A Yacht Called Erewhon (25 page)

‘Don’t worry, doll,’ Dad replied. ‘You’ll move away from them once we head upwind. They’re on their best point of sailing right now, and in this slop they’ll bounce round like ping-pong balls.’ Mic wasn’t so sure, but called for the early spinnaker drop.

Matt and I guided the sail down the chute, while Paint cranked hard on the return sheet winch. Mic dropped below the mark and hardened in on port tack. The competitors saw the early drop and held theirs until the last minute, considerably closing the gap.

‘That’ll give them hope,’ Dad chuckled, and the rig groaned as the load was applied.

As
Erewhon
laid into the breeze, Ronnie called for more tension. Derek and Jason responded, but were struggling, so Matt and I dropped back to help. The speedo leaped to thirteen knots as we headed towards the North Shore. The speed continued to climb, and Mic drove the yacht even higher into the wind. The hull hummed, as the bow cleaved the sloppy channel water.

Dad looked over his shoulder and laughed out loud. The late spinnaker drops were now causing further chaos among the rest of the fleet, as crews fought with thrashing wet sails.
‘Keep her going, girl,’ he called above the crashing and bashing as
Erewhon
punched back into the harbour.

Mic watched the sails and listened to the hum. Dad looked ahead and could see the shallow water off Cheltenham approaching, so called for a tack.

Mic barked the tack and, with spray flying and winches singing,
Erewhon
headed into deeper water. Mum craned her neck to watch the jib and called instructions to Tane and Mickey.

A short board gave us clearance to pass North Head, and Derek and Jason swung into action again as
Erewhon
turned into the harbour, Paint and Matt giving them a hand.

With
Erewhon
’s ability to climb to weather, from our position halfway up the harbour we were now able to lay the Barwell Buoy. I looked over the stern and smiled. The opposition had disappeared.

The winches screamed again as we rounded the mark and headed back down-harbour. We passed
Formula
, the harbour scratch yacht, by the Devonport Wharf. The rest of the fleet was spread between there and North Head. The gybe under the lee of the head was uneventful, and we sprinted out to A Buoy again. We were back on the wind by the time
Formula
was rounding North Head.

‘A significant gain,’ Dad chuckled. Even Mic allowed herself a slight smirk as we crashed back into the harbour.

The sprint down-harbour was even more satisfying—we were in sight of the finish line before the second yacht had re-entered the harbour.

The gun for first sounded particularly sweet as we cruised over the line.

‘Like the sound of that,’ Dad said, as we turned the yacht for home.

Back at the Basin, after squaring the gear away and washing
the salt off the decks, the crew sat down, exhausted. Mum and Ronnie went below and returned with steaming mugs of coffee. The boys gratefully received them, not only to warm their insides but also to restore some circulation to their aching fingers.

‘Reckon fifteen isn’t enough for racing,’ I said out loud to the crew, as we turned the relaxing moment into an impromptu debrief. They all nodded their agreement.

‘We need another four to man the winches,’ Dad said, as he looked at the exhausted men. ‘What about the foredeck? Matt, what do you reckon?’

‘Ben and I struggled to lift the pole onto the mast, but I think two can handle the spinnaker out of the launcher,’ Matt replied.

‘That’ll be OK until we start running the staysail and flying jib,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll need a minimum of twenty-five to race.’

‘When’s the next race?’ Mum asked.

‘Saturday,’ Matt replied. ‘There’s a race to Te Kouma and back.’

‘Put an entry in,’ Dad said.

O
ver the next few weeks, we raced
Erewhon
at every opportunity and, while the base crew of twenty remained unchanged, others came and went. We heard all but one gun—a race to Kawau when we were parked off Motuora and the fleet sailed by out to sea on a fresh breeze. Dad chastised himself for that, but as navigator I felt I was to blame. Still, we needed to be reminded of the vagaries of yachting.

Despite the one loss, it was now apparent that the Auckland fleet wasn’t enough opposition to test
Erewhon
, and again she was reduced to battling the handicapper. As the nights drew in and the days got colder, we decided it was time
Erewhon
was slipped and cleaned. The naval base staff lifted her onto the hard and cleaned the underwater sections. I checked the structural side below the waterline and, apart from a crack where the lead bolted to the stub, the hull was in perfect condition. Sam would have been happy.

I was standing under the hull one cold morning when one of the painters called out, ‘Some opposition for you!’ He pointed seaward.

Valhalla
ghosted up the harbour, easing head to wind just off Prince’s Wharf.

Where the hell had they come from? They weren’t supposed to be here for at least two months.

I grabbed the dinghy beside
Erewhon
’s cradle and raced out
to meet them. TJ, Patty, Jackie and the crew waved when they saw me approach.

‘Couldn’t wait until August. We want that race now!’ TJ called.

I climbed on board to a giant hug and kiss from Patty. ‘How’s your love-life?’ she whispered.

‘You know, don’t you!’ I replied sheepishly. ‘How?’

‘We girls just know these things. What’s her name?’

‘Ronnie.’

‘Great. I’d love to meet her!’

‘
Valhalla
is booked to be slipped at MacMurray and Hings for major surgery this week,’ drawled TJ, nearly removing my arm with his usual Texan handshake.

‘How’s
Erewhon
going?’ Patty asked.

‘No serious competition,’ I replied. ‘We’ve been waiting for you! She’s over there at the moment,’ I continued, pointing to
Erewhon
on the slip.

‘Problem?’

‘Just some TLC to get her up to scratch for our match!’

TJ laughed heartily. ‘I hope our improvements work then. Our old lady has been taking water badly over the last month, so I think we’re in for some major work. We’ve been running the pump continuously since Panama.’

Valhalla
slipped into the Basin and, although she’d just made a trans-ocean crossing and was in Auckland for a major refit, she still looked a picture.

Patty and Jackie were keen to get ashore after a month at sea, so while they got Customs clearance I went back to the naval base for my car to take them home. Ronnie arrived while they were getting cleaned up, and to my relief the girls hit it off.

The following Thursday,
Valhalla
was slipped at the Mt Wellington boatyard, and the true extent of the work to
be done was revealed. To TJ’s dismay, corrosion had accelerated in the bow section, and the forward third of the hull plating needed to be replaced. TJ took the opportunity to tweak the hull design, and modern steel alloys allowed the hull to be plated in a lighter material, all of which would enhance
Valhalla
’s performance.

Erewhon
was put back in the water, and we took the Americans sailing. TJ was in touch with the other J skippers, and we learned that all the other Js were coming to Auckland for the next America’s Cup regatta.

He arrived at the house one morning clutching a fax in his giant hand. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said, thrusting the paper in my direction. ‘They reckon the new boat will be coming down here for the next regatta.’

I read the fax and passed it to Dad.

‘Bloody great!’ he yelled. ‘Bloody fantastic!’

‘With all the Js that are coming, we’ll need to organise a separate series,’ Mum said.

Ronnie, who had now moved out of her flat and in with me, chipped in. ‘Leave that to me,’ she said. ‘With the right sort of proposal, my old boss could be talked into sponsoring it.’

‘This puts a whole new perspective on our campaign,’ Dad continued. ‘Instead of us having to fundraise to take
Erewhon
halfway around the world to race, the world is coming to us! We’ll be able to do all those extra bits to the yacht we would have otherwise had to put on the back burner. We’ll even be able to complete the sail wardrobe—so look out, my Texan friend,
Erewhon
will fly!’

TJ laughed. ‘I’d better make sure that refit goes to plan then!’

As the next few months went by, we sailed
Erewhon
as often as we could. The enhanced sail-plan came into operation. The staysail was set up to be self-tacking, but the flying jib proved to be more of a problem. We persisted, though, as every time we had it set, it seemed to add half a knot to our boat speed.

Derek, Jason, Tane and Mickey still provided the rocksolid base we needed, and Mum and Ronnie enjoyed their own private battle to see who could deliver the best performance on any given day. Ronnie did best when the wind was up, but Mum had the touch when the breeze required patience.

Mic and Dad’s combination of helmsman and tactician seemed to work. Dad reckoned it was because his girl wouldn’t argue with him, but Mic reckoned it was because she could twist her old man around her little finger. We raced
Erewhon
through the winter series, and as the boat speed improved we gave the handicapper a bigger and bigger problem.

Progress on
Valhalla
was on schedule, and the promise of a Labour Weekend re-launch was still the target. TJ’s boss had been in town on a couple of occasions to check on progress or, as TJ put it, to check on where he was pouring his money. He evidently mumbled and groaned about what the yacht was costing, but when it came to detail there was never any compromise. If TJ said something was necessary, the cheque was written.

The evenings started to get a little longer, and the mercury began to climb, as
Valhalla
’s launch day drew near. TJ, Patty and Jackie spent more time at the boatyard, and we saw less and less of them. Sailing
Erewhon
became easier as the crew of twenty-five really got to know her and her moods.

In October
Valhalla
, with a giant Stars and Stripes flying from her forestay and the rest of the rigging bedecked in coloured flags, slipped gracefully into the upper Tamaki River. High tide lapped at the dock, and the gathered crowd roared as the hull floated clear of the cradle. I watched with interest as she settled in the water. It was obvious that TJ had spent money to improve boat speed. She now had a finer entry and a changed keel, but for some reason he’d opted to stay with the rudder configuration, although the shape had been altered and a trim-tab added.

TJ came over to where we were standing. ‘What do you think?’ he boomed.

‘Integrity of the original design?’ I asked wryly.

He reddened. ‘We only tweaked it a bit,’ he said, turning back to look at his charge bobbing alongside the jetty.

‘New mast, too?’ I continued.

‘Can’t have you running around with no running backstays on your own,’ the Texan replied.

‘Half-expected you to change your rudder configuration,’ I added. ‘See you’ve got a trim-tab.’

‘Can’t let you Kiwis have all the aces!’

‘When can we race?’ Dad asked.

‘Next weekend,’ TJ replied, winking to his boss, who had come down for the occasion.

MacMurray’s foreman appeared on deck with a smile. He’d just checked the bilge. ‘Dry as the Arizona Desert,’ he proclaimed.

TJ’s boss slapped the foreman on the back. ‘Well done, Kiwis,’ he bellowed to the workers standing on the dock. ‘Let’s go to sea!’

TJ’s crew and a few from MacMurray’s yard climbed on board and made ready.

Valhalla
glided out into midstream alongside
Erewhon
, with
cameras clicking from all directions.

‘Just imagine when we get three more of them together,’ I said to Mum and Mic.

Ronnie came over to stand with me. ‘There’s my old boss,’ she said, pointing to a balding man standing in a runabout with his cameraman alongside.

‘Call him over,’ Matt said. ‘I want to have a chat with him.’

Tiger Bentene saw Ronnie waving to him, and he and his cameraman didn’t need a second call. They were on board in a flash.

‘You’re the bugger who stole my Ronnie!’ Tiger said with a grin, as he shook Dad’s hand.

‘We need to talk,’ Matt chimed in, thrusting out his hand and introducing himself.

The three of them wandered off along the deck to look around. Matt mentioned the upcoming series of races with
Valhalla
before dropping a hint about sponsorship.

While Tiger didn’t immediately respond, he didn’t dismiss the idea either.

‘You’d better anchor that thing if you’re coming for a ride,’ Dad said, pointing at the runabout that had nestled itself under the counter-stern. Not one to miss an opportunity, Tiger signalled to his cameraman to moor the boat.

Valhalla
began to move downstream, and we joined the procession. Above the gentle throb of the engines, Dad moved to the bow and bellowed to TJ, ‘Don’t get too comfortable in that position.’

‘I’m getting used to it already,’ TJ replied with a chuckle.

That was all the bait Dad needed. He signalled to Paint, who threw the throttle wide open, and
Erewhon
’s bow rose as the prop took a large bite of the ocean. Mic firmed her grip on the wheel as we drew alongside
Valhalla.
TJ tried to coax more speed from his craft as the two yachts headed
for the open water with flags and pennants flapping madly overhead.

Erewhon
was about to surge into the lead, when Dad signalled Paint to throttle back. ‘Don’t show all our cards yet,’ he said.

Tiger watched in amazement. ‘You lot don’t like coming second, do you?’

‘There
is
no second!’ Mic replied.

‘This will be a very interesting competition,’ he continued. ‘I had no idea it would be so serious.’

‘It’ll be cat and mouse today, but next weekend it’s for real,’ Dad replied.

The two Js cleared the Tamaki River, then headed for the deeper water of the channel and out towards the gulf. The mainsails rattled up the masts. Mic called for the jib, and the grinders sprang into action.
Valhalla
’s crew followed suit, and both Mic and TJ pulled the bows away from the wind.

TJ was to windward and ahead as the power was applied, and Mic quickly became uncomfortable. She pulled the bow down a bit more to gather speed, and
Erewhon
surged into clear air. ‘Harden on,’ she called, and Ronnie, as port trimmer, called for more tension. We kept our heading and surged along the North Shore beaches, while
Valhalla
tacked and headed out to sea.

Mic waited for the call from Dad to follow them, but it didn’t come. ‘There’s time enough for racing, doll,’ he whispered. ‘We’re only escort today.’

‘But it’s the first time we’ve been able to measure
Erewhon
’s performance,’ she replied.

‘All the more reason not to show our hand.’

Mic tacked and followed
Valhalla
into the gulf, where we paraded around the ocean for a few hours.

Satisfied that his yacht had improved, TJ turned back towards the harbour, aware that his boss had a private jet waiting to
return to the States. That night,
Valhalla
rafted to
Erewhon
at our jetty, and the word swept around the yachting fraternity that the two super-yachts were about to match-race. The Basin was abuzz with speculation as to which yacht would win. Matt worked overtime with Mum on publicity and media coverage plans as interest grew.

Dad invited TJ and Commodore Bob to a meeting to discuss the races. The Squadron agreed to control the event, and it was decided to set a course in the gulf that resembled the Long Island track used back in the heyday of J-class racing.

As the weekend drew near, we went over
Erewhon
’s rig. Paint lubed the winches, and the rest of the crew double-checked every component. Saturday was two races over the course, and Sunday was a double lap.

Bob and the Squadron team left Westhaven early to get a fix on the weather and set the course. The weather report was for southwesterly winds of ten to fifteen knots on both days, building to twenty knots in the afternoon. I wasn’t sure what wind strength TJ and his crew wanted, but I was happy with the forecast.

Rafted together in the early morning light, the two yachts made a magnificent sight as I walked down the dock. Both crews were early, and the banter was flying back and forth.

TJ slipped the mooring lines and glided out into the harbour. Mic followed through the gap past the gathering crowd. To our surprise, a waiting flotilla milled around outside the Basin, and as
Erewhon
turned down the harbour they fell in behind.

Matt looked at the entourage. ‘If you can create that amount of interest without any advertising, imagine what it’d be like with a little publicity.’

‘We need to win,’ Dad added.

‘There’s no “need” about it,’ Mic chipped in. ‘We’re going to!’

The breeze was crisp as we motored down-harbour and the crew made ready to hoist the sails. At North Head, we rounded head to wind, and the winches cranked into action on both yachts. There was plenty of time before the ten o’clock start as we eased out of the channel towards the racetrack.

‘Just got a weather report from Bob,’ I called, as I reappeared on deck. ‘Wind on the course has dropped to five knots.’ I looked at our telemetry: it was still on ten knots, but as we left the channel it began to fade. ‘Bloody hell!’ I called. ‘We don’t want a drifter for our first race.’ As I scanned the horizon, it appeared that the wind god wasn’t listening, as the two giant yachts slowed to a crawl near the start line.

TJ swung head to wind and stopped, and we crept up alongside.

‘We weren’t planning on this,’ boomed the Texan. ‘Did we agree on a minimum?’

‘No,’ Dad replied, ‘but I wish we had!’