A Yacht Called Erewhon (9 page)

Mac tried to maintain a stiff upper lip, but even he couldn’t hold back the tears. As he turned back towards the house, he stumbled. Toby and Jed lunged forward and grabbed him as he fell, and the two men half-carried, half-dragged the distraught old man up the path. Try as they might, Mac could not be consoled, so Toby took it upon himself to call a doctor, who duly arrived and, after consultation, sedated the grieving father.

Weeks were to pass before Mac was remotely approachable. In that time, he consumed a case of Scotch and ate nothing. Toby remained with him for the duration, leaving his side only to organise the Navy dive team to search for Mercedes’ body. He wanted desperately to go with them, but when Jed offered to lead the party he accepted, knowing that he would be better employed supporting the old man.

The divers soon found the marker buoy but, despite their best endeavours, found no sign of Mercedes.

As the days went by, Mac ordered that
Erewhon
be slipped. Toby tried to convince him that the project should continue, as a memorial to his daughter, but he would not be swayed. He told Toby he had dreamt that Mercedes had come to him to tell him she was living on board
Erewhon
, and he wanted to keep the yacht safe for her. Toby took this to be the ramblings of a drunken, broken-hearted old man, but didn’t have the heart to argue.
Erewhon
was pulled out onto the hard ground at Okahu Bay.

Mac grew more introverted: his butler was his only contact with the outside world. Toby tried to keep in touch, but Mac rejected him as well, and in the end he gave up.

Mac never recovered from the tragedy, and in 1947 he died in his sleep. As he had no living relatives, his fortune was donated to charity, with the exception of a sum of money set aside in a trust for
Erewhon
’s slip fees and maintenance. Even on his death bed, he still believed adamantly that his beloved daughter was on board the yacht.

Ten years went by and, with increases in fees and maintenance costs, the sum of money dwindled. By 1957 the trustees were left with little alternative but to start discussions on the sale of the vessel.

As the lawyer for the trust was going through the papers in
Erewhon
’s file, he came across the blank cheque with the note from Buffalo Smith. He decided to write to Buffalo’s last-known address. To his surprise, he received a reply from Buffalo’s son a month later, expressing interest in the yacht his father had always talked about. Buffalo had been killed while sailing offshore, and his son was looking at buying
Erewhon
as a memorial to his late father. It would be set up as a sail-training vessel for the children of Australia.

The lawyer considered it unlikely that anything similar would happen in New Zealand in the foreseeable future, and decided that Mac would probably have approved. He convinced the trustees to start negotiations.

Buffalo’s son was a chip off the old block, and in a typically straight-shooting letter told the lawyer that he had no intention of negotiating for the yacht. The original agreement was that the cheque be filled in for the amount required, and that would be honoured.

It was decided that proceeds from the sale would be held and the terms of the trust deed redefined. The money would be made available for a sail-training school in Auckland.

Having no idea of the value of
Erewhon
, the trustees got in touch with the commodore of the yacht squadron. He, in
turn, solicited Toby’s assistance, as he knew of his connection with the yacht.

Toby, who hadn’t been near
Erewhon
since the day she had been slipped, was appalled at the state of the grand old lady. Although still an object of beauty and awe, the ravages of time, wind and sun had taken their toll on the land-based hull. The trust had appointed a maintenance company to look after the yacht, but, because they had struggled to keep up the varnished hull, they had decided to paint it white to reflect the heat. The elements had further left their mark, and she was in a very sorry state.

Toby was duly appointed a trustee to oversee the sale of the yacht and pondered long and hard. In the end, he filled the cheque in for £200,000. He knew Mercedes would have been heartbroken at that price, but in fairness to Buffalo Junior and bearing in mind the amount of money he would need to spend to restore
Erewhon
, Toby was relieved to see the end of the sorry saga.

Buffalo’s son, Billy, on becoming the proud owner of the yacht, got in touch with Jack, through Toby, to make
Erewhon
seaworthy so he could sail her across the Tasman.

Jack, now close to retirement, was even more apprehensive about
Erewhon
taking on blue water, and tried to convince Billy to ship her home. But, after several letters back and forth across the Tasman, he agreed to make her fit for the trip.

Erewhon
was refloated, and to nobody’s surprise the hull leaked like a sieve. Years of being high and dry had opened her up, and it took a week of soaking and pumping for the timbers to take up. At this point, the Marine Department became interested and laid down strict guidelines on what was required before she left port. Compliance took time, and it was late in 1960 before
Erewhon
cast her shackles from the dock. Despite her shabby appearance, the yachting fraternity
lined the waterfront to watch the grand old lady slip quietly down-harbour and around North Head for the last time.

Billy had a delivery crew of six, and some of those who watched were uneasy, wondering if that would be enough for the yacht’s safety. Jack said that more crew were needed, but the Aussies were confident. The weather forecast warned of an impending storm from the south, its likely path up the coast. Billy laughed. He’d seen the forecast, too, and was sure they’d be around North Cape and well out into the Tasman before the storm passed under their stern. He could see no sense in delaying their start if they could outrun the wind, and bid Jack and New Zealand farewell.

The storm’s progress up the coast was far more rapid than predicted, and a ponderous
Erewhon
, under storm rig, couldn’t outrun it. The six crew struggled valiantly with the huge sails but had nowhere near enough strength to control the yacht, so they hove to under the lee of the cliffs on the southern shore at the mouth of the Waiora River.

The seaway was massive, and the huge sails flogged violently as they rounded the south headland into the mouth of the river. The yacht was out of control as the crew fought on, and only stopped when, with a sickening crunch, the keel bit into an unmarked reef, ripping off the hull. The men were thrown into the water, and all six perished in the foaming cauldron, their bodies later washed up on the beach at the north side of the river mouth.

Billy, who had been at the helm, managed to stay with the yacht by hanging onto the huge steering wheel as the keel-less hulk rolled onto her side. The huge yacht never went completely upside down, as the mast prevented that by digging into the sand.

As the storm continued to lash the semi-submerged hulk, the mast finally snapped, punching a hole in the side of the hull.
Fortunately, by this time, the hull had been driven up onto the northern side of the river mouth and was left there as the storm abated. Billy managed to scramble ashore, where he collapsed from exhaustion and was found two days later by a couple of young Maori boys who had ventured down to the river mouth to see what had been washed up in the storm.

To their surprise, they found Billy in a state of delirium, trying to dig graves for his six dead companions, so they took him back to the marae.

It took the kaumatua three days to settle Billy down enough to find out that he was the owner of
Erewhon
, and had been taking her back to Australia. The six men, later buried in unmarked graves by the river, were the sum total of the crew.

When asked what he was going to do with the hulk, he threw his hands up in the air and said that if the iwi wanted it, it was theirs.

The kaumatua graciously accepted the gift, but their tohunga immediately placed a tapu on it, out of respect for the sailors who had lost their lives. The kaumatua organised for the hull to be pulled up off the beach and stored until the tapu was lifted.

Having been embroiled for some time in a land dispute with the Government, the tribe was in no mood to let the authorities know about their windfall. When Billy disappeared one morning and was never heard from again, they decided to plant a screen of trees between the hull and the shoreline to divert prying eyes.

Some weeks later,
Erewhon
’s broken mast and sails were washed ashore at Spirits Bay. On inspection of the remains, it was assumed that she had been lost at sea with all hands. The iwi had no inclination to ruin a good story, and went about their business.

D
ad sat up in his recliner, his part of the story now complete. He looked at Mic. ‘There’s a bit more to the story,’ she said, looking at the glowing embers.

‘Now how did I guess that?’ Dad replied, throwing on another log.

Mic took a sip of her nearly empty glass. Dad reached over and topped it up.

She cleared her throat. ‘Your story was very accurate, except for one thing.’

Dad nodded.

‘Mercedes survived. The story given to me by my grandfather, Rei, was different. Nana wasn’t sure what happened, because she had blacked out, but it seems that when the weighted rope hit the bottom, the tension came off her leg and she floated free. If it hadn’t been for the strong current, she would have floated straight to the surface and into the arms of Toby, but the underwater rip-tide dragged her out into the bay and around the point.’

Unaware that
Erewhon
was in the next bay, Rei was out in his punt, retrieving his long-line. He was in his mid-twenties, working on Great Barrier Island with a logging team who had felled the last of the giant kauri. Offside with the law and his own whanau, Rei was in no hurry to return to the mainland when the logging team pulled out. He remained in one of the huts they had built. He’d been on his own for some time,
living off the land and the kai moana.

That morning, as Rei hauled on his line, the peace was broken by a sound he knew only too well. Without even looking, he called over his shoulder, ‘Get your own bloody fish, you lazy bugger!’ The jabbering came from Tangle, a dolphin that had befriended him after he had untangled it from the remains of a fishing line some months before. Tangle always came around when Rei was pulling in the long-line. Even though he knew Tangle could catch his own meals, Rei enjoyed his company and always gave him a fish.

That morning Tangle seemed more boisterous than usual. When Rei finally turned around to see what all the noise was about, he noticed the dolphin was pushing what looked like a pile of seaweed. ‘What the hell you got there, eh fella?’ he called, as Tangle nudged the mass closer. When a hand broke the surface of the water, Rei’s heart jumped a couple of beats.

He reached out, grasped the limp arm, and dragged a woman over the side of the punt, laying her on the floorboards. Tangle did a tail-dance into the bay and disappeared out to sea.

Rei’s mind was racing. What was he going to do? He was in enough trouble with the law already. He couldn’t take this person to anyone who might help. He grabbed her cold arm and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He pressed his ear to her chest. Still nothing. By her body temperature he knew she must have been in the water a while, but not long enough for him to believe she was past help. He stretched her out and began artificial respiration. It was the only class at school he’d bothered to pay attention to, and at that moment he was glad he’d listened.

Rei pumped hard at Mercedes’ chest, but there was no sign of life. ‘Breathe, damn you, breathe!’ he yelled. He thrust his ear to her chest again. He listened hard. He thought he
could detect the faintest of thumps. He resumed pumping at her chest. ‘Breathe, for God’s sake!’ he screamed. Mercedes’ lips suddenly turned white, and on Rei’s next pump she fountained a lungful of water up into the air. She started to cough and vomited up more water. Rei let out a whoop and dived forward. He grabbed some sacks and propped her up against the rear seat. Mercedes didn’t look well at all as he leaped into the centre seat and grabbed the oars. Rowing for his life, Rei willed the shore closer. He knew he had to get her somewhere where he could warm her blue body. The hut and the open fire were her only hope, and he pulled hard on the oars.

Rei rowed the punt straight up onto the beach and leaped out. He reached back into the boat and scooped the limp body into his arms. Mercedes’ breathing was laboured and sporadic as he ran the short distance to his rough hut. Kicking the door open, he found the bed in the gloom and laid her down. He took two strides to the nearly dead open fire and threw on some logs. It wasn’t cold, but he knew that if he didn’t get her body temperature up she would die.

Next, he needed to get her out of her wet clothes, so he hunted for something to dress her in, tipping his clothes sack on to the floor and grabbing an old bush shirt. She was shivering violently as he slipped the shirt over her head and rested her back on the rough bed.

She continued to shiver. He’d seen this before when his mates had succumbed to hypothermia—or ‘the shivers’, as he knew it—and he knew that there was only one thing he could do. He rounded up as many blankets as he could, threw them on top of her and climbed in beside her.

Four hours passed before colour returned to what Rei could now see was a beautiful young face. She’d stopped shivering, but remained unconscious, and he became increasingly
concerned as he listened to her laboured breathing.

He decided to watch her through the night, and if she hadn’t woken by morning he’d seek help from Gladys on the other side of the island.

When morning broke, Rei hadn’t slept, keeping vigil all night. Mercedes’ temperature had risen to a point where she broke out into a sweat, but she was still unconscious and Rei knew he needed help urgently. Placing a cool, damp towel on her forehead, he bolted up the track in the direction of Gladys’s house.

Gladys was the only person on the island with medical experience. She and her husband had retired to what they had hoped would be a quiet life. But life on the island was anything but quiet, as her nursing skills, learned on the front line during the First World War, were called upon regularly to patch up loggers and fishermen who’d sustained injuries as they tried to extract a living from a very unforgiving environment.

Rei bashed his way along the narrow, dew-wet track. Gladys turned from her garden to see him approaching with a look of terror on his face. Despite his gasps, she gathered the gist of what Rei was saying and was soon off along the track with her medical kit in hand.

Back at the hut, she ran her trained eyes over the feverish young woman and knew that she had to get her temperature down. She barked instructions at Rei, as she worked with her meagre medical supplies. He was sent out into the bush to gather certain roots and herbs from which she mixed up potions in a frenzied battle to save the young woman. Fortyeight hours passed before they could relax. Mercedes was still unconscious, but was breathing more freely.

Rei, who by now hadn’t slept for three days, crashed on one of the other beds while Gladys remained on vigil. He eventually awoke to find the young woman propped up and
sipping water from his old tin mug.

‘Glad to see you. Here, you can take over. I need a rest,’ said Gladys as she handed him the mug.

Rei looked at the girl, who was awake but still not strong enough to speak.

Gladys lay down and was instantly sleeping. Unsure how long he’d been asleep, Rei marvelled at the old woman’s staying power.

He turned his attention to the young one. She looked frightened, so he gently stroked her brow to ease her fear.

Days went by as Rei and Gladys nursed Mercedes to a point where she could sit up. She never spoke in all that time, until one afternoon, when Rei was out retrieving his long-line, she said ‘Thank you’ to Gladys.

Gladys smiled with relief. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Where am I?’

Gladys hugged her. ‘Don’t worry, your memory will come back. Just rest and get strong.’

Gladys went outside and found Rei beaching the punt. She told him the news.

‘How do we let anyone know where she is if she doesn’t know who she is?’ Rei asked.

‘She’ll remember in time. Right now she just needs to rest and recover. Some of that fish will help. Brain food, you know.’

That night Gladys went home to her husband, who over the years had become quite used to her disappearing for days on end. She crossed the island regularly to check on her patient, each time bringing clothes she’d long since grown out
of and clean sheets for the rough bed. But the girl’s memory did not return.

Rei decided she must have fallen from an outbound steamer and the loss hadn’t been reported to the New Zealand authorities.

Mercedes, for her part, was grateful to Gladys for the gifts of clothes, especially the hairbrush and soap, but confused by her lack of memory. Despite this, she wasn’t unhappy. The isolated life suited her confused mental state, and Rei looked after her very well. He enjoyed the situation and, convinced that the authorities would still like to get their hands on him, wasn’t about to head back to the mainland.

As time went by, the two grew closer together, and Mercedes, or Hine, as Rei had named her, fell for the man who had saved her life. Over the next two months, they were hardly apart. They made love in the hut, on the beach under the stars, and in the surf, not caring who might see them.

One morning, Rei awoke to find himself alone. He got up and looked through the tiny window that faced the bay. Rubbing the dust off the pane, he saw Hine on her hands and knees, vomiting on the beach.

He raced out to her, but she waved him away. ‘It’s nothing,’ she called back. ‘Go and get some breakfast.’

After the same thing had happened the following two mornings, Rei led Hine across the island to see Gladys.

Gladys took one look at Hine and burst into laughter. ‘How does it feel to be a father-to-be?’ she asked Rei.

Rei was dumbstruck for a minute, then turned and looked at Hine.

‘I had my suspicions,’ she replied, with a wry smile.

Months went by and Hine grew. Rei fussed over her, and Gladys supplied her with looser garments and nourishing food, keeping a close eye on her progress.

One morning Rei found Hine sitting on a log on the beach. Tears were flowing down her cheeks.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked gently.

‘I know who I am, Rei,’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck.

‘You’re Hine, my wife, and mother of our child.’

‘No, Rei, I’m Mercedes McAlister, only daughter of Murdoch McAlister, a retired tea-planter from Scotland, who now lives in Auckland.’

Rei took a pace back and stared at her.

Mercedes broke down and told him everything she could remember. As the words and the tears flowed, Rei became more worried. He put his arms around her and rocked her into silence.

‘Where to from here?’ he finally asked.

‘As soon as I’ve had the baby, I need to find my father—he must have been devastated—but right now you’d better go and get Gladys,’ she said, clutching her belly.

Rei felt a chill go through him. The baby wasn’t due for weeks.

Thirty hours passed as Gladys worked on Hine. She was of the old school, and Rei had to wait outside the hut, only allowed to the door when Gladys needed something.

Finally, she called him in. The hut was a mess, bloody sheets all over the floor. Gladys handed Rei a tiny bundle with a newborn face poking out, then turned and pulled a sheet over Hine’s head, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘She put up a brave fight. I did my best, but I couldn’t save her.’

Rei stood rigid, the baby in his arms.

‘What happened?’ he finally asked.

‘I’m not sure, but Hine told me her mother died giving birth to her.’

Rei sobbed and held his little daughter tighter as the
enormity of the situation sank in. His thoughts ran wild, but he knew the most important thing at that moment was the little bundle in his arms.

Gladys and her husband gave Rei the support he needed over the next few weeks, but he knew he couldn’t depend on them for ever. He had to get back to the mainland and his whanau. His old problems with them paled to insignificance compared with raising his little girl.

Mic sipped the last of her wine. ‘Rei went home to the whanau and, with his mother’s help, raised the little girl he also named Hine. She was my mother, but it wasn’t till just before his death that Grandad Rei told me about my Nana Mercedes. By the time he’d cleared up his issues with the law, it was too late: Murdoch McAlister had gone to his grave believing that Mercedes had died that day.’