A Yacht Called Erewhon (4 page)

Matt and I grabbed our snorkelling gear, thinking we might look for
Erewhon
’s keel while we were at the beach.

It was about a twenty-minute trek to get around the point, and we were surprised that Mum had tackled it on her own. She wasn’t normally one to scramble over rocks, and this all added to our suspicions. As we rounded the point, Mum pointed ahead to where the pool had been. The tide had risen, and the waves on the surf-line were now breaking into it. As we peered in, we could see how deep it was.

It was confession time. We might have been able to believe her if the pool had been waist-deep, but over her head: no way. Mum pulled her sun-hat down over her face. ‘I had a little help,’ she admitted.

‘We know that!’ we chorused.

‘I was wandering around the rocks, looking into the pools, when I came across a folded towel on top of the rock over there. As I picked it up, a head popped out of the water. I don’t know who got the biggest shock. She wanted to know who was with me. I told her there were only the four of us and you three were occupied on your salvage mission. She said her name was Mic and she lived around here.’

‘What did she look like?’ I asked.

‘Gorgeous! Perfect olive skin, dark wavy hair, a trim figure and the most haunting brown eyes. She didn’t say much about herself, but she knew all about
Erewhon
and wanted to know what we were doing. I said you were taking her away to restore her and that, after seeing the hull, I didn’t think that was possible. At that point, she asked me if we’d like a crayfish, dived into the pool, and came up with our lunch. She handed it over, said goodbye, and disappeared into the bush. I tried to
invite her to lunch, but she’d vanished. I was struggling with the crayfish, so I trussed it up in my bikini top, and that worked a treat. I even had a couple of handles to carry it with. You’re not the only ones with clever ideas.’

Matt and I put on our snorkelling gear and went to look for the keel. It was going to be a huge task, but we figured that the reef running out from the northern end of the river mouth was a good place to start. We theorised that if the yacht had been sailing up the coast when it struck the rocks, the keel would be on the south side of any reef and in water no deeper than fifteen feet at low tide. Matt and I spent an hour in the water swimming along the reef, and even checked on the northern side on our way back. There wasn’t a hint of anything manmade, but the sea life was incredible. We came ashore to find Mum and Dad curled up under a lazy pohutukawa enjoying the absolute solitude.

As Matt and I walked up the rocks to meet them, we decided we were wasting our time—the keel was probably lying on its side under the kelp forest, and we might have swum right over it and still not seen it. It would have to be scuba gear next time. We sat down under the tree and let the warmth of the afternoon sun warm our chilled bodies. I lay back in the peace, enjoying the moment. The waves lapped the shore, fantails flitted in the tree overhead, and cicadas chirped incessantly. Perfect harmony. I nodded off.

‘Come on, you useless lot!’ Dad had lazed around for long enough, and dinner was just starting to show its head above
the receding tide. A large clump of mussels was jutting out through the shore break. We looked around for something to carry the soon-to-be-gathered harvest in. Mum’s wrap got the vote, and before she had time to protest it was fashioned into a sack. We tossed in handfuls of large black mussels and were soon heading off in the direction of the camp.

I left Matt and Dad to carry the haul and chased after Mum, who was striding off ahead.

‘I’ve never seen you so relaxed,’ I said, as we scrambled over the rocks.

‘I’ve never
been
so relaxed, Ben,’ she replied.

‘Hey, Jen,’ I continued, to test how relaxed she really was, ‘this girl who caught the cray—she sounds like the one I saw by
Erewhon
last year.’

‘She’s absolutely beautiful. At a guess, I’d say she worked as an aerobics instructor or something physical—you don’t get a figure like that sitting in an office.’

‘Did she have long dark hair and wear a black bikini?’

‘Yes, but she only wore her bikini bottom.’

‘Sounds like we’re talking about the same person.’

As we sat around the fire that night, with the sun sinking behind the hills and the crickets tuning up, I handed Dad another can and asked him to tell us about
Erewhon
again. The mussels hissed and steamed on the embers, and as they popped open we plucked them from the billy and downed them straight from the shell.

D
ad never needed much prompting to tell the story. Mum and Matt drew their chairs closer, and we put the billy on top of a convenient stump and settled back as the logs hissed on the fire. I was amazed at the change in Mum. Her only concession to the cooler night air was to throw on one of Dad’s old T-shirts. With a glass of white wine in her hand, she was the picture of perfect calm.

‘Once upon a time,’ Dad chuckled, as we sat back in our seats, ‘there was a man by the name of Murdoch McAlister, a dapper Scotsman who made a fortune as a tea-planter, with estates throughout India and Ceylon…’

When retirement loomed, Murdoch had no desire to return to the chill of his native Scotland. He had strong ties to New Zealand, where, on a South Seas escapade, he had met and married his Maori wife, Aroha. After leaving India, where tragically Aroha had died while giving birth to their only child, Mercedes, he decided to return to New Zealand to allow Mercedes to find her roots.

Murdoch built a lavish mansion on the lower reaches of Auckland’s Parnell ridge, overlooking the bustling city.

It was the late 1920s, and Mac had been following newspaper stories about the exploits of his old friend Tom Lipton and his
ongoing pursuit of the America’s Cup. Tom had had four cracks, all unsuccessful, at trying to wrest the Auld Mug from the New York Yacht Club.

While Tom and Mac had been business adversaries for many years, they were also great chums, corresponding regularly. These letters usually involved the pair goading each other about their business ventures, and often ended with a wager about the impending failure of the other’s next project. It was Mac’s turn to write, as he had just read about Tom’s fifth challenge. In his usual dry manner, Mac pointed out the error of Tom’s ways, saying that if he indeed wanted to win the America’s Cup he would need a yacht designed and built by Kiwis.

Lipton wrote back, saying that Mac had better get such a yacht together, as when he won the Cup he would be accepting challenges from anywhere, even the Antipodes. Mac had to accept Tom’s challenge, agreeing to the race so long as the prize was not only the Cup but the yachts as well.

The return letter, accompanied by a large brass compass with a note suggesting that Mac would need such a device to know which way
Shamrock
had gone, confirmed the deal. In subsequent letters it was agreed that, when Tom won the Cup, Mac would take an all-Kiwi team to race
Shamrock
on the original course at Cowes, best of three.

Murdoch showed the letter to his young daughter, Mercedes. She was enthralled by the prospect. Although Mercedes loved living in Auckland, she was bored. Educated in the finest schools in Europe, she had inherited her mother’s film-star looks and her father’s business acumen and was at the centre of the social scene. Well-versed in the art of creating controversy, she roared around town in her sporty blue Bugatti roadster. Polite society was often shocked by her forward manner, but Daddy’s money opened doors whenever she wanted something.
Despite her antics, everybody seemed to love Mercedes, and there was always a queue of eligible and not-so-eligible young men lining up to take her out.

Mercedes took up the challenge of organising the design and building of the yacht. Mac had never sailed large yachts before, his experience of sailing being limited to small craft on the Scottish lochs as a boy. He was glad to have a lieutenant in Mercedes, and was doubly pleased that it gave her a purpose in life.

To get the whole affair under way, Mercedes decided to get to know the cream of Auckland’s yachting fraternity. So one Friday night, dressed as if she were going to a ball, she bounded up the stairs to the front door of the Royal Auckland Yacht Squadron headquarters. As she burst through the door, the cigar-smoke-filled room went silent. Walking towards the bar, Mercedes checked the front of her dress to make sure it hadn’t come undone, but everything seemed to be in order.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ were the first words spoken.

‘Yes, barman, I’ll have a Brandy Alexander please, and may I buy you one?’

‘I’m sorry, madam, I’ll have to say no on three counts.’

As if she was surprised, Mercedes glared at the barman with a stare that could have stampeded wild horses, and in a very audible voice asked, ‘Why?’

‘Because, madam, on the first count, women are not allowed in the club on Friday nights. On the second count, I assume from your appearance that you are Maori, and it’s against the law to serve you alcohol. And, on the third count, it would be unfair of me to take advantage of your generous offer in these circumstances.’

Mercedes was indignant.

‘That’s enough, Benson,’ said a voice from a darkened, smoke-filled corner of the bar. ‘Just put the young lady’s
drink on my tab and you have one too. I’ll take care of Miss McAlister. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Toby Mahoney, vice-commodore of the club, and I’m very pleased to meet you.’

Somewhat taken aback, Mercedes swung around in the direction of the commanding voice, but found herself craning her neck upward.

‘Well, thank you for introducing yourself, because I never take drinks from strangers,’ she replied, with restored composure. ‘How do you know my name?’

Toby offered his arm and ushered Mercedes to the less smoky dining-room. ‘Some of our less gracious members are upset by your presence, so I think we will be able to chat more easily in here,’ he said, as he pulled back a chair for her. ‘Mercedes McAlister, you obviously underestimate the effect you’re having in our little pond, and the only thing I will say is that the gossips haven’t done your beauty justice.’

Mercedes smiled, ‘Thank you, Toby.’

‘I’m sorry Benson put you through the ropes, but he was only doing his job—club rules, you know.’

‘Rather archaic rules.’

‘So are the members! And what is the most eligible woman in New Zealand doing in Squadron headquarters on men-only night?’

‘I’d like to join.’

‘First problem: membership is strictly men only. Wives and sweethearts can only come here on mixed nights.’

This was Mercedes’ first taste of the crusty old-boy network at the Squadron, and it made her even more determined to succeed. That night Toby bent the rules, and she stayed for a sumptuous meal, after which he escorted her to her car. Over the meal, Mercedes told Toby of her father’s relationship with Thomas Lipton and the challenge proposed after the next
America’s Cup. He privately doubted that the event would take place, but in the interests of getting to know Mercedes better he gave the impression he was wildly enthusiastic about the prospect.

Toby and Mercedes went on to become great friends, then lovers. She found him a fantastic source of information on the boating scene in Auckland. As project manager for the new yacht, Mercedes struggled with her complete lack of knowledge of the boatbuilding industry and, in fact, of yachting in general. But she was a very willing learner and, with Toby’s guidance and the unconditional use of his A-class keeler,
Vamp
, she soon had the old-boy network foaming into their brandies as she took gun after gun in the club’s feature events.

Mercedes desperately wanted to become a member of the Royal Auckland, but even with Toby pitching for her the old boys wouldn’t change the rules. Mac, although used to sitting in the wings and letting Mercedes fight her own battles, couldn’t help but get involved. He’d heard through the grapevine that the club was planning to move its premises from the now landlocked Freeman’s Bay back to the foreshore at St Mary’s Bay. When the only stumbling block was the cost of the new clubrooms, Mac agreed to underwrite the new building, provided Mercedes became a full and unencumbered member, and provided she never learned of the deal. After lengthy discussions, a lot of blood-letting and a few resignations, the deal was done.

Having called for design and build quotations for the boat, Mercedes settled on a radical proposal from a young marine architect called Jack Mickeljohn. Above the waterline his design was traditional, though graceful, but underwater it differed markedly from other designs of its era.

Mickeljohn’s family scow-building business in Mahurangi had produced just two keelboats, one a B-class and the other a
dainty little C-class, and both more-than-capable performers. From their maiden outings, they embarrassed the form yachts to a point where the regulars wouldn’t race them and they were outlawed. This didn’t deter Mercedes, as she was determined to have the fastest J-class yacht in the world. On commissioning Mickeljohn, she leased a disused boat-shed in Stanley Bay from where she could oversee the project.

Craftsmen were rounded up, timber barged in, and the shed extended to cope with the huge craft as the framing was produced and set out. Mercedes quickly learned that the most frustrating part of watching a yacht of this size being built was the painfully slow progress made each day. She wanted everything to happen yesterday, and it was only when Toby stepped in and banned her from visiting daily that labour relations took a turn for the better. On his suggestion, she restricted her visits to once a week.

Months went by before the hull was ready to be turned, a mammoth exercise in itself, but by then Mercedes had become a little more patient. Looking into the open undecked chasm of the sleeping giant, she and Jack admired the beauty of the kauri and pohutukawa timberwork.

‘We can’t paint over that!’ said Jack. ‘Craftsmanship like that needs to be seen.’

‘What shall we do then?’ Mercedes asked.

‘I know it will mean a lot more work, but the topsides have to be varnished.’

When Mercedes nodded her agreement that the one-piece planking of the outer skin of the hull was not to be hidden, the builders cheered. ‘I don’t care how long it takes. There is to be no compromise on the finish!’

Six months passed. Mercedes and Mac occasionally talked about what they should call the yacht, but there was plenty of time, and they knew the right name would come to them
eventually. One day, a month from the original completion date, their newly installed telephone rang.

‘What are we calling this thing?’ asked Jack. ‘She’s ready to launch, and I need to put her name on the hull.’

For once, Mercedes was lost for words. ‘I’ll have to talk to Father. I’ll call you back.’

She raced through the house looking for Mac, thinking about Jack’s call, which had come from nowhere. She hunted high and low for Mac, but he was nowhere to be found, so she raced out into the garden; again he was nowhere in sight. She tore around to the front of the house to find him walking up the path.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Nowhere—just getting the mail.’

‘Jack just rang. The yacht is nearly ready, and she needs a name. I think I’m getting close, though. In the last five minutes the word
nowhere
has cropped up all over the place, and I think the yacht is trying to tell me something.’

Mac took his walking cane and wrote the word
Nowhere
in the fine gravel on the path. ‘Not bad,’ he muttered, looking at the word at his feet. ‘Let’s go inside for a cup of tea and a think.’

As they turned to walk up the stairs to the front door, a ray of sunlight squeezed through the trees and reflected off the white path onto the window beside the front door. In the window was a reflection of the word Mac had just scratched: EREHWON.

Mercedes and Mac looked at each other in stunned disbelief. Mac turned and took the few paces back down the path to where he had scratched the word. He smoothed it out and with his cane rewrote NOHWERE.

‘If we’re going to have a name like that, we’d better spell it
like that Butler fellow did,’ he announced, as he sauntered back to look at the reflection in the window.

As she opened the door, Mercedes smiled at her father. ‘I’ll ring Jack!’

So the legend of
Erewhon
was born. A week later, Mac and his daughter, dressed in their finest, boarded the Stanley Bay ferry for the jaunt across the harbour. Mercedes was buzzing with excitement. Jack had made progress reports, but it now appeared he had deliberately been understating the position, probably to keep Mercedes away until the project was complete. Inspection day had arrived about a month ahead of schedule.

It was a magnificent spring morning and, despite being a little coolly dressed in the latest fashion, Mercedes was too excited to notice the lightest of zephyrs blowing across the harbour. They walked the short distance from the wharf to the boat-shed and, as they neared, Jack was on hand to meet them. He guided them around the shed to the huge front doors at the slipway end. ‘The gods are smiling with the weather, Mr McAlister,’ he said, as they stood in front of the doors.

Two apprentices stood at the ready. Mercedes was bursting. The doors were forced open, and sunlight pierced the darkened shed. Mercedes and Mac gasped as they stood in silence, looking up at the giant yacht. The varnished hull with red anti-fouled underwater sections had them dumbstruck. Mercedes kicked off her shoes and raced up the stairs to deck level. Mac followed more cautiously behind, surveying the hull with the eye of an antique dealer.

Nothing was said as Mercedes scrambled on board to get a closer look. The smell of freshly oiled timber, glue and varnish was overwhelming. Mac followed Mercedes, then turned to Jack, looking him in the eye, ‘There’s a problem!’

Jack’s heart sank as he mustered the voice to ask what the problem was.

Mac looked around the shed at all the boatbuilders, who were now lining the walls like witnesses at a funeral.

Jack cleared his throat and tried again, ‘What’s the problem, sir?’

Mac drew a deep breath, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as I see it, all these men standing down there are doing so without a beer in their hand, and that doesn’t seem fair after doing such a splendid job!’

A roar went up, and the party to end all parties began.

Mac was overwhelmed by the quality of
Erewhon.
As he put it: ‘A finer piece of furniture I’ve never seen.’ Mercedes was delighted. To the amusement of the builders, she ran around the hull like an excited schoolgirl. The craftsmanship was exceptional. The full-length kauri planking glistened under fifty coats of vanish, and the inside of the hull had been left unlined. The pohutukawa frames and diagonal inner skin were finished in the same high lustre, highlighting the perfect fit of the outer skins. Internally, the bulkheads were formed from selected mottled kauri, trimmed with kahikatea.