A Yacht Called Erewhon (27 page)

‘I’d cover if I was in his position,’ she replied, without taking her eyes off the mainsail.

‘Then let’s see if he’ll dance!’

Mic spun the wheel as
Erewhon
crossed the top of a swell and we rocketed about. I watched as TJ drove
Valhalla
into the next sea and continued on.

‘Bloody Yank’s not coming!’ Dad yelled.

‘Not yet—he’ll go in a minute,’ Mic replied.

‘He’s coming about now!’ Ronnie bellowed.
Valhalla
came off the top of a wave and crashed on to port.

‘Told you so!’ Mic said with a grin. ‘Ready about!’ She picked the wave and
Erewhon
crashed back onto starboard. The crew strained every muscle as Mum and Ronnie called the loading. TJ responded to cover us, and Mic swung the wheel again to counter.

On each tack the yachts drew closer, but TJ was still to
windward with the upper hand. Mic called for a dummy tack, but TJ didn’t buy it.

‘Come on, Hughie!’ Mic muttered, calling for assistance from the wind god.

‘What about the flying jib?’ Dad called.

‘It’ll slow us too much on the tacks. I just need the breeze to break back a couple of degrees the other way, and we’ll have clear air.’

Ronnie, who was watching the jib, also had one eye on the wind. ‘You might get your wish in about a minute,’ she called.

Mic gripped the wheel and waited.

‘We’ll go early,’ Dad said. ‘Ready about!’

Mic picked the wave and spun the wheel. Spray flew and the winches screamed. TJ didn’t respond, as the old breeze was still lifting him.

‘Come on, Hughie!’ Mic repeated, as she kept her gaze fixed on the sail.

The yacht heeled slightly, and Mic responded, edging the bow up. ‘Got you!’ she called as
Erewhon
accelerated.
Valhalla
crashed through a tack but was too late: Mic had her nose back in front. Mum watched the jib, and Ronnie dived across the deck to give her back-up. Satisfied, she raced forward to check the staysail.
Erewhon
powered on, inching out from under
Valhalla
’s lee.

‘We need to go back as soon as possible to press home the gain,’ Dad said, as he stepped closer to Mic. She nodded but remained totally focused on the sails.

I watched the water for the tell-tale signs. ‘I reckon we’ll nearly be to the lay-line when that wind breaks,’ I said.

‘That’ll do me!’ Mic replied.

‘Our tack will have to be slick,’ Dad warned, as the grinders rested, sucking in oxygen.

I looked at the mark, which was about a kilometre away off the port bow. ‘We’ll have to go in about two minutes.’ The crew moved and crouched by their winches.

‘Call it, Mic!’ Dad yelled.

‘Ready about!’ she replied. ‘Helm over!’
Erewhon
swapped tacks, and Ronnie screamed for more tension. Jason and Derek responded, and
Erewhon
accelerated. TJ, to windward but astern, had to decide whether to tack to our leeward in an effort to force us about or break under our stern. He tried to tack under our lee, but
Valhalla
was ponderous going about and
Erewhon
sailed over the top of him. Mic headed for the mark. ‘Got you,’ she whispered.

Erewhon
rounded the windward pin and squared away for the run to the wing mark. TJ rounded within a boat-length, his crew grimacing in pain as he barked directions. He was livid that he’d given away his advantage.

‘Set the flying jib!’ Mic screamed, as we eased the sheets.
Erewhon
climbed onto a plane and spray flew. TJ squared away at the mark, and his crew went forward and set a reacher. Mic looked at Dad.

‘Wrong move,’ he said emphatically, as
Valhalla
powered forward but dropped off to leeward. ‘Stay on course,’ he continued, crossing his fingers behind his back.

With the flying jib set,
Erewhon
was flying down the track. Ronnie was nearly washed over the side in the torrent that came over the lee rail. ‘Hang on, babe!’ I yelled. ‘We need you on the next leg.’

TJ pushed his hull to the limit and was now well ahead but way down to leeward when his crew downed the reacher and turned towards the mark.

‘Moment of truth,’ Dad muttered, as we drove hard for the pin.
Valhalla
got a small lift as we closed on the mark. It was vital that we rounded first, as the reach for the leeward pin
would be ‘follow the leader’. TJ was in the better position, being the leeward boat, if it was close, as he had right of way, but Mic was determined not to cede an inch. We got a gust, and Mic surged around the pin with inches to spare, with TJ screaming foul.

Our asymmetric spinnaker shot up the mast and was drawing as the stern cleared the mark. Both yachts were now surfing, as we ran downwind, with TJ looking for the opening.

‘A tidy drop and no mistakes!’ I called, as we pushed the drop time right to the limit.

‘Go now!’ Dad called, as
Valhalla
surged on a large swell. Matt and I wrestled with the sail, as we guided it down the chute. I leaped over to the mast to unclip the pole, to find the fitting had twisted and was jammed on the mast. I bellowed to the grinders, who relayed the message to Dad and Mic. ‘Stay on starboard while we try and clear the mess,’ I called. We rounded the mark, and the crew winched the sail in. Ronnie screamed instructions to the grinders, as Paint rushed forward to assist us. The seaway that was now running had been building all day, and life on the bow was extreme. Each successive wave tried its best to remove us from the deck as we battled to free the pole.

TJ followed us around the mark, saw we had a problem, and threw onto port to clear his air.

‘Damn!’ Mic said, as she couldn’t cover the move.

Paint took one look at the twisted fitting, tore off along the deck, dived below, and returned with a large crowbar. He inserted it into the mangled remains and, with a giant heave, literally ripped the fitting off the mast.

‘I’ll build a proper one when we get on shore,’ Paint muttered to Dad as he returned to the cockpit.

‘Bloody Texan!’ Dad said, as we all settled back into race mode and found
Valhalla
now well ahead.

‘Come on, we’ll peg him back,’ Mic yelled at the crew. We drove
Erewhon
as hard as we could and got to within two boat-lengths of
Valhalla.
TJ knew we wouldn’t give in and implored his crew to give their best. He snapped around the top mark and gybed straight onto starboard, so he could run straight back at us, screaming for right of way.

‘The Texan means business,’ Dad said as we dropped under his stern.

Mic smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have taken my foot off his neck if we were in the same position.’

With the run downwind to the finish,
Erewhon
was always going to struggle without a spinnaker pole. We set the asymmetric spinnaker clipped to the bow, but TJ threw up everything to press home his advantage, and cruised to the gun.

‘One each!’ Dad called, as we drew alongside
Valhalla
to salute their win.

Their crew made some cocky remarks, and Mic stood quietly beside the wheel looking unimpressed. ‘Let them enjoy it,’ she muttered. ‘It won’t happen again.’

Paint went below to get his tools and, while the rest of the crew exchanged banter with the Americans, he made a start on the repairs. I joined him as he worked. Like Mic, he was livid. ‘Gonna kick some fat Yank arse tomorrow,’ he scowled.

We headed back to the Basin, where we spent most of the evening going over the gear for the next day. Paint disappeared with the remains of the spinnaker pole, muttering about wally welders. Ronnie and I remained on board, and at six the next morning we heard a thud on the deck.

Paint, armed with tools and the repaired fitting, stood on the deck, ready to re-attach it to the mast.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ I asked, with a grin.

‘Not going to give those bloody Yanks another chance to crow,’ he barked.

The security gates rattled again, and Patty and Jackie made their way along the jetty, looking a little worse for wear. ‘Morning, Ben!’ they both chirped, as they flitted across
Erewhon
and disappeared below deck on
Valhalla.

‘They’ll be a big help to TJ today,’ I whispered to Paint.

He nodded but said nothing, preferring to continue with his work.

The rest of the crew drifted in before seven-thirty and got straight into checking their gear. Mic appeared shortly afterwards, and we sat and discussed our plan for the day. When Mum arrived, she and Ronnie went to work on a slight adjustment to the staysail sheeting.

TJ appeared on the dock and headed towards his yacht. I warned him to be extra quiet when he went below, but he wasn’t prepared to offer the girls any sympathy and bellowed down the companionway. They appeared on deck, with smiles on their faces, looking refreshed and raring to go. ‘How do they do that?’ I asked Ronnie.

Valhalla
left the Basin early and disappeared down-harbour. We followed soon after. The wind was light, but the weather forecast was for conditions similar to the previous day. We motored out into the channel and hoisted the main. The breeze crept in from the perimeter of the gulf, as Bob Sorensen stationed himself by the leeward mark well out to sea. Paint kept the motor at full revs, but as the wind filled in he was able to silence the noise.

Valhalla
swept serenely back and forth through the start area. TJ knew he needed a good start today. Twice around the track was a long race, but the start would be crucial.

The gun sounded, and the red-and-white postponement flag flew up the mast on the start-boat. Bob radioed that he
wasn’t happy with the wind strength or the fact that it was boxing all around the compass.

The tension was beginning to tell as the two yachts glided past each other without a word being spoken. TJ nodded to Mic, but she pretended not to notice.

‘Hughie’s playing mind games again,’ I said. She nodded but said nothing, as the wind seemed to drop completely. Dad switched on the marine channel and listened to the weather forecast. ‘Ten knots in the city, ten knots at Great Barrier, and nothing in between,’ he muttered, looking up at the sail, which hung limply off the mast.

The crew fidgeted with the gear, and Ronnie checked the lock-pins on the jib sheet fair-leads for about the twentieth time.

Valhalla
drifted past once more, and TJ couldn’t contain himself. ‘Thought you Kiwis reckoned it blows around here!’ he said with a grin.

‘Bigger than Texas!’ Dad replied.

As if the wind god was listening, the pennant on
Erewhon
’s stern rose. Within fifteen minutes, Bob squeezed the trigger to sound the ten-minute gun, and the two yachts jockeyed for position.

Mic quickly got hold of TJ’s stern and was in control as the five-minute gun recoiled. He twisted, turned, and ran into the spectator fleet in an effort to break
Erewhon
’s shackles, but Mic stayed with him. The wind had moved, and I told Mic there was a bias towards the start-boat end. She nodded and repositioned us to push
Valhalla
towards the pin end.

As the gun sounded, she tacked onto port, and we brushed past the start-boat anchor warp. ‘We’ve got him already,’ I called, as we ploughed back towards the North Shore coastline.

‘It’s a long race, and he won’t back off,’ Mic said, nodding
in
Valhalla
’s direction. TJ was now on port, a little to windward but well astern.

The sea hadn’t had time to build, and
Erewhon
was creaming along. ‘Can we go any higher, Jen?’ Mic called to Mum, as she looked at TJ’s position.

Mum craned her neck and called to the grinders to increase the tension.
Erewhon
heeled a little more, and Mic eased the helm up. I watched the speedo, but Mic was more intent on listening to the hum.

‘Keep going,’ Dad yelled. ‘He’s about to go!’

Mic held her course, concentrating on not stalling
Erewhon
as Mum called for even more tension on the jib.

‘He’s gone!’ Dad bellowed, as he watched
Valhalla
change tack. Mic pulled the bow down a little, and the speedo leaped. ‘Ready to cover him,’ Dad called.

‘Ready about,’ Mic replied, and the crew pounced to their stations. ‘Helm over,’ she called, in what was to be the first of many tacks to keep
Erewhon
between
Valhalla
and the finish line.

There was no compromise that day, and TJ failed to find a passing lane at any point in the race.
Erewhon
moved away on every leg, and Mic smiled as the finish gun sounded. The rest of the crew celebrated.
Erewhon
had won her first competitive series, much to the joy of everybody on board. Ronnie rushed back along the deck, threw her arms around my neck, and swallowed me in a passionate kiss.

TJ drew
Valhalla
alongside, and the two yachts rafted up. The big Texan was first on board to congratulate us.

‘You’ve got a yacht and a half here,’ he said, looking in Dad’s direction. ‘You’ll have upset my boss after he’s just spent all that money to make our boat more competitive.’

Dad laughed. ‘You’ll find some more speed before we meet again,’ he said.

‘You can count on that!’ TJ replied.

The crews swapped handshakes and hugs as the spectator fleet circled to join in the celebrations. Bob Sorenson rafted alongside and came on board with a crate of champagne to toast our success. He stood on the stern and looked at all the spectators milling around. ‘More than a little interest in these boats,’ he said.

‘Just wait until the rest of the J fleet arrives. That will get everybody’s attention,’ Dad replied. ‘Talk to Matt and Jen—they’ve got some ideas about marketing this circus.’

Bob nodded and took a large swig from his glass.

Back at the Viaduct Basin, the partying continued. Patty and Jackie were in their element. Ronnie enjoyed the social side, too, but stayed sober enough to take notes for her story for
Ocean Spray.
As the night carried on, the party shifted back to our place. ‘Work hard, party harder’ was the order for the night, but Ronnie and I disappeared early.

As I lay back on the bed, my mind was racing, thinking of all that had happened since that fateful day on the bank of the Waiora River. It seemed almost unreal. Ronnie reappeared, silhouetted in the doorway of the ensuite. She slipped the straps of her little black dress off her shoulders, and it glided to the floor. Her taut body had my heart pumping as she paused momentarily to turn off the light and then glided across the room to join me on the bed. The room was bathed in moonlight that flooded through the open windows. I got up to close the curtains, but she pulled me back on the bed. ‘I don’t care who knows how much I love you!’ she whispered.