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| 6. Born To Win |
by John Bertrand |
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My friend Robbie Doyle introduced me to the highly competitive Finn racing class in 1971, and I sailed on the Charles River in Boston. Surprisingly, I very quickly mastered this little boat, which races in one of the most combative events in the Olympic Games. I got so good at it that I entered the U.S. National Finn Championships, held at Marion, Massachusetts. After a good regatta, I managed to finish seventh, which pleased me no end.
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I next decided to go to Toronto for the Finn Gold Cup, which is the World Championship. In Canada I had a very fierce competitive regatta and finished fifth against the best Finn racing sailors. This was the highest any Australian had ever placed in World Championship Finn racing, so I decided to return home for the Australian National Championships and get myself selected for the 1972 Olympics in Munich.
1972 Australian Olympic Trials
However, I faced two fairly major problems. I had scarcely enough money for a bus ride over to the Charles River, never mind two air fares home to Melbourne. Also, I did not have a Finn Class boat. So, speaking as a hotshot America's Cup sailor, I decided to fire off a few letters to Melbourne businessmen to see whether I could raise some sponsorship. To my great delight, a Melbourne car dealer, whom I had never met, decided that I must have a lot of brass neck, if not talent, and he forwarded $2,000. Much later I found out that the Olympic manager, David Linacre, had a great deal to do with this heaven sent sponsorship.
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When we returned to Australia, I went into strict training on behalf of myself, my young wife, my mum, and the saintly car dealer. For five weeks I prepared to take on the might of the Australian Finn fleet, many of whom had been racing in highly competitive European events for four months as preparation for the National Championships. And every one of them turned up at the Sandringham Yacht Club.It was a wicked close straggle, at the end of which I narrowly brought my borrowed boat over the line in first place.
Preparation
I was now qualified to receive $20 a day from the Australian Yachting Federation to conduct a 31/2 month sailing campaign in Europe, culminating with the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, in which I was my country's number one hope in the Finn Class. And once more we boarded a plane heading north, bound for the open seas and competition against the best in the world.
We set off for Kiel Regatta week in northern Germany, the site of the Olympic water-sports later that summer. I was nowhere near ready, and when the German event started, I was still screwing fittings onto the boat. I finished 35th, probably the worst performance of my entire career
Rasa and I packed up our few belongings and, with our list of hostels and cheap hotels, we set off for Medemblik, a little resort on the Zuider Zee, that great Dutch near-landlocked ocean due north of Amsterdam. I finished seventh in the European Finn Championships there; by now I had the boat properly tuned. Next, we turned south to Italy, crossing the Alps and driving down the coast to the port of Anzio, where the Finn World Championships were to be held. I sailed like a demon and finished second, beaten only by the great Jorg Bruder of Brazil, who, at his best, could be just about unbeatable in Finn Class sailing. He beat me decisively, but I was a very solid second.
We were beginning to enjoy this adventure. We did not have much money, but everyone was very kind to us and we were often invited to stay overnight and have meals with other sailing people. Remember, being a yacht racer is not like being a tennis player - where you wind up being wealthy by the time you attain my level of accomplishment. This is sailing. Your principal reward is the overpowering sense of achievement, a boost to your psyche, after defeating the opposition and doing it with style.
I felt very good as we headed north again for the National Championships of Finland. We took a long and picturesque car journey that was magical for Rasa and me. We arrived at the Little Island course and at last I was the of my little boat - I won the championship. We then turned our rented Peugeot south for the Olympics. .
1972 Olympics-Kiel
In the Games I finished fourth, earning for myself the leather medal, an experience I wish never to have again. It is a very funny thing, but in most trades or professions, if you are the fourth-best practitioner in the world, you have at least fame and probably fortune. In our game it's different. There are first, second, and third: gold, silver, and bronze. Everyone else is last. Nothing is as tough as the Olympics. I packed up our Peugeot somewhat ruefully, a rookie Olympian who had just undergone what seemed like a fiery baptism in my first Games. At the closing ceremony in the great stadium, Jorg Bruder, who had beaten me in the World Championships in Anzio, came up and put his arm around me. He was a charming man, that Brazilian, but he just could never come out on top in the Olympics. He always froze up with nervousness. But he was very nice and always very generous to me. He had switched from the Finn Class to the Star Class, and he, too, had finished fourth. "John," he said, "now we have both done it. We've both won the leather medal."
By the time I was ready to leave the Olympic Village that summer, I had already been approached by the Sydney boat designer Ben Lexcen. He asked if I would assist in the preparation of a new assault on the America's Cup in 1974. I accepted with some alacrity. I did not know where this new path would take me, but as usual, the prospect of a very fast boat was like an aphrodisiac to me, and I could not resist. The man who headed up the new syndicate was named Alan Bond.
Education
Before I joined Ben Lexcen and took part in the 1974 America's Cup, I received my masters degree in marine engineering from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. (Incidentally, I had earlier studied at Melbourne's Monash University where my degree thesis had been a long treatise on the aerodynamics of the sails of 12-Meters - a subject that would more or less consume me until the 26th day of September 1983.) Although sometimes tempted away from my studies by sailing, my university study has been an essential building block for whatever I have successfully done since. I think that it is very important for aspiring young Finn sailors to understand that they should get a formal education as well as trying to sail fast and win medals. Otherwise, they may not have a decent career to fall back on when the Finn sailing is over, whether this is in launching into their own business career or in taking on the complexity of an America's Cup assault.
Working for North Sails
After the 1974 America's Cup, with great eagerness I had accepted a position with Lowell North, the famous American sailmaker, who was himself an Olympic gold medalist and one of the nicest and most knowledgeable men in the world of international yacht racing. Lowell had phoned me and suggested that I spend a couple of years in the States, working at one of his lofts, with a view to opening a franchise of North Sails in Melbourne. I was very excited about this all summer. We flew to Pewaukee, Wisconsin, which would be our home for two happy years.
Meanwhile, I had to have a major sailing goal - I always had one of those - and I chose the Olympics again. I would go to Montreal in two years and win the Olympic gold medal for the Finn Class. That seemed to be a suitable ambition. I would sail in Pewaukee, train on the lake, race throughout North America, and return to Australia for the Olympic selection trials. Life stretched out before me in a contented, comfortable journey, with just enough bite attached to that Olympic ambition to make it interesting.
At North Sails I had a marvellous time. I helped in the design of the Vanguard Finn Class yacht, built in Pewaukee and now the premier boat in this 16-foot class. I love the Finns - one sail, one man, the roughest class in all the Olympic sailing events - and at North I was also able to develop a sail that is still the most popular in the world for that class. I designed and tested it, and that sail has won the World Finn Championships for the past five years. It is totally dominant in its class.
Designing sails and sailboats on the picturesque northern waters in the spring of 1975 confirmed my general view that Pewaukee was indeed paradise. I was in the heart of a fine group of American sailors and enjoying every moment. Shortly after winning the Canada's Cup [match racing in 2-tonners], we drove to New Orleans for the U.S. Finn Class Championship and took delivery of my brand-new Vanguard Finn. I summarily set sail and clobbered the 40 best Finn Class sailors in North America to win the national title.
1975 Finn Gold Cup
I was now prepared to go home to Australia for their national championship, in which I would attempt to gain Olympic selection. On the way home I went to Malmo, Sweden, for the Finn World Championships, a Gold Cup event. I hate 'if onlys', but I would have won that, if only . . . Unfortunately, I was disqualified for being two pounds overweight in the clothing I wore in one of the races, which I won. That cost me the championship, but no one could take away from me the fact that I had finished first - never mind the two pounds - and we returned to Melbourne feeling on top of the world. I next went off to Brisbane and sailed in the Australian Olympic trials, and I won that as well. So I was on my way to Montreal. After spending Christmas at home we flew back to Pewaukee to complete my preparation for the Montreal Olympics.
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1976 Olympics - Kingston
After intense preparation throughout the spring of 1976, we left our charming lakeside home in Pewaukee and headed for the Olympic regatta site at Kingston, where I carried the Australian flag in the opening parade. I sailed better than I had ever sailed before, of that I am certain. I was having a terrific time - until the 11th hour, when something happened that I will never forget and that was to have a profound and lasting effect.
Five races had been sailed. It came down to a straight fight among Australia (me), East Germany (represented by Jochen Schumann). Russia (represented by Andre Balashov), and Brazil (represented by Claudio Biekarck). Conditions were perfect, with a 15-knot wind as we broke for the first windward leg. David Howlett from Great Britain was in the lead, but he had had two bad ones, and two victories would not get him a fourth overall. I was second, with not one bad race, tracked hard by the East German. He was almost on my transom as we headed down to the wing mark of the first triangle. Approaching the bottom mark I was planing at between 10 and 12 knots, and I kept glancing back at this impassive blond German about three feet behind, nearly touching my boat.
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Until the day I die, I will remember the feeling that rushed over me. Suddenly, from out of the blue, I thought, "Am I good enough?" It was my first moment of self-doubt in the entire competition. Defeatism is like a forest fire in a big international event. Quickly I thought, "Can I hold him off? Am I being pushed beyond my normal limitations?" These were my first negative thoughts in the Olympics. And, seized by a need to make a positive move, I decided to take a chance that I would never have dreamed of taking in a normal race. I would not even have done this in practice. But I took the opportunity of transferring the mainsheet from the boom through the ratchet block in the floor of the boat. I was under total stress at the time, and I knew this particular manoeuvre would save one step, would save me precious time and inches, would stop the East German from gaining an inside overlap at that mark and from giving him the opportunity to pass me. I could not even bear to think about that possibility.
Then I lost control of the mainsheet, and the main boom shot out to leeward, beyond the position for stability control of the sail. The boat immediately flipped out of control and capsized to weather. I had gone from very nearly being in a control position to being totally out of control. If only I had had the presence of mind to do what I had been trained to do. I had fallen into the trap that nearly every Olympic competitor falls into. I had taken a stupid risk, losing the significance of the race and my position in it. I had done the opposite of everything I had been trained for. And now I was upside down. Puffing and gasping, I righted the boat, climbed back in, and finished seventh - which left me in an almost impossible position with regard to a gold medal. The East German finished second, very steady, very controlled. I have no idea why I suddenly was bothered by him. I had never even heard of him - it was not exactly like being locked in combat with Paul Elvstrom at his peak.
And so to the seventh race. I was in an equivocal position. If I match raced the Brazilian and beat him, I would be assured of a bronze medal. If I went for broke and sailed to win that final race, I could still win the gold as long as the East German was beaten for second place. However, in going for broke in this class, you have to take chances, and the prospect of capsizing again was personally unappealing. The dread of a second leather medal haunted me. Australia had finished fourth in this class in three of the last four Olympics, and I did not want to make it four. I decided to play it safe and to match race the Brazilian. After leading the entire field for some of the way, I finally found myself on the wrong end of a windshift on the opposite side of the course from the East German and the Russian. They went on to take the gold and silver medals. I stuck hard by the Brazilian and beat him easily for the bronze. (I might add as a footnote to those Olympics, that on the very same day the U.S. placed third in the Tempest Class. The helmsman who won the bronze medal was Dennis Conner.)
I had achieved some of my ambition by winning a medal in the Olympic Games, and it was a very proud moment for me - very satisfying yet very thought provoking. My main regret was that I took that one chance -but for that, I could so easily have won. |
Lessons
I suppose most beaten competitors have at least one regret - but I took that one negative moment deadly seriously. I reflected on it many times after the regatta because it had happened at a critical time, and it spurred me on to become a keen student of sports psychology, of the psychology of winning. I still felt I had what it takes, but it did give me some new insights into myself. It amazed me how cool, or at least apparently cool, that East German had been, even though he had never before won a European championship or any major regatta. He just kept doing what he had been trained to do, reproducing his training under extreme pressure. That East German just seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere and the competition, and that was what I should have been doing, achieving that same degree of self-control. I should have been able to step back and analyse the opposition, without allowing my performance to deteriorate. I wanted to find out more about myself and why I had reacted as I had in
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John Bertrand and David Howlett
at the 1976 Gold Cup |
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the heat of the moment. Was I afraid? If so, of what? Why should defeat hold such devils for me? How could I develop the perfect poise in these situations and summon the correct response for these moments? These were the questions I asked myself, and these were the questions I would have to cope with in the coming years. Winning America's Cup skippers cannot, after all, afford the kind of weakness that I had displayed so spectacularly on that Canadian lake.
Life is full of lessons, and the key is to use them as building blocks. That is a definition - my definition - of experience. And, like time, you cannot buy it. You just have to use it, to serve your apprenticeship. When I was very young, Mum would tell me that everything always happens for the best. I remember thinking that this could not possibly be so -setbacks, in my mind, being setbacks forever. Only in later years, especially after my reflective months beyond the 1976 Olympics, did I fully realise what a very positive attitude this is, to turn life's disasters into positive knowledge.
The trouble is that you need so many disasters in order to make yourself into the complete athlete, fighter, yachtsman, or whatever. You need years and years of trying, of serving your time. You just cannot say we will win because we will win because we will win. That will not do it. You have to catch every blow an opponent aims at you and store it up to develop an innate sense of wisdom. Yacht racing, like any big sport, has precedents, and you need total recall for these lessons learned in the past. Like statesmen and generals, an international sports competitor who does not understand the past will not be much of an authority on the present.
It is always the lessons that count. There is no question in my mind that without my defeat at the careful and emotionless hands of Herr Jochen Schumann, of the German Democratic Republic, on July 27, 1976, Australia II categorically would not have won the 1983 America's Cup.
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