A Yacht Called Erewhon (29 page)

‘TJ has told me all about you, Mic, and he’s warned me not to give you an inch at the start line.’

Mic smiled back. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you, Tom.’

Tom turned and ducked below, returning with a picture held out in front of him. ‘This is you, I swear,’ he said, thrusting it in Mic’s direction.

We all gathered around to look. Even in black and white, the likeness was unmistakable. ‘You must be the reincarnation of that young lady,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you know who she is?’
Tom asked. ‘The resemblance is too close for her not to be a relation.’

Mic smiled. ‘I think that must have been my nana. It was taken on one of her and great-grandfather’s trips back to Scotland. They detoured on their way home to see Sir Thomas’s yacht, which was soon to sail to America to race for the America’s Cup.’

Tom placed the picture down on the squab. ‘Hmm! If she was as beautiful as you are in the flesh…’

I thought this had gone far enough and moved around the deck to where TJ was standing. ‘How fast is she?’ I interrupted.

TJ laughed. ‘So fast that if they stay sober long enough to sail her properly, they’ll slaughter both of us!’

I looked back at the Irish crew. They had dispensed with the champagne and were back on their favourite black liquid.

‘I tell you what,’ TJ continued, ‘in the first week out of Panama, we could foot it with them. She was sailing with her bow down, and I thought there was something wrong with her design. Turns out, there was so much Guinness stowed in the bow it was affecting the trim. As we crossed the Pacific, the crew set about drinking the yacht out of its trim problem, and as the bow started to rise so did the hull speed.’

I laughed, but then I looked at the rate the crew were downing their Irish brew at and realised he might not be kidding. Young Tom had assembled an all-male group of ocean vagabonds to sail his yacht. Their common bond was the ‘sail hard and party harder’ ethic. As the weeks unfolded, they provided plenty of entertainment around the Viaduct Basin.

The sun was getting lower in the sky as the bottles were emptied and the three yachts cast adrift. Crews cranked up the sails, and we headed for the harbour. It quickly became apparent that there was an unofficial race on, and nobody
would give an inch as we punched through a short chop back towards the channel.

TJ bellowed at his crew, the Irishmen drove their yacht hard, and Mic demanded absolute attention to the job.

Shamrock VI
was ahead but to leeward as we crossed the channel on port, and TJ was to windward but astern.
Shamrock VI
was inching ahead, and TJ could have tacked, but he chose to sit on us as we weren’t far enough ahead to cross his bow. We continued to head for the North Shore coastline as Young Tom became uncomfortable and called for sea-room, not knowing how close he could get to the shoreline. Mic called the crew to get ready for the tack when she thought she could clear TJ.

‘Go now!’ Dad shouted as the wind broke under the lee of the cliffs.

Erewhon
crash-tacked as
Shamrock VI
stalled in the wind-shadow. TJ bellowed that we’d tacked too close, but the wind-shift had him above his proper course and he conceded and went about in our lee.

‘Full power!’ Mic screamed, as the crew spun the grinders to extract every last ounce of speed from the hull.
Shamrock VI
broke clear of the wind-shadow and was now in hot pursuit. The Irish crew unfurled their staysail and hoisted their flying jib. The sleek black hull scythed the smoother water of the channel, sailing right over the top of
Valhalla.
TJ dropped the bow down, looking for more speed and hoping to be lifted as he headed out towards Rangitoto.

Mic held her course, coaxing
Erewhon
to weather as much as she dared, knowing that even if the new boat was faster she wouldn’t be able to sail through our lee.

Bean Rock loomed as the yachts sailed back into the sloppy water of the outgoing tide. Spray flew as Mic steered close to the rocks and then threw back to port for the run up the harbour. I raced along the deck to give Derek and Jason a hand
to winch the starboard jib sheet in. Mum called the tension as Ronnie, with Tane and Mickey’s help, set the staysail.
Erewhon
’s lee rail was disappearing under the water, as Young Tom tacked behind our stern. TJ slotted in behind him, and the three yachts drove hard up the harbour. Mic took a quick peek over her shoulder and was reassured by Dad that everything was under control.

As the unofficial race drew to its conclusion, the giant yachts all rounded into the wind off Prince’s Wharf, and the crews downed the sails and squared their yachts away. Young Tom motored up alongside and looked at Mic. ‘TJ did warn me about you, lassie.’

Mic just smiled.

‘That’s one mighty fine machine you’ve got there!’ Dad called, as Young Tom saluted the
Erewhon
crew.

‘We live to fight another day,’ the Irishman replied.

‘We’re going to have our work cut out when it comes to a real race,’ I whispered to Mic, as she stood silently by the wheel.

She nodded while continuing to smile at Tom. TJ drew up alongside. ‘You’ve upset my crew again,’ he called. ‘You’ve found some more speed. I thought I might have found an edge, but you’ve got that thing flying!’

I looked at
Valhalla.
There was something different. In the late afternoon light I could just make out a dark shadow towards the stern under the water. ‘You’ve got a new rudder!’ I called.

TJ grinned.

The crowd at the Viaduct Basin entrance swelled as the three Js motored through the gap. Patty and Jackie enjoyed the attention as they moored, but the roar went up as the sinister black hull entered the harbour. The Irishmen played to the crowd.

Customs officers climbed on board the two visiting yachts and went about their business. They were a little concerned about the amount of alcohol still on board
Shamrock VI
, but Tom signed a declaration to say they intended to drink it and not sell it, so the officers left. The crews finally went ashore and made hasty tracks to their hotels for hot showers.

‘Barbie at the farm!’ Dad shouted.

Young Tom and TJ accepted invitations to stay at the farm. The thought of home-cooked meals was too much for either of them to resist. Ronnie enjoyed the opportunity to talk at leisure to the skippers of the three ocean greyhounds while they had their guards down.

Millie, who’d been at a loose end without Sam to fuss over, revelled in the job of assisting Mum in the kitchen, and the Irish crew adopted her as their own. On several occasions she went out on the ‘Stealth Bomber’, as the yacht had become known, but although she enjoyed the fuss the crew made of her, she always made a point of wearing her
Erewhon
uniform to let the Irishmen know where her allegiance lay.

As the days went by, it became clear that the farm had taken on a new life. The barn was now the unofficial clubhouse for the Auckland J-class Squadron. Sam’s toolkit became the focal point above the bar I’d built, and Hepi took over as bar manager. Dad provided Mum with a chef and housekeeper to lighten her load as we spent each day out in the gulf tuning
Erewhon.

Shamrock V
,
Endeavour
and
Velsheda
joined
Valhalla
,
Shamrock VI
and
Erewhon
, and with the arrival of pre-J-class yachts
Resolution
and
Reliance
the fleet swelled to eight. The
Ocean Spray
event was going to be spectacular.

One night in the barn, while Hepi was giving his rendition of Engelbert Humperdinck’s ‘Please Release Me’, Bob Sorensen burst through the door. ‘I’ve got a new entry,’ he announced.
‘
KZ1
is going back in the water!’

The barn went silent momentarily, and then the buzz grew. The talk centred on whether it was going to be a fair competition and whether a handicapping system needed to be introduced. Tiger Bentene was vocal about his company only backing a scratch event. Dad and I agreed with his sentiment.

‘
KZ1
is a J-class yacht and also qualifies for the event by being an America’s Cup competitor,’ Dad announced. ‘So let’s see how good she’ll be on the water!’

The crowd reluctantly nodded their agreement.

‘Who’s going to sail her?’ I asked, when I got near to Commodore Bob.

‘Some of the crew who originally sailed on her, I believe,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not sure who’ll be the skipper.’

Mic came in just after the announcement, and when I told her about our new competitor, she looked worried.

‘We’ll just have to be faster,’ I said emphatically.

She smiled as her confidence returned. ‘We can still win, Ben,’ she said.

‘Too bloody right we can. That tub still has to make it back into the water and cross the finish line before we have a problem. Another thing—whoever sails her has got to get past you on the water, and that’ll be their biggest problem!’

Two days later, I drove into the Basin and couldn’t help noticing the skyline had changed. The towering mast of
KZ1
, which had dominated the Basin for so long, was no longer in position.

The Cup event was well into the round-robin to select the challenger, and the boat harbour was bursting at the seams.

Matt was on board helping Derek to lube a winch as I climbed aboard.

‘There’s definitely more boats here this time,’ I said, looking at him.

‘Yes, eight confirmed starters.’
Resolution
had been withdrawn because the owners felt that her old hull would be well short of speed compared with the other yachts, and she was due for a complete refit.

I’d been sure our main opposition was going to come from
Shamrock VI
, but now that
KZ1
was entered I wasn’t so certain. Still, they’d left their run late, and they needed to prepare her for the event.

We continued to train on the water each day. The Irish crew sailed daily and partied all night. Ronnie, whenever she wasn’t on the water, was in Matt’s room tapping out her latest scoop for Tiger’s magazine. One morning, as we headed out through the breakwater, we spotted
KZ1
ghosting down the harbour in the light wind. ‘Wahoo!’ I yelled, as we pulled out into midstream alongside our new foe and made ready to hoist our sails.

Paint went forward and performed a menacing haka from the bow, and Mickey and Tane joined him; the three of them were a fearsome sight.

KZ1
‘s crew acknowledged the challenge and waved their salute.

‘Look who’s got hold of the wheel,’ I said to Dad, as I walked across the deck.

He smiled and nodded.

‘Who is he?’ Mic asked.

‘That, my love, is Sir Ian Richmond,’ Dad replied.

She took a second quick glimpse and returned her gaze to
Erewhon
‘s mainsail. She pulled the helm down, and
Erewhon
heeled slightly as Paint silenced the auxiliary.

The two giants glided down the harbour with the wind over the stern quarter, both crews watching each other as the yachts stayed side by side.

‘I reckon they’ll want a crack at us later in the day,’ I whispered to Dad.

‘Too right,’ he replied. ‘Just look at that crew. They don’t know the meaning of the word “second”. They’ll be busting to know how they’re going.’

The two yachts eased out into the gulf and separated as each crew went about its own programme. We worked on a new system to tack the flying jib faster, while
KZ1
‘s crew familiarised themselves with her handling.

Whenever the two yachts got close, the crew’s attention heightened, and the yachts would swing into full race mode for a few hundred metres until one of the skippers was happy with the information he or she had gleaned, and bore away.

At the end of the day, the yachts came together for an impromptu race back into the harbour. Mic was at full alert, and our crew responded.
KZ1
was to leeward but ahead as the two vessels charged into the channel on starboard. Mic called for full power, as our giant competitor seemed to be inching ahead. ‘We need to go higher to clear our air,’ she called to Mum, who was trimming down on the port rail.

‘Grind!’ Mum bellowed to Derek and Jason, and
Erewhon
heeled a little more as the sea breeze freshened.

‘We’re climbing OK,’ Dad called, as he watched the opposition to see if they responded. ‘They’re not coming up with us. They’re going for speed.’

‘Good!’ Mic replied, without taking her eyes off the sail.

‘They’re moving ahead,’ I cautioned.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get a lift off North Head. Then we’ll be able to square down and gather speed. We’ll be able to run them onto Bastion Reef.’

The spray was flying as the two yachts neared the turn into the harbour.
KZ1
was clearly ahead. On cue, the wind lifted as we neared North Head, and Mic pulled the bow down to gain speed.
Erewhon
surged forward as they tacked onto port and headed in our direction. Mic held her course. ‘Got you!’ she muttered, eyeing the rapidly closing other yacht.

Sir Ian didn’t appear to be about to concede as Dad bellowed ‘Starboard!’

‘You better go back,’ I called, as the yachts closed in on each other.

Mic shook her head and maintained her track.

Dad moved to the lee rail. ‘Starboard!’ he bellowed again.

KZ1
realised Mic wasn’t about to get cold feet, pulled the bow down, and dived for our stern.

‘Shiiit!’ I yelled, as the opposition appeared to be about to make major modifications to
Erewhon
’s stern.

Sir Ian wrestled with his wheel as his crew eased the sheets to take the load off his helm.

‘Ready about!’ Mic called, seeing that Dad was preoccupied with the gap between their bow and our stern. Our crew were poised over their grinders. Realising they were too close to go under our stern,
KZ1
’ tactician screamed to tack away. In the ensuing crash-tack, their yacht stalled.

Mic smiled. ‘Helm over!’ she called.
Erewhon
went about smoothly, and we accelerated into the harbour.

‘Jeez, that was close,’ Dad called, mock-wiping his brow.