A SPECTACLE Like No OTHER
It is a common misconception that the first America’s Cup—a race around the Isle of Wight way back in 1851—was a fair-minded head-to-head contest between Great Britain’s single-best sailboat and the schooner
America. In fact, Great Britain fielded 14 vessels—sloops, schooners, and cutters, large and small—in the belief that certainly one of the fleet would excel in whatever the day’s conditions and send the Yanks home properly humbled.
On the appointed day, the Royal Yacht was positioned to watch Britain’s champion steaming toward the swelling crowds at the finish line.
Queen Victoria asked her tender, “Are the yachts in sight?”
“Only the America, may it please Your Majesty.”
“Which is second?”
“Ah, Your Majesty, there is no second.”
With those historic words, the defining nature of the America’s Cup was cemented: winner-take-all, all advantage to the defender, and no hold be barred.
For the next 132 years (the longest winning streak in sporting history), the New
York Yacht Club, through various (some would say nefarious) means, maintained its hold on the coveted Cup both in court and on the water.
It wasn’t until 1983 that upstart Australian Alan Bond arrived in Newport, Rhode Island, with a controversial winged keel to burgle the cherished chalice away. After the Aussies successfully won the Cup but then lost it to Dennis Conner in 1987, there were some radical changes. A rogue challenge in 1988 from Kiwi
banker Sir Michael Fay led to a crazy Cup match between Fay’s 90-foot “Big Boat” and Conner’s zippy catamaran. The cat prevailed, but the Cup would never be the same. Enter the mouse that roared: New Zealand.
This is a small nation that, as they proudly claim, “punches above its weight.” The entire country’s sense of well-being rises and falls with the fortunes of its rugby players and sailors. And those fortunes have been amazingly good. If not herded onto the rugby pitch for a battering, the average Kiwi child was launched into wind-churned waters in clunky little P-class dinghies to learn the ropes of sailing. This cultural penchant has produced so many sailing superstars that the boast for the past several America’s Cups has been, “Our Kiwis are better than your Kiwis.”
To the average Kiwi, the America’s Cup is not a matter of life and death. It is far more important than that. Unlike campaigns that arrive with a billionaire sugar daddy in tow, Team New Zealand has had to go hat-in-hand seeking funding from the government, small private businesses, and even the general public via bake sales and sausage sizzles. Their 1995 Cup challenge was substantially funded by a national movement to buy and wear red socks, all proceeds going directly to the nation’s campaign.
After a couple of tutorial attempts, in 1995, Team New Zealand’s Black Magic, led by Sir Peter Blake, bettered Dennis Conner’s Young
America to finally guzzle celebratory champagne from the Auld Mug. The nation shut down for days of celebration before the team and Cup went on a national ticker-tape tour.
They have since won, defended, lost, and re-won the America’s Cup—an astounding record for a nation with fewer people than Minnesota. But the reason for this is not solely their sailing and tactical skills. From the beginning, the America’s Cup has been a contest of innovation, a point that its critics continue to misunderstand. Huddled in their secret lairs, each team, within broad guidelines, develops and constructs what they believe to be the fastest craft possible. As Conner once said: “The America’s Cup has always been a design contest. We race because that’s the only way to keep score.”
Sometimes guidelines are too broad; we have witnessed giant monohulls pitted against sleek catamarans, tris versus cats, alloy opposing the first GRP hull. In the end, simply put, the fastest boat wins. There can be up to four years of suspense as to which boat that is, only to be revealed at the first cross of the first race.
The New Zealanders have become notorious for thinking outside the box. This is best illustrated by the 2013 San Francisco AC, which featured 76-foot catamarans specifically designed to preclude foiling. The Kiwis discovered that if they handled their vessel just so, they could pop up on the foils and dash away at speeds best left for the highway. Alas, they couldn’t keep the cat in the bag, and their competitors too soon emulated that innovation.
Next came the AC50 class in Bermuda in 2017, where they turned tradition upside down with thick-thighed cyclers replacing the bulging
biceps of the grinders.
That shock paled against their winning declaration that the next AC would feature foiling monohulls. The international press went apoplectic.
“It can’t be done,” they opined. “It is too dangerous having sharp foils protruding like blades on the wheels of a Roman chariot.” “It will be a one-lane drag race and the death of match racing.” “Stick a fork in it. The America’s Cup is done!”
Had it indeed been “done,” it would have been COVID-19 to blame, not the class design or format. With tens of millions of dollars invested, the organizers found themselves in the situation best described as “build it and they can’t come.” International warmup races in Italy and England were canceled in 2020. The New Zealand government, desperate to mitigate the financial losses to themselves and Auckland businesses, took plenty of political heat by easing border restrictions for all the incoming teams and support crew, as well as their families, superyachts, and sponsors.
And so, in December, it was finally game on—and, oh, what a game it was! My boat, Roger
Henry, was on the hard, and I did not want to stop work for even a cup of coffee. But on the first day of the Christmas Regatta, which would feature that first cross mentioned before, I dropped tools and rushed off to the nearest yacht club to bear witness. From that first starting gun on, for the next three months, the racing schedule dictated mine.
And I was not alone. The national television station, TV1, aired every race live, and it was free to view. They hung in with filler commentary through every wind delay, and however long those pauses, the nation did not turn away. Flags of support for American Magic, INEOS Team UK, Luna Rossa and Emirates Team New Zealand rippled across the land. Personalities loomed large or laconic, with nicknames such as Pitbull Jimmy Spithill and Pistol Pete Burling.
In short, it was a sporting spectacle, offering joy and relief to a pandemic-beleaguered nation and, I suspect, large portions of the world. A world that could have only marveled at the mass of unmasked yet safe crowds that were spilling out of Auckland’s Viaduct basin into bars and restaurants throughout the city.
It was an event highlighting great sport, but perhaps more important, great sportsmanship—not a quality often associated with the AC. During the Prada Cup, when American Magic’s Patriot shot up into the air and crashed down wounded and sinking, one might have heard the screams and groans from coast to coast. Luna Rossa’s chase boat dashed to the scene. Team New Zealand launched several boats full of pumps, flotation devices, tow ropes and restraining nets in a desperate attempt to save
Patriot. A thoughtful Team New Zealand shore hand sent out a boatload of hot pizzas to warm and nourish the shocked and exhausted crew of the damaged yacht. It was a long and harrowing night for all the teams.
The next day, American Magic’s leader, Terry Hutchison, almost broke into tears of gratitude as he thanked his competitors for their selfless and sporting gestures.
Patriot did manage to get back out on the water, but sadly, not in a competitive condition.
My Kiwi wife, Diana, and I went down to the Viaduct basin in Auckland to soak up the electric atmosphere. When
Luna Rossa exited its base bay to head out for a day of competition, massive speakers bellowed out melodramatic opera music. The crowd went wild as banners proclaiming
“Italia, e il nostro destino” waved. Then Emirates Team New Zealand slipped their lines. The cheers were deafening as they weaved their way through a spectator fleet that would have rivaled the Dunkirk evacuation. Modern gladiators, departing for battle, a field of flags fluttering, deafening cheers, stirring music, with the spectacular Hauraki Gulf as a modern Colosseum. Then all eyes turned to one of the many Jumbotron screens, anticipating a day of drama.
And the racing itself? Well, fear not for the death of match racing. In one edge-of-yourseat race, there were nine lead changes. The traditional dial-ups were frightfully aggressive. A smugly comfortable lead of 4 minutes turned into a humiliating defeat of the same duration for Luna Rossa. These amazing futuristic machines rose up out of the ocean and reached speeds that seemed to defy the laws of physics, topping out at an astonishing 53 knots. And yet we never got to see the top end of their potential because the winds remained frustratingly light until the day after the final race. Old advice to any entertainer: Always leave them wanting more. And I do.
With Team New Zealand successfully defending the Cup, they have declared that the next regatta will be held in further iterations of the AC 75 monohull design. We can’t know exactly where or how far we are to go on this foilingdesign path. But I end with the notion that the old song by Rod Stewart prophesied this era with these paraphrased words:
“We are sailing, we are sailing,” which segues into, “We are flying. We are flying, ’cross the sea, to be free.”
Alvah Simon, now a New Zealand transplant, and his wife, Diana, are CW contributing editors.