Knives in the Water (Cont.)

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Outside Magaine November 2002

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Knives in the Water (Cont.)

GIVEN THE HEAD GAMES, paranoia, and legal mud-wrestling that go on in the America's Cup, it might be easy to see the race as a sporting sideshow for obscenely rich, spoiled men. But to understand why it is, in fact, one of the most compelling dramas sailing can offer, it is only necessary to step into an America's Cup yacht and go racing.

That's exactly what I did last July—with Team Dennis Conner, on the cobalt waters off Long Beach, California. In the tang of a gathering sea breeze, listening to the click of pawls as winches spun and the quiet talk of trim and tactics, all the Machiavellian intrigue faded like so much sea smoke. I stood at the back of USA-66, one of the syndicate's two new America's Cup boats, trying to keep all my body parts intact as loaded blocks and lines whipped past my head. The five-minute gun had just cracked across the water, counting down to the start, and mayhem was headed our way in the form of USA-54, with Ken Read, multiple world champion and the team's principal helmsman, at the wheel.

The few minutes before a match race amount to a fast-moving duel in which the two boats attack, spin, and feint, looking to force a penalty or establish any positional advantage to carry into the race. The two yachts usually charge directly at each other in a game of chicken, and Read and Tony Rey, who was driving my boat, followed the script at a closing speed of 20 knots. Just when I thought it was impossible for them to avoid a carbon-splintering collision, the two drivers deftly spun their helms and both boats shot head-to-wind, white rooster tails exploding out from under their scooped sterns. The boats slowed and came within a few feet of each other, sails cracking like machine-gun fire.

A 25-ton, 80-foot yacht moving at a crawl is like an uncoordinated boxer, and the sailors aboard the two Team Dennis Conner boats worked with total concentration. Rey and his crew skillfully brought the boat to a near-standstill, pointed into the wind and on the verge of stalling out. Read's boat was still creeping ahead, which was just the opening Rey and tactician Peter Isler were looking for.

With smooth proficiency, the trimmers backed the jib, and the mainsail was eased, swinging the bow around. Rey added a touch of wheel and USA-66 ducked behind USA-54, clearing her stern by inches. It was done quickly and quietly. The only real noise was the sheets screeching through the blocks and the deafening creak when one running backstay was let off and the other was ground on hard.

"Beautiful," Rey concluded. For four minutes, Read gave chase. Finally, the two boats powered back toward the start line. USA-66 crossed at the gun with a three-second advantage. The race was on.

Sailing can be a complex and confusing game, with enormous fleets and mind-numbing handicap systems. Yet there is a raw simplicity to match-racing sailboats that is irresistible. Every time the boats crossed tacks that morning, you could see who was ahead. Every time a spinnaker ripped or a line snagged, even if only for a few seconds, you could measure the cost in distance lost. It was both agonizing and exhilarating—and the America's Cup, with the sophistication of its technology, the years of training, and the pressure of the racing itself, takes this purity of competition to an extreme found only at the highest levels of sport. "You've either won the race or you've lost it," says John Cutler, a tactician with Oracle BMW. "It's a blunt measure of you, your team, and your equipment."

By this measure, nothing matters except who crosses the finish line first. That's why they come, and why they spend millions. And it's also why the winners can lay claim to being the best sailors in the world.

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