A Yacht Called Erewhon (34 page)

‘Two all!’ I yelled, as we took the gun. The crew celebrated as we looked back at
Shamrock
struggling to the line. ‘Didn’t need to worry about that wind change,’ I said to Mic, as she turned the yacht for home.

The third barbie debrief was a serious affair. Hepi had arrived early and didn’t even bother to open J Bar. The Irishmen were going to be too busy.

The fax machine was running hot with messages of support. Ronnie and Mum took turns to read them out, while Millie fussed around the crew, making sure everybody had plenty to eat.

Mic came into the room with a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Special note,’ she announced, as we all stopped to listen. She looked around the crew as she hesitantly started to read.

‘It comes via Nana and reads: “Jack and I have never been so proud as we are tonight. Good luck and Godspeed for the win tomorrow…”’ She paused. ‘Signed Sam!’

The group sat in silence, looking at Mic and Millie. Tears welled up in their eyes, but no one made a sound. Mic walked over to Millie, hugged her, and gave her the note.

The gate at the bottom of the garden swung open, and TJ, Patty and Jackie bowled up the path. ‘Who died?’ TJ asked in his usual brash style.

Dad stepped forward and shook his hand. ‘Nobody tonight!’ he said, laughing. ‘We were just reflecting for a moment.’

‘Good. I thought we’d gatecrashed a wake. We just popped in to wish you Kiwis all the luck for tomorrow. And the offer still stands for
Erewhon
, win or lose!’

Dad laughed again and slapped him on the back. ‘You never give up, do you?’

TJ continued to chuckle as he went around each of the crew and shook their hands, saving a big hug and kiss for Mic. ‘Good luck, little lady!’ he whispered.

Next morning, I threw the hatch open and made a beeline for the radio. The wind was still out of the southwest and, although it was blowing as hard as yesterday, there was no sign of the promised change to the northeast.

‘The front stalled off the Taranaki coast last night and is expected here around midday,’ I said, relaying the forecast as I went on deck, wondering if they were going to get it right today.

The crowd gathered early, and
Erewhon
followed
Shamrock VI
out through the seawall. This time the green-bikinied supporters were wearing green wigs, flying green streamers from every available spot, and blowing bugles, as they followed their yacht down the harbour.

Off Orakei Wharf our crew settled to the task at hand, and the mainsail rattled up the mast. Millie was on board today; the crew had insisted she be there as our good luck charm. As we neared the start line, Dad signalled to Mic to pull the head to wind. The crew all gathered in the cockpit. We reminded each other about where we’d come from and what we hoped to achieve today. Millie hugged each person for luck.

‘Right!’ said Dad, as Millie released Mic. ‘Let’s go sail!’

Mic pulled the head down, and the sails filled. We made several runs at the start line for Mic to get the feel. She seemed particularly aggressive as we tried each end.
God help Young Tom,
I thought.

The ten-minute gun fired, and we soared up and down the line, clearing the start box and turning back as the five-minute gun sounded.

Tom looked over his shoulder to find
Erewhon
in position. As he spun his wheel to break free, Mic wouldn’t let go, so he
broke tacks and ran to the less-favoured pin end. Mic hardened in on the start-boat end, and
Erewhon
was at full speed on starboard.

The two yachts pounded towards the coast into the sou’wester, with
Erewhon
clearly in the lead. We were sailing with our cutter rig and able to keep the opposition under control. The wind moved to the south and improved our position to give us a five-boat-length advantage at the first mark. The wind-shift made the second leg too tight for the reacher, so we cracked the sheets and set the flying jib. Spray flew as the speedo needle climbed.
Shamrock
rounded the mark, set the reacher, and ran well down to leeward. They sailed through our lee, got to clear air off our port bow, downed their extra, and hardened on. We had the faster angle and edged in front. Mic aimed
Erewhon
straight at the pin and screamed for absolute concentration.

The mark couldn’t come fast enough as Dad moved to the stern to check on the overlap. Tom’s bowman moved ahead of their forestay and screamed overlap, but Dad wasn’t listening and bellowed to Mic to hold her course. She didn’t need to be told twice and, despite their protests, held her ground.

Tom, determined not to let Mic gain the upper hand, hardened up in an effort to touch our stern.
Shamrock VI
‘s spearpoint carbon-fibre bow whistled past
Erewhon
’s pohutukawa stern-rail.

‘See!’ yelled Dad. ‘No overlap—you missed by a good six inches!’

Tom’s bowman’s head dropped as he stepped back behind the forestay and Mic swung the wheel to gybe around the mark.

Tom followed around, but didn’t gybe, preferring to get well clear of us.

Mic gybed back to keep the pressure on, and the spinnaker
pole rocketed across the deck, then she ran again under Tom’s lee, forcing him to alter course, before we gybed back to speed down the track.

Tom opted for a flatter, more direct course, while we gybed back and forth, keeping the boat speed up on the faster line. He decided to take us on in a gybing duel, but with our better manoeuvrability and Paint’s secret weapon, we started to move ahead, so they reverted to their original course. I looked at Mic. Tom could have had twice our boat speed today and he still wouldn’t have passed us.

The leeward mark loomed. Tom could find no way around us, and we rounded first again, to cheers from the watching fleet.

The wind had increased and was moving more to the east as I checked Bob’s board for the position of the windward pin. ‘One-hundred-and-eighty,’ I called, as I aimed Mic in the direction of the Rangitoto shoreline.
Erewhon
enjoyed the increasing wind strength, and with Dad’s calls and Mic’s determination we had no trouble staying between
Shamrock VI
and the windward mark. ‘God, I love this yacht!’ I said out loud, as we crashed on towards the rugged Rangitoto shore.

The Irishmen threw everything at us, but we wouldn’t give way. My heart was beating harder as we neared the coast and the wind started to fade. The two giant yachts ghosted to a near standstill, and
Shamrock VI
closed right up on our stern.

I dived below to check the weather report on the radio, and they were still predicting the wind to go around to the north later in the day.
Shamrock VI
picked up a little zephyr and ghosted through our lee as our crew watched in disbelief. I continued to scan the radio for information and eavesdropped on a fisherman reporting to his mate that they were heading back to Tryphena as it was blowing twenty knots from the northeast out there.

Shamrock VI
eased around the pin and gybed to port for the run back to the finish line, and we rounded two minutes and thirty-four seconds behind them.

‘Stay on the starboard gybe,’ I said to Mic and Dad. ‘The wind’s going around to the northeast very soon.’

We sailed away from
Shamrock VI
, and they didn’t cover.

Dad looked at me. ‘Hope you’re right!’ he said.

‘Trust me, it’ll be blowing from the northeast any minute.’ I said a private prayer as I watched the sails. The gap between the yachts was growing by the minute, and there was still no sign of the wind.

I looked across the water and bellowed to the crew to down the spinnaker.
Shamrock VI
was still off to our port, with her spinnaker gently drawing. The crew looked at me as if I was mad, until I pointed to the darkening water just off the bow. They leaped up on the deck, the spinnaker disappeared down the launcher, and they cranked on the jib and staysail. We tacked onto port and headed back across the track. Dad grinned as the speedo climbed, and we watched
Shamrock VI
floundering as her crew suddenly realised that the wind was about to change and they weren’t ready for it.

Their spinnaker disappeared, and they cranked on their jib, but they found themselves well down to leeward. All we needed to do was find the shortest route to the finish line while keeping them covered.

The crew stayed hunched over their grinders, ready for any call Dad made. ‘Go for it!’ he yelled to Mic, as she drove the hull to the limit.

The line was now visible, and the spectators jostled for position, as the two giants pounded through the rapidly building sea.

Mic turned to Dad and beckoned him towards the wheel. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You take her in.’

Mic gestured again. ‘Jim, I need you to take over. I need to go below for a moment.’

Dad crossed the deck, and Mic released the wheel. ‘Just keep her on the hum,’ she said, as she reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

Dad smiled. ‘Don’t be long—the line is close, and I want you to take her across.’

She disappeared down the companionway.

The wind shifted slightly and
Shamrock VI
gained a little ground back, but we still had them covered. Minutes went by, and I could see Bob Sorensen on the flying bridge of the committee boat, shotgun at the ready.

Shamrock
closed right up as we tacked for the run to the line.

‘Where’s Mic?’ Dad yelled. ‘Go and get her!’

I looked at
Shamrock VI
‘s position and was reluctant to leave the deck. I glanced at the finish line. Where was she? I dived down the stairs and into the saloon, calling to her as my eyes adjusted to the light. She was sitting on the floor, with tears streaming down her face. ‘What’s up?’ I called. In her hand she had a piece of paper.

She handed it to me.

It was a beautifully handwritten letter.

Dear Mic, Jim and family,

We are so proud of what you have achieved in restoring and sailing our beautiful yacht. Regardless of the outcome of the race today, both of us can now rest happily, knowing the efforts of so many in building and restoring the vessel did not go in vain. We wish you all good fortune in the future and know you will take good care of our beautiful lady.

Love to all,

Mercedes and Hine

‘Who’s Hine?’

‘My mother.’

‘You’ve never mentioned your mother before.’

‘Mum died giving birth to me—the third generation with the same problem. I never knew her and, unlike Nana, I’ve never been able to contact her. I’ve lived my life in fear that I have the same medical problem. That’s why I’ve tried never to get close to anyone for fear of the consequences. Mike stole my heart, and when I told him about my family history, he said it didn’t matter—he didn’t want kids anyway. We had planned on a life together. That’s why I took it so hard when I caught him playing around. But it’s lucky he did, or I wouldn’t be here now!’

I tried to hug her, but she knew we were needed on deck and pushed me towards the companionway.

‘Where the hell have you two been? I need some help!’ Dad bellowed, as we climbed back on deck.
Shamrock VI
was even closer, and he was panicking.

‘Get her back on the hum. We’re not at hull speed!’ I bellowed.

‘I can’t hear the bloody hum!’

Mic grabbed the wheel from Dad and pulled the head down, and instantly the hum returned. ‘Keep your eyes on them!’ I yelled at Dad.

‘What have you been doing?’ he asked, looking at Mic.

‘She’s been having a word with her mother.’

The gun fired as Dad stood looking at me. I handed him the handwritten note. He read it and handed it on to Mum. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ he muttered. The crew were all on deck, dancing around and punching the air.

Dad looked back to me. ‘I think we must have won.’

Ronnie came over and threw her arms around my neck. ‘Where did you two go?’

I reached over, took the note out of Mum’s hand, and gave it to her. ‘Mic’s been talking to her family.’

I suddenly became aware of all the noise that was going on around me. The spectator fleet had erupted. Sirens and hooters filled the air.
Shamrock VI
was alongside, and TJ and the girls scrambled on board from their chase boat. Young Tom was boarding, with a magnum of champagne in his hand.

‘Where did Mic disappear to? I thought you’d blown it in the last hundred yards,’ said TJ, slapping Dad on the back.

‘Oh, she needed to go below. She had someone to meet,’ he replied.

Ronnie handed the note to TJ.

‘She’s just met her mother,’ I said.

TJ was about to ask more when Mic appeared, and when he saw the look on her face he decided he could wait. He reached down and swooped her off her feet. Mic threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. There was time to explain later—right now, she had some celebrating to do. We went forward and joined the crew on deck, and turned to wave to the flotilla of spectators.

HarperCollins
Publishers

First published 2007

This edition published in 2010

HarperCollins
Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1, Auckland

Copyright © Stuart Vaughan 2007

Stuart Vaughan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

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National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Vaughan, Stuart (Stuart Allen)

A yacht called Erewhon / Stuart Vaughan.

ISBN-13: 978 1 8695 0645 2 (pbk.)

ISBN 978 0 7304 0137 7 (epub)

I. Title.

NZ823.3—dc 22