Yachting: Cup boats far more than just huge toys

By SUZANNE McFADDEN

Some are willing to pay $150,000 for my spot in the crew of AmericaOne. I wouldn't have swapped my seat for twice the price.

My race as 17th man (being a woman doesn't matter) on board the America's Cup gunmetal-grey speed machine was both exhilarating and terrifying.

I saw nothing of the start or the finish of the duel with Le Defi France other than the monstrous sails above me - the crew advising me to lie low on the deck at the stern of the boat to keep out of trouble.

But when I was upright, it was better than Disneyland. The dizzying sensation of these Cup boats pirouetting on a coin; their deafening creaks and groans shuddering up your spine and rattling your teeth; sitting on the high side, looking down past your feet and seeing the sea rushing by.

I accepted with some trepidation skipper Paul Cayard's invitation to sail on his boat in the final race of the Louis Vuitton Cup second round.

I am not a champion sailor - I get seasick.

I had nightmares about retching over the side of the boat, falling into the Hauraki Gulf, forcing an unimpressed crew to turn back, fish me out and lose the race. This story would have begun, "Sorry guys."

But it was the perfect day for my first America's Cup race. The sea was almost dead flat and the winds oscillating between 15 and 20 knots.

Kitted up in gaudy yellow wet- weather gear - the 17th man has to stand out from the rest of the crew - I walked on board USA49 at 9.30 am for the hour-long tow out to the racecourse.

This is a time where the crew chill out. Six of them slept on sails down inside the boat, while the others ate a packed lunch - a hearty meal of pasta with chicken in a mushroom sauce.

Cayard had been at a meeting on a chase boat and pulled alongside the race yacht 20 minutes before the start gun. As soon as he was on, the sails were hoisted and we were winding up for a start.

Suddenly I was grinding the winch handles to trim the mainsail. It's okay to help sail the boat before the warning gun, but the 17th man can take no part in crew work during a race, or speak to the other 16 people on board.

I moved right to the back of the boat for the pre-start ballet, and was told to sit down on the deck while AmericaOne whipped around the French boat Sixieme Sens.

Out of my sight, the French tore a headsail in the flurry, replaced it with lightning speed, and our boat chose to duck around the committee boat to avoid any calamity.

When I scrambled to my feet, I saw the French stern ahead of our bow. Not the best start.

On the way out to the race, trimmer Morgan Larson had explained what I couldn't touch at the back of the boat (almost everything) and what I could hold on to (very little).

When the boat tacked, it was a matter of rushing across the deck, skipping over ropes, and latching on to the side of the hull before the boat heeled to 30 degrees. You try to dig your feet into the deck and hope your shoes aren't worn.

The French led around the top mark. Downwind - a more comfortable ride - Cayard decided to follow when there were no obvious passing lanes and stay clear of former world matchracing champion Bertrand Pace rounding the bottom mark.

From experience the Americans knew their boat had a little something extra upwind, and when they caught a windshift out to the left of the course on the third leg, they finally crossed ahead of the French. Downwind, the boat is deceivingly swift. A couple of times I was lulled into thinking it was a calm Saturday afternoon sail - until Larson and fellow trimmer Terry Hutchinson would kindly yell, "Duck, Suzanne!" as the heavy blocks swung across the boat in a gybe.

The back of the boat is a minefield. If you are clocked on the head by a pulley, you won't be sailing again for a while.

Even though I wasn't supposed to speak to the crew, Larson would sneak me lollies and Cayard would ask if I was okay.

The French were always on our tail, and our fumbled gybe just before the finish line could have been fatal. But Cayard's short and sharp instructions were heeded, and AmericaOne crossed the line 48s ahead of Sixieme Sens.

The boat sailed away from the course and met up with its new identically dressed sister, USA61 - on its first sail. The two boats lined up with each other for 15 minutes - I was back turning the handles - before pulling up in the brisk 26-knot winds.

The hungry crew then got stuck into cold meatballs, steak and carrots after a tough day at sea. Cayard asked me to drive the boat home, in a solid 22 knots of breeze.

No matter what happens between now and March 2000, my lasting memory will be steering an America Cup's boat home from the sea - while eating a carrot.