem. Twenty minutes later I pulled into an empty car park. The fact that most of the boats at the sailing club remained tethered should have bothered me. Botany Bay looked calm, but there was an 18 knot, three metre swell out beyond the heads. Difficult conditions didn’t seem to bother the not-so-old salt who welcomed me on board with a grin and a packet of sea sickness tablets.
We were nine, including an eighty five year old and a 13 year old boy who slept most of the time, rising every so often to nibble chips and beg for a turn behind the wheel. He finally got his way as we limped back home at twilight across becalmed waters. It had been a long impatient wait until the skipper, his granddad, deemed conditions safe.
I’d always opted for ginger beer and tight wrist bands to manage sea sickness, but the swell courtesy of tropical cyclone Fina seemed a good reason to bring out the big guns. When I saw three burly sailors throw down a couple of big, white pills, I swallowed a couple too. A southerly buster was due at midnight. By then I would be tucked up and cosy, beating off nightmares about being trapped on a lurching boat somewhere between Sydney and Antarctica.
We had five hours sailing to get to the start of the race. We crossed the bay and motored north. On top of magnificent sandstone cliffs perched golf courses, a wasteland which was a once a combined rifle range and horse-riding school (!) and vast stretches of coastal scrub butting up against high density seaside homes. From the water it would have been easy to assume every person in this affluent, show-off town enjoyed an unencumbered ocean view.
One hour later, I had ceased noticing the geography. I was busy focusing on a point above the skyline. With a sweaty brow and salivary glands on overdrive, I hastily turned my back while two miserable relatives fed the fish. Sydney’s wondrous coastline became a nauseous blur and I prayed the ordeal would be over soon. I recalled my husband’s comment as I packed my gear earlier: “The two best days in a sailor’s life? The day he buys the bloody boat and the day he flogs it.” I wondered who of sane mind would choose to sail for 630 nautical miles over four days in broiling seas. I contemplated asking the skipper to deliver me to the nearest wharf and save me the return trip.
As we entered the relative calm of the harbour four hours, two vomits and six churning stomachs later, I felt as though a flogging had temporarily stalled. The women on board agreed seasickness is like childbirth. While you’re in the thick of it, madness reigns. But in the sweet moments after, as you sip tea and munch on a sandwich, a tired kind of joy replaces the agony. And so it was for me. As we jostled for a spot near the starting line, lunch and a cuppa never tasted better.
Cannon fire saw the harbour become a washing-machine mess of riotous froth as hundreds of spectator boats took off and chased the big yachts out to sea. There was whooping and yelling, hoots and whistles. People were laughing and pointing. Warnings burst forth from distant microphones and police in launches and hovercraft whizzed about, cutting through traffic and ordering hoons in speedboats to keep to the six knot speed limit. It was chaotic out there.
The maxi yachts were distant dark blobs by the time we rounded the heads and the overcast sky was filled with buzzing helicopters. The ubiquitous grey sails that now characterize all modern yachts were soon given a colourful boost as the 88-boat fleet launched their pretty spinnakers. We tagged along in their wake, sneaking up to sticky beak at a beautifully restored 19th century barque moored off the cliffs.
It seemed like an awfully long time in the swill for a few brief moments of exhilaration. But in those minutes, I finally understood the thrill of this epic race and the pull of the sea. We were close enough to hear crew members roar; to see sailors throwing themselves around the decks. It was really something, that boat trip. And the unforgettable sight of a whale, a seal and a pod of dolphins surfing the northern point of the bay; it was awesome out there, though sick-making at times.
I won’t be buying a boat any time soon. But I hope I am invited back on board next year. I’ll be taking a double dose of those pills, swigging ginger beer and strapping my wrists, all before I leave the house.
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