A Yacht Called Erewhon (17 page)

Unmoved, Sam lit up his pipe, the only clue to his satisfaction a glint in his eyes.

‘I reckon that job has earned a beer or two,’ Dad announced, as he headed for the door. ‘Go and get Millie, and I’ll put some steaks on the barbie. I’ve got some news.’

When Millie and Sam arrived at the house, Dad sat Millie down and handed her a glass of sherry.

‘I’ve secured a new carbon-fibre mast,’ Dad said.

‘And how much did that cost?’ Mum asked.

‘Hepi got me the deal of a lifetime. He wouldn’t tell me the price, but he’s swapped it for some work on Terry Espie’s new factory. It’s not brand-new—it was a prototype for one of the America’s Cup syndicates—but it didn’t bend to their liking. Terry tells me he can extend the length for us. What we need now are some calculations on the changes we’ll need to make to the ballast with this new lightweight rig.’

‘Wish Jack was around to work all this out for us,’ Sam lamented.

‘I think I can find out for you,’ said Mic.

‘Where from?’ Sam looked dubious.

‘Just leave it to Mic,’ I said quickly. She’s got some good mates who know all about super-yachts.’

‘The other thing we need to think about is the new deck layout,’ Dad continued. ‘We want to be able to sail her with about twenty men, not the original thirty.’

Sam nodded. ‘I’ll need to know that so I can strengthen the deck to carry the winches and grinders.’

‘Just leave it to me,’ said Mic. ‘I’ll get you all the information you need.’

Next morning, Mic came into the barn with a roll of paper in her hand. ‘Morning, Sam,’ she chirped, as she ducked through the door.

‘Morning, lassie,’ he replied. ‘What have you got there?’

‘The calculations and drawings for the deck strengthening and the layout you wanted.’

‘Blimey, that was quick,’ he replied.

‘We can’t let anything hold up progress on our
Erewhon
,’ she said, as she unrolled the plans.

‘Well, I’ll be jiggered. They look as if they’ve been taken off the original drawings,’ Sam noted, as he perused the blueprints. ‘Someone knows their stuff,’ he added, as he inspected the fine detail. He was about to say something more, when he stopped, gazing intently at the plan. ‘Where did these come from?’ he asked, jabbing his gnarled forefinger at the mark in the corner.

Mic looked at Sam, explaining nothing.

‘That’s Jack’s mark!’ he continued, drumming at the Maltese cross symbol. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Sam,’ I said, ‘let’s just say she can make contacts that you and I can’t!’

‘But I swear these drawings look as if Jack himself did them!’

‘Let’s just say
Erewhon
has a guardian angel, and he’d dearly love to see his yacht back in the water,’ said Mic.

‘Are you trying to tell me Jack is
Erewhon
’s guardian angel?’

Mic smiled.

Sam turned back to the plans. ‘I’m too bloody old for all this mumbo-jumbo,’ he said, ‘but this detail is bloody good.’ He picked up the plans. ‘You don’t see blueprints like these any more, lad. Look at the detail.’

By now, all the exterior woodwork, apart from the sanding and finishing, was done, so the arrival of the plans for the internal strengthening and structural work was timely. Work inside the hull wasn’t easy. While there was plenty of room below deck, with all the lights on it soon became really hot, though working with the beautiful timber panelling somehow had a calming effect on our overheated nerves.

Each night, before we turned the lights off, Sam would sit for a few minutes, looking around. ‘I’ll die a happy man after this job,’ he would say. ‘Jack and I will have a few beers over this one.’

Initially, I didn’t take much notice when he said this, but as the job neared completion it seemed to come up more often. I mentioned it to Mum one night and found she’d noticed a change in Sam’s demeanour as well.

Dad, in his usual kick-arse style, decided that the best cure was to make sure Sam knew he had work to go on with after
Erewhon
was finished.

‘It’s not that simple, Jim,’ Mum cautioned. ‘It’s not just about work—it’s more to do with passion. Sam probably sees his life as complete when
Erewhon
floats, and the best will in the world might not be able to change that. He’ll make his own mind up where he goes from here.’

‘We’re not going to let the old buzzard just curl up his toes, are we?’ Dad asked.

‘You may not get a choice, Jim.’

Dad decided that the sealing and varnishing of the hull was beyond our capacity and called in the experts. North Epoxy Systems chief chemist, Stacey Barrett, arrived to supervise the final sanding of the now-clean hull, and Dad agreed to enclose it in a plastic tent for the varnishing.

Sam and I were able to carry on with the finishing touches to the interior of the hull while the exterior was being prepared, but, the night before the spraying was to begin, Ken Black, the foreman painter, told us that the barn door would be locked and the area would be off-limits for a week. He had fifty coats of varnish to apply, and unless everyone had the right breathing gear, the fumes would be lethal.

We took the hint and decided to have a few days off. I contacted TJ to see if the trip he’d offered on
Valhalla
was still a possibility. He agreed, but on three conditions. One was that I bring some help, two that I bring Mic, and three that we make a week of it.

I asked him what qualified as help, and he said that what he really needed was some hungry bodies to eat an over-supply of food.
Valhalla
’s owners and their friends had returned to America, and he had to deal with the leftovers. It would also be good if I could supply a couple of extra hands.

‘No problem!’ I told him.

W
e arrived at the Maritime Museum to find TJ waiting at the turnstile. As he shook our hands, he gave each of us a kit bag and ushered us into a side room. I opened my bag to find a complete
Valhalla
uniform. ‘Let me know if I’ve guessed your sizes wrong,’ he announced, as he shut the door behind him. The kits were complete, down to fresh sets of underwear. Mum, Millie and Mic hustled into a side room, giggling like excited schoolgirls, eager to try on the new gear.

Dad, Matt, Sam and I delved into our kits and selected the gear we felt most comfortable with while we listened to the squeals of delight coming from next door. Mic was first back out through the door, resplendent in a tight navy T-shirt and white shorts, her dark hair secured in a pony-tail under a navy baseball cap. Mum and Millie followed, both in polo shirts. Mum wore shorts, and Millie, long white trousers. They both had caps on and looked wonderful. Sam’s mouth dropped open when he looked at Millie.

‘My God, girl, you’ve got pants on!’

‘Do you like them?’ she asked.

‘You look wonderful!’

Millie beamed. ‘I must say you men all look rather dashing as well,’ she added, as she led the way down the jetty. TJ thrust out his giant hand again and welcomed everybody on board. We were all excited, but Millie flitted around the deck, running
her hands over the polished brass. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she kept repeating.

Valhalla
had a permanent crew of ten, including two cooks, who were making the yacht ready. Like TJ, they were all dressed in versions of the same crew uniform.

TJ ushered Dad, Mum, Sam and Millie into the cockpit and Mic to the starboard wheel. ‘Let’s get under way,’ he called to the crew. ‘Do you and Matt want to help?’ he asked. He attracted the attention of Bill, the forward hand. ‘Give these Kiwis something to do!’ he bellowed.

As we walked forward, one of the crew turned and smiled. ‘Hi!’ she called, as she cast the bowline off. ‘I’m Patty, and this is my sister, Jackie.’ She pointed across the deck at the crew member releasing the port bowline. My jaw must have dropped as I did a double-take. Patty was a knockout, with blonde hair and a body to die for, and she was identical to the girl standing at the other rail.

I looked at Matt, who was equally dumbstruck. Finally, I managed a pathetic ‘Hello’ as Patty smiled again. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’re twins.’

That broke the ice, and Matt and I quickly moved alongside to help prepare the yacht for sea. TJ placed himself behind Mic at the helm and reached around her to steer. Mic gave him an indignant look. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable?’ she asked.

TJ took a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘Take her to sea then,’ he said, as he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.

Mic turned back to the wheel and in the loudest voice she could muster yelled, ‘Let go aft!’ The cooks released the mooring lines, and she reached forward and pushed the gear lever astern.

Valhalla
backed away from the dock, and Mic swung the bow towards the harbour. Before she had time to speak, TJ
called for the mainsail. Matt and I jumped onto one grinder, and the twins manned the other. We wound for all we were worth and edged the sail towards the masthead. Dad came on deck to rib us about our staying power, and I didn’t have the breath to reply.

TJ reached forward and flicked the switch that shut the auxiliary down. The harbour suddenly became eerily quiet as
Valhalla
heeled slightly and began to gather speed. We headed down-harbour with the crew now cranking on the mainsheet to harness the light nor’easter.

TJ turned to Mic. ‘Don’t you want the jib?’ he asked whimsically. ‘I thought you were sailing this ship.’

Mic cleared her throat. ‘Jib on!’ she screamed. Matt and I leaped back to the jib sheet grinders and again cranked for our lives. Bill called the tension, and
Valhalla
heeled further as we gathered speed. Initially, we were heading towards the Orakei sea wall, but Mic called for more mainsail tension. As our boat speed increased, she lifted the bow, putting us on a collision course with the Bean Rock light-tower, the guardian of the Auckland harbour. I looked at the rapidly closing gap and back to Mic, but she was unfazed. ‘More jib!’ she called.
Valhalla
heeled, and the speedo climbed. The rest of the crew looked at TJ, but he was unmoved. Gradually, as the speed increased, the bow moved to weather, and we were now heading past the rocky outcrop. I guessed our speed to be well in excess of ten knots as I walked back to the steering pit. ‘Lucky wind-shift,’ I said to Mic as I looked at our new direction.

‘Wind hasn’t shifted one degree,’ TJ chipped in.

Mic gave the slightest smile as she called to tack into the Rangitoto Channel and headed out into the Hauraki Gulf.

‘You haven’t lost your touch,’ TJ whispered to Mic, as
Valhalla
glided over onto the starboard tack.

Valhalla
moved quickly out into the gulf as the Rangitoto
lighthouse disappeared off the stern, and we were now heading for the Tiri passage. I looked out into the gulf and smiled. This vast area of ocean, bounded by the Whangaparaoa Peninsula to the north, Great Barrier Island to the northeast, and the Coromandel Peninsula to the east, had been our family playground for as long as I could remember. With the America’s Cup on, our once-quiet expanse of water had become an international stage, with television coverage being beamed to all parts of the globe.

I joined the others in the cockpit. TJ had left Mic on the helm and was handing out drinks. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, as he handed me a can of beer from the chiller discreetly concealed beneath one of the squabs.

‘Bloody wonderful!’ I replied. ‘But I’m confused as to how we are sailing in this direction at the moment. We’re virtually sailing into the wind.’

‘Unlike our skipper,’ he said, pointing towards Mic, ‘you obviously haven’t sailed on a yacht of this size before.’

‘No, I must admit, I’m more your skiff and windsurfer type,’ I replied, with a grin.

‘As the boat speed rises, the yacht creates its own environment, and the apparent wind moves around to weather, so you can crank her closer to the wind.’

Mic nodded her agreement.

‘You really know how to make these things fly, don’t you?’ I whispered.

‘I’m a little rusty, but you never forget,’ she replied.

I offered to take over so she could have a drink, but both her hands were firmly clasped to the wheel.

‘Leave her alone!’ TJ bellowed. ‘
Valhalla
has never had such a beautiful skipper!’

Mic grinned but never took her eyes off the sails. ‘We’re getting headed a little,’ she said. ‘We may need to put in a short
board to make the passage. We’ll wait for a few minutes. We could get a lift off those cliffs.’

‘Don’t reckon you will today,’ quipped TJ.

Mic took the bait. ‘Main on!’ she called. Matt and I went forward to give the crew a hand to crank more pressure onto the already straining mainsheet.

Mic ducked down to the leeward wheel so she could see the giant headsail. ‘Jib’s stalling at the head—push the sheet block forward six inches,’ she barked, as she leaped back to the weather wheel. The crew obeyed without question and wound the car ahead.
Valhalla
immediately climbed to windward.

I went back to the cockpit as we glided through the Tiri passage without needing the extra tack. Mic gave the faintest smirk.

Sam was sitting with Millie, who was enjoying the late afternoon sail. He was surveying the timberwork with a discerning eye, but not saying much. Mum was chatting to Millie as they sipped their drinks, and Dad lay back, peering up at the giant rig.

‘Little bit of rag up there,’ I said, as I sat down beside him.

TJ handed me a glass of champagne and nodded towards Mic. I took it to her and held the wheel while she took a sip. ‘What do you think of her?’ I asked.

‘She’s wonderful,’ she replied, ‘but even with all her flash equipment she won’t be as fast as
Erewhon
.’

‘That definitely confirms a race when you get that pile of firewood back in the water!’ boomed TJ.

‘You weren’t supposed to hear that,’ she said.

‘I accept the challenge!’ Dad chimed in.

‘Next America’s Cup regatta then,’ TJ continued.

‘Deal!’ Dad said, thrusting out his hand.

‘Mansion House Bay for the night,’ said TJ, as he looked
forward. ‘That’s provided we don’t run into those islands,’ he continued, pointing ahead.

‘We’ll get a lift in about seven minutes,’ Mic snapped back.

On cue, the wind lifted five degrees and
Valhalla
glided past the rocky outcrops and into the sheltered waters of the bay. The anchor pierced the calm surface, and the huge yacht eased to a stop. We stowed the sails and squared away the decks as the wind dropped, and were able to sit back and enjoy the sun setting over the mainland.

Cooks Hank and Debbie brought trays of food on deck, and our never-to-be-forgotten week began. TJ made sure that Patty and Jackie kept Matt and I occupied, so he had more time alone with Mic. The twins loved to party, and each night it was Matt and I who gave up first. We sailed the yacht up the coast to the Bay of Islands the next day, and each night we nosed into a different bay. More often than not, we had the bay to ourselves, or at worst shared it with another luxury yacht from the America’s Cup entourage. Patty and Jackie usually knew their crew, and Matt and I were invited to their parties.

A week later found us on deck, downing the giant spinnaker as we rounded North Head for the short trip up the harbour. Mic still had a firm grip on the wheel, and by now Matt, Dad and I were old hands on deck and raced around assisting the crew. In the fading breeze off Devonport Wharf, Mic pulled the yacht around head to wind. We scrambled to stow the sails and square away the deck for the last time, as
Valhalla
came to a halt against the incoming tide. Mic started the auxiliary and pointed the bow for the dock, gently guiding her alongside. TJ walked over to her and gave her a hug. ‘Well done,’ he whispered. ‘How would you like a permanent job?’

‘Not on your nelly,’ Dad chipped in. ‘You can’t have my
skipper—she’s already got a yacht to sail!’

TJ laughed. ‘In that case, we’ll wait for our race.’

Mic beamed back. ‘As long as you don’t mind being beaten.’

Outside the museum, Hepi was waiting to take us home in the minibus. ‘What’s with the poofy shirts, Bollocks?’

‘You better try this one on,’ Dad replied, reaching into his kit, withdrawing an unwrapped shirt, and tossing it to him.

‘Is that all I get?’

As the minibus bounced along, I noticed that Sam was sitting quietly with a worried look on his face.

‘Don’t worry, old Bollocks,’ said Hepi, looking at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘The varnishing is finished. I’ve had a peek, and I think you’ll be happy.’

‘She’s all right then?’ Dad asked.

‘I reckon you might be surprised, Bollocks!’

The minibus went quiet as Hepi wheeled around in front of the barn. We were all holding our breaths as we rolled out and stood before the giant barn doors. Sam was like a nervous schoolboy waiting for his report. Matt and I ducked through the barn and pushed the doors wide open. I turned when I saw the looks on the others’ faces. In the fading evening sunlight, the hull almost danced out the door to meet us, her timber glowing as if it were on fire. Sam stood silently, tears rolling down his cheeks.

We all stood speechless as Sam circled the hull, inspecting every inch with his clinical eye, and stopped where the hole
had been. He took his pipe out of his pocket and, with a billow of smoke, lit up. Dad joined him. ‘She’s beautiful, Sam, bloody beautiful!’

Sam nodded without a word; he was satisfied. They continued to circle the hull, as Sam took in every detail, when he suddenly stopped, his eyes fixed on a point beside the keel stub. Alongside Jack’s mark was a new inlay.

‘Who put that there?’ he stammered, pointing at a sevenpointed star low down on the hull. ‘That’s my mark!’

‘I did, Sam,’ I said. The night before we left to go sailing, I’d slipped into the barn and inserted the star, on Mic’s instructions.

Mic stepped forward. ‘Nana says Jack wants to thank you. He says nobody in the world could have done a better job.’

Sam sat down on a drum. ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered,’ he muttered. He finally stood up and tapped his pipe out on the lip of the drum. ‘Come on, young fella,’ he said, looking at me. ‘We’ve got work to do in the morning. We’re a week behind schedule, and we’ve got a race to prepare for. We’re not going to let that Yankee tin tub win by default!’