On a wild strip of sea called Gage Roads, 22 sailors perform exhausting, dangerous and precisely choreographed routines. Pitching through the lumpy seas, skippers lean into the wind trying to see if the opponent is tacking. Sewer men, who work below-decks, clamber about readying sails; tacticians rinse salt from their eyes to scan computer screens. Muscle-bound grinders, crewmen who trim sails with highly geared winches called coffee grinders, grunt and puff against tons of load.
For decades the America's Cup was a millionaire's mannered contest played on wood decks in the light winds off Newport, R.I. But when a wicked winged keel helped sweep Australia II to victory in 1983, the upset permanently transformed the long-running naval battle for the knee-high trophy affectionately known as the "Auld Mug." In the wind-whipped seas of the Indian Ocean, the races between Stars & Stripes and Kookaburra III are the culmination of a three-year high-tech battle that has involved corporate fund raising, sailing strategy worthy of a war room, computer-designed boats tuned to fighter-plane perfection and crews conditioned to the physical and psychological preparedness of elite commandos.
While the limelight naturally focuses on the saltwater sovereigns Dennis Conner and Iain Murray, the crews have labored in shadow. But their contributions to winning are critical in Fremantle because the strong winds and heavy seas mean a faster clip than at Newport. "The boat will hit a wave, travel two boat lengths and then hit another," says Mainsheet Trimmer Jon Wright. "So you constantly have to adjust the sails for the waves." Observes Skipper Tom Blackaller, whose USA was eliminated in the challengers' semifinals: "If the crew makes an error, it can be absolutely disastrous."
Most U.S. hands are veteran amateurs; Conner's crew's average age is 31, and Murray's is 26. Having enlisted simply for love of the sport and for whatever honor may come their way, the $75-a-week American crewmen endure a brutal, monastic regime. Most have been working uninterrupted for nearly two years, and the crew had to push Conner before finally getting Sundays off. In the final months at Fremantle, their training day began at 5:45 a.m. with an hour of heavy weights for grinders, aerobic exercises for the others. After a breakfast that would horrify a cardiologist -- heaps of bacon, eggs and pancakes -- they were at the dock just after 8. At sea by 10:30, they endlessly honed tacking and sail-changing drills that they already knew by heart. After a drink and dinner, most forgo Fremantle's night spots. "With the sort of day we put in," says Wright, 38 and on his fifth Cup campaign, "you don't feel much like anything else." Even after sundown the team effort does not stop. For every hour of sailing there are 2 1/2 man-hours of maintenance, much of it done overnight by sailmakers.