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For the past two hours, I have been fulfilling my duty on the foredeck, diligently adjusting the jib after each tack. As the boat faces 2-meter swells crashing into the bow, I find myself hanging off the rail, acting as ballast, while sea spray drenches me. It is a blustery March day, with Force 7 gusts, and I eagerly anticipate reaching the finish line of the Nab Tower Race off Cowes. However, just as we approach it, I mistakenly position myself on the wrong side of the yacht as we turn across the wind. The boat tilts steeply to one side, and a massive wall of water surges up to my knees. In that terrifying moment, I fear being swept away. Yet, with frozen fingers, I hold onto the sturdy metal shroud with an unexpected strength. As the water subsides and the boat levels, relief washes over me when I realize I am still safely on deck. “This is what you signed up for,” I reassure myself. Later, I contemplate the true nature of my commitment.
Learning to sail had always been a lifelong aspiration of mine, and I finally had the chance to pursue it after moving to the south coast during lockdown. I purchased a dinghy and became a member of a sailing club. However, it was a casual conversation with my neighbor, Charles Bull, a marine pilot and avid sailor, that unexpectedly led to an invitation to join the crew of his 11-meter monohull X37, named Unruly. It was during this conversation that the idea of participating in the Fastnet Race took root.
The Rolex Fastnet Race is renowned in the sailing world, comparable to the North Face of the Eiger in mountaineering. It is infamous for its treacherous history, including the deadly storm of ’79, which claimed the lives of 19 sailors. “It’s like checking off a box in life, similar to climbing Everest,” Bull explained. “It’s not something easily accomplished.” Fortunately, I possessed one advantage – an iron stomach.
The course spans 695 nautical miles from Cowes on the Isle of Wight, to the Fastnet Rock off the coast of Ireland, and back to Cherbourg-en-Cotentin. It is a legendary race, alongside other prestigious offshore competitions such as the Rolex Sydney Hobart. Participants from all corners of the globe flock to take part in this biennial event, and this year marks its 50th edition, boasting a record-breaking fleet of over 450 boats. While the multimillion-pound multihulls may finish in just 24 hours, amateurs like Bull may spend up to a week crossing the finish line.
There was just one slight issue – my lack of experience. Though I had some sailing background from my childhood and a few cruises, and even finished second in the Three Peaks Yacht Race in 2007 (although my role as the mountaineer kept me mostly below deck), racing presented an entirely different challenge. Racing crews must operate in perfect harmony, capable of swiftly changing sails in adverse weather conditions and immediately responding to the skipper’s orders. It was a steep learning curve, particularly in deciphering the intricate language of sailing. I felt as lost at sea as I did when attempting to communicate with my elderly Austrian landlord, Adolf, after moving to a remote mountain village a decade ago. Terms like cleats, clews, inhauls, outhauls, luffs, leeches, jackstays, lazy jacks, and jammers were shrouded in mystery. Standing on the deck, I would be bombarded with instructions until someone kindly translated: “Pull down the white one on the mast!” I reached out to a friend who made the transition from mountain guiding to skippering, seeking reassurance. “Don’t worry,” he promised. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Unfortunately, it didn’t come as quickly as I hoped. However, I still had one advantage – my strong stomach, which became evident during our first major race, an overnighter to Alderney. As we rounded The Needles, the notorious passage between the Solent and the open sea off the Isle of Wight, the rough conditions took a toll on the crew. One member began vomiting, spending the next ten hours clinging to the galley sink, pale as a pickle. Another crew member disappeared below deck, never to resurface. Even the skipper discreetly experienced a bout of seasickness over the side of the boat. But I managed to keep my lunch down. Years of undertaking daring exploits in the mountains had equipped me with the ability to maintain a positive attitude. “That’s worth more than a professional crew with strong opinions,” Bull acknowledged. Nonetheless, I knew I had a challenging journey ahead.
“The Rolex Fastnet Race is not for novices,” Janet Grosvenor, a former racing manager of the Royal Ocean Racing Club, cautioned me. She was in charge of the 2007 race when the decision was made to postpone the start due to a severe weather warning from the Met Office. I was familiar with the race’s storied past, from the devastating storm of ’79 to Duran Duran’s Simon Le Bon becoming trapped in the hull of his yacht six years later when the keel snapped off. “In 1979, you could likely wander down a pontoon and find a crew spot if you were interested in racing,” Grosvenor reflected. “Those days are long gone.”
Today, the race enforces several requirements to ensure the safety and competence of participants. At least 50% of the crew, with a minimum of two members, must have completed 300 miles of offshore racing together within the past year. Additionally, at least 30% must possess a two-day sea survival certification, while someone on board must hold a first-aid qualification. I have diligently completed courses in first aid, sea survival, and VHF radio protocol, paying close attention to the crucial Mayday procedures. Sea survival training even included practicing life raft drills in a local swimming pool, which felt suffocating and claustrophobic, reminiscent of cramming into a paddling raft, but with less enjoyment. I have also immersed myself in maritime literature, devouring my late father-in-law’s collection, including gripping accounts of disasters like “Fastnet, Force 10: The Deadliest Storm in the History of Modern Sailing” and “Survive the Savage Sea.” My wife has grown accustomed to finding stray pieces of rope around the house as I practice tying knots. (My status improved significantly after successfully mending a necklace using a double fisherman’s bend.)
For Bull, a 65-year-old sailor, reaching the start line of the race has been an 18-month-long endeavor, both financially and personally demanding. He has invested thousands of pounds to ensure Unruly is race-ready and has dedicated countless hours to building a cohesive team. “It’s an endless money pit,” he quips. The diverse fleet lining up alongside us at the start will include classics like Paul Moxon’s Amokura, a 50-foot Bermudan yawl built in 1939 for Lord Mountbatten’s aide de camp, Ernest Harston. The oldest entry is the exquisite Moonbeam, a 1903 gaff yawl Fife, the third of four Moonbeams owned by British lawyer Charles Plumtree Johnson. Moonbeam will be skippered by Jacques Caraës, who successfully…
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