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Translation: Ezra Fitz
Design: wir sind artisten
Cover: Gustavo Cherro, Francisco Vignale
Photography: Santiago Lange Family archive, Gustavo Fazio, Gustavo Cherro, Matías Capizzano, Roman Hagara Archive, Carlo Borlenghi, Sailingshots by María Muiña
ISBN 978-3-89955-006-1
eISBN 978-3-71055-009-6
Santiago
Lange
with Nicolás Cassese
The journey of my life
Translated from Spanish by Ezra E. Fitz
To Yago, Theo, Borja, and Klaus, my children
Introduction
Under the Christ with the Open Arms
Chapter One
Discipline at Home, Freedom on the River
Chapter Two
The Friend I Could Never Beat
Chapter Three
From Río de la Plata to Southampton
Chapter Four
This One’s for You, Dad
Chapter Five
Industry Dreams
Chapter Six
The Olympic Flame Has Been Lit
Chapter Seven
A New Method
Chapter Eight
The Happy Image Machine
Chapter Nine
Catching the Wind
Chapter Ten
Why Didn’t We Win in Athens?
Chapter Eleven
A Boat Is a Living Being
Chapter Twelve
He Didn’t Leave, He Now Rests in the Sea
Chapter Thirteen
What If We Try Sailing Together?
Chapter Fourteen
An Unexpected Wind
Chapter Fifteen
Wounded Lion
Chapter Sixteen
Recovered Lion
Chapter Seventeen
Work Your Magic, Old Man
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
It will be hot today, but it’s still early, and I barely break a sweat as I bike at a steady pace through Flamengo Park on the coast of Rio de Janeiro. It’s a regular circuit for me, but the wide range of characters I come across every morning continues to amaze me. There’s a runner proud of his gym-honed physique. Fleet of foot, he dodges a couple of gringos walking around with their heads on a swivel, perhaps nervous about the rumors alleging a lack of safety. A drunk, beer in hand, sitting on one of the nearby exercise machines could indeed confirm those fears. Nearby, a wrinkled man listening to music while sunbathing in his Speedo shows them the other side—free and uninhibited—of this wonderful city. Without even thinking, I start to hum a tune by Mercedes Sosa: I’m grateful for this life that has given me so much / It has brought me laughter and it has brought me tears / It’s how I know the difference between bliss and brokenness / The two themes that make up my song.
I’m well aware of the privilege of experiencing this moment. The stakes are high, but that pressure doubles as a source of joy. It makes me feel alive, and it will drive me to perform at my best. I’m fifty-five years old, I’m appearing in my sixth Olympic Games, and this bike ride on the morning of August 16, 2016, brings me to the race that will determine whether or not I will achieve what I’ve been pursuing for nearly three decades: the gold medal in sailing.
In a short while, Cecilia Carranza will also be biking to the marina where we keep our boat, a Nacra 17 catamaran debuting in the mixed events at these Olympic Games. She has downloaded the Argentine national anthem onto her phone, though it’s a version performed by Los Piojos, a rock band from her generation. She listens to that song on repeat, again and again. It’s from a live performance, and the howling of the crowd with which the song starts lends it a sense of power, connecting it with the task we came here to do. Ceci has grown a lot during the time we’ve been sailing together. A short while ago, at breakfast, I noticed the confidence in her eyes. We didn’t talk much, not even a few words of encouragement. There was no need to.
Yesterday, the day off before the final competition, her nephew Berna dropped in for a visit.
“Tía, they told me not to say anything to you, but I’m so nervous!” he said.
Ceci laughed and explained that we had trained for this moment as best we could. Win or lose, we would lay everything on the line. That much was certain. The road that brought us here was a long and winding one, to be sure. Among many other things, I had never sailed with a woman before, which is a requirement in this category. Also, we came from different sets of experiences, something which created an uneven relationship and a lot of tension. “Take a better tone with Ceci. Never raise your voice or pressure her again,” I jotted down in my little red notebook after one particularly difficult day. I don’t know if I’ll end up with a medal around my neck this afternoon, but one thing I’ll definitely take with me from Rio is an advanced degree in how to relate with a woman twenty-six years younger than me. Ceci and I joke that, after these Games, I’ll be ready to get married again.
I’ve been competing for nearly half a century, and I know that the important work has already been done. Now, all that’s left to do is unfurl everything we’ve spent so much time practicing. I feel calm, and the scenery helps. Before me lies the imposing Guanabara Bay. Watched over by the statue of Christ the Redeemer surrounded by hills lush with vegetation, this mirror-like water has been the center of our lives for the past nine months. Rife with uncertainty and behind in terms of preparation, we decided that the only way to get to the Games with a chance—even a hope—of a medal was to move here immediately. And so we did. We became locals. We sailed in order to discover the secrets and capriciousness of this devilish geography. We’re experts in each and every current crossing the bay, and we know the infinite winds that sweep across it.
The effort has paid off. After the initial twelve races, we have arrived here, on the final day of the Games, with a five-point advantage over second place. But our sport is a cruel one. Your finishing position in each regatta is added to your total score, but this final competition, the medal race, is worth twice as much as the previous ones. The team that accumulates the fewest points wins the title. We’re in a good position, but if we have a bad day today, we could be left off the podium completely.
I take a minute to gaze out at the sea. I’m looking for signs that might confirm the forecast we received earlier from our meteorologist, Elena Cristofori. One of the things I love about sailing is that the playing field is constantly changing due to the wind and currents. That makes sailing an unpredictable game. Chess played on a dynamic board. Sailors combine the meteorological reports we receive with our own ability to read the wind in the middle of a race. It’s a fascinating art, but the wind can be a rebellious thing. It’s always hiding something. So it’s not just about knowing what’s happening in the moment; you also have to be prepared for what will happen in the following minutes. We collect data on the cloud formations, the colors of the water, the way the flags on the coast are flying, and the ways in which the rival ships are moving. But despite all of this, intuition plays a fundamental role.
To this we add the expertise to execute maneuvers and the tactics to respond to the movements of our competitors. In the final race, which will begin in just a few hours, the top ten teams will compete to see who can best combine these variables while maintaining their balance as they hang from the trapeze: the only thing connecting us to a fast and unstable vessel.
Lying on the bed in the dark, having surrendered myself to the healing hands of Eva Álvarez, our kinesiologist, I let go and share part of my story with her. It was during one of our first treatment sessions that she had discovered my scar. It’s small and it has healed well. In the middle of my chest at the level of my ribs. It’s hard to see at first glance, but she found it and worked it gently, looking to restore some elasticity to the skin. I told her where it came from: the cancer for which they had to remove the entire upper lobe of my left lung. After the operation I was unable to speak, let alone make even the slightest physical effort. “Single cylinder,” my friends used to call me.
They had resected roughly thirty percent of my pulmonary system. Over time, what was left of the organ would expand to fill the vacant space, but at first it was very difficult to breathe. The surgery was less than a year ago, and today I’m about to compete in the final sailing event of the Games. And what an irony it is: the International Olympic Committee had incorporated the Nacra catamaran because they wanted a fast and agile vessel that would entice young viewers, and yet here I am, the oldest sailor competing in Rio, and just recovered from cancer.
I ride my bike through a short tunnel that passes under an avenue. When I reemerge in the park, I recall the epic cycling workouts with which I began my rehabilitation in Cabrera de Mar, a rugged Spanish mountain town just over sixteen miles from Barcelona. It’s my second home. Immediately, the images of Theo and Borja, my twins, come to mind. They were my support group after the surgery and throughout the entire period of recovery.
They’re not sailors. They just didn’t inherit my passion for the sport. Although they enjoy physical activity, it’s a strong artistic inclination that prevails in them, one which comes from their mother, Silvina. Still, in one month we logged nearly 300 together on our bikes. Spending time with them during the recovery period was an opportunity to get to know them better. Instead of a competitive impulse, they both prefer a more relaxed approach to life. I worried about it at times, but in the moment, I was able to understand and appreciate it. As I ride on, the memories of those days fill me with energy.
I have two other sons, Yago and Klaus. They compete together in the 49er skiff, one of the most dynamic and explosive Olympic classes. And they’re very different athletes. Yago shares my obsession with planning and tactics. He’s the oldest, and may have suffered the most when Silvina and I separated and I decided to make a living as a competitive sailor, forcing me to spend long periods of time outside the country. Klaus, the youngest, is pure sensitivity. We spend a lot of time together, and he greets me with an effusive hug every time we pass one another in the marina. The two of them are also in Rio, competing in their first Olympics. Just over a week ago, the three of us, plus Ceci, paraded together during the opening ceremony. The moment we entered the Olympic Stadium, celebrating with the other athletes, was worth more to me than the two bronze medals I had won during previous Games. In a world rife with conflicts, inaugurating the Olympics is a sign that different peoples and cultures can come together in peace: a message that’s even more important to me than the sport itself.
Sharing this experience with them in Rio justifies the effort that I’m demanding of my body. I always trained hard throughout my career and suffered a few injuries. I play squash with Yago and Klaus, and the matches are even. My weak point are my knees. I had surgery on both meniscuses before I started competing in Nacra and they can be quite painful. Crouching down, which is a common position to find yourself in on a catamaran, was torture. I was clearly suffering, and Ceci looked at me with concern. Before the Games, I had traveled to Brasilia to participate in a road race, the Red Bull World Run, and had to stop after only a hundred meters. I warmed up and was able to continue, but I prefer using the bike for training purposes. This Scott road bike I’m riding towards the Olympic marina is the same one I have used all these months to climb up to the statue of Christ the Redeemer at the top of Corcovado.
It wasn’t just my knees that ended up paying a heavy price for my lifestyle. I know the decisions I’ve made have affected my relationships. There were times when I’d spend nine months out of the year competing around the globe. I understand how difficult it is to maintain a healthy relationship with your partner with that sort of schedule. I’ve been alone for quite some time. It’s not something I’ve sought out for myself.
At some point I began questioning my vocation. What’s the point of putting so much effort into something that apparently isn’t very relevant? I would compare myself with my uncle Wolfgang, a doctor who saved lives and cared for the health of his patients. And what have I done instead? I spent decades trying to be the best at steering a boat between a couple of buoys. What does that mean? What am I contributing to society through my daily efforts?
Having arrived at the marina, we prepare our catamaran before venturing forth into battle. There are a few hours left before the final race, and the routine won’t be altered. The final day of an Olympic competition is no time for innovation. Everyone knows what to do. The ship has three sails. I’ll handle the mainsail while Ceci takes care of the other two, the jib and the spinnaker. Our team is there to assist us, but they know that Ceci and I like to check the rigging, cotter pins, bolts, and other systems, as well as set all the battens with precision in order to give just the right amount of tension to the sails. It’s a way of making sure that nothing is worn out and at risk of breaking. Preparations also include decisions about which materials to use based upon the wind conditions we expect to find.
Yesterday, Mariano Parada and Mateo Majdalani, our coaches, did the hardest of all maintenance jobs: putting a final polish on the hull so it offers the least possible resistance to the water. They’re one of the reasons we’re here with a serious chance of winning gold. Cole, as Mariano is known, is a great friend and highly experienced sailor himself. We competed together in other classes, including the 2000 Sydney Olympics and two Snipe Class World Championship Regattas, which we won. We brought him on board a year ago to balance Mateo’s youth with his own extensive experience.
At twenty-two years of age, Mateo is a prodigy, and a close friend of my youngest son Klaus. They were competing together in the junior classes and I could already see their enormous talent. After having asked his father for permission to make him an offer, we called him up as soon as we started our campaign. He’d never been a coach, much less faced Olympic-level competition. We had already worked with young, promising sailors during previous Games, and they were a guarantee of enthusiasm and commitment. They were also a way for us to pass along our approach to the work to newer generations. And with Mateo, the results were exceptional. He is serious, focused, hard-working, and above all, very intelligent, which is key in a sport like this where so many variables are at play. His professional growth will be one of the best things to have come out of this adventure.
In the marina, you’re in close contact with your fellow competitors. You can smell the tension. We’re lined up in the order of our classification. We are the first. Next to us are the Italians, followed by the Austrians and the Australians: the three greatest threats in the battle for medals. Based on the current standings, it is possible to calculate the final results based on potential finishes. In fact, we have done the maths last night. All that matters to me is the knowledge that, if we finish in the top three, we were guaranteed the gold. And if we are among the first six to finish, we would be assured of a spot on the winner’s podium. Ceci had all the other possibilities memorized.
“You have to sail well and that’s it,” I say. It’s not that I don’t care. Gold is what I want. I understand the importance of numbers, but what I know is that, when you’re on board a Nacra, you can’t sail and do mental arithmetic at the same time. If I have to choose, I’ll stick with the first one. But just in case, Cole and Mateo had printed out a sheet listing all the possible finishing positions. They had laminated it and stuck it on the boat.
The catamaran is ready and we like being the first to hit the water. But now the winds are changing and the race has been postponed. When this happens, it’s important to maintain a sense of balance. If I’ve learned anything after all these years, it’s that being nervous is useless. But dismissing it isn’t as easy as it sounds. You’ve prepared for a specific schedule, and all of a sudden everything is put on hold until further notice. You have no idea when you’ll have to get yourself back into the optimal state of mind for competition. I head for an area under a tree where we store our things: a toolbox, a couple of chairs, some bags, and our spare equipment. We have chosen this place specifically because it’s remote. When I’m trying to focus, I look for solitude. I’m calm, I lay down in the grass. I block out the sun with my cap, assume the fetal position, and let the time go by.
Ceci, however, is more restless. Cole takes her aside to distract her. They prop themselves up against the hull of our boat, protected by the shade cast by the sail, and talk about what plans they have for after the Games and for their families. Cole is wearing a T-shirt that reads “Ceci and Santi” in that order. It was made by Ceci’s parents, who are there in Rio, and she smiles when she sees it. Cole also has an Argentine flag stashed in his backpack in case Ceci needs to celebrate. He’s done well to hide it; none of us even allow ourselves to talk about it. Ceci uses the break to have a short visualization session with Daniel Espina, our yoga instructor and sports psychologist.
Sessions with Dani are always individual. You don’t need much. Just a mat and a ball for stretching. I had a short one this morning and a more intense session yesterday afternoon. Ceci has a similar routine. At the beginning of the routine, in order to get her out of her thoughts and into a calm state of mind, Dani tells her to visualize herself sitting on the banks of the Paraná River. Vast and mighty, the Paraná is where Ceci first learned to sail. It serves as a beautiful waterfront to Rosario, her home. She adores her city and her river. It’s her refuge, it’s where her family is. The image makes her feel protected and safe from any insecurity.
Dani played a fundamental role when we had to deal with critical situations between Ceci and I. He listened to both of us and tried to make us understand that it wasn’t just about sailing faster, it was about learning to work together. That was the great challenge for this mixed team. It brought out the best and the worst in us. The age difference was never a problem, but we have very different personalities and have had very different experiences. There was a time when we weren’t performing particularly well and I would often take my anger out on her. That certainly didn’t help the team. Ceci is a tireless worker. When we started out, her attitude was perfect for absorbing information, but the dynamics of our relationship often undermined that learning process. At some point, she got frustrated and began to question whether she was ready for this level of demand.
My demeanor contributed to her mental slump. I’m always looking to see how far we can push the limits, to see just how well we can perform. I need the challenge. When I don’t see that desire to give everything and then some, I get anxious. When I’m in my training mode, I can come off as too intense for someone who has a different philosophy when it comes to approaching both sport and life.
There’s another factor at play as well: I’m Ceci’s teammate, but—based on my experience—I also serve as coach and team leader. This overlapping of roles brought complications. I had to involve not only her, but the rest of the crew in the decision-making process. And in doing so, I made—and continue to make—efforts to reduce the abruptness with which I express myself. “Don’t you agree?” Dani says, laughing as he parrots the catchphrase I use whenever I’m seeking approval for one of my ideas.
Before the start of the competition in Rio, we took stock of what these years of preparation had been like. Ceci hit on one of the key factors: the problems we’d faced were enormous, but no more so than our desire to overcome them. Many times she found herself at the edge of her physical and mental capacities. She’d wake up in the morning feeling like she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed, wondering whether the fatigue was in her body or just in her head. She questioned whether she could summon the strength to face everything that had to be done not just on that day but every day leading up to the Rio Games. Workouts in the gym, hours upon hours on the water, tuning up the vessel, planning, and traveling to compete in preparatory races. How does one carry all of this forward?
Dani helped Ceci climb the physical and emotional mountain that this Olympic campaign represented. That’s what he told her, yesterday, during their session. When they finished, Ceci looked him in the eye and thanked him excitedly.
“I have no doubt that tomorrow, no matter the result, we’ll do well, and I’ll be able to accept it with nothing but peace and tranquility,” she said.
They embraced in silence.
Ceci was the last member to join the racing team that we formally began in 1993. The method we’ve developed over the years includes Dani’s yoga work and visualization techniques mixed with other ingredients, including rigorous planning, relentless physical preparation, long hours out on the water, and pre-competition gatherings where we all share a house together. One of the founding members of the KGB—that’s what we jokingly call our team—is Daniel Bambicha, our long-standing trainer. Bambi is a former track athlete. When he was still competing, he traveled to Yugoslavia, which was part of the socialist axis, to train with his national team. It was there that he adopted the steely system of discipline which he later used to punish us in the gym. He liked to push the limits of our endurance, and we all shared a love of a job well done. Although we had had a disagreement that resulted in Bambi not traveling with us to the Games, his contributions were nonetheless crucial.
Bambi’s friendly counterpart is Mariano Galarza, another veteran member of the team. If Bambi’s role was to push us to the breaking point, Galarza’s was to spoil us. A good-natured giant, he was a tremendous injection of positive mentality when he arrived in Rio. He gave us that boost of energy we needed to face the competition. During our earlier Olympic campaigns, he was in charge of our marketing strategy, managing sponsors, setting up travel logistics, and he even looked after my children and ex-wife while I was traveling. But he also had one more function, which he performs now: he cooks and makes sure that we’re all comfortable in the house. With the former, he’s a real genius. Last night we had pork brochette with potatoes, zucchini, and eggplant. The food was delicious, but even better were the stories that brightened up the dinner table.
Galarza is from Santa Lucía, a small and warm town in the Argentine province of Corrientes, which seemed almost mythical in the ways he worked it into his stories. After so many years, we’d heard almost all of them, but they’re still always hilarious when he tells them. Last night he returned to one of his classics: the time when he was a child and the circus came to Santa Lucía, and he and his friends went and caught some stray cats to feed to the tiger during siesta time. We went to bed with sore bellies from laughing so hard. Demanding yet enjoyable: that’s the true spirit of Team KGB.
An essential role in this working environment was played by Carlos Mauricio Espínola, another founding member of the team. Camau was the great companion of my Olympic career. It was with him that I learned how to plan a campaign and win medals. He’s Galarza’s brother-in-law and also from Corrientes, but his personality is just the opposite. Reserved and sullen, he keeps to himself during social gatherings and can come across as unfriendly to those who don’t know him. But I do. I know and admire him. I’ll never forget the first time I saw him training at the Tarek gym. He was an athlete with a knack for physical preparation that was unprecedented in our sport at the time.
The peak of our performance came during the 2004 Athens Olympics, when we competed in the Tornado, a catamaran that preceded the Nacra. We were so coordinated on board the vessel that we barely even spoke. We each knew what the other had to do, and we trusted that they would do it well. There was an absolute sense of respect between us. Together we garnered two bronze medals, but our level of competitiveness had us going for gold. Not having won left a thorn in my side.
Twenty minutes to go before we launch the boats into the water, and I get my body going with some light exercise, which I do with Dani. I take off my sportswear and put on the neoprene. I don’t have a problem changing in front of people, but there are cameras everywhere, so I cover myself with a poncho. I choose the lighter wetsuit, 1.5 millimeters, the short boots, the light blue and white lycra shirt, the calm wind trapeze harness, the life jacket, the cap, and finally the yellow bib which identifies us as the leaders going into this final competition. It’s the first day we start out in this position, and I feel a sense of pressure that inspires me, a mix of both strength and pride. The feeling dissipates fast. It’s time to get moving.
As soon as the ramp is in place, Ceci holds the vessel steady and removes the trailer. I remove the bow stops on which the hull rests. This is neither the time nor the place for pep talks. Nothing should change the way we do things. The emotion is floating in the air all around us. No need to mention it.
Cole told me later that he’d prepared a short speech. He reminded Ceci about what she’d gone through to be here. He was going to tell me that this was our chance, that I’d fought through a thousand regattas and cancer itself. That day, before the Christ with the open arms and my family who would be cheering us on from the beach, I just had to go out and enjoy it. Luckily, though, he’d spoken with Dani and decided not to. Instead, it was the usual. A slap on the shoulder, a quick hug, a knowing look. Anything else would have been too much.
We start sailing and feel the roar from the grandstands, something unprecedented in our sport. More accustomed to setting sail with no one other than the other competitors and race officials, the cheering overwhelms us. Flags are waving and the famous Argentina! Argentina! chant more commonly heard at soccer games resounds through the air. My mother, a few of my siblings, my children, Ceci’s family, and hundreds of people we don’t know are cheering us on as if we were Messi. There are even a number of Brazilians among them. After all, we’re local.
There is little time and much to do before the race begins. The first thing is to test the setting we have chosen for the boat. We have to make sure that the set-up is correct. We base our decisions on the wind conditions in the weather forecasts and what we could see from the land, but we make the final adjustments once we start sailing and can feel how the boat behaves. On the way to the staging area where the course begins, we try a few alternatives and exchange information with Mateo and Cole, who are on the motorboat. When we arrive, we meet with the Swiss team for speed checks and to decide, according to the wind and currents, which is the preferred side to be on. It’s a vital choice: there’s no point in going fast if you’re on the wrong path.
The wind sweeps down from Sugarloaf Mountain, and that creates gusting, which is difficult to predict. Tough conditions, but we’ll take them. Not one of the nine other teams have spent as much time sailing in this bay as we have, and that gives us a measure of assurance. I’m confident that when the time comes, we’ll sense before anyone else where the winning gust will come from. Everything is going well in the test runs with the Swiss, and we relay our conclusions to our coaches.
“I like the right,” I say as I hydrate while Ceci chews on a granola bar.
“Me too,” Mateo agrees. “But don’t overdo it and get caught up in the pockets of calm.”
He’s right. If we stick too closely to the coast, we run the risk of losing the wind. We talk about paying close attention so we can choose from which angle to enter the first set of buoys, one of the more complicated segments of the course. In the end, we confirm the strategy for the start of the race we had planned out last night.
The start is a critical moment in a short event like this, the medal race. We begin by positioning ourselves behind an imaginary line set up between two boats as a reference point. We can’t cross it until a horn sounds announcing the start of the race. If we do, we have to go back. We could even be disqualified. The whole process begins with a five-minute countdown. The goal is to be in the most favorable position and at maximum speed, with no opponents to worry about and at the exact limits set by the line, when the clock reaches zero. The ten vessels are all looking for the same thing and space is tight.
We decide we want to be towards the left side of the line and aiming towards the right side of the course. This strategy has several advantages, but it also involves a serious risk. Based on the course we’ve chosen, the rules state that we’re required to let all boats coming from the other side pass. There tends to be a lot of crisscrossing at the start of a race, and we’ll have to avoid any compromising situations with another boat that has the right-of-way. The judges watch from their motorboats and when they see a foul, they blow their horn: the most feared sign of all. It means you’re penalized with a full turn, a slow maneuver that takes you off your planned course.
If everything goes according to plan, taking this risk will allow us to get to the side of the course which we think has the most favorable wind, which would simplify the rest of the competition. It’s an aggressive strategy. We could opt for a more conservative approach, playing it safe in hopes of securing a spot on the winner’s podium, but I’m driven by my desire for gold.
When it comes to the division of tasks on board the vessel, my responsibility is to execute the tactics. Ceci, on the other hand, besides keeping an eye on the movements of our competitors (among many other duties) keeps track of the time on her stopwatch and checks the flags with which the regatta commission boat announces the type of route and how much time is left until the start. My ignorance when it comes to the flag codes is absolute. I’ve never learned them, nor do I have any desire to do so. I trust in Ceci.
“Two minutes to go,” she says.
At this point it’s clear that the majority of the fleet has made a decision similar to ours: start at a slight angle to the right with no right-of-way. We’re second from the left end of the starting line. On one side of us are the Austrians, with the English on the other. We try to keep the vessel from moving forward, maintaining our position relative to those next to us. It’s not easy. The waves, the wind, and the current are making us anxious. If we want to maintain control, we’ll have to tighten the sails and let the catamaran edge forward, but that would bring us dangerously close to the starting line, which must not be crossed. Like racehorses on tight reins, our Nacras are restless when restrained. They vie for every inch.
“One minute,” Ceci announces.
A bit of a development appears on the right: the French and Australians are set up to start facing the opposite direction. They’ll have the right of way, and we must make sure they can cross in the clear. Otherwise, we could be in violation of the rules.
“Thirty seconds.”
The critical element of the start is deciding when to accelerate. Catamarans pick up speed very quickly. If I swing the rudder and change course, one of the hulls will rise up out of the water and we’ll take off. I have to do it at precisely the right moment and in a very finely tuned coordination with Ceci, who handles the sails. Not a second before, and not a second after.
The goal is to let the French pass and just miss the Australians. The English, who are downwind, will do the same. This is our most immediate concern. In the next ten seconds, we’ll find out who executed the best start. They’ll be the first to break to the right, which is where we all want to be.
“Twenty seconds.”
I ready myself to pull the trigger and accelerate, while at the same time keeping my eye on the English crew as well as the two vessels crossing in front of us which we’ll have to avoid.
“Ten seconds.”
Danger! The English set sail first in hopes of getting out in front of the Australians. It’s a bad decision and they’ll be penalized for it, but that’s their problem. Our immediate concern is something else: the Australians will have to avoid the English, putting them on a collision course with us.
“Nine… eight…”
The worst case scenario comes true: the Australians have changed their course drastically and we are now hurtling towards what could be a disastrous head-on collision. The Australian helmsman looks panicked. So do we. If we collide while sailing in opposite directions, our vessels will get hooked together and break apart. It’ll be the end of the race and goodbye to the medals.
The Australians miss us by inches. Having dodged this bullet, we tear off. This wasn’t the start we’d anticipated, but we’re in the race.
Then the horn blows.
I turn my head and I can’t believe it. The judge is pointing his flag at us. It’s a penalty, but not a fair one. The fault lies with the English crew, while we did everything we could to solve the problem they created. But there’s no time to be wasted on speculation. We have to make a complete turn before getting back into the race. It’s a complicated maneuver, one we never really train for. Of all the things we had to prepare for, this was not one of the priorities. It comes out slow and rough. The catamaran almost capsizes.
When we finally finish and get back to sailing, I look up and see that we’re in last place, far behind the rest of the fleet. Once again, the gold medal seems to be slipping away into the distance. But I don’t let myself get upset. It’s a short race, but there will be opportunities to recover. The important thing is not to worry. Keep calm and confident. That’s the new plan, and in fact, it’s the only one we’ve got. We’re going to have to fight our way up from the bottom if we’re to have our resurgence.
It all started as a game. A game that allowed us to be free and happy during a time when we didn’t even know the meaning of those words.
The playground where our adventure took place began where the wooded grounds of the Yacht Club Argentino looked out over the river in San Fernando, a suburb on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, and expanded infinitely once we boarded our little boats. We were barely seven years old, and we had the Luján River to ourselves, and beyond that, an estuary of the Río de la Plata, vast and expansive, which opens up just over a mile from the club. Growing up at the exact point where a great confluence of fresh water, a dark and earthy color, forms a delta of islands, islets, rivers, and streams gave me exceptional access to what has always been my great passion: sailing.
Before the rivers and the ocean beyond it, the club’s bay spread out before us. It was marked off by two buoys, which was the limit our parents had imposed upon us. We spent hours running races—calling them regattas would be more than a bit overblown—between the ramp where we launched our boats and one of those buoys. Sailboats anchored in the bay became obstacles to navigate around. We lived for those competitions, and soon enough, through those trial runs, we began unlocking the secrets of nature. In order to win, we had to figure out where the wind was blowing the strongest, or react quickly when there was a change in its direction. We did these things intuitively, without even realizing it.
During the excitement of the race, we would occasionally collide with the hulls of anchored boats or get tangled up in their moorings. Most of the time, there was nobody on board, and we could flee quickly to avoid responsibility. But every once in a while we would run into a boat where someone was taking a nap, rocking gently in the swaying waters, who would stand up and shout at us angrily. When we got tired of racing, we played hide and seek in the water. One of us would count to fifty with our eyes closed while the rest would set out and hide behind the larger sailboats anchored in the bay, where they’d lower the mast and hide the sail to avoid being discovered.
The club also featured soccer, Argentina’s national sport. I played, just like everyone else, but I didn’t like it nearly as much as sailing. And my tall, lanky physique didn’t help. Plus, I wore glasses. I still have a scar from the injury I gave myself when I was ten and trying to play without them.
“Watch out! You’re blind! You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Martín Billoch said mockingly.
Quick in the way short kids tend to be, and with a headband to rein in his abundant blonde locks, Martín was two years older than I and much more skilled than I was with the ball. He was also faster in a boat. While the soccer thing didn’t much matter to me, his superiority on the water kept me up at night. I’d lie there in bed, wide awake, searching for the answer to the same question I ask myself to this day: how can I become a better sailor?
There were other boys with whom we shared games on land and adventures on the water. Girls were into sailing as well. In that sport, integration almost always came about naturally without gender distinctions. Not many of them had our fanaticism, though. We were rivals, but Martín and I were close. He was the first friend I had out there on the water, which is where I had the best times of my youth.
Weekends always started early in my home in San Isidro, a residential area with a small town feeling located a little under twenty miles from hectic and bustling Buenos Aires. On Fridays, Martín would come for a sleepover. Saturday, after breakfast, we’d pack our bags and step outside to wait for the bus that would take us to the Yacht Club. After a twenty-minute ride, we’d get off on an unpopulated road and begin a seemingly endless hike until we reached the entrance where a sailor in a security post guarded the entrance. Ecstatic and set to go, we finally crossed over into the aquatic side of life where the rules that applied on dry land lost their validity. This was our secret garden, filled with stories known to no-one but ourselves. At school I could come across as shy and a bit reserved. At home I was the youngest of five children under a strict, stern father. But all of that faded away once we walked through the doors of the club and could sense the presence of the nearby river.
The Yacht Club is situated on a peninsula that starts out narrow before widening at the end. As we walked to the sheds where our boats were stored, to the right we could admire some of the finest vessels that sailed the Río de la Plata. We dreamed of one day taking the helm of one of them. We knew all their names and imagined epic regattas, distant seas, and unknown ports which, very soon—it was only a matter of time—we would be visiting.
Martín and I were kids in a club for adults, which was one of the oldest, most traditional in all of Argentina, and proud of that status. Back then, despite the hot summer weather, there was no swimming pool. That would have gone against its principles: sailing was club’s one true purpose. Members treated one another with a sense of respect for mores that contrasted sharply with our childish impetuousness. Every once in a while, an older member of the club would tell us to stop yelling or running around, or remind us we couldn’t enter the bar area in swimming trunks. But that tended to happen during the day when more people were there. We spent nearly every Saturday night aboard our parents’ ships, and the nights were ours. We were the lords and masters of a deserted club. We got the boats ready, and after everyone else had fallen asleep, we slipped out to explore the dark bay. We listened in silence to the thumping sound of the hull against the still water as we slid down to the river’s bank. The moon lent an aura of mystery to our adventures.
We quickly became the darlings of the club’s sailors and other employees, who appreciated the joy we introduced to a place with such a formal atmosphere. What we liked best about them was that they lacked the censuring tendencies of our parents. I remember Giménez, who worked in the storeroom and gave us access to sails and life jackets, as well as Ávalos and Urrel, who came with the club’s motorboats to tow us when we started competing in regattas. Ana María, the sailing instructor, was a woman with a tremendously strong character. We used to have our differences. She was an old school sailor who wanted to teach us how to read buoy markings and nautical charts, but these were theoretical questions that didn’t interest us much. All Martín and I wanted to do was sail, to explore the river, and we’d learned how to do that on our own. Other than some basic advice handed down to us from older sailors, nobody gave us much in the way of instruction when we were starting out. One day we simply hopped on a boat and started to learn out there on the water, which is where we really wanted to be. Thus, without even thinking about it, we had begun what would become hundreds of hours of training.
We made up for our lack of a formal education with the freshness that stems from being adventurous children. We would have many frightening moments, and we were certainly in danger at times, as the river can be a treacherous place, but the memories I have of those days is the pure joy of sailing. Back then, we had no coaches and followed no written rules, which allowed us to grow without the fear of making mistakes. That stately and distant club would give us, without even realizing it, the opportunity to learn and discover things at our own pace.
The freedom I felt on the river contrasted sharply with the disciplined routine that my father, Enrique Jorge Lange, exercised at home. Order was his personal obsession. Before going to bed, our tasks included leaving our closets impeccably clean and laying out the following day’s clothing on a chair next to the bed. Every so often, my father would conduct an inspection. Once, I remember him grabbing everything in the closet and throwing it on the floor before ordering us to pick it back up and organize it properly. Dinner was always a ceremony. The entire family would wait for my father to come home from work so we could eat together at a large, immaculately set table. Before we could sit down, he would inspect our hair and our hands, and anybody who had missed a spot had to go to the bathroom and tidy up. His nap was sacred. When he lay down to sleep, we were forbidden from playing out in the yard. During the summer we couldn’t use the pool—which my older siblings had scrubbed and painted early in the season—until he was up. My friends were afraid of him. Martín, especially, still remembers when he had to take the bus home in the middle of the night, even though we had planned on a sleepover. That was my father’s punishment for misbehaving.
He never yelled at us or resorted to corporal punishment. Instead, he imposed himself with a (stern) look and his military ways. He was of German descent and graduated from Argentina’s Naval Academy. His parents, Max and Clara, were born in Weimar, in the German state of Thuringia. They emigrated to Argentina with Wolfgang, their eldest son, and my father was born here. I have no memories of my paternal grandfather. My maternal grandmother, whom we called Omama (from “Oma,” meaning “grandma” in German) was extremely tough, even tougher than my father. She spoke Spanish with a heavy accent. She would come over on Sundays and knit wool socks for us. We didn’t see much of Uncle Wolfgang, but I loved and admired him. He was a renowned physician, a cultured and refined man. Like Omama, he spoke with an accent, and there was a cold and distant manner about him that annoyed my siblings. I liked his seriousness. And while my father would regularly invite him over for Sunday roasts, he rarely came, preferring instead to study.
My father’s career as a sailor was short-lived. During the second half of the 20th century, Argentina experienced a period of great political upheaval. Peronism—a movement that sought the support of workers and and unions whlie confronting the nation’s traditional sectors—was emerging. My father like most of his colleagues in the Navy, was a liberal who found himself at odds with Juan Domingo Perón, the movement’s populist leader. He preferred to avoid politics after the 1955 coup overthrew Perón and put the military in charge of the country. Instead, he turned to the private sector, which garnered him some economic prosperity. Still, though, he was never fully able to stay away from the troubled and violent times that loomed over Argentina.
What my father truly enjoyed was sailing. He owned at least three sailboats in his life and competed in open ocean races. He participated as a substitute in the 1952 Helsinki Games in one of the sailing categories. On the wall of my childhood bedroom I had a poster from those Games with the Argentine flag and the Olympic rings in gold. The funny thing is that I never talked about this with him, like so many other things that went unsaid. When I started sailing at the YCA, as we called the club, he had his boat moored there. At mid-morning on the weekends he’d drive up there in his car. He did his thing; he didn’t follow me around or worry about what I might be up to. Maybe he thought that, as long as I was sailing, everything would be fine. The space he gave me there was important. It allowed me to follow my true interests and learn to solve problems on my own. When he was with his friends, he was free-spoken, jovial, and well liked. At least, that’s what the other club members who were around his age told me.
There’s one day I’ll always remember because it would come to define what later became my career in sports. I came home from the club in frustration: I had been on the verge of winning a tournament when a piece of my rudder broke and I was forced to withdraw. It was a cold and windy afternoon, the river was raging, and for once I had been ahead of Martín. On top of my anger over surrendering was the fatigue of having spent an entire day on the water and the long bus ride home, brooding over my bad luck. When I got home and opened the door, I felt what was left of my strength leaving me, and I collapsed on the floor in tears. My dad asked me what had happened, and I told him. It was then that he said something which would stay with me as a tenet:
“Races are won on land.”
My obsession with planning strategies and prepping the boats stems from that very day, as does my belief that every outcome is defined by preparation and training.