It is a source of sadness to me that my father, Donald, having been regular
touchline witness to my sporting mediocrity — almost making the county
schools rugby side, and nearly getting a hole in one at Troon — has, since
his death four years ago, missed the middle-aged renaissance in my sporting
life. Being a member of the British and Irish Lions in 2005, cycling up Mont
Ventoux, 90 minutes slower than Lance Armstrong, training with Paul Tergat
and the Kenyan long distance running squad, playing for a Gordon Banks v
Pele team and for the Rest of the World alongside Diego Maradona at a packed
Old Trafford. You see, there have been sporting advantages to being the
media’s antichrist of the Blair era.
But the Cowes Regatta? And sailing? And loving it? Come on. My Dad knew my
views growing up — that certain events and institutions were less about
sport than the perpetuation of class structures and snobberies — Cowes,
Henley, the Royal Box at Wimbledon, the MCC, posh frocks day at Ascot, the
boat race, polo, these were not for us. They were symbols of old Britain,
elitist, exclusive, for a certain type we never aspired to be.
As a result no knowledge was ever allowed to get in the way of my prejudice
against sailing as a sport for old farts drinking G and Ts, a
self-perpetuating, self-selected elite in blazers and white-soled shoes. On
Tuesday, the prejudices came tumbling down. I joined the crew of Artemis
Ocean Racing 1 in the Open 60s Artemis Challenge, a 55-mile race around the
Isle of Wight for boats up to 60ft in length. The carbon fibre boats, very
low on comfort and high on hi-tech, are among the fastest in sailing,
capable of circumnavigating the globe in 80 days and, for someone as
inexperienced as me, among the most terrifying.
Preparations were not helped, psychologically, a few days earlier when my
daughter and I tried water ski-ing for the first time. Grace, aged 14, was
up and away on her second attempt. It took me 53 attempts over four days and
even then I was only up for 10 seconds. I wondered whether I just was not
made for water.
Then came further worrying developments in my preparations for the Artemis
Challenge with an email advising “please consider purchasing appropriate
medication” for sea-sickness. I was even more unsettled reading in the
briefing that climbing the 90ft mast in a rolling swell was “the worst part
of offshore sailing for many people”. Then there was this little gem —
“previous sailors have reported winds in excess of 50mph (gale force 10) and
waves five metres high.” Can’t wait.
But worse was to come when the list came through of who I would be up against
in the race, which carried a reward to the winner of a £10,000 contribution
to the charity of their choice, in my case Leukaemia Research. There were
eight boats in total, and I was down as a “celebrity” on Artemis Ocean
Racing 1. England rugby player James Haskell was on Artemis Ocean Racing 2
and I noticed in other rival crews the likes of TV presenters Davina McCall
and Georgie Thompson. But then who’s the “celebrity” on Pindar? Only New
Zealander Mike Sanderson, former world sailor of the year, veteran of three
America’s Cups, holder of several world records and an expert in the
building and design of Open 60s boats.
Dinner with my skipper Simon Clay, one of several hundred full time
professional sailors in Britain, and former round the world yachtsman Sir
Robin Knox-Johnston did little to help me sleep. When Sir Robin first sailed
solo round the world in 312 days in 1968-69, he averaged about a third of
the speed we would be travelling at in the morning, evidence of how far the
sport has advanced. Rain and high winds were forecast. The real sailors
round the table looked thrilled. I felt sick, even before I had chewed my
first pill.
After a fretful sleep, I woke to grey skies and steady rain. I was taken on a
speedboat with Simon to meet the crew, who had been out on Artemis 1 for
hours getting it ready. Josh Hall, 45, a veteran of several solo
transatlantic races; Tony Reid, 38, Andy Tourell, 30 and Ulsterman Mikey
Ferguson, 25. My teammates. As I stepped onto the boat, I had that feeling
you get when you go into hospital for a pre-op general anesthetic —“my life
is in your hands”.
What quickly became apparent was that professional sailing is, in its own way,
every bit as professional and cutting edge as Formula One. The average
weight of the Open 60s boats has fallen from 3.5 to 2.5 tonnes in a matter
of years, with the materials the same, but understanding of them advancing.
The pros feel somewhat aggrieved that despite Britain having many of the
best sailors in the world, as will become clear at the Olympics, it is still
beset by the image I had rather lazily accepted and which they believe to be
decades out of date for a modern professional sport that has successfully
embraced technology, modern sponsorship systems and the benefits of the
national lottery.
As to the skill of my fellow crewmen once we got going, I don’t know where to
start. A good place might be during a particularly complex manouevre, that
appeared to involve hauling one sail down and getting another up, with the
boat at a terrifying angle, with sea spray lashing into our faces as Mikey
and Andy hauled the new sail from the side of the boat. Or the burst of
activity as we changed direction to go round the Needles and cut inside a
rival. I quickly decided that of the dozens of tasks they were doing, the
only one I might be able to manage without getting in the way was working on
the grinder that operates the winches that move the sails. It was hard
physical work but it meant I could stay in one place and avoid going near
the sides of the boat.
In terms of lasting impressions — the scale of the logistics of the Cowes
event, and the technology on the boats, took me aback. At times so did the
speed, the complexities of the rope operations and the extent of the sailing
lingo. Above all though was the intensity of the experience when they were
making an important change of tack, tactic, or direction. At any one time
the crew seemed to be monitoring and acting upon dozens of pieces of
information and equipment, while I was just putting my shoulders, back and
thighs through a very intense workout.
I didn’t have time to do a full socio-economic background research on the
team, but every one of them was the sort of person you would not mind
finding in the next seat to you on a long plane journey. Very down to earth,
full of the usual sportsmen’s banter, dedicated and committed, and conscious
of what a privilege it is to get paid for doing something you love that
keeps you fit and healthy, takes you round the world (literally for some of
them) gives you the thrill of elite competition and keeps you out of an
office.
If there was one thought above all I was left with, it was the sense of wonder
that some of them sail these boats single-handed for weeks and months on
end. At the end of five hours, I felt tired, wet, sore-shouldered, but
exhilarated. How anyone could cope with the physical, technical and mental
challenges of doing that for several months is frankly beyond me. It was a
privilege to spend a bit of time with people who do.
As for the result — Pindar won, and we didn’t, but I beat fellow grinder James
Haskell, despite him having more muscle on his shoulders than I have on my
entire body. And as Andy Tourell’s older brother was also on that boat, we
agreed that was the only result that counts.
My next sporting challenge is the second Soccer Aid, at Wembley on September
7, where I will be managed by Kenny Dalglish. Unless he picks me at
centre-forward and I score the winning goal, I will be hard-pressed to beat
my ocean racing debut as a great sporting experience.
Having failed in his quest to raise £10,000 for Leukaemia Research, of which
he is chairman of fund-raising, Alastair Campbell's fee for this article has
been donated to the charity. For anyone who wants to make a donation call
02074050101 or visit lrf.org.uk
