Safety is an important cultural element amongst the crew of any Volvo Open 70. Take us, for example:
I am just jumping back into my nav station after spending a rotation on deck of trimming, grinding, and driving. In these conditions, everyone on deck is clipped in, and our harness doubles a manual inflating life jacket that holds a personal EPERB and strobe light. (We convert our life jackets from automatic inflation to manual because these boats are so wet.) Just like a rock climber is frequently saved by her harness, her rope, and her belayer, we use our harnesses to keep us onboard.
Each position on deck requires a different technique for surviving a wave that’s washing over the deck. The trimmer sets his tether up so that it’s short and tight so that he can keep both hands on the sheet. When a wave hits, we lean against the tether and ready ourselves to give the sheet an ease as the boat slows down and the apparent wind angle moves aft. The collision with the wave is intense and the pull on the chest harness practically squeezes the wind out of you sometimes.
When we’re grinding, we clip into a jack line that runs down the middle of the cockpit floor, but there is plenty slack in the six-foot tether. If a wave were to sweep you off of your feet, you’d be washed to the back of the cockpit before the tether pulls tight. When a wave reaches the cockpit, I find that squatting a bit and bear hugging the pedestal with my arms and legs keeps me in-situ.
The wheel has an attachment point (a “synthetic” padeye that’s usually made of Spectra or Dyneema) for the harness at its hub. Driving is an incredibly physical job in tough conditions such as these and my arms are aching from my 45-minute helm session. Trust me, it’s a full bodywork out.
Beyond the basics of clipping in and holding on, the Volvo Ocean Race requires all sailors to attend a safety course in Northern England. This two-day course gave us a compressive demonstration of all our onboard safety equipment and first-aid tools. We shot flares, extinguished fires and practiced CPR. The most eye-opening part of the series of drills included the liferaft, MOB, and abandon-ship training. Their intention was clearly to scare the crap out of everyone. We then suited up in our dry suits and harness/life jackets at a “special pool”. The first exercise was simple; swim around the pool. Jokes were told in a relaxed manner as we flopped around while floating on our backs. Meanwhile the pool started to produce rolling, one-meter waves. “This is a pretty cool pool. I like swimming here.” The jokes kept coming.
After our swimming lesson, we climbed out of the pool and were taught how to deploy our life raft. We then deployed our back flips, cannon balls, and belly-flop skills as we all were instructed back into the pool. Our instructor was not amused with our shenanigans and commanded us to start swimming attached to each other as a group. Then, the waves were turned back on but this time they were twice the size as before. A couple laps later howling wind fans were turned on. It was becoming difficult to swim. After another lap, the valve to the rain jets was opened, and our jokes were replaced by the sound of 11 guys choking and gagging on water. Next, the thunderstorm was activated as the pool lights dimmed and strobe lights and thunder took over. We could no longer even see the sides of the pool! Over a loud speaker we could hear the command, “Get in our life raft.” We searched the pool for the raft, still swimming attached as a group. After a couple minutes of searching we found the raft, got in one by one and pulled the canopy down over our heads to protect us from the rain.
It was pitch black inside. With the sound of the thunder echoing outside and the wind and the rain lashing the canopy, we had to scream to communicate with each other. Amongst the chaos we quickly realized that our raft was flooding. As we learned in the classroom that morning, all life rafts have a hole in the floor so that if the raft is inflated upside down it won’t suck itself to the water as it inflates. We were all crawling over each other to find the valve, as the storm kept raging and our life raft rocked and rolled with the swell.
Finally, we managed to close the vent and congratulated ourselves for completing the drill. We then sat in the raft for 5 minutes before somebody mumbled, ”When do you think that they’ll let us out of here?” Five more minutes transpired. “I don’t think that the drill is over yet,” crooned a cynical observer. Another five minutes passed, and we started to lose track of time. Finally, the drill ended as the lights were turned on, the waves subsided, the water jets were extinguished, and the thunder and strobe lights were turned off.
At the end of the drill our life raft was full of 11 guys that were scared straight.
Because of this, our number-one mission of this race is to stay on the boat and to never, ever get into that life raft.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Russians Are Coming!
SILENCE. The boat swerves a bit as we straddle a wave.
SCREACH, SCREACH, SCREACH: - the grinders haul in the spinnaker sheet. Reverbrations echo throughout the boat, temporarily drowning out almost everything else, save the sound of our hull mashing through the seas.
RUMBLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE: We careen down the wave. The water rushing past the hull becomes deafening, usurping the SCREACH of the spin sheet. Concentration varies between hard to impossible.
*BOOM* - we crash into the bottom of the wave in front of us. The entire boat shutters violently.
*WOOSH* - several tons of water come crashing over the foredeck and through the cockpit in the form of a wall of water that’s a full meter thick. Spray this is not.
"How'd we go on that wave?" the guys ask.
"Our best shot of the day so far: 30.3 knots," I reply.
(Silence)
"Send it boys, here we go again!" I call.
Two evenings ago, I blogged about the emotional roller coaster of sailing in this race. My objective for today was to avoid Code 10: Terror. Mission accomplished!
At that time, if you recall, we were downwind sailing on port tack flying our big gear. As the wind speed built to the mid 20's, we pealed to our A6, our small fractional spinnaker, and then we put a reef in the mainsail to reduce sail area. But the wind kept building and the waves kept building. So, we had a tough decision to make based on the following facts:
1) Sunset was only 2 hours away.
2) A major boat-handling maneuver in extreme conditions, in the pitch black of night, with our damaged rig and a spinnaker up would cause Code 10: Terror.
3) A cold front with 35-40 knot winds would pass us sometime in the AM hours.
4) The cold front would also bring a 100-degree wind shift, requiring a gybe (remember, so far with our jury rig we have only sailed on port tack, meaning that our starboard shrouds and spreaders were still untested.).
5) We could not be certain that our rig would stand up on starboard tack after a gybe or in a knockdown broach.
6) We had a 70-mile lead on the Russians.
7) The race leaders would be very difficult to keep up with, let alone catch, with our rig handicap.
So, we did what anybody would do in given these factors: we made a plan. We took down our big spinnaker and hoisted a manageable reaching Genoa in its place. This required us to sail a higher wind angle, taking us on an easterly heading while the rest of the fleet continued heading southeast. We also decided that we would wait until daylight to gybe. I spent much time reviewing the weather models and satellite observations from our midnight download and I concluded that the cold front was going to pass us at 9AM, and that we wanted to be set up and sailing for about an hour on starboard tack. At first light — around 7AM — we started restacking the gear to the new windward side. To be overly cautious, we hoisted the J4, our smallest jib, and took down the reaching Genoa. This process took an hour with the full effort of all 10 of us.
It was now time for the moment of truth. We gybed. The rig didn’t tumble. Deep relief! We loaded the mast and rigging by pulling in on the mainsheet. The rig stood: Our repair worked! However, as the engineers at our mast manufacturer told us, we are only safe on starboard tack as long as we don't fly masthead kites. With confidence, we hoisted the A6 - our fractional spinnaker.
With the rig scare averted, we were now heading for the cold front to tackle it head on. With little drama, a brief spell of 40-knot winds, and lots of water, we punched through it and were comfortably sailing yet again. Because we felt confident with our rig and now had a comfortable gap between us and the center of the low, I switched from “survival mode” to “racing mode”. At the 2200 position report we learned that the Russians had closed our lead gap to 25 miles. Time for Code 6: competitive intensity.
An hour later the windspeed dropped to the high teens. OH NO!I feared would happen when we reached the back side of the front! We were wallowing and need the power of our big, masthead spinnaker and our full mainsail. Code 7: Frustration. Given our mast situation, Code 6 was now impossible.
I had faith that we would be saved by the virtue of patience. Since we can't change our sails to suit the wind speed, we needed the wind speed suits our sails. I knew that more wind was coming but so were the Russians! Two hours later the wind built to the mid 20-knot range. We staved off the Russians, who are now only 20 miles behind us. Back to Code 6: Competitive intensity.
*WOOSH* ... "28.7 knots on that one"
Code 5. Fantastical thrill
This race is a rollercoaster!
Congratulations to Ericsson 4 for breaking the 24-hour distance record today. Brilliant work!!
-Matt out
SCREACH, SCREACH, SCREACH: - the grinders haul in the spinnaker sheet. Reverbrations echo throughout the boat, temporarily drowning out almost everything else, save the sound of our hull mashing through the seas.
RUMBLE, RUMBLE, RUMBLE: We careen down the wave. The water rushing past the hull becomes deafening, usurping the SCREACH of the spin sheet. Concentration varies between hard to impossible.
*BOOM* - we crash into the bottom of the wave in front of us. The entire boat shutters violently.
*WOOSH* - several tons of water come crashing over the foredeck and through the cockpit in the form of a wall of water that’s a full meter thick. Spray this is not.
"How'd we go on that wave?" the guys ask.
"Our best shot of the day so far: 30.3 knots," I reply.
(Silence)
"Send it boys, here we go again!" I call.
Two evenings ago, I blogged about the emotional roller coaster of sailing in this race. My objective for today was to avoid Code 10: Terror. Mission accomplished!
At that time, if you recall, we were downwind sailing on port tack flying our big gear. As the wind speed built to the mid 20's, we pealed to our A6, our small fractional spinnaker, and then we put a reef in the mainsail to reduce sail area. But the wind kept building and the waves kept building. So, we had a tough decision to make based on the following facts:
1) Sunset was only 2 hours away.
2) A major boat-handling maneuver in extreme conditions, in the pitch black of night, with our damaged rig and a spinnaker up would cause Code 10: Terror.
3) A cold front with 35-40 knot winds would pass us sometime in the AM hours.
4) The cold front would also bring a 100-degree wind shift, requiring a gybe (remember, so far with our jury rig we have only sailed on port tack, meaning that our starboard shrouds and spreaders were still untested.).
5) We could not be certain that our rig would stand up on starboard tack after a gybe or in a knockdown broach.
6) We had a 70-mile lead on the Russians.
7) The race leaders would be very difficult to keep up with, let alone catch, with our rig handicap.
So, we did what anybody would do in given these factors: we made a plan. We took down our big spinnaker and hoisted a manageable reaching Genoa in its place. This required us to sail a higher wind angle, taking us on an easterly heading while the rest of the fleet continued heading southeast. We also decided that we would wait until daylight to gybe. I spent much time reviewing the weather models and satellite observations from our midnight download and I concluded that the cold front was going to pass us at 9AM, and that we wanted to be set up and sailing for about an hour on starboard tack. At first light — around 7AM — we started restacking the gear to the new windward side. To be overly cautious, we hoisted the J4, our smallest jib, and took down the reaching Genoa. This process took an hour with the full effort of all 10 of us.
It was now time for the moment of truth. We gybed. The rig didn’t tumble. Deep relief! We loaded the mast and rigging by pulling in on the mainsheet. The rig stood: Our repair worked! However, as the engineers at our mast manufacturer told us, we are only safe on starboard tack as long as we don't fly masthead kites. With confidence, we hoisted the A6 - our fractional spinnaker.
With the rig scare averted, we were now heading for the cold front to tackle it head on. With little drama, a brief spell of 40-knot winds, and lots of water, we punched through it and were comfortably sailing yet again. Because we felt confident with our rig and now had a comfortable gap between us and the center of the low, I switched from “survival mode” to “racing mode”. At the 2200 position report we learned that the Russians had closed our lead gap to 25 miles. Time for Code 6: competitive intensity.
An hour later the windspeed dropped to the high teens. OH NO!I feared would happen when we reached the back side of the front! We were wallowing and need the power of our big, masthead spinnaker and our full mainsail. Code 7: Frustration. Given our mast situation, Code 6 was now impossible.
I had faith that we would be saved by the virtue of patience. Since we can't change our sails to suit the wind speed, we needed the wind speed suits our sails. I knew that more wind was coming but so were the Russians! Two hours later the wind built to the mid 20-knot range. We staved off the Russians, who are now only 20 miles behind us. Back to Code 6: Competitive intensity.
*WOOSH* ... "28.7 knots on that one"
Code 5. Fantastical thrill
This race is a rollercoaster!
Congratulations to Ericsson 4 for breaking the 24-hour distance record today. Brilliant work!!
-Matt out
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Scale of Heaven and Hell
I’ve devised a scale that describes the emotional spectrum of sailing in the Volvo Ocean Race. The scale is from 0 to 10 and is of increasing levels of “intensity”. It goes like this:
0. Sleep
1. Boredom
2. Zen-like
3. Enjoyable
4. Humorous and fun
5. Fantastical thrill
6. Competitive intensity
7. Frustration
8. Exhaustion
9. Fear
10. Sheer terror and survival
Ideally, cruising through this race in the middle ranges of 3-6, with plenty of 0 thrown in would be the perfect way to race around the world. This is pretty much how our leg has gone so far. However, right now I’m not experiencing these good numbers. Instead, I’m living in Zone 9: Fear. You see, there’s a storm brewing, a very big storm. If you lived along the coast in the southern states of the USA you’d be boarding up your windows and driving your car inland if you saw something this wicked coming your way. Us? We’re sailing towards it right now. You see, the low-pressure system to our south is going to merge with another low-pressure system to the southeast, unifying into a deep depression of 970mb. This system will generate gale-force winds. For us, this storm is a gateway to hell. My job over the next 5 days is to ensure that we don’t fall directly into it (just use it to our best-possible advantage), and that both boat and crew get to Cape Town in one piece.
Given the severity of the storm, we've been preparing for the blow for the past day. Here’s a look at our work list thus far: We’ve tidied up the boat with a bunch of small maintenance jobs. We have organized our stack of gear so that all emergency and repair equipment is ready to deploy if we need it. We’ve added carbon laminate to our damaged jumper spreader….oh, I hope that you haven’t forgotten about our damaged mast. We certainly haven’t! Ever since we completed the repair well over a week ago, we’ve been sailing on port tack. The damaged spreader is on the starboard side of the mast and we haven’t loaded or tested its strength yet. There is an impending gybe in our future that will coincide with a cold front crossing over us as the storm deepens to our south. Talk about trial by fire for our jury-rigged spreader!
Right now, we are in Zone 9. I need to make sure that I don’t put the boat in a location that escalates us to Zone 10. These boats are so powerful that they don’t need a breath of wind over 25 knots to set the ocean on fire. That said, our weather-routing software is much braver than I am! It will seek maximum wind speeds to get us to Cape Town as quickly as possible. To tame the weather-routing software for wind speeds over 25 knots, I told the program that our boatspeed would only be 5 knots. This is not the case in reality, of course, but it manually forces the router to hunt through the weather model forecast to generate routes that keep us in wind speeds under 25 knots. Over the next week, the hot seat (AKA my nav station) will be smoking as I try to balance survival, keeping the boat in one piece, and racing against our competitors. It’s a difficult equation to optimize…but challenges like this are what make being a navigator so invigorating.
But what’s really fascinating is the report from Expedition, our routing software, as I plot our track for arriving in Cape Town. According to Expedition, there are two paths that we can go by, a scary route, and a more sensible route (again, keeping in mind our damaged spreader situation). The surprising bit is that the ETA in Cape Town is the same for both routes, which actually helps simplify my life. At least for now…
This screen shot from Expedition, my routing program, shows the two of the many options that I’m considering for our track to Cape Town. This is a snap shot of the South Atlantic weather on Oct 29th at 900 GMT. The bull's eye in the lower middle section of the frame is the low-pressure storm. The red line represents the scary route, and the black line shows the sensible way to get to Cape Town…you might be surprised that the black route and the red route both arrive in Cape Town at almost the exact same time…. Try and guess which route we'll choose.
-Matt out
I’ve devised a scale that describes the emotional spectrum of sailing in the Volvo Ocean Race. The scale is from 0 to 10 and is of increasing levels of “intensity”. It goes like this:
0. Sleep
1. Boredom
2. Zen-like
3. Enjoyable
4. Humorous and fun
5. Fantastical thrill
6. Competitive intensity
7. Frustration
8. Exhaustion
9. Fear
10. Sheer terror and survival
Ideally, cruising through this race in the middle ranges of 3-6, with plenty of 0 thrown in would be the perfect way to race around the world. This is pretty much how our leg has gone so far. However, right now I’m not experiencing these good numbers. Instead, I’m living in Zone 9: Fear. You see, there’s a storm brewing, a very big storm. If you lived along the coast in the southern states of the USA you’d be boarding up your windows and driving your car inland if you saw something this wicked coming your way. Us? We’re sailing towards it right now. You see, the low-pressure system to our south is going to merge with another low-pressure system to the southeast, unifying into a deep depression of 970mb. This system will generate gale-force winds. For us, this storm is a gateway to hell. My job over the next 5 days is to ensure that we don’t fall directly into it (just use it to our best-possible advantage), and that both boat and crew get to Cape Town in one piece.
Given the severity of the storm, we've been preparing for the blow for the past day. Here’s a look at our work list thus far: We’ve tidied up the boat with a bunch of small maintenance jobs. We have organized our stack of gear so that all emergency and repair equipment is ready to deploy if we need it. We’ve added carbon laminate to our damaged jumper spreader….oh, I hope that you haven’t forgotten about our damaged mast. We certainly haven’t! Ever since we completed the repair well over a week ago, we’ve been sailing on port tack. The damaged spreader is on the starboard side of the mast and we haven’t loaded or tested its strength yet. There is an impending gybe in our future that will coincide with a cold front crossing over us as the storm deepens to our south. Talk about trial by fire for our jury-rigged spreader!
Right now, we are in Zone 9. I need to make sure that I don’t put the boat in a location that escalates us to Zone 10. These boats are so powerful that they don’t need a breath of wind over 25 knots to set the ocean on fire. That said, our weather-routing software is much braver than I am! It will seek maximum wind speeds to get us to Cape Town as quickly as possible. To tame the weather-routing software for wind speeds over 25 knots, I told the program that our boatspeed would only be 5 knots. This is not the case in reality, of course, but it manually forces the router to hunt through the weather model forecast to generate routes that keep us in wind speeds under 25 knots. Over the next week, the hot seat (AKA my nav station) will be smoking as I try to balance survival, keeping the boat in one piece, and racing against our competitors. It’s a difficult equation to optimize…but challenges like this are what make being a navigator so invigorating.
But what’s really fascinating is the report from Expedition, our routing software, as I plot our track for arriving in Cape Town. According to Expedition, there are two paths that we can go by, a scary route, and a more sensible route (again, keeping in mind our damaged spreader situation). The surprising bit is that the ETA in Cape Town is the same for both routes, which actually helps simplify my life. At least for now…
This screen shot from Expedition, my routing program, shows the two of the many options that I’m considering for our track to Cape Town. This is a snap shot of the South Atlantic weather on Oct 29th at 900 GMT. The bull's eye in the lower middle section of the frame is the low-pressure storm. The red line represents the scary route, and the black line shows the sensible way to get to Cape Town…you might be surprised that the black route and the red route both arrive in Cape Town at almost the exact same time…. Try and guess which route we'll choose.
-Matt out
Monday, October 27, 2008
Questions Answered
I love receiving reader questions, and I typically try to weave these queries into my stories. So, today's entry will be dedicated specifically to answering reader's questions. I'll punch through 3 quick ones and then spend the bulk of this entry addressing Jay Palace's fabulous question on team building. Here we go.
Is the Volvo Ocean Race covered on TV in the USA?
-Yes. Weekly shows will air on PBS and monthly recaps will air on Versus.
Have we thought about building spoons out of carbon?
-Yes we did. However, instead of building new ones we are using the scoops from the sports drink containers.
Where do we get the power to run all of our computing, communication and electronics, and how much power does the system take to run?
-The boat has 2 Volvo Penta Engines, one large and one small. The large one is used for powering the propeller when we are motoring in and out of the harbor, and for pumping hydraulic fluid in the rams for our canting keel. We only use this large engine for the quick, 80-degree, full side-to-side cants when we tack or gybe. We also have an electric pump for slower and smaller cant adjustments to the keel position. The small Volvo Penta engine runs our watermaker and a very big alternator that charges our 24-volt DC power-supply system. We make water and charge our batteries for an hour 3 times per day. Our entire electrical system pulls about 12 Amps in normal operation.
And now for the big question of the day:
“Did you spend any time thinking about how to quickly bond with the guys on the team? You were the last addition, right? What was that like? And... as the navigator, the team looks to you for an intensely important part of the game.... how does that all impact your "on-boarding" process? And... lastly, did your skipper Ger O'Rourke do or say anything to help you? -JAY PALACE
-I love this question. I've been a part of two Americas Cup teams and now, one Volvo Ocean Race team. Not one of these teams organized strategic team-building exercises. After my two Americas Cup campaigns I went back to school for my MBA at the University of Michigan, where teaching leadership and team building philosophies is a core part of the curriculum. Considering how mission critical it is to develop a 'high performing team' at the VOR and AC level, I'm shocked that teams spend so little time working with external consultants to implement practices and techniques that have been proven [successful] at the executive level within corporations. Most professional sailing teams, you might be surprised to find out, develop their team dynamics in a sort of haphazard, organic way. This strategy, or should I say 'lack thereof', can sometimes have disastrous consequences. I have seen several Americas Cup and VOR teams implode, despite having all of the necessary equipment, funding, and raw human talent to be champion-level competitors.
Despite my late addition to the Delta Lloyd team, I've already started to spearhead team development discussions while we've been sailing on Leg 1. The most important discussion that I've lead is to establish, at a conscious level, self-awareness of individual attitude. I believe that everyone is either on a virtuous or a vicious cycle at any [given] moment. Moreover, both states of mind are highly contagious to other teammates, particularly in the intense and stressful environment of racing Volvo 70's around the world.
To address Jay's second question about my personal integration into the team, I can admit that it was a difficult process for me. On the day that I arrived, I was not introduced to the team nor did I have any sort of orientation. For the first time in a very long time I was sailing with an entirely new group of people, whom I didn't know at all. The day that I flew into Alicante, from San Francisco, everyone was already working on the boat when the taxi dropped me off. I set down my bags and then headed up to the boat to develop a work list for [the] navigation system. I knew that a strategy of being quiet and humble would be my best initial strategy.
The reality is that I'm gregarious and feel comfortable “leading the charge.” I decided to leave my reputation with the team to my performance during the in-port race series. Right up until the in-port race, I deferred all planning activates to the shore-side management. Even though no one had given me a proper initial introduction to the team, I did not attempt to over compensate for this by reciting my “resume” in an effort to promote myself or [my] experience. Then, during the inshore race in Alicante, I took the reins as my job description entails. As soon as we pushed off of the dock, amongst all of the fanfare that goes along with a “show” at this level, I immediately called everyone into the cockpit and led a meeting to lay out the [game] plan for our race day. This was the first time the sailing team was alone, together, to come together as a group. During the in-port series I led the team in the typical tactician/strategist role.
The in-port race turned into a great team-building day for us, and it also led to the crew's trust in me as the team's navigator and leader. It's important for the crew to trust their navigator, particularly when you wake them up on their off-watch to gybe and restack the boat. Trust and confidence is a paramount relationship amongst all levels of a Volvo Ocean Race crew, and I can happily report that we are on the virtuous path.
Matt out
Is the Volvo Ocean Race covered on TV in the USA?
-Yes. Weekly shows will air on PBS and monthly recaps will air on Versus.
Have we thought about building spoons out of carbon?
-Yes we did. However, instead of building new ones we are using the scoops from the sports drink containers.
Where do we get the power to run all of our computing, communication and electronics, and how much power does the system take to run?
-The boat has 2 Volvo Penta Engines, one large and one small. The large one is used for powering the propeller when we are motoring in and out of the harbor, and for pumping hydraulic fluid in the rams for our canting keel. We only use this large engine for the quick, 80-degree, full side-to-side cants when we tack or gybe. We also have an electric pump for slower and smaller cant adjustments to the keel position. The small Volvo Penta engine runs our watermaker and a very big alternator that charges our 24-volt DC power-supply system. We make water and charge our batteries for an hour 3 times per day. Our entire electrical system pulls about 12 Amps in normal operation.
And now for the big question of the day:
“Did you spend any time thinking about how to quickly bond with the guys on the team? You were the last addition, right? What was that like? And... as the navigator, the team looks to you for an intensely important part of the game.... how does that all impact your "on-boarding" process? And... lastly, did your skipper Ger O'Rourke do or say anything to help you? -JAY PALACE
-I love this question. I've been a part of two Americas Cup teams and now, one Volvo Ocean Race team. Not one of these teams organized strategic team-building exercises. After my two Americas Cup campaigns I went back to school for my MBA at the University of Michigan, where teaching leadership and team building philosophies is a core part of the curriculum. Considering how mission critical it is to develop a 'high performing team' at the VOR and AC level, I'm shocked that teams spend so little time working with external consultants to implement practices and techniques that have been proven [successful] at the executive level within corporations. Most professional sailing teams, you might be surprised to find out, develop their team dynamics in a sort of haphazard, organic way. This strategy, or should I say 'lack thereof', can sometimes have disastrous consequences. I have seen several Americas Cup and VOR teams implode, despite having all of the necessary equipment, funding, and raw human talent to be champion-level competitors.
Despite my late addition to the Delta Lloyd team, I've already started to spearhead team development discussions while we've been sailing on Leg 1. The most important discussion that I've lead is to establish, at a conscious level, self-awareness of individual attitude. I believe that everyone is either on a virtuous or a vicious cycle at any [given] moment. Moreover, both states of mind are highly contagious to other teammates, particularly in the intense and stressful environment of racing Volvo 70's around the world.
To address Jay's second question about my personal integration into the team, I can admit that it was a difficult process for me. On the day that I arrived, I was not introduced to the team nor did I have any sort of orientation. For the first time in a very long time I was sailing with an entirely new group of people, whom I didn't know at all. The day that I flew into Alicante, from San Francisco, everyone was already working on the boat when the taxi dropped me off. I set down my bags and then headed up to the boat to develop a work list for [the] navigation system. I knew that a strategy of being quiet and humble would be my best initial strategy.
The reality is that I'm gregarious and feel comfortable “leading the charge.” I decided to leave my reputation with the team to my performance during the in-port race series. Right up until the in-port race, I deferred all planning activates to the shore-side management. Even though no one had given me a proper initial introduction to the team, I did not attempt to over compensate for this by reciting my “resume” in an effort to promote myself or [my] experience. Then, during the inshore race in Alicante, I took the reins as my job description entails. As soon as we pushed off of the dock, amongst all of the fanfare that goes along with a “show” at this level, I immediately called everyone into the cockpit and led a meeting to lay out the [game] plan for our race day. This was the first time the sailing team was alone, together, to come together as a group. During the in-port series I led the team in the typical tactician/strategist role.
The in-port race turned into a great team-building day for us, and it also led to the crew's trust in me as the team's navigator and leader. It's important for the crew to trust their navigator, particularly when you wake them up on their off-watch to gybe and restack the boat. Trust and confidence is a paramount relationship amongst all levels of a Volvo Ocean Race crew, and I can happily report that we are on the virtuous path.
Matt out
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Controlling a Beast
Going south, going south, and I just finished my turn at the wheel. Warm, sunny, 21 knots of breeze with long, rolling waves and we are making 16 knots on an upwind reach. The Volvo 70 is an animal in these conditions, and there is power to burn. You feel like you are controlling a beast. It's a great feeling.
Questions came in about our trajectory to Cape Town, and I understand if it's puzzling.
You might wonder why we are 60 miles off the coast of South America after leaving Europe for South Africa. Why are we on the "wrong" side of the South Atlantic?
I could ask myself the same question as I look at our Velocity Made on Course (the component/vector of our overall speed that is taking us towards Cape Town) and I see 1.2 knots on the display. Geez. We're going 16 knots through the water, yielding 1.2 knots toward the finish, with 3300 miles to go? Why not just stop in Rio for a burger? (Freshly ground sirloin cooked medium with cheddar cheese, avocado, tomato, grilled onions and a soft toasted sesame seed bun, basket of fries, hot fudge mint malt . . .
Sorry, where was I?
Well, the answer is, we're on this route because of the South Atlantic High Pressure Zone. It's in the way, between us and Cape Town. There's little or no wind at the center of the High, so it's faster to sail around it than through it. We're out here for another 12 days, probably, with our familiar three varieties of freeze-dried feasts and zero remaining spoons.
The High, in general, hangs out between South America and Africa at about 20 degrees South Latitude. Straightlining toward Cape Town, we'd sail into the High and slow down big time. And when we finally broke out on the eastern side of the High we would be faced with gale force headwinds for the last several hundred miles to the finish. That would be wrong twice. Thus we are chillin’ like villains over here on the sunny coast of Brazil. Our winds here are the easterly trades that flow across the top of the High, making our assault south very quick.
Once we get down to about 25 or 30 degrees South Latitude we will turn and burn to Cape Town. (We are currently at 9 S, Rio is at 23 S and Cape Town is at 35 S, with each degree of latitude being 60 miles.) It is reasonable to hope to ride a southern ocean low pressure system after we turn. The weather patterns along that late portion of the route are perfect for breaking 24-hour records. We should be able to stack up a few 500+ mile days.
Here's a screen shot from Expedition, my routing software, showing our expected path (red line) based on the 10-day GFS model and a snap shot of the weather model forecast for Oct 29th. The green dot in the middle of the screen along the red path is where we should be on the 29th. The blue lines represent MSL pressure contours. To the north of the red line is the South Atlantic High. To the southwest of Cape Town is the low pressure system we aim to latch onto.
Gives me itchy fingers. Click for the large view. Matt out
Questions came in about our trajectory to Cape Town, and I understand if it's puzzling.
You might wonder why we are 60 miles off the coast of South America after leaving Europe for South Africa. Why are we on the "wrong" side of the South Atlantic?
I could ask myself the same question as I look at our Velocity Made on Course (the component/vector of our overall speed that is taking us towards Cape Town) and I see 1.2 knots on the display. Geez. We're going 16 knots through the water, yielding 1.2 knots toward the finish, with 3300 miles to go? Why not just stop in Rio for a burger? (Freshly ground sirloin cooked medium with cheddar cheese, avocado, tomato, grilled onions and a soft toasted sesame seed bun, basket of fries, hot fudge mint malt . . .
Sorry, where was I?
Well, the answer is, we're on this route because of the South Atlantic High Pressure Zone. It's in the way, between us and Cape Town. There's little or no wind at the center of the High, so it's faster to sail around it than through it. We're out here for another 12 days, probably, with our familiar three varieties of freeze-dried feasts and zero remaining spoons.
The High, in general, hangs out between South America and Africa at about 20 degrees South Latitude. Straightlining toward Cape Town, we'd sail into the High and slow down big time. And when we finally broke out on the eastern side of the High we would be faced with gale force headwinds for the last several hundred miles to the finish. That would be wrong twice. Thus we are chillin’ like villains over here on the sunny coast of Brazil. Our winds here are the easterly trades that flow across the top of the High, making our assault south very quick.
Once we get down to about 25 or 30 degrees South Latitude we will turn and burn to Cape Town. (We are currently at 9 S, Rio is at 23 S and Cape Town is at 35 S, with each degree of latitude being 60 miles.) It is reasonable to hope to ride a southern ocean low pressure system after we turn. The weather patterns along that late portion of the route are perfect for breaking 24-hour records. We should be able to stack up a few 500+ mile days.
Here's a screen shot from Expedition, my routing software, showing our expected path (red line) based on the 10-day GFS model and a snap shot of the weather model forecast for Oct 29th. The green dot in the middle of the screen along the red path is where we should be on the 29th. The blue lines represent MSL pressure contours. To the north of the red line is the South Atlantic High. To the southwest of Cape Town is the low pressure system we aim to latch onto.
Gives me itchy fingers. Click for the large view. Matt out
Friday, October 24, 2008
Neptune Yes, Spoons No
It's a tough day to write a blog entry. My keyboard and I are bouncing out of synch.
I zig.
It zags.
The boat's motion is pretty violent. We are blast-reaching toward Fernando de Neronha, our scoring gate, and making 17 knots.
Early this morning we crossed the equator and—every bit as reliable as Santa on Christmas— King Neptune boarded us at 10 am. A clever fellow, Neptune. He timed his arrival to coincide with a change of watch and, not to disturb us unnecessarily, disguised himself to resemble our crewman Johnnie Portman. (Johnnie crossed the equator in the previous race and so was not a rookie to receive the traditional ceremonial hazing.) I was a rookie, so there I was, and there was Neptune with a beard, crown and cape, trident in hand.
One by one, we first-timers were punished for our sins.
Sins that included, for example, coming onto watch late, leaving personal gear lying around the interior, or hoarding candy bars. I was punished for my persistence in maintaining our boat's heading. Neptune was not happy. He told the crew: "Matt pokes his head up on deck to tell the guys, 'We're sailing two degrees too low, the course is 240.' Fifteen minutes later it's, 'We're three degrees too high; the course is 240.' And fifteen minutes after that, 'The course is still 240, can you press it up 2 degrees?' "
Apparently, after thirteen days, this gets annoying. Who would have thought?
My punishment was to sing the Star Spangled Banner to the crew. Then a ladle of "brew" was dumped on each rookie's head. The "brew" was made from seawater and freeze-dried detritus that had been left to fester below in the heat of the doldrums for the past couple of days.
It was a great way to start the day and, actually, I mean that.
Getting back to what we're here for: Today, due to our easterly position on the fleet, we launched past the Russians and have left them over 40 miles in our wake. As I write, Ericsson 3 is eight miles in front and to leeward. We are closing quickly. We have only 60 miles of runway to Fernando, however. We hope we can catch them before we pass the scoring gate.
P.S. For those of you who are keeping track of our 'spoon count', Stu broke our last one today.
Editor's note: One of Matt's dedicated readers suggests that we offer further reading on the traditional transformation from Pollywog to Shellback at the crossing of the equator. Here's a wikipedia link.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Deliriously Tired
"Kimball, this might need a big edit, I'm dileriously tired ... "
Well, after we respelled deliriously, you were good, Matt. Get some sleep, will ya . . .
"Sailing" in the doldrums is agony. For three days we've been wallowing along at three knots of boat speed, with only the occasional puff from a cloud to boost us along.
Earlier today everyone on the boat lost their sense of humor.
Was bored of boredom.
Desperately wanted to be sailing again.
To twist the knife deeper, the race schedules showed that Green Dragon, Puma and Eriksson 4 had escaped the doldrums and were were already blasting away toward the scoring gate at Fernando, some 600 miles away.
I'm not sure. Were we more envious that they were winning? Or were we more envious that they were sailing and we were stuck?
This evening, our metamorphosis began.
A family of whales swam past, during dinner. Almost at the same moment the wind gently started to blow and the sun set, beautifully. A joke was told, a chuckle ensued and smiles returned.
After four hours of steadily building breeze we entered a wall of isolated squalls marking the southern boundary of the doldrums. It seemed that we had one more cloud to navigate ourselves around and we'd be clear to sail towards the scoring gate in the trade winds. However, due to a bad approach angle we were sucked into the squall. All hands jumped up on deck for a quick tack and a sail change from our masthead zero to our large reaching genoa. Then, just as we were cleaning up from the maneuvers, a gentle rain escalated into a downpour. In jubilation at the prospect of a fresh water 'shower' someone yelled
"hurry, get the soap". The dish soap came up on deck and we all jumped at the chance for a shower before the rain had a chance to subside.
Amongst the commotion of passing the soap around, and a joking accusation that Bert dropped the soap on purpose, we heard a heckling laughter coming from the companionway. It was our media crew, Sander, with his night vision video camera. The stern camera that recorded our spreader break the other night had been activated by Sander again. Sometimes we forget that our boat is wired with cameras like the set of Big Brother. Sander claims that he is going to make a fortune when we get to Cape Town with his video. I'm not sure if his intent is to blackmail us or to go internet-live with the website
www.dutchsailorsshower.com.
Time will tell, In the meantime we have a couple
boats to pass on our way to the scoring gate at Fernando.
And . . .
Recalling our spreader break and my accounts over the last couple of days, here is a pic of (do I have to call him by his real name?) Gerd-Jan Poortman up the rig to effect a brilliant repair.
And this is the repair.
Images by Sander Pluijm/Team Delta Lloyd/Volvo Ocean Race
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