As we walked forward, one of the crew turned and smiled. ‘Hi!’ she called, as she cast the bowline off. ‘I’m Patty, and this is my sister, Jackie.’ She pointed across the deck at the crew member releasing the port bowline. My jaw must have dropped as I did a double-take. Patty was a knockout, with blonde hair and a body to die for, and she was identical to the girl standing at the other rail.
I looked at Matt, who was equally dumbstruck. Finally, I managed a pathetic ‘Hello’ as Patty smiled again. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we’re twins.’
That broke the ice, and Matt and I quickly moved alongside to help prepare the yacht for sea. TJ placed himself behind Mic at the helm and reached around her to steer. Mic gave him an indignant look. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable?’ she asked.
TJ took a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘Take her to sea then,’ he said, as he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek.
Mic turned back to the wheel and in the loudest voice she could muster yelled, ‘Let go aft!’ The cooks released the mooring lines, and she reached forward and pushed the gear lever astern.
Valhalla backed away from the dock, and Mic swung the bow towards the harbour. Before she had time to speak, TJ called for the mainsail. Matt and I jumped onto one grinder, and the twins manned the other. We wound for all we were worth and edged the sail towards the masthead. Dad came on deck to rib us about our staying power, and I didn’t have the breath to reply.
TJ reached forward and flicked the switch that shut the auxiliary down. The harbour suddenly became eerily quiet as Valhalla heeled slightly and began to gather speed. We headed down-harbour with the crew now cranking on the mainsheet to harness the light nor’easter.
TJ turned to Mic. ‘Don’t you want the jib?’ he asked whimsically. ‘I thought you were sailing this ship.’
Mic cleared her throat. ‘Jib on!’ she screamed. Matt and I leaped back to the jib sheet grinders and again cranked for our lives. Bill called the tension, and Valhalla heeled further as we gathered speed. Initially, we were heading towards the Orakei sea wall, but Mic called for more mainsail tension. As our boat speed increased, she lifted the bow, putting us on a collision course with the Bean Rock light-tower, the guardian of the Auckland harbour. I looked at the rapidly closing gap and back to Mic, but she was unfazed. ‘More jib!’ she called. Valhalla heeled, and the speedo climbed. The rest of the crew looked at TJ, but he was unmoved. Gradually, as the speed increased, the bow moved to weather, and we were now heading past the rocky outcrop. I guessed our speed to be well in excess of ten knots as I walked back to the steering pit. ‘Lucky wind-shift,’ I said to Mic as I looked at our new direction.
‘Wind hasn’t shifted one degree,’ TJ chipped in.
Mic gave the slightest smile as she called to tack into the Rangitoto Channel and headed out into the Hauraki Gulf.
‘You haven’t lost your touch,’ TJ whispered to Mic, as Valhalla glided over onto the starboard tack.
Valhalla moved quickly out into the gulf as the Rangitoto lighthouse disappeared off the stern, and we were now heading for the Tiri passage. I looked out into the gulf and smiled. This vast area of ocean, bounded by the Whangaparaoa Peninsula to the north, Great Barrier Island to the northeast, and the Coromandel Peninsula to the east, had been our family playground for as long as I could remember. With the America’s Cup on, our once-quiet expanse of water had become an international stage, with television coverage being beamed to all parts of the globe.
I joined the others in the cockpit. TJ had left Mic on the helm and was handing out drinks. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, as he handed me a can of beer from the chiller discreetly concealed beneath one of the squabs.
‘Bloody wonderful!’ I replied. ‘But I’m confused as to how we are sailing in this direction at the moment. We’re virtually sailing into the wind.’
‘Unlike our skipper,’ he said, pointing towards Mic, ‘you obviously haven’t sailed on a yacht of this size before.’
‘No, I must admit, I’m more your skiff and windsurfer type,’ I replied, with a grin.
‘As the boat speed rises, the yacht creates its own environment, and the apparent wind moves around to weather, so you can crank her closer to the wind.’
Mic nodded her agreement.
‘You really know how to make these things fly, don’t you?’ I whispered.
‘I’m a little rusty, but you never forget,’ she replied.
I offered to take over so she could have a drink, but both her hands were firmly clasped to the wheel.
‘Leave her alone!’ TJ bellowed. ‘Valhalla has never had such a beautiful skipper!’
Mic grinned but never took her eyes off the sails. ‘We’re getting headed a little,’ she said. ‘We may need to put in a short board to make the passage. We’ll wait for a few minutes. We could get a lift off those cliffs.’
‘Don’t reckon you will today,’ quipped TJ.
Mic took the bait. ‘Main on!’ she called. Matt and I went forward to give the crew a hand to crank more pressure onto the already straining mainsheet.
Mic ducked down to the leeward wheel so she could see the giant headsail. ‘Jib’s stalling at the head—push the sheet block forward six inches,’ she barked, as she leaped back to the weather wheel. The crew obeyed without question and wound the car ahead. Valhalla immediately climbed to windward.
I went back to the cockpit as we glided through the Tiri passage without needing the extra tack. Mic gave the faintest smirk.
Sam was sitting with Millie, who was enjoying the late afternoon sail. He was surveying the timberwork with a discerning eye, but not saying much. Mum was chatting to Millie as they sipped their drinks, and Dad lay back, peering up at the giant rig.
‘Little bit of rag up there,’ I said, as I sat down beside him.
TJ handed me a glass of champagne and nodded towards Mic. I took it to her and held the wheel while she took a sip. ‘What do you think of her?’ I asked.
‘She’s wonderful,’ she replied, ‘but even with all her flash equipment she won’t be as fast as Erewhon.’
‘That definitely confirms a race when you get that pile of firewood back in the water!’ boomed TJ.
‘You weren’t supposed to hear that,’ she said.
‘I accept the challenge!’ Dad chimed in.
‘Next America’s Cup regatta then,’ TJ continued.
‘Deal!’ Dad said, thrusting out his hand.
‘Mansion House Bay for the night,’ said TJ, as he looked forward. ‘That’s provided we don’t run into those islands,’ he continued, pointing ahead.
‘We’ll get a lift in about seven minutes,’ Mic snapped back.
On cue, the wind lifted five degrees and Valhalla glided past the rocky outcrops and into the sheltered waters of the bay. The anchor pierced the calm surface, and the huge yacht eased to a stop. We stowed the sails and squared away the decks as the wind dropped, and were able to sit back and enjoy the sun setting over the mainland.
Cooks Hank and Debbie brought trays of food on deck, and our never-to-be-forgotten week began. TJ made sure that Patty and Jackie kept Matt and I occupied, so he had more time alone with Mic. The twins loved to party, and each night it was Matt and I who gave up first. We sailed the yacht up the coast to the Bay of Islands the next day, and each night we nosed into a different bay. More often than not, we had the bay to ourselves, or at worst shared it with another luxury yacht from the America’s Cup entourage. Patty and Jackie usually knew their crew, and Matt and I were invited to their parties.
A week later found us on deck, downing the giant spinnaker as we rounded North Head for the short trip up the harbour. Mic still had a firm grip on the wheel, and by now Matt, Dad and I were old hands on deck and raced around assisting the crew. In the fading breeze off Devonport Wharf, Mic pulled the yacht around head to wind. We scrambled to stow the sails and square away the deck for the last time, as Valhalla came to a halt against the incoming tide. Mic started the auxilia
ry and pointed the bow for the dock, gently guiding her alongside. TJ walked over to her and gave her a hug. ‘Well done,’ he whispered. ‘How would you like a permanent job?’
‘Not on your nelly,’ Dad chipped in. ‘You can’t have my skipper—she’s already got a yacht to sail!’
TJ laughed. ‘In that case, we’ll wait for our race.’
Mic beamed back. ‘As long as you don’t mind being beaten.’
Outside the museum, Hepi was waiting to take us home in the minibus. ‘What’s with the poofy shirts, Bollocks?’
‘You better try this one on,’ Dad replied, reaching into his kit, withdrawing an unwrapped shirt, and tossing it to him.
‘Is that all I get?’
As the minibus bounced along, I noticed that Sam was sitting quietly with a worried look on his face.
‘Don’t worry, old Bollocks,’ said Hepi, looking at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘The varnishing is finished. I’ve had a peek, and I think you’ll be happy.’
‘She’s all right then?’ Dad asked.
‘I reckon you might be surprised, Bollocks!’
The minibus went quiet as Hepi wheeled around in front of the barn. We were all holding our breaths as we rolled out and stood before the giant barn doors. Sam was like a nervous schoolboy waiting for his report. Matt and I ducked through the barn and pushed the doors wide open. I turned when I saw the looks on the others’ faces. In the fading evening sunlight, the hull almost danced out the door to meet us, her timber glowing as if it were on fire. Sam stood silently, tears rolling down his cheeks.
We all stood speechless as Sam circled the hull, inspecting every inch with his clinical eye, and stopped where the hole had been. He took his pipe out of his pocket and, with a billow of smoke, lit up. Dad joined him. ‘She’s beautiful, Sam, bloody beautiful!’
Sam nodded without a word; he was satisfied. They continued to circle the hull, as Sam took in every detail, when he suddenly stopped, his eyes fixed on a point beside the keel stub. Alongside Jack’s mark was a new inlay.
‘Who put that there?’ he stammered, pointing at a sevenpointed star low down on the hull. ‘That’s my mark!’
‘I did, Sam,’ I said. The night before we left to go sailing, I’d slipped into the barn and inserted the star, on Mic’s instructions.
Mic stepped forward. ‘Nana says Jack wants to thank you. He says nobody in the world could have done a better job.’
Sam sat down on a drum. ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered,’ he muttered. He finally stood up and tapped his pipe out on the lip of the drum. ‘Come on, young fella,’ he said, looking at me. ‘We’ve got work to do in the morning. We’re a week behind schedule, and we’ve got a race to prepare for. We’re not going to let that Yankee tin tub win by default!’
15
The following morning, I found Sam in the barn, puffing away on his pipe. The hull gleamed in the rays of sunlight that forced their way through the dusty windows. Sam had a new spring in his step and, with the outside finished, we continued with the internal strengthening before we turned our attention to redoing the varnish.
The old timber was in remarkable condition and only needed a light sand. Each night, we were rewarded when we brushed on the new varnish and the old timber danced back to life. The mottled kauri panelling took everyone’s breath away. As we completed each section, Sam laid on the finishing coat, his skill with the brush matching his wizardry with the tools.
Once we’d finished that back-breaking task, we turned our attention to the fitting out. Hepi located a new Nissan diesel engine and Paint set about adapting it, though Sam was concerned about Paint’s ability to do the job. The old Ford V8 motor, a standard auxiliary in the 1930s, had long since been removed, leaving a gap that would house the new motor with room to spare.
Each day, Paint turned up at ten past eight, which wound Sam up, but then he’d work steadily without interruption. He removed the old gearbox, overhauled it with new bearings and seals, then grafted on the new power plant. Dad wanted to buy a new gearbox, but Paint assured him the old one was better than new. The old propeller shaft and propeller were dodgy, but Hepi located a new unit, and Paint, Sam and I drilled the keel stub to take the new, bulkier tube.
Excitement grew as items were steadily ticked off Sam’s list. Mic and Mum coordinated the interior, with new squabs and curtains, and Sam and I re-pitched the teak deck and rebuilt the hatch-covers. Dad found a company that was still able to etch glass in the traditional manner, and the broken panes were replaced with new ones that matched the originals.
New coffee grinders, cast in brass in keeping with the rest of the fittings, arrived, and Paint and I spent a week fitting them. Sam made up false panelling to conceal the gearing where it penetrated the coach roof.
One evening, Sam turned to Mic as we sat together enjoying a well-earned beer. ‘We’re nearly ready to put the old girl back on her keel. What does Jack think?’
Initially taken aback by Sam’s acceptance of her unorthodox means of communication, Mic hesitated for a minute. ‘I’ll find out what he thinks tonight.’
Sam nodded.
Next morning, she came into the kitchen with a plan in her hand. ‘Good,’ she said, looking at Dad. ‘I hoped I’d catch you before you went to work.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Dad replied, as he washed a mouthful of toast down. ‘I have an early meeting.’
‘Jack told Nana he’d like to recast the keel, now that you’ve changed the rig. He thinks we’ll need about a ton less lead, and he’d also like to change the shape.’ She unrolled the blueprint, and Dad quickly read it through.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said, as he headed for the door. ‘Get Fatman to show them to Royce and Johns. See if they can handle recasting something that size. Tell them I expect them to use the old lead!’
The next day, John Royce arrived with Jack’s plans in his hand. He and Sam were long-time business acquaintances, John having cast many keels for Sam’s projects. As he climbed out of his ute, Sam went over and shook his hand.
‘I’ve got to see this thing for myself,’ John said. ‘The dimensions are a bit screwy.’
Sam shook his head. ‘If they’re wrong, we’re rebuilding the wrong boat!’
‘And what’s this about remoulding the existing keel?’
‘Hang on a minute, I’ll show you,’ Sam said, taking John around the end of the barn to where the old keel lay.
‘By jingoes, Sam!’ he said, as he caught sight of the huge lump of lead. He tapped the bulb with his knuckles. ‘Is it all lead?’
Sam nodded, as he lit his pipe. ‘Certified so when it was cast. I know that for a fact, because I cut the tags off the ingots before they went into the furnace.’
John sucked through his teeth. ‘Well, if that’s the keel, where’s the rest of it?’
Sam ushered him into the still-darkened barn and, while John tried to adjust his eyes to the shadows, he pushed open the big doors. The two men peered up at the golden timber hull.
‘Have you rebuilt her, or have you knocked her up from scratch?’
‘Most of her is seventy years old, though I must admit some is brand-new.’
‘She’s bloody beautiful, Sam, bloody beautiful!’ John unrolled the plan. ‘Now that I’ve seen her, I’d like to check the bolt centres.’
‘You don’t need to. If Jack drew them, they’ll be right. But just to keep you happy, I’ll hold the tape.’
John quickly checked the dimensions and nodded. ‘How soon?’
‘Yesterday,’ Sam replied, blowing a cloud of smoke.
‘Then I’d better get cracking.’ They walked back outside and revisited the scrap keel. ‘The new one will definitely be a better shape. I reckon she’ll be about a ton lighter, and I should have some left over.’
Sam doubted that anyone but John could have guessed the finished weight of a yet-to-be-poured keel, but he was sure his old friend knew exactly what he was talking about.
‘With the new
rig she needs less weight, so I hope you’re right,’ Sam replied. ‘But you look concerned. What’s worrying you?’
Again John sucked through his teeth. ‘She’s too bloody big to cast at my factory.’
‘You can’t do it then?’
‘Didn’t say that—just can’t do it at my shop.’
‘Where do you want to do it then?’
‘I’d say about here,’ he replied, pointing to the grassed area beside the old keel. ‘Do you think they would mind if we dug a fifteen-foot hole to lower the mould into?’
Sam smiled. ‘Blimey, that takes me back a bit. We melted the lead in a giant pot over an open fire alongside the mould, which we’d buried outside the boat-shed. It worked a treat, but the worst thing about it was that we apprentices had to dig the hole!’
‘We don’t need to be quite as crude as an open fire these days. I’ve got access to a portable furnace that’ll do the job, and I can control the temperature a lot more accurately with that.’
Sam re-lit his pipe. ‘I’ll get Jim’s mate to organise the hole. When will you be ready to pour?’
‘I’ll have the mould ready Monday week.’ He turned and headed for his ute. ‘See you Tuesday week. As long as the weather’s right,’ he added, as he disappeared down the drive.
Sam rang Hepi to organise the digger, and I arrived at the barn door as Sam was hanging up the receiver. I was about to apologise for my late appearance, but Sam wasn’t in the mood for lame excuses.
‘Patty and Jackie too much for you and your brother?’ he asked.
‘Their pace is killing me. They never sleep!’
Sam gave a disapproving puff on his pipe. ‘Come on then, lad, we’ve got to start preparing for the keel pour. You just missed John Royce. He’s going to bring the mould out here and pour the keel on-site. It’ll be good experience.’ He produced a sketch of the scaffold we needed to build alongside the hole.
Monday came around slowly, and in the afternoon Bertha climbed the rise from the gate. With his trademark doubledeclutch, Hepi swung her around and parked beside the hole. With Paint’s help, the mould was lowered into position. Everything was ready.
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 17