A Yacht Called Erewhon (28 page)

Her intoxicating scent filled my senses as her hair brushed over my body, and I gave myself up to her as the shadows from the trees outside danced across the walls. With the music from the party wafting through the windows, we eventually drifted off to sleep.

Patty and Jackie did their usual and prepared to see the dawn in with Matt and the crews. TJ and Dad found a quiet corner and spent hours talking over the pros and cons of the two yachts. TJ conceded that
Erewhon
outperformed
Valhalla
in all departments. ‘That yacht of yours can spin on a dime,’ he lamented.

‘Winning the start made the rest of the races that much easier,’ Dad agreed.

‘I thought all the modifications we did would have given us an edge, but it looks like I’ll have to talk to the boss again. Maybe we need a new rudder.’

The conversation continued, with TJ and Dad agreeing to race the two yachts on every possible occasion. Late in the evening, TJ reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. ‘Nearly forgot to show you this,’ he said, as he handed over a fax. ‘Tom O’Sullivan seems to be serious. My spies have seen his hull being turned out of its mould at a yard in Holland. It’s all carbon-fibre. She should be a flyer.’

‘Whose design?’ Dad asked, scanning the fax for more information, as Mic joined them, placing her arm lazily around TJ’s shoulder.

‘They’ve reworked the original Camper and Nicholson drawings, by the look of it,’ he replied, as he drew Mic around and lifted her onto his lap. ‘You’re quite some yachtswoman,’ he said, pecking her on the cheek.

‘You’re not so bad yourself. You didn’t give us those races!’

TJ smiled as he hugged her.

‘Wonder when she’ll be in the water?’ Dad continued. He called Matt over and showed him the fax.

Matt read the paper and nodded. ‘I’ve already made contact with O’Sullivan’s PR people, outlining the connection between
Erewhon
and the
Shamrock
s and extending an invitation to race
their yacht. I haven’t heard back yet, but I only sent the e-mail a few days ago.’

‘Great,’ said Dad, as he turned back to TJ. ‘Let’s hope he’ll have her ready to bring down here for the next Cup series.’

TJ put both his arms around Mic. ‘Looks like we’re going to have our work cut out if we come up against that baby,’ he whispered.

Mic smiled and nestled comfortably into his arms. ‘We’ll worry about her when she goes in the water,’ she replied, kissing TJ.

O
ver the summer months,
Erewhon
and
Valhalla
raced regularly, drawing an entourage every time they left the dock. TJ, to his credit, tried everything to make
Valhalla
more competitive, but nothing ever seemed to be enough. TJ’s boss came down to sail when he could, and enjoyed his time on the New Zealand coast, but never left happy because they couldn’t get
Valhalla
’s nose ahead in any of our encounters.

As autumn approached, he decided the Caribbean climate would be more to his liking, so
Valhalla
headed for Antigua.

Ronnie came bursting into the kitchen. She’d just sold her latest article on the super-yachts to
Ocean Spray
. While she was at the office, Tiger had told her that, because of the increase in circulation since her first report, he’d decided to sponsor the J-series regatta at Cup time next year. To encourage the yachts to come, he would also put up a purse of $100,000 for each win in the final five races.

Matt came into the room to find out what all the noise was about. When Ronnie retold the story, he sucked his cheeks in. ‘I’d better get TJ to make contact with all the other J skippers, to make sure they’re coming down. I still haven’t heard from O’Sullivan. I got an e-mail today from my old mate, Grant Stevens, who’s on a working holiday in Ireland, saying he saw
the new hull being trucked to a yard in Cork for fitting out. He’s taken some pictures, and when he can he’ll zap them to me.’

News of the
Ocean Spray
J series quickly spread through the yachting world. The Squadron received inquiries from all corners of the globe from owners of yachts that didn’t meet J specifications but who were nevertheless keen to take part in a classic regatta linked to the America’s Cup event.

Bob Sorenson phoned one evening to ask whether we thought the event could be opened up to include all yachts that had raced in the America’s Cup as well as Js. Dad told Bob we’d call him back.

We tossed ideas back and forth. I liked the idea: it had the potential to bring many more magnificent yachts to Auckland.

‘What if Connors brought the cat down?’ Mum asked. ‘It would qualify under those terms.’

‘We want a yacht race, not a circus!’ Dad said. He phoned Bob back. ‘We haven’t got a problem—so long as it’s only open to monohull Cup yachts and Js.’

‘Jeez,’ Bob replied, ‘never gave that a thought. Don’t want that bloody cat racing down here!’

‘I wouldn’t take
Erewhon
off the dock if you let that happen.’

‘What if
KZ1
was put back in the water?’ Bob quizzed.

‘Well, there’s a possibility,’ Dad laughed. ‘It makes me angry every time I see that thing sitting there at the Basin. Mind you, it might take some time to make her seaworthy again. Bring ‘em on down. We want to know if
Erewhon
is the fastest yacht in the world. Check if Tiger’s happy, and I’ll check with TJ to see if he can see any problems.’

The following morning, Matt came quietly into the kitchen. ‘Have a look at these,’ he said. The photos of O’Sullivan’s new
hull had arrived. The glistening black carbon-fibre hull was being lifted from a transporter, and the underwater sections were clearly visible. The giant sleek hull had the lines of a classic J-class, and although the keel stopped at the stub she was every bit a racing thoroughbred.

‘She’s beautiful,’ Mic sighed, looking over my shoulder.

‘Have you made contact with O’Sullivan yet?’ I asked Matt.

‘Yes, and I’ve got a telephone link-up with him on Thursday night.’

The excitement grew all day as we waited for the call, and on cue at eight o’clock the phone rang. The strong Irish accent filled the kitchen as we all sat around the speakerphone. Matt introduced us all, and O’Sullivan introduced us to his wife and daughter. We quickly got on to the subject of the yachts and explained the connection between Mic’s great-grandfather and Sir Thomas. Mic told O’Sullivan how the promised race had never happened and why, and suggested that under different circumstances
Erewhon
and the earlier version of
Shamrock
would have raced for the America’s Cup.

O’Sullivan was intrigued, but the high point came when he said that, as long as the project remained on schedule, he’d be attending next year’s America’s Cup regatta with
Shamrock VI.
When we told him about the
Ocean Spray
series, he said he’d heard about it already and asked Matt to send him an entry form.

When we said we had pictures of his new hull, he was intrigued, considering he had deliberately kept the project away from the media.

Dad reassured him that if he farted we’d know about it, which struck the right chord with Young Tom, as we’d dubbed him.

‘Sounds like we might be able to complete
Erewhon
’s mission yet,’ Dad said to Mic as O’Sullivan rang off. ‘Both yachts will have to beat the rest of the opposition before that can happen. It’ll be a major achievement to beat this thing, though,’ he added, as he poked his finger at Matt’s pictures.

‘We’ve got an edge,’ I said, picking up one of the prints.

‘How’s that?’ Dad quizzed.

‘Where’s the rudder stub?’ I asked, as I thumped the picture back down on the counter.

‘By jingoes, you’re right!’ he replied. ‘That looks like a rudder stock at the rear of the keel stub.’

We pored over the prints with excitement, as it appeared that
Shamrock VI
’s rudder would be mounted in the traditional form on the rear of the keel.

‘We’ll turn her inside out,’ Mic said with glee.

‘I reckon!’ I replied. ‘Even if she’s faster in a straight line, we’ll beat her in the starts, and then she’s got to get past us.’

‘Do you think she will be faster than us?’ Ronnie asked, as she came through the door. She’d missed out on the telephone call and had arrived to hear the excited babble.

‘There’s a good possibility she’ll out-gun us in a straight line. She’ll be much lighter,’ I confirmed, ‘but it just depends on how advanced the hull shape is. It’s a bit hard to tell from these shots. We need someone to go and have a closer look.’

Ronnie smiled. ‘I may be able to help. Matt, can you jack me up an interview with Young Tom?’

Matt nodded. ‘I think so. Why?’

‘Tiger wants a story on the new boat and is prepared to pay my airfare.’

‘These big yachts must be good for circulation,’ Dad said, looking at Ronnie.

‘The printers are running twenty-four-seven to cope!’

‘When will you leave?’ I asked Ronnie, not really wanting her to go.

‘As soon as Matt confirms I can get an interview.’

‘I’ll jack it up tomorrow. I’ll just mention that we’ve heard he’s farted again!’

Ronnie looked puzzled.

‘Boys’ humour,’ Mum said.

I dropped Ronnie at the airport two days later. My heart was thumping as we walked to the terminal. ‘Just think of all the reunion love-making we’ll have when I return,’ she whispered, as she turned towards the departure lounge.

Young Tom welcomed Ronnie, and she gathered lots of information, including photos from inside the Cork boat-shed. She made only vague references to her connection with
Erewhon
but, as O’Sullivan put it, even if she was a spy from our camp, we weren’t likely to start building a new yacht for the campaign.

‘He’s a pretty relaxed character,’ Ronnie said on her return. ‘I’ve had the most amazing week. He treated me like royalty. His capacity for Guinness appears to have no bounds—he has it with every meal, including breakfast. His other vice is Jameson’s. He believes that once a bottle is opened the top must be thrown away.’

‘What about the yacht?’ I asked. ‘What’s she like?’

‘These might interest you,’ she said, reaching inside her suitcase. She withdrew a cylinder, which, when opened, revealed a full set of working drawings. ‘Young Tom reckoned that if I
was going to do a cover story I needed to be accurate.’

I unrolled the plans and looked over them. ‘Why did he give you all this?’

‘As Young Tom told you, he’s been deliberately keeping a low profile on the project, but since news broke about his intentions, he’s been hounded by the British press for an exclusive. Tom’s tolerance for anything to do with the English is extremely low, so giving the story to a New Zealand magazine was his way of thumbing his nose at them.’

The drawings confirmed what we’d guessed about the underwater configuration. ‘She’ll be a flyer,’ Mic said, peering over my shoulder.

‘What weight will the hull displace?’ I asked.

‘Tom reckons about forty tons, plus less than fifty tons of lead.’

‘That makes her lighter than
Erewhon.
With more weight in the keel, she’s going to be quick!’

‘She’s finer in her lines too,’ Ronnie continued. ‘We’re going to have our work cut out if she’s sailed to her potential.’

‘What does Young Tom know about yachting?’ I asked.

‘He’s won a Fastnet, among other things.’

‘All the more reason to keep training on our boat,’ said Mic, with her usual air of confidence. ‘We’ve got some business to finish for my great-grandfather, and I won’t let him down.’

‘Let’s not forget the other opposition either. TJ isn’t going to lie down, and the others will come to race. Who knows who’ll come under the extended format?’

Our excitement grew, and as the subsequent months passed we continued to make improvements to
Erewhon
’s performance.

Late one November afternoon, the sun glinted off something shiny. The America’s Cup challenger series was well under way, and the armada of followers who spilled out into the gulf each day to watch the event was heading back to the harbour. Initially, I didn’t take too much notice, as I assumed the flash was from one of the many vessels plying the gulf that day. The sunlight flicked in our direction a second time, as a large vessel loomed into view. I went below and grabbed the binoculars, adjusting the focus as I came on deck. The vessel appeared to be a large ketch. Even at that range it looked huge, with full sails set. The dark hull had me intrigued. I raised the glasses again as the yacht got closer and thought I could make out a large J on one of the sails. I blinked my eyes and looked again. I suddenly realised I wasn’t looking at a ketch. It was two large sloops sailing side by side. The leading windward vessel was
Valhalla
, but I couldn’t make out the leeward one.

I called to Mic to square away and run down to meet them, as it was TJ with some company.

As we approached, we could see Patty and Jackie on the bow waving frantically and TJ back on the wheel, grinning. We returned the waves as I tried to make out the other yacht.

Mic swooped around TJ’s stern and rounded head to wind. The sinister black hull with its shiny new rigging looked awesome, as both yachts rounded head to wind.

‘It’s Young Tom!’ Ronnie yelled, as she pointed under the flapping jib and recognised the burly Irishman. ‘You told me you were shipping
Shamrock
down here,’ she called out.

He laughed heartily. ‘Never trust an Irishman after he’s had a couple of Jimmys!’

Erewhon
rafted to
Valhalla
, and Young Tom eased
Shamrock VI
alongside. The crews all trans-shipped to the new yacht, and while I hugged Patty and Jackie, Ronnie threw her arms
around Tom. TJ embraced Mic in his usual bear-hug. The crews traded high-fives as if they’d known each other for years, strong Irish and American accents being all that set the crews apart.

‘How come you sailed down?’ Ronnie quizzed Tom again.

‘Well, after the launch, we decided we needed to find out what made this girl tick, and we weren’t going to find that out if she was sitting on the deck of a freighter. If we were going to be competitive in this
Ocean Spray
outing, we needed to train, so when TJ said he was sailing from San Diego, I persuaded him to meet us at Panama. We match-raced across the Pacific.’

‘Who won?’ I chipped in.

‘We’ve both had our moments,’ TJ replied, joining in the conversation.

Tom shook everybody’s hand as if they really were longlost family, and soon had everyone charmed with his silvertongued Irish brogue. Meanwhile, Ronnie tried to find out how
Shamrock VI
had been made ready so quickly.

Tom laughed. ‘Wanted to surprise you lot down here. It’s cost me a bloody king’s ransom—I had to fly boatbuilders in from all over Europe!’

‘They’ve done a fantastic job,’ said Dad, as he cast his eyes around the deck.

‘Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,’ replied Tom, and we all followed him down the companionway. ‘I’ve kept the hull light by not lining it. The interior designer had a fit, but I think he came up with the right result.’

The interior of the hull was the familiar black carbon-fibre pattern. The rest of the fittings had been gilded, and the furnishings were in white leather, oozing opulence. The effect was stunning.

‘Pretty happy with the way it turned out,’ he continued, ‘but we had to make a concession to air-conditioning to come through the tropics.’

I moved over to the nav station. It was bristling with state-of-the-art electronics. ‘Think I’ve just about got everything covered there,’ Tom said with a chuckle. ‘The boys reckoned I wasn’t allowed to leave port until she was a working laboratory for the company’s new gear.’

I continued to pore over the yacht as Young Tom invited everybody back on deck for a drink. He was handing out the champagne when he caught a glimpse of Mic. His mouth dropped open.

‘Who are you?’ he finally stammered. ‘My god, girl, you’re the spitting image of the mystery girl in Great-uncle Tom’s picture!’

Mic looked puzzled, but Tom continued. ‘I’ve got a copy on the bulkhead in the main saloon. The original is on the wall at Lipton Manor, back in Ireland. It’s been a family mystery for years as to who the gorgeous creature was. You could be her twin!’ Tom handed Mic a glass of champagne. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but I thought I’d seen a ghost.’

‘This is Mic,’ said Ronnie. ‘She’s a close friend of the family and the great-granddaughter of
Erewhon
’s original owner. She’s also the helmswoman you’ll be racing against.’