A Yacht Called Erewhon (18 page)

T
he following morning, I found Sam in the barn, puffing away on his pipe. The hull gleamed in the rays of sunlight that forced their way through the dusty windows. Sam had a new spring in his step and, with the outside finished, we continued with the internal strengthening before we turned our attention to redoing the varnish.

The old timber was in remarkable condition and only needed a light sand. Each night, we were rewarded when we brushed on the new varnish and the old timber danced back to life. The mottled kauri panelling took everyone’s breath away. As we completed each section, Sam laid on the finishing coat, his skill with the brush matching his wizardry with the tools.

Once we’d finished that back-breaking task, we turned our attention to the fitting out. Hepi located a new Nissan diesel engine and Paint set about adapting it, though Sam was concerned about Paint’s ability to do the job. The old Ford V8 motor, a standard auxiliary in the 1930s, had long since been removed, leaving a gap that would house the new motor with room to spare.

Each day, Paint turned up at ten past eight, which wound Sam up, but then he’d work steadily without interruption. He removed the old gearbox, overhauled it with new bearings and seals, then grafted on the new power plant. Dad wanted to buy a new gearbox, but Paint assured him the old one was better than new. The old propeller shaft and propeller were dodgy,
but Hepi located a new unit, and Paint, Sam and I drilled the keel stub to take the new, bulkier tube.

Excitement grew as items were steadily ticked off Sam’s list. Mic and Mum coordinated the interior, with new squabs and curtains, and Sam and I re-pitched the teak deck and rebuilt the hatch-covers. Dad found a company that was still able to etch glass in the traditional manner, and the broken panes were replaced with new ones that matched the originals.

New coffee grinders, cast in brass in keeping with the rest of the fittings, arrived, and Paint and I spent a week fitting them. Sam made up false panelling to conceal the gearing where it penetrated the coach roof.

One evening, Sam turned to Mic as we sat together enjoying a well-earned beer. ‘We’re nearly ready to put the old girl back on her keel. What does Jack think?’

Initially taken aback by Sam’s acceptance of her unorthodox means of communication, Mic hesitated for a minute. ‘I’ll find out what he thinks tonight.’

Sam nodded.

Next morning, she came into the kitchen with a plan in her hand. ‘Good,’ she said, looking at Dad. ‘I hoped I’d catch you before you went to work.’

‘You’re lucky,’ Dad replied, as he washed a mouthful of toast down. ‘I have an early meeting.’

‘Jack told Nana he’d like to recast the keel, now that you’ve changed the rig. He thinks we’ll need about a ton less lead, and he’d also like to change the shape.’ She unrolled the blueprint, and Dad quickly read it through.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said, as he headed for the door. ‘Get Fatman to show them to Royce and Johns. See if they can handle recasting something that size. Tell them I expect them to use the old lead!’

The next day, John Royce arrived with Jack’s plans in his
hand. He and Sam were long-time business acquaintances, John having cast many keels for Sam’s projects. As he climbed out of his ute, Sam went over and shook his hand.

‘I’ve got to see this thing for myself,’ John said. ‘The dimensions are a bit screwy.’

Sam shook his head. ‘If they’re wrong, we’re rebuilding the wrong boat!’

‘And what’s this about remoulding the existing keel?’

‘Hang on a minute, I’ll show you,’ Sam said, taking John around the end of the barn to where the old keel lay.

‘By jingoes, Sam!’ he said, as he caught sight of the huge lump of lead. He tapped the bulb with his knuckles. ‘Is it all lead?’

Sam nodded, as he lit his pipe. ‘Certified so when it was cast. I know that for a fact, because I cut the tags off the ingots before they went into the furnace.’

John sucked through his teeth. ‘Well, if that’s the keel, where’s the rest of it?’

Sam ushered him into the still-darkened barn and, while John tried to adjust his eyes to the shadows, he pushed open the big doors. The two men peered up at the golden timber hull.

‘Have you rebuilt her, or have you knocked her up from scratch?’

‘Most of her is seventy years old, though I must admit some is brand-new.’

‘She’s bloody beautiful, Sam, bloody beautiful!’ John unrolled the plan. ‘Now that I’ve seen her, I’d like to check the bolt centres.’

‘You don’t need to. If Jack drew them, they’ll be right. But just to keep you happy, I’ll hold the tape.’

John quickly checked the dimensions and nodded. ‘How soon?’

‘Yesterday,’ Sam replied, blowing a cloud of smoke.

‘Then I’d better get cracking.’ They walked back outside and revisited the scrap keel. ‘The new one will definitely be a better shape. I reckon she’ll be about a ton lighter, and I should have some left over.’

Sam doubted that anyone but John could have guessed the finished weight of a yet-to-be-poured keel, but he was sure his old friend knew exactly what he was talking about.

‘With the new rig she needs less weight, so I hope you’re right,’ Sam replied. ‘But you look concerned. What’s worrying you?’

Again John sucked through his teeth. ‘She’s too bloody big to cast at my factory.’

‘You can’t do it then?’

‘Didn’t say that—just can’t do it at my shop.’

‘Where do you want to do it then?’

‘I’d say about here,’ he replied, pointing to the grassed area beside the old keel. ‘Do you think they would mind if we dug a fifteen-foot hole to lower the mould into?’

Sam smiled. ‘Blimey, that takes me back a bit. We melted the lead in a giant pot over an open fire alongside the mould, which we’d buried outside the boat-shed. It worked a treat, but the worst thing about it was that we apprentices had to dig the hole!’

‘We don’t need to be quite as crude as an open fire these days. I’ve got access to a portable furnace that’ll do the job, and I can control the temperature a lot more accurately with that.’

Sam re-lit his pipe. ‘I’ll get Jim’s mate to organise the hole. When will you be ready to pour?’

‘I’ll have the mould ready Monday week.’ He turned and headed for his ute. ‘See you Tuesday week. As long as the weather’s right,’ he added, as he disappeared down the drive.

Sam rang Hepi to organise the digger, and I arrived at the
barn door as Sam was hanging up the receiver. I was about to apologise for my late appearance, but Sam wasn’t in the mood for lame excuses.

‘Patty and Jackie too much for you and your brother?’ he asked.

‘Their pace is killing me. They never sleep!’

Sam gave a disapproving puff on his pipe. ‘Come on then, lad, we’ve got to start preparing for the keel pour. You just missed John Royce. He’s going to bring the mould out here and pour the keel on-site. It’ll be good experience.’ He produced a sketch of the scaffold we needed to build alongside the hole.

Monday came around slowly, and in the afternoon Bertha climbed the rise from the gate. With his trademark doubledeclutch, Hepi swung her around and parked beside the hole. With Paint’s help, the mould was lowered into position. Everything was ready.

I didn’t need the alarm the next morning, as Hepi and Bertha shattered the silence again, this time loaded with John Royce’s gear, including the portable furnace and enough oxygen and acetylene cylinders to make Bertha really grunt. John was already on-site and guided Hepi back to where he wanted him. Then he leaped up on the scaffold to swing the spout over the mould.

‘Couldn’t be better!’ he called.

‘We aim to please,’ Hepi replied, with his usual cheeky grin.

‘My boys should be here any minute,’ John continued. ‘I’ll get them straight on to cutting up the old keel. Because of the size of this baby, the pot won’t hold enough to do it in one pour, so we’ll have to set some burners up to keep the lead molten in the mould while we get the second pour ready.’

‘No sweat,’ replied Hepi, as if he did this type of job every day.

John’s men arrived and stood motionless as he lambasted them for their tardiness, but once that was out of the way they were hard at work with the gas-axes, slicing off manageable lumps of the old keel and placing them in the furnace.

It was a hot, smelly job as the torches produced rivulets of shiny silver liquid that ran onto the ground and quickly solidified. The outer layer of the old keel had absorbed salt and other aquatic matter, which filled the air with a pungent marine odour.

With heavy gauntlets to protect their hands, they filled the furnace pot, and John checked the temperature. On his signal, I climbed in the pit and lit the burners to heat the mould. The molten metal raced out of the spout and into the bottom of the waiting cavity, then they reloaded the pot. This time the lumps disappeared more quickly, and John opened the gatevalve, topping the mould to the brim.

Dad arrived as we were turning off the burners, and beamed when he saw the result.

‘You know when to make an appearance, don’t you!’ I called, as the sweat dripped from the end of my nose.

‘It’s all about timing,’ he replied with a chuckle. ‘When you lot are packed up, you’d better come up to the house, and we’ll see if we can replace some of that lost fluid.’

Over the next few days, Sam and I did the finishing touches to ensure
Erewhon
was watertight above deck.

Paint arrived one afternoon with extensions for the cradle when the keel was in place, and the following morning Bill and Ted roared up the drive with their huge cranes.

Hepi backed the Nissan into the barn and hooked up, ready to tow the hull outside for the last time. Dad was assisting him
while the cranes got into position. Hepi dropped the Nissan into gear, and
Erewhon
edged out into the morning sun.

‘It’s like giving birth,’ Mum whispered to Mic.

The hull gleamed in the warm sun, and Bill and Ted waited patiently as Hepi inched it through the doors and into their reach. As the lift strops were positioned, we placed extra padding between them and the hull.

‘Stacey Barrett from Norths tells me the varnish is bulletproof, but I’m still a little wary,’ I said to Bill, over the cackle of his engine. He nodded, but reassured us he’d never marked a hull yet.

On the nod, the crane engines roared and
Erewhon
rocketed skyward. When the hull stopped swinging, we positioned the keel on the cradle under the hull, and Bill and Ted slowly lowered her. As if by magic, the keel bolts disappeared into the keel stub.

I placed a ladder against the hull, and Sam and I climbed on board with nuts, washers and a large ratchet-spanner. Sam eyed the shiny threads protruding through the keelson. ‘Here, lad,’ he said, handing me a small tube of grease. ‘Put a smear of this on those threads before you do them up as tight as you can. We’ll check them after she’s been in the water for a week.’

That done, we reappeared on deck, sweat oozing from every pore. I climbed down the ladder and stepped back from the hull. This was the first time since we found her that we’d seen
Erewhon
in one piece, and Mic had the usual tears rolling down her cheeks. I couldn’t take my eyes off
Erewhon
’s gleaming hull and shiny silver keel. It seemed a shame that the underwater sections would be masked with anti-fouling paint. Sam put a stepladder from the barn alongside the hull, then climbed up and patted Jack’s mark. ‘Well done, old friend,’ he muttered.

‘Jack says the same to you, Sam,’ Mic called out.

Sam smiled.

Paint, who’d been helping Bill and Ted pack up, walked over to the truck and stripped off his shirt. He reached into the truck and turned back towards us, holding a taiaha, and I saw that his body was as tattooed as his face. He moved forward until he stood directly beneath
Erewhon
’s bow, and when the others noticed him they all fell silent. Suddenly, he began a powerful haka, the likes of which none of us had ever seen. He was a fearsome sight, and
Erewhon
seemed to tremble in his presence. As he finished, he rested the spear on the keel and backed away in silence. The air was still, and even the birds in the trees nearby fell silent.

Mic was rigid as Hepi took her by the hand and escorted her forward. He gestured towards the spear, and Mic knelt on the ground to pick it up. Immediately, the birds started to sing again, and a gentle breeze wafted around the barn. Paint walked back to the truck and put his shirt back on. Without a word, he disappeared down the drive.

Dumbfounded, we all stood there looking at each other.

Hepi explained: ‘Paint just removed all the bad spirits from
Erewhon
and handed her spiritual well-being to Mic.’ He turned to face the hull and broke into a karakia. Then he turned and beckoned us to stand alongside him. We placed our hands on the keel, in silence, as Hepi finished. Then, like Paint, he turned away in silence, walked over to Bertha, scrambled up into the cab, and was gone.

Dad looked at Sam. ‘What was that all about?’ he asked.

Sam shook his head. ‘I’m guessing you might know,’ he replied, looking at Mic.

Mic paused for a moment, nodding as if she was listening to a voice we couldn’t hear. Finally, she spoke. ‘Nana tells me there was a hullabaloo when Jack purchased the timber for the hull. Because of the difficulty of handling large logs in those
days, most of them were cut into sections, but Jack wanted full-length planking. He searched far and wide to get suitable supplies.’

Sam nodded. ‘The timber we ended up using came from a log that had been felled for a waka. The iwi weren’t too happy when they found out that one of their lot had sold it to Jack. They were so incensed about the deal that the tohunga put a tapu on it. They told him that any boat built with that timber would come to a very bad end! I remember we used to laugh about it when we were building
Erewhon
, dismissing it as mumbo-jumbo. I’m not so sure now.’

Mic looked at Dad. ‘So what do you think, Jim?’

‘Let’s hope this means all the demons have gone.’