A Yacht Called Erewhon (26 page)

‘Most races we compete in don’t kick off under five knots. What do you think?’ he replied.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Dad called. ‘I’ll talk to Bob and let him know we want five before we start.’

Dad radioed, and almost immediately the postponement flag was raised on the start boat. The two yachts separated again as we waited for the wind to fill in. Bob’s boat, at what was to be the lee mark, reported that they were in ten knots of breeze. It had filled in from the Coromandel, and the boat out at the wing mark reported similar wind strength.

‘It’s just a matter of time,’ Dad said, as he sat down in the cockpit with the huge mainsail drooping overhead. It was totally frustrating knowing there was wind all around the gulf except where we were sitting. Mic stood by the wheel, scanning the horizon. She had waited for this day and for the chance to see just how good
Erewhon
really was. Mum joined her and
whispered something that made her smile. Ronnie fiddled nervously with the jib sheet that curled lazily around a winch, while the rest of the crew lay back on the deck.

The flotilla of onlookers mooched around, waiting for action, but strangely, even with outboards running, there was an eerie silence.

Commodore Bob, high on his flying bridge, scanned his radio for weather reports, trying desperately to gauge when the breeze would fill in and from which direction. His problem wasn’t the initial triangle of the intended course, as that was fixed, but the last windward/leeward legs needed to be accurate.

I wandered forward and stood beside the furled jib. Ronnie joined me as I scanned the water. ‘See what I see?’ she said, nodding towards the Whangaparaoa Peninsula.

I strained my eyes to look into the glare of the early morning sun. Fingers of dark water were reaching out across the glass surface of the gulf. The cat’s-paws were stretching out in our direction. I turned back to Ronnie and hugged her. ‘We’re going to race!’ I yelled.

The crew was quickly on their feet, all looking in the direction of the wind. The buzz went around the spectator fleet. TJ’s crew was up and moving, too, as the first zephyrs brushed our mainsail.

Within fifteen minutes, Bob fired the ten-minute gun of the simple start sequence we’d agreed on. Mic pulled the bow down. Although the start was going to be downwind, we needed to get our position correct. Mic tacked and manoeuvred to get comfortable with the increasing wind. We did a couple of timed runs at the line as the five-minute gun sounded. The forward crew had the spinnaker hoisted and ready.

Not wanting TJ to know what gybe we were going to start on, we left the pole on the deck. Mic whispered to Dad that
she wanted pin end on port gybe, and I passed the message on to the crew. I watched TJ’s men and guessed they had the same start in mind.

As we neared, Mic spun the wheel and dropped into a safe leeward position behind the other yacht. TJ wrestled with his craft to shake Mic from her dominant position, but
Valhalla
was definitely slower to answer the helm.

‘Two minutes,’ Dad called, with his eyes now firmly fixed on his watch. Mic hung on to
Valhalla
’s stern. The Texan and his tactician looked at the start line and over their shoulders as Mic held her course.

‘Gybe away, damn you,’ Mic muttered under her breath. ‘Gybe away,’ she repeated.

TJ tried desperately to lose speed, as he was too early, but Mic kept forcing him towards the start line.

‘One minute!’ Dad yelled, watching Mic’s every move as the boats got even closer.

‘Gybe away, Texan!’ she called, and he caved in, gybing for the start-boat end of the line. ‘Spinnaker on!’ she called, as
Valhalla
turned and our crew flicked the pole out on the port side. The giant sail cracked open as the gun sounded, and
Erewhon
surged across the line. TJ’s crew struggled to switch their pole to the starboard side, but finally got their sail under control.

Mic was in clear air within a boat-length. Dad smiled. He’d never have been able to pull off a start like that.

‘How far out this way do you want to go?’ I quizzed Mic. I looked at the compass and scanned the horizon for the lee mark. ‘If Bob’s put that mark in the right place, we’re gaining at the moment.’

‘How’s our boat speed?’ Dad asked.

I produced the zapper and checked. ‘Hard to tell at the moment, but they aren’t going any faster than us.’

‘We’ll run in this direction for a few more minutes and see if we can pick up a shift to go back on,’ Dad decided.

Mic’s eyes were glued to the sails, while Ronnie concentrated on extracting every ounce of speed out of our spinnaker.

I watched the telemetry as the wind-shifted slightly to the east. I looked at Dad. ‘Time to go,’ he called.

The crew rushed forward, and the spinnaker pole whipped up the mast. Matt was on the bow and switched the sheets as the pole shot past his ankles, the grinders singing as the main boom rocketed across, and the rig groaned as it took the full load on the other side. The wind had increased steadily and now hovered around twelve knots. We headed across the racetrack as Mic hardened in slightly to increase boat speed as we shot under
Valhalla
’s lee.

As we crossed, TJ gybed and sent us some very disturbed air. Our spinnaker billowed and nearly collapsed, but Mum called for more tension and the grinders kept the sail full. We were at least three boat-lengths ahead, with full power on. The crew punched the air.

‘Concentrate!’ Mic snapped. Dad smiled: she meant business.

‘They’re still on the losing gybe,’ I said to Dad, as I checked the bearings.

‘Yeah, but we don’t want to get too far away from them. The Texan will take advantage of anything we give him.’

TJ had been watching us and checking our boat speed, and decided to come back to the centre of the track. The big blue hull swapped to the starboard gybe and headed in our direction. Mic held her course, looking for the wind to break back the other way, but the breeze held as we ran out to the lay-line.

‘Time to go,’ Dad called, and the crew leaped into action.

TJ picked up a little more pressure and closed the game up
as he, too, gybed on the lay-line.
Valhalla
was now only two boat-lengths behind as we rounded the leeward mark. The course favoured the leader to the wing mark; it would be a straight drag race with the reacher on.

Erewhon
’s crew work was professional as we rounded the mark with a slight gain and the spinnaker launcher swallowed the reacher. The grinders cranked in the mainsail and jib. It was a straight lay-through back to the windward mark, and Mic called for the staysail to keep the pressure on.

TJ obviously wasn’t enjoying trailing, and his crew set their flying jib.

Mic looked at Dad as I checked the relative boat speeds with the zapper. ‘He’s not making any ground,’ I confirmed.

‘We’ll do without flying jib for the moment,’ Dad called.

I moved down to the lee rail, where Ronnie was positioned, almost turning herself inside out, watching the jib. Mum had moved forward with Derek to check the staysail and make the necessary adjustments. Slowly
Erewhon
inched ahead, and TJ had no alternative but to follow.

Ronnie wasn’t happy with the jib: the staysail was upsetting the airflow at the top of her sail. ‘I’d like to move the sheeting out a couple of inches and back about six,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a chat to Jen when she comes aft.’

Mum agreed to try the change and readied herself to make the adjustments as we rounded the next mark. The wind shifted as we closed in on the mark, leaving a straight run to the following mark. I was starting to feel a little sorry for TJ, who could only follow in our disturbed air.

At each mark we extended our lead, and we were well down the last run when he rounded to run to the last leeward mark. He worked every slight shift in the breeze and managed to close the gap a little, gybing from one side to the other. He managed to pick up a little more pressure as he gybed for the
run to the mark; he wasn’t about to show the white flag.

We rounded and sheeted the sails in quickly. TJ rounded four boat-lengths behind, yelling at his crew to perform. Mic immediately called for a tack to gain better cover, and our winches screamed.

‘Staysail!’ Mic yelled, and it was drawing in a flash. TJ threw a tack, and Mic covered. TJ threw back to clear his air, only to find Mic sitting on top of him again.
Erewhon
, with its better rudder configuration, turned more quickly, and each time we went about we gained. TJ tried a couple more tacks, but Mic didn’t give an inch. Finally, a slight wind-shift gave him clear air, but he was now well down to leeward. He called to his crew to extract every bit of speed they could as he hung on to the starboard tack right out to the lay-line. Mic and Dad were happy just to keep him covered, as
Erewhon
certainly had the edge with boat speed. TJ called for his flying jib in a last desperate attempt to close the game up, but we continued to sail away.

The finish line was now in sight, and the crew started to buzz. Mic scolded them again, demanding absolute concentration.

The gun sounded as we pierced the finish line, to cheers from the spectator fleet and crews. Mic stood silently by the wheel, with tears rolling down her cheeks but a smile as wide as the ocean. Dad walked over and hugged her.

‘We were never destined to lose that one, were we?’ Dad said.

TJ crossed the line about ten lengths behind, to polite applause from the spectators. He sailed up alongside
Erewhon
to salute us. He looked at Mic. ‘You take no prisoners, do you?’

‘I enjoyed the competition,’ she replied.

‘How about we start on the wind down at the other end of the track for the next race,’ Dad called, ‘and finish downwind?’

‘Sounds like a good idea. I’ve never liked downwind starts myself,’ TJ replied.

Dad radioed Bob with the suggestion, and the two yachts squared away to run to the leeward mark and the new start line.

Mum and Ronnie went below and prepared lunch for the crew as we ran downwind under the main only. Bob informed the spectators, and the fleet followed out into the gulf.

‘TJ will be awake to us this time,’ Dad said, as he chewed on a giant sandwich.

Mic nodded. ‘I think we turn a lot more quickly than he does, so we should be able to control the start. Our crew work will have to be up to scratch, guys.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll nail ‘em!’ Mickey called.

‘We’ve got to,’ Mic continued. ‘We don’t want anyone thinking that was just a fluke.’

TJ obviously hadn’t taken too kindly to the beating. As we looked over to their yacht, they were all in the cockpit, deep in conference, with lots of arm-waving and finger-pointing.

The ten-minute gun fired, with the breeze now firmly out of the southwest at around fifteen knots. The sea was short and steep as we moved around. The winches sung as Mic and TJ threw the giant hulls around in readiness to dive into the start box. TJ, with the starboard end advantage, made a dive for our hip as the five-minute gun cracked, but Mic threw the wheel hard over and we turned inside him. TJ tacked away to break free but, when he looked,
Erewhon
was right where he didn’t want her to be.

‘Pin-end bias,’ I called, as TJ twisted and turned to shake us, but Mic stayed tightly tucked beside his mizzen stay.

‘Two minutes!’ Dad called. TJ took a run into the spectators to shake us, but Mic remained glued to his stern. He dropped back deep from the line, looking for his line-up point. Mic
followed, and as he turned she shot up under his lee.

Dad bellowed to force them up. TJ reluctantly lifted the bow, knowing it would make him early.

‘One minute!’ Dad called.

‘Full power!’ Mic squealed, and the grinders cranked the load on. TJ tried desperately to square away to gain time.

‘Luff!’ Dad bellowed, as Mic maintained her course. TJ played for time.

‘Luff!’ Dad repeated, raising a protest flag high in the air.

TJ knew Mic was not about to concede and called to his crew to tack and head for the start-boat end.

‘More power!’ Mic screamed, as
Erewhon
crashed towards the line. The gun sounded, as Matt disappeared under a wave that nearly washed him over the side from his position on the bow. Once again, Mic’s timing was precise and we were racing. TJ struggled to get
Valhalla
up to speed after the tack and was late for the line.
Erewhon
was at full speed.

I checked the telemetry; we seemed to be on the right heading.

‘What’s he doing?’ Mic asked, above the noise of the wind and crashing spray.

‘He’s hung on to the port tack, even though it’s a break. Do you think we should let him go?’

‘We don’t want to get too far away from him—we need to go back if he doesn’t come this way,’ Mic replied.

Dad watched for a move from the other yacht, but it didn’t come. ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled.

Mic swung the helm, and the crew cranked the grinders.

Almost as we turned, the wind broke even further, and we were on a real downer. TJ responded, threw on to starboard, and headed back towards us. Mic looked at Dad, and he ordered the second tack. ‘Damn!’ he chastised himself for not reading the wind correctly. I checked our position and,
as I suspected, the break and the low-speed tack had put TJ in front.

Ronnie called for more tension on the jib as Mum raced forward to check the staysail. TJ recognised his good fortune and screamed at his crew for more power. He pulled
Valhalla
’s bow down a degree or two to get more boat speed, in an effort to overrun
Erewhon
’s clear air.

‘They’re well ahead,’ I whispered to Dad. Mic overheard and called for more boat speed to keep our air. TJ hung on to the starboard tack, quite prepared to run us to the lay-line to keep his advantage.

Mic pulled the bow down further to gain speed, and the two yachts crashed on towards the North Shore beaches. She looked at Dad. ‘We need to get him into a tacking duel,’ she said emphatically.

‘Do you think he’ll break back if we go?’ Dad asked, as he summed up our position.