A Yacht Called Erewhon (30 page)

Mic grinned. ‘We had a good six inches to spare, Jim,’ she replied. Dad said nothing.

‘You don’t take prisoners, do you?’ said Jock Barnes,
KZ1
’s tactician, as I handed him a beer at Hepi’s bar that evening. ‘Who the hell is this sheila you have on the helm?’

‘Mic!’ I called. ‘There’s somebody here who wants to meet you.’

TJ had her bailed up, quizzing her about
KZ1
’s performance, so Jock and I wandered over and sat with them. ‘I’d like to say you’ve got balls of steel after that display this afternoon, but I’m not sure that’s the right thing to say to a woman!’

‘I heard you two locked horns today,’ TJ said. ‘Did she drag you over the barnacles too?’

‘Did us like a dinner!’ Jock replied.

‘Join the club. I’ve yet to get the better of this little lady,’ TJ said ruefully.

Mic smiled. ‘I enjoyed our little impromptu race today. That’s a mighty quick yacht you have there.’

Jock grimaced. ‘The hull may need a little work after that crash-tack you put us through. We’ve gained a disconcerting leak since you tested our resolve.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ I said.

‘Don’t know yet. The boatyard is doing an inspection in the daylight tomorrow, but we were taking on a little water.’

The following day,
KZ1
got a clean bill of health. The leak was found to be coming from around the rudder stock and was easily fixed.

T
he challenger series was coming to an end, and our series was about to get under way. Trips out through the seawall at the Basin were now amazing, as the swelling crowd enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere of the impending
Ocean Spray
event. Tiger Bentene had increased his advertising budget, and public interest had soared.

Bob Sorensen and the rest of the skippers of the fleet had a meeting with Tiger to thrash out the format for the series, which was to be held in the two weeks between the challenger series and the America’s Cup races.

After lively discussion, it was agreed that the series would be seven match-races for each yacht, each entrant racing each of the others once, with a point for each win. The two yachts with the most points after the first week would race once a day, for a five-race series, to find the
Ocean Spray
champion. All skippers agreed on a five-knot minimum wind, with no maximum, and, because of the time constraints in the first week, if a yacht didn’t start for any reason it forfeited the race. In the unlikely event of no wind preventing a match, both yachts got a point.

The following night, the draw for positions on the schedule was made at the J Bar, as the barn had now become known. Bob Sorensen wrote each name down on the schedule, as the skippers jostled around to see who their first opponent would be.

Bob stood up to make the official announcement for the first round: ’
KZ1
to race
Valhalla. Shamrock VI
to race
Reliance. Velsheda
to race
Endeavour. Erewhon
to race
Shamrock V
…Good racing, ladies and gentlemen!’

The overnight temperature hadn’t dropped below eighteen degrees when Ronnie and I awoke in a pool of sweat. The sun was already up as I rose from the bed and tried desperately to shake off the stiffness of a bad night’s sleep. We had stayed on board
Erewhon
, along with Paint and Mickey, to keep an eye on the yacht.

Nervous tension filled the air as the Viaduct Basin came alive.

Tiger came down to the jetty to wish us good luck. ‘Can you believe this?’ he asked, as he looked around the milling crowd.

‘Can’t be bad for business,’ Matt replied.

‘Stuff dreams are made of, old son!’

TJ, Patty and Jackie arrived and stepped over
Erewhon
on to
Valhalla.
‘You drew a tough one for your first round,’ I said to Patty, as she stopped to wish us good luck.

‘Better now than later,’ she replied.

TJ shook Dad’s hand as he went by. ‘See you in this afternoon’s round,’ he said.

Being one of the host port’s yachts, we let the others leave through the seawall first. Each yacht had supporters who let everyone know their allegiance as their yacht passed though the gap. The noise was deafening as the support entourage sounded whistles, sirens and horns.

TJ broke out Old Glory on his stern to rapturous applause, but the crowd saved their biggest cheer for
Erewhon.
She was
magnificent. Paint, Mickey and Tane were on the bow in full flight with Te Rauparaha’s famous haka. Anyone in the crowd who knew the routine joined in, caught up in the enthusiasm.

Hepi followed us out through the seawall in our chase boat, with Millie sitting beside him. Both beamed with pride, looking the part in their
Erewhon
uniforms.

The trip down the harbour was slow and careful as Mic picked her way through the spectator fleet. Out in the gulf, the breeze had filled in early, and the ten o’clock start for
KZ1
and
Valhalla
’s match looked like being on time. Our ten-thirty start was a way off, but as the spectators cleared to the outer edge of the course, we were able to put the yacht through a few warm-up manoeuvres.

TJ and Sir Ian dived into the start box as their five-minute gun sounded. The start line was well out into the gulf, and the windward leg was back towards the channel.

TJ, with the benefit of his new rudder configuration, was quickly on
KZ1
‘s tail. ‘The Yank means business,’ I said to Dad, as we watched.

‘Seems so, but I think
KZ1
will outpace TJ in a straight line,’ he replied.

‘Maybe, but they have to get past him first, and he won’t give in!’

We turned to watch the next pair.
Shamrock VI
dived into the start box.
Reliance
was slow and ponderous as Young Tom played with them. We turned away, knowing the result of that match would be in doubt only if there was gear failure on the Irish machine.

Velsheda
looked good and manoeuvred well to gain the advantage over
Endeavour.
Their start signalled our ten-minute gun, and we moved to be near the start line. As the five-minute gun fired, Mic spun the wheel and we dived into the start
box.
Shamrock V
entered from the starboard end with right of way, but Mic turned
Erewhon
in her own length, and we were quickly on their stern.

Buddy Erwin, an Olympic Dragon-class gold medallist who was skippering
Shamrock V
, looked over his shoulder in amazement to find
Erewhon
nicely positioned, awaiting his next move.

‘Pin-end bias,’ Dad called to Mic.

‘Glad you said that, Jim. I want to shove him in the other direction.’

‘Feel free to shove. One minute!’ he called.

Mic looked at the line and at where she was forcing
Shamrock V.
‘Helm over!’ she called, as she spun the wheel.

Erewhon
crashed onto starboard tack and in clear air headed for the pin end of the line, her crew willing her on. I ran back from my position forward of the mast, as bowman Slippery yelled, ‘Go!’

Erewhon
heeled into the fresh breeze as
Shamrock V
fought to recover from being at the wrong end of the line. At the first mark, we were four minutes ahead. Mic kept the pressure on, and Dad covered every move they made to try to improve their situation. Nothing they did worked that day, and we crossed the finish line eleven minutes ahead.

‘One in the bag!’ I said to Mic, as we sat down. She responded with a nod, but said nothing.

‘What’s up, doll?’ Dad asked, looking in Mic’s direction.

‘That was
Shamrock V
we’ve just beaten, and I can’t help wondering what might have happened if Sir Thomas had won the America’s Cup in her.’

With all the excitement about
Shamrock VI
, we’d forgotten the
Erewhon–Shamrock
connection.

Lunch was over, and the crew started to fidget with the gear as they waited to get under way. The morning races had
gone much as I’d predicted. TJ had given
KZ1
a good run for her money, but Sir Ian had nosed in front to take the win.
Shamrock VI
had run out an easy winner, and
Velsheda
had edged out
Endeavour.

TJ would be looking for a point in the next race, and we mentally prepared ourselves for the battle. This time
Velsheda
was up against
Shamrock V
, Young Tom would take on
Endeavour
, and
KZ1
had the easier task with
Reliance.

Valhalla
dived into the box from the advantage end as the five-minute gun sounded, while we came in from the pin end. Mic threw
Erewhon
into a crash gybe to break the cover, but TJ went about and hardened in on our tail.

‘He’s improved, hasn’t he?’ Mic said with a smile, as we tried to gain boat speed. She dived into the spectator fleet and scythed a path through the stunned onlookers. The two yachts wove and ducked like dinghies as Mic worked to break free. Mic slammed the yacht into a sharp tack around an anchored ketch, and the crew ground for all they were worth.
Erewhon
’s wake pushed the ketch sideways and closed the gap, so TJ couldn’t follow, and Mic spun the wheel again. TJ looked over his shoulder to see a familiar sight, and she pushed him back into the start box.

‘One minute!’ Dad bellowed. ‘Start-boat bias, and once you are clear I want you to go out to the starboard side of the track.’

Mic nodded, not moving her eyes off the start line. TJ dived for the pin end, as he was too early, and Dad gave a discreet thumbs-up.

Slippery waved Mic up, and the gun fired as the start line passed under his feet.

Ronnie screamed for more tension as
Erewhon
settled into her rhythm. TJ would be fuming at losing the start. Mic showed no emotion, but I knew she’d be pleased with herself. The wind
broke, and we threw onto port even though we were breaking cover. TJ pressed on, on starboard, but we stayed on our tack, waiting for the wind to break back the other way. We were confident with our boat speed and were prepared to trust our luck with the wind.

The break came, and we dropped onto starboard and headed back towards
Valhalla.
TJ had picked up a little more wind out to the left and was closing rapidly in our direction. He tacked just under our bow, and we hardened
Erewhon
on to get clear air.

Mic looked at Dad. ‘That’s our one mistake for the day!’ she said, in an acid tone.

‘Sorry, love. Won’t do it again.’

Erewhon
still had better boat speed. We cleared our air, and Mic sailed the rest of the race impeccably to get the gun by two minutes.

Young Tom trounced
Endeavour
, and
KZ1
added to her points tally.
Shamrock V
ran out the winner in her battle with
Velsheda
for the surprise of the afternoon, keeping the competition interesting.

Back at the J Bar that night, the noise seemed more intense as crews discussed the events of the day. The crowd had swelled with the inclusion of lots of spectators, but with Paint providing the security everybody behaved.

TJ waited patiently for Mic to appear, and she finally made her entrance. ‘That was quite a number you pulled on me this afternoon,’ he said.

‘You do what you have to,’ she replied. ‘
Valhalla
certainly responds better to the helm now.’

TJ nodded. ‘Yes, I’m pretty happy with the way she goes about—we’ve just got to find some more boat speed. You’ve got a big one in the morning,’ he continued, as they looked at the leader board.

‘If they’re sober enough in the morning, they’ll be hard to beat,’ she said, eyeing the Irish contingent as they quaffed their favourite brew. The Irishmen had taken the remains of the stock from their vessel to Hepi’s bar and were making sure it was all used up by the time they left.

Early in the evening, I went back to
Erewhon
to get some sleep. Mic joined me, and Ronnie came on board a short while later. Mic was pretending not to be concerned about the next race, but I knew she was on edge. As we sat around the saloon table in the subdued cabin light, I realised I was sitting with two of the most beautiful creatures that walked God’s earth. Mic and Ronnie discussed tactics, and I rested back against the bulkhead, just happy to enjoy the view. I drifted off, as my mind raced back over all that had happened since that fateful day Dad and I had stumbled on
Erewhon
’s derelict hull.

I woke up as the sun streamed through the open companionway hatch. Ronnie was leaning over me with a mug of strong, dark coffee. ‘Better drink this,’ she said, as I sat up slowly.

I climbed onto the deck to find the crew already there, checking their gear. Dad and Mic were in the cockpit in deep discussion.

‘Afternoon!’ he said, as I sat down beside them.

‘Morning,’ I replied, ignoring the jibe. I looked across the water to where
Shamrock VI
was moored; there was no sign of life.
Hepi must have done a good job
, I thought to myself.
I wonder how much Guinness is left?

‘We want to go out early today and get the feel of the wind,’ Dad said. ‘As soon as the food’s on board, we’re out of here.’

I nodded, still looking for a sign of life from our opponents.

The crowd were in their usual high spirits as we eased out through the Basin breakwater. The cheers and cries of ‘Good
luck!’ seemed to be louder today, and we stood silently on deck, acknowledging their support.

On the track, the wind was light but building. Mic fixed line-up points and did timed runs until she and Dad were happy. Bob Sorensen readjusted the start line to get it dead right, and the flotilla of spectators huddled around the start box in anticipation.

I scanned the yachts for
Shamrock VI
, but she was nowhere to be seen. ‘Living up to her nickname, “The Stealth”,’ I said to Mum, as I joined her on the rail, looking back towards the harbour. There were many yachts making their way out to the course, but I couldn’t see our opposition. I raced below, grabbed the binoculars from the chart table, and stepped into the harness as I came back on deck.

‘Take me to the top floor,’ I said to Jason and Derek, as I clipped onto the halyard. I scanned the sea back to North Head, but there was still no sign of
Shamrock VI.

‘We may be racing on our own today,’ I said into the intercom. ‘They’re not out of the harbour yet.’ I adjusted the glasses and focused on the sky above Narrow Neck Beach, where I could just make out the top of a very tall mast as it moved down-harbour. I glanced at my watch. ‘They’re not going to make it on time, but I can see them coming down the harbour. They’ve got thirty minutes’ sailing and twenty minutes to the start gun!’

The crew lowered me down to the deck.

‘I’ll see if Bob will delay the start,’ Dad said, as I unclipped the harness.

‘No! They know the rules,’ Bob replied emphatically.

Dad looked a little sheepish as he returned the hand-piece to the RT. ‘I guess he’s right,’ he said.

We continued manoeuvring around the start line, waiting for the ten-minute gun.
Shamrock VI
was just coming out of
the channel and into the gulf with her giant green spinnaker willing the black hull towards the start line. The five-minute gun sounded, and we entered the start box from the start-boat end and made several runs at the line as we checked the bias.

‘Pin end on port,’ Dad said, as we counted down the time. I zapped their distance: even if they maintained their current speed, they were going to be six minutes late at best. We lined ourselves up, and Dad called the time down from a minute. With no pressure on, Mic pierced the line as the start gun recoiled.