A Yacht Called Erewhon (31 page)

Shamrock VI
came screaming through the spectator fleet with the crew poised to drop the extra, as Mic wound
Erewhon
up and drove for the East Coast Bays shoreline. The wind had kicked in early again that morning, and
Erewhon
responded. ‘No mistakes!’ Mic yelled above the crashing and bashing as we surged ahead.

Shamrock VI
rounded the pin end, with the crew working feverishly. Young Tom screeched for maximum performance, as they wound their yacht up to full speed.

‘They’re racing!’ I yelled.

The windward mark came quickly, and the crew had our reacher set within a boat-length of the pin. I set my watch as we cranked every bit of speed from our hull.
Shamrock VI
rounded seven minutes in arrears, and I showed Dad the watch. He gave me a faint glimmer of a smile. ‘What was it on the start line?’ he asked.

‘About six,’ I replied.

‘Still early days yet,’ he said cautiously.

Mic called for an early drop at the wing mark, as we had decided on a drop and set of the spinnaker rather than the more complicated peel to the chute.

‘No mistakes!’ she called.

The reacher disappeared down the launcher, and the
spinnaker was drawing as we left the pin.
Erewhon
raced off in the direction of the leeward mark.

I started the watch again as
Shamrock VI
ran out towards the pin. The Irish crewmen, eager to atone for the tardy start, rounded the mark with a perfect peel to the chute. They had taken a minute and a half from us on that leg.

I whispered the result to Dad, not wanting Mic to hear.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll get that back when we go back on the wind.’

Why had I bothered whispering?

At the leeward mark,
Shamrock VI
had grabbed another minute. ‘She’s quick off the wind,’ I said to Dad.

‘I would have expected that,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think she’s got the punch into the short sea going upwind, though.’

The spray flew as Mic drove
Erewhon
to the limit. We kept ourselves between
Shamrock VI
and the pin, and I started the watch again as we rounded the mark. They stopped the watch at five minutes thirty-two. We’d clawed back over a minute.

I looked at Mic; her gaze was firmly fixed on the mainsail. ‘Keep her going,’ I said, as I moved alongside her. ‘He’ll close the game up as we run down this leg, but we’ll outgun him as we head for home.’

Mic nodded and gripped the wheel tighter.

Ronnie and Mum were both on the lee rail studying the spinnaker and planning what they were going to do on the next upwind leg.

‘Just more of the same,’ I said, not wanting them to experiment at this point in the race.

The bottom pin seemed to be further away as we flew in its direction. The wind was increasing in strength all the time, and the crew fidgeted with their gear as the mark got closer. Mic worked the waves, and the hull hummed.

As we rounded the mark, I checked Bob’s sign for the
position of the finish line. He’d set it dead into the wind, tucked under the lee of the Campbell’s Bay cliffs. I gave Mic the heading and set the watch for the split.
Shamrock VI
clicked off two minutes and forty seconds in arrears. They’d really flown down that last leg.

Our crew leaped around the deck as they looked to extract every last ounce of speed from the hull. Mic drove
Erewhon
hard through the building sea as the tide flooded back into the harbour.

I had the zapper gun in my hand and constantly monitored
Shamrock VI
’s speed. Dad watched their movements as they tacked and re-tacked, trying to break our loose cover. Their crew set their flying jib to try to gain an edge, but at this wind strength we didn’t need the extra sail area, so we left ours in the bag.

The spectators erupted as we crossed the line. The horns and hooters drowned out the cheering from the crowd. I clicked the watch to get their split.
Shamrock VI
crossed the line three minutes and forty-one seconds behind us.

‘I bet they won’t be late for the start next time,’ Dad mused, as he looked over my shoulder at the watch. Half the crew lay back on the deck, exhausted, and Mic held
Erewhon
head to wind as the jib and staysail were furled.

‘I don’t think we can find any more speed, Ben,’ she whispered, as I went over to congratulate her. ‘They gave us that one.’

I nodded. ‘She’s much quicker than us downwind, but I think we’ve got her measure to windward, where we can hold our own.’

Young Tom drew
Shamrock VI
alongside and saluted Mic, who smiled but said nothing.

Back at the J Bar that night, Tom was lamenting their late start. It turned out that six of the crew had left the barn late
the previous evening and gone night-clubbing. Four of them had arrived at the Basin straight from where they’d ended up, and two never made it. They’d sailed the race short-handed. The pair were found and ferried out for the afternoon race, but Tom wasn’t amused and had them all on final warning.

The rest of the morning races had gone very much to form:
KZ1
was too quick for
Shamrock V
,
Valhalla
edged out
Velsheda
, and the giant
Reliance
failed to gain a point as
Endeavour
won that round.

Erewhon
was back in the start area for the afternoon race, this time against
Reliance
, the largest sloop ever to have raced for the America’s Cup. She had a massive gaff-rigged mainsail and huge sail area, but was slow and ponderous to manoeuvre. Mic won the start easily.
Reliance
’s crew battled bravely, but we waited at the finish for fifteen minutes before her giant bowsprit pierced the line.
KZ1
easily showed
Velsheda
the way home,
Shamrock V
beat
Endeavour
, and Young Tom made up for the morning’s fiasco by drumming
Valhalla.

As the night went on, Bob filled in the leader board, and the pattern we’d expected was emerging. While TJ hung on, only three yachts were in with a chance to make the final series.
KZ1
,
Shamrock VI
and
Erewhon
were the clear contenders. Bob posted the weather forecast for the next day—the wind was expected to swing around to the northeast and blow up to forty knots by lunchtime.

‘That should sort the men out from the boys,’ Dad said, looking over my shoulder.

‘It’s our best hope for Friday,’ I agreed.

TJ looked at the results and the weather fax. ‘I’ll need more than that to make the final,’ he lamented.

The Irish crew were a little more subdued than usual, and Tom had them on a midnight curfew. ‘Don’t know if they listened, but I told them if they’re not on board by seven
tomorrow, they’ll be walking home to bloody Ireland!’ roared the still-irate Irishman.

‘It’s going to blow, all right,’ I said to Paint, who was checking gear when I climbed onto the deck. He craned his neck to look above the masts, where the clouds scudded across the sky. He nodded and grunted but said nothing, as he returned his gaze to the boom fitting.

The rest of the crews arrived, and the usual hubbub filled the Basin. The big screen was flashing updates of the weather report, as the crews tried to work out what sail combinations they’d need for the day. As the public arrived and looked at the leader board, they saw it would be
KZ1
against “The Stealth”, and some serious bets were being waged.

The Irishmen were first out through the seawall, followed closely by Sir Ian’s men. The Irish had gathered a large supporter group. Not surprisingly, many of their number were female, but there were still plenty of cheers for the Kiwi yacht.

As everybody filed out into the gulf, the breeze was boxing all around the compass. Bob hoisted the postponement flag, and the giants milled around, waiting for Hughie to make up his mind.

Our crew went about their job, rechecking all the details.
Endeavour
wasn’t going to offer much resistance, but we weren’t leaving anything to chance. Bob got a call from his tender out in the gulf that the breeze was filling in as predicted, from the northeast, and fifteen minutes later
KZ1
and
Shamrock VI
heard their ten-minute warning.

At the five-minute gun, the Irishmen took charge.
KZ1
ducked and dived to shake free, but Young Tom fought to keep his advantage. The gun fired, and
KZ1
tacked away to clear her air. Tom carried on for a couple of boat-lengths, then tacked on top of them to keep the pressure on.

The breeze filled in quickly, and by the time we were
ready to start, it was whipping the tops off the waves. As usual, Mic dived into the start box and gained the upper hand.
Endeavour
’s skipper was a lot more conservative and kept well clear of us.

Out in the gulf, Young Tom applied the pressure, but
KZ1
fought back. At the windward mark,
Shamrock VI
rounded three boat-lengths ahead, and the crew set the big green reacher.

Mic had
Endeavour
safely tucked to leeward as we reached the lay-line and tacked to head for the pin. The sea had built remarkably, and it was difficult to see what the rest of the fleet was doing. As we rounded the leeward mark to complete the first triangle, I caught a glimpse of a green-and-white spinnaker heading in our direction. As we crossed the rhumbline,
Shamrock VI
shot by. The shower of spray extended fifty metres behind the hull.

We climbed to the top of the next swell, and I looked for
KZ1.
She was well back, with her spinnaker down, heading for home under mainsail only.

‘What do you reckon’s gone wrong there?’ I asked Dad, as we disappeared down into another trough.

‘Maybe they blew a spinnaker to bits,’ he replied.

‘Don’t think that’s all it was—the crew were all back in the cockpit. They weren’t trying to set anything else.’

At the top of the next crest, we could see Young Tom heading for the line.

Our downhill run was every bit as spectacular as
Shamrock VI
’s. Mic worked the helm to get
Erewhon
surfing down the face of the swells, and she performed beautifully in the extreme conditions. We crossed the finish line to collect another valuable
point.
Endeavour
finished a creditable seven minutes behind, with
Valhalla
easily beating
Shamrock V. Velsheda
made no race of it against
Reliance.

Dad quickly got on the radio to Bob Sorensen to find out what had happened to
KZ1.
He reported back that on the last run the crew had heard some alarming cracking noises coming from the bowels of the yacht, and had decided to down the spinnaker as a precaution. When they slowed, they found the hull was shipping water, and headed back to the harbour for safety.

The diehards of the spectator fleet and the remaining competitors headed for shelter under the lee of the Rangitoto lighthouse. The crew rested their aching bodies while we waited for the afternoon start. Bob Sorensen came in and anchored nearby. ‘Wind isn’t abating!’ he yelled across to us.

‘Do you want to postpone the afternoon race?’ Dad called back.

‘No!’ Bob replied, emphatically. ‘You all agreed to no upper limit!’

Dad nodded and gave him the thumbs-up.

We looked around the fleet.
KZ1
was notable by her absence, and
Reliance
’s crew were working feverishly to repair a broken boom vang. Later, they reported to Bob that repairs were proving to be fruitless on the water and they wouldn’t be starting in the afternoon. TJ only needed to sail around to gain a point, and
Endeavour,
likewise drawn against
KZ1
, had no opposition. TJ and
Endeavour’
s skipper decided to race against each other to make the afternoon more interesting, and Bob gave his consent.

The wind was now firmly in control as the yachts headed back out into the gulf. Mic again took control at the start, and we out-sailed
Velsheda
to win comfortably.

Shamrock VI
easily led her namesake around the buoys to
take the gun, and TJ pipped
Endeavour
, but they both received winner’s points.

Back at the Basin, the night crews worked frantically to restore broken gear. Every available rigger was pressed into action, and the hum of portable welders carried on into the night. The high winds had damaged all the yachts, but under Paint’s eagle eye
Erewhon
had the least to repair.

On the other side of the Basin,
KZ1
was out of the water, and a frantic band of boatbuilders were crawling over the hull. It looked ominous. Mic joined Ronnie and me in the saloon while I was writing up the log. ‘What’s going on over there?’ Ronnie asked.

‘Well,’ Mic said, ‘the news isn’t good. She’s broken her back.’

‘Does that mean she won’t be going back in the water?’ I asked.

‘The builders have already started bracing the backbone. If they get the go-ahead from the mathematicians, they reckon they’ll have her racing by midday tomorrow.’

Ronnie and I went home to get cleaned up when we were satisfied
Erewhon
was ready to race. The J Bar was quieter than usual, as many of the crews were still working on their yachts.

Millie had been busy and came into the barn, with one of her adopted crew, carrying a giant dixie of Irish stew. The aroma filled the barn.

‘Got to make sure my boys are well fed,’ she said, as she ladled out the steaming brew. The Irishmen jostled each other, but Millie scolded them and they fell meekly into line. When they had been fed, her other favourites were allowed to line up.

‘Hope there’s some left for the barman,’ Hepi called. Millie replied that he might like to go over to the cottage and get the second pot.

Dawn broke with the wind howling through
Erewhon
’s rigging. Ronnie and I had returned around midnight to sleep on board. The flash of arc welders and noise of hammering coming from
KZ1
told me they were still in trouble, but to their credit they weren’t about to give up.