Mic gave me a furtive wink of approval.
‘Come on, get on board! There’ll be no grub left if you don’t shake a leg,’ Hepi bellowed. Ronnie whipped her wrap off and tossed it to Mic as she stepped to the gunwale. ‘Race you to the shore!’ she yelled, looking at me as she dived. Luckily I had my speedos on under my shorts, and I dropped the extra clothing on the deck and went over the side. Ronnie had a ten-metre start as I dug hard into the water. The shoreline was looming as I drew level with her flaying feet. Ronnie was one stride ahead as we both stood up, then flopped down again, exhausted, in the warm shallow water. I reached out to congratulate her on the win, and she rolled up my arm and rested her head on my chest. We both lay there gasping as the waves washed over us.
Hepi ferried the others ashore, and Mic came over to us with two dry towels and Ronnie’s wrap draped over her shoulder.
The music was still playing, but sounded more subdued, as we walked over to the camp. Everybody was moving a lot slower, but the banter continued. Matt, Derek and Jason were all in a very sorry state.
With lunch finished, Paint organised the clean-up and made sure nobody was going to slip out of his or her share of the work. Hepi organised the group to sail back on Erewhon, and checked that the others all got into runabouts. A few of the eager ones who had sailed up on Saturday managed to get back on board, including Danny. With the wind still out of the northeast, it was going to be a downwind slide all the way home.
Mic and I decided that, to give them a taste of real sailing, we’d tack out to Sail Rock before we turned for home.
The ride home was relaxing, if uneventful, and North Head approached quickly in the late afternoon sun. Danny helped Mic at the wheel all the way down the coast. Everything was squared away as we gybed into the harbour, where Danny swung the yacht head to wind and the mainsail rattled down the mast.
I was pleased to be able to note down in my diary the names of two young guys from the iwi who’d shown potential as crew members, and Dad made a promise to the iwi that we’d do it all again soon.
20
That evening, we all sat around the pool after I had dropped Ronnie off at her flat. She wanted to write about the weekend while it was still fresh in her mind.
Mum refused to cook, so Dad had the barbecue cranked up, and a few sausages were developing a tan. Matt had been checking his e-mails and came out to the patio with some pieces of paper in his hand.
‘TJ’s on his way back down here with Valhalla. They’ve decided to do the refit earlier so as to be in time for the Antigua regatta next March. He’s asking me if we want an entry form faxed down.’
‘Too bloody right,’ Dad replied.
‘I’ll reply to him in the morning,’ Matt said, as he flipped over to the next page. He was quiet for a few seconds, but then became animated as he turned to the third page. ‘He’s sent us a copy of a newspaper article from a friend in Ireland. I’ll read it to you.’
The article was about Thomas O’Sullivan, a grand-nephew of Sir Thomas Lipton and CEO of an Irish telecommunications company. He was currently having the plans for Sir Tom’s never-built Shamrock VI redrawn, with a view to having her built to the original design using today’s technology. TJ’s e-mail went on to say that the clipping was a few weeks old and he’d since heard that planning was complete and Young Tom had given the go-ahead.
Dad grabbed the e-mails. ‘This is too good to be true.’ He reread the note. ‘Well, I’ll be!’ he exclaimed. ‘We need to get in contact with O’Sullivan and tell him about the connection with Erewhon and see if he’d be interested in a race,’ Dad continued. ‘We’ll do the match with Valhalla, then we’ll take on O’Sullivan’s new boat. When you stop to think about it, it’s highly likely that if Sir Thomas had won the cup in Shamrock V he would have had a new yacht for any challenges, and it would have been a version of this new yacht that Erewhon would have been racing.’
‘I’ll try and contact O’Sullivan,’ Matt said as he, too, was swept up in the enthusiasm.
‘We’ll need as much racing time as we can get in the meantime,’ Dad added. ‘In particular, match-racing. TJ won’t lie down for us, and if he’s coming here earlier, we’ve got no time to waste. Ben, we need a programme and a crew now!’
I nodded. ‘Mic and I’ve been working on it, but I’d like us to try the Squadron’s Wednesday Night Race this week.’
‘Can you scratch a crew together?’ Dad asked.
‘We only need fifteen, and I have them all lined up.’
‘Good, then we’re set for Wednesday!’ Dad confirmed. He rose from his chair and headed for the bedroom. ‘Come on, doll, I’m pooped.’
Mum followed, and Matt headed for his room, leaving Mic and me alone. ‘Want to go over that crew list?’ she asked.
We thrashed out the pros and cons of about thirty hopefuls. Paint was the obvious choice for motorman, but since we were eventually going offshore his criminal record could mean visa problems. But we’d worry about that later.
‘If you’re comfortable taking the helm, I see the old boy as tactician and back-up helmsman.’
‘Won’t he want to be master helmsman?’ Mic asked.
‘When it comes to racing, Dad’ll want to win, and he’s tone deaf—so no sailing by the hum for him. The job is yours. I’ll be navigator. Putting us in the right part of the ocean is important enough for me. Matt seems pretty happy on the foredeck, as well, so he will be forward hand. That leaves two slots amidships, and I reckon Mum and Ronnie could be the trimmers, which would give us some chefs as well,’ I continued with a chuckle.
I spoke to Hepi the next day about the two iwi boys I had my eye on, and he told me they’d be at the dock on Wednesday morning.
I arrived at the dock early on Tuesday morning to find the security guards with two young Maori boys bailed up at the gate. ‘Caught these two trying to climb the fence,’ said one of the guards. ‘Reckon they’ve got jobs as crew on your boat.’
I smiled. ‘You two are keen. The race isn’t until tomorrow night.’
‘Just want to get the feel of the yacht, sir,’ Tane said.
‘Forget the “sir”. I’m Ben,’ I replied, as I thrust out my hand. ‘Welcome aboard!’
‘Thank you, sir, ah, Ben,’ they chorused.
Derek and Jason arrived soon after, and Mic appeared as well. All four were keen to join the crew.
‘Erewhon’s first race tomorrow night will be a soft start, but we still need to win,’ I said. ‘If we’re going to attract sponsors with deep pockets, we need to win most of the time. To do that, we need to be in top physical shape, and I’ve asked Ivan Jamison to help.’ Ivan was my old rowing coach and never took excuses, so they’d be fit by the time he finished. Derek and Jason nodded; they were part of my old rowing crew.
We worked out areas for each crew member to look after, and set up rules for maintenance and cleaning, and the boys got stuck in.
Ronnie stepped lightly onto the deck, and I followed her below when she went to stow her gear. She turned and threw her arms around me when she thought nobody was watching, and I kissed her passionately as we sank down onto one of the couches in the saloon. We’d been entwined for some minutes before I noticed someone else in the saloon. Mic coughed as we both turned around.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I interrupting?’
As we sat around the table, Ronnie told us that her old boss had accepted her resignation and offered to take any stories she wrote on a freelance basis, which would suit Mum’s PR plans down to the ground.
On Wednesday morning an overcast sky hung low over the city. The wind was crisp and out of the south as I arrived at the Basin. Erewhon sat serenely at the jetty, under the drab sky, with the wind rushing noisily through her rig. I’d called the crew for an early start so we could get the yacht out and ensure everything was operational. We didn’t want any hiccups when we were at close quarters with the cream of Auckland’s harbour fleet.
The course for the night race i
nvolved a start at Orakei Wharf, with a run out of the harbour to A Buoy and then back into the harbour to the Barwell Buoy off Westhaven, and a run back to Orakei. A second lap completed the race.
We left the Basin early in the afternoon with a crew of fifteen, including Paint. ‘Thank God for winches,’ said Mic, as she cast her eyes over the Spartan team. We spent the afternoon manoeuvring around the harbour. The crew settled to their work as Mic called the shots and gradually worked out their roles. Erewhon tacked and bore away up and down the harbour. Derek, Jason, Tane and Mickey swung into their work, but Mic’s punishing calls had them stretched. Matt and I dropped onto the winches to assist, and Paint joined the fray as well.
Ronnie and Mum craned their necks to watch the headsail setting, and Dad kept the mainsail under control, calling the shots to his grinders.
At 3:30 pm we eased the yacht into the wind near the harbour bridge, and the grinders flopped down on the deck, staring up at the sky beyond the top of the flogging main.
‘You lot had enough for the day?’ Dad asked.
I looked at the guys. ‘Reckon they might find some more energy if they had a cuppa and something to eat.’
‘I’ll put the billy on,’ Mum called, as she disappeared down the companionway, rubbing her stiff neck. Mic followed. They returned shortly with steaming mugs of tea and buttered sticky buns.
Ronnie sat quietly sipping her tea. ‘What do you reckon?’ I asked.
‘I think this is just wonderful,’ she replied, as she took another sip, ‘but I’d like to adjust the jib. I can’t get enough tension on the leech. We’re spilling air at the head of the sail.’
Mum came over and sat with us. ‘I heard that, and I agree. We’re losing drive in the top third of the sail.’
I smiled. ‘What are you going to do about it, Ms Trimmers? It’s your call!’
‘I’d like to move the fair-leads about 300 millimetres ahead,’ Ronnie replied.
Mum looked puzzled. ‘I think they should go forward about a foot,’ she said.
I laughed. ‘At least you both agree about the distance, even if Mum can’t get used to metrics!’
The grinders appeared to have recovered, and Ronnie and Mum finished making adjustments. With the outgoing tide, we were now standing off Devonport Wharf, and we could see the first of the fleet grouping at the start line.
‘What do you lot reckon—are we up to it?’ Dad asked, as he looked at the competition.
Under main only, Mic pulled the bow down and squared away for the start line. ‘I’d like to do a couple of runs at the line to get some line-up points,’ she said to Dad as he positioned himself at her shoulder.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ he replied. ‘Break out the jib!’ he bellowed.
Erewhon responded and blasted through the start line. Dad looked at his watch. ‘Three minutes twenty-seven from the Compass Dolphin buoy. Want to try it again?’
‘Yes!’ Mic called. ‘Ready to gybe!’
‘Gybe!’ Dad called, and the giant boom crashed over.
‘Ready about!’ Mic called, running towards the shoreline. ‘Lee-oh,’ she shouted as she spun the wheel. The winches sang as Paint leaped to Derek and Jason’s aid and cranked the handles.
Dad sucked hard through his teeth as Erewhon headed back out into deeper water. ‘Good job the tide’s in.’
Mic smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Jim, we’re not going to make fools of ourselves on our first outing!’
The ten-minute gun sounded, as the fleet hustled around the line. Nobody was going to give Erewhon an inch. The hotshots of the fleet creamed back and forth across the line, all desperate to get the upper hand. We held back at our line-up point, which must have puzzled a few. Some of the fleet knew Dad, and we could see them craning their necks, wondering what we were up to.
Matt and I had the wooled spinnaker hoisted and the pole in position, but because we were still head to wind and far enough away, the rest of the fleet probably couldn’t see. The five-minute gun smoked, and we remained patiently at our station. The wind had stayed at the same strength but shifted slightly to the west, giving us a flat run on starboard to the line.
Mic smiled. ‘No problems with right of way!’
‘Four minutes!’ Dad called, and Mic eased the helm down. Erewhon gently responded as the main dropped over the port quarter and the sail filled.
Mic watched intently as we closed on our line-up point.
‘Three thirty,’ Dad called, his eyes firmly fixed on his watch.
‘Come on,’ Mic hissed, as she willed her to pick up speed and hit the line-up point on time. The rest of the fleet were still buzzing up and down the line in a flurry of activity, crews bounding around their decks and skippers picking their lines.
‘Three minutes!’ Dad called, as his gaze shifted from his forearm to Compass Dolphin buoy, which now stood off our beam. ‘You beaut!’ he said to Mic.
She didn’t acknowledge the praise. ‘Spinnaker on!’ she called, and the grinders flew into action. The huge sail cracked as it filled, and Erewhon leaped instantly onto a plane.
I stayed on the bow as she made ground towards the backmarkers. I didn’t know what I’d do if one of them got in the way. Mic looked for a gap as we closed in, but nothing was apparent. I was beginning to get edgy, but suddenly, as our wind-shadow spread, the spinnakers on the yachts ahead of us collapsed as they fell into the vacuum of our lee. Skippers dived in all directions to try and gain clear air, but Mic didn’t flinch, keeping Erewhon dead on course. A gap opened up.
‘Twenty seconds!’ Dad bellowed. ‘Ten, nine, eight,’ he continued. Erewhon was now at full speed, and Mic’s smile was growing wider. The gun fired as we drew within a boat-length of the line, and the fleet scattered in all directions, trying to fill their sails. Those that had picked the opposite end of the line nearer the wharf were also at full speed.
Erewhon jumped clear of the surrounding yachts, but a slight shift in the wind meant we were still on starboard, but on the point of a gybe. The other yachts nearer to the wharf were now on the port tack and steaming out at a better angle.
Mic looked at Dad for a sign. ‘Reckon we should go yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘If we hold our line, we could force them to tack back and run the gauntlet of Bastion Reef or alter course and gybe in behind us. Let’s test their nerve!’
Erewhon bore down on the fleet, and Dad could see that Mic wasn’t about to concede. ‘We’ll gybe at Bean Rock,’ she called. Dad looked under the foot of the spinnaker. The other yachts were bunching up as they ran out of water, but Mic didn’t alter course. The tail-enders broke and tried to run under Erewhon’s stern, but with the wind at this strength and their spinnaker poles hard on the forestay, all hell broke loose. Yachts careered all over the harbour with spinnakers thrashing. Mic held her line and Erewhon creamed along.
Matt and I remained on the foredeck as the remaining two yachts looked as if they were going to try to squeeze between Bean Rock and us.
‘They want to play chicken!’ Mic said, looking at Dad.
Finally, the skippers got the message and squared their poles forward, and the inevitable carnage that had befallen the rest of the fleet had them careering around the harbour.
‘Ready to gybe,’ Mic called, calmly, and the giant boom swung over our heads. Matt and I switched the sheets on the spinnaker pole as it whistled from side to side and we sped off in the direction of A Buoy.
‘You beaut,’ Dad whispered to Mic, as he watched the chaos off the stern.
One by one, the fleet’s flyers got their billowing spinnakers under control and were now in hot pursuit. Mic looked over her shoulder to see the modern light-displacement rockets in their element. They were bringing a fresh breeze with them, and the gap was closing.
Mic looked at Dad, but he reassured her everything was OK. She turned back to watch the rapidly approaching mark.
‘Do it early,’ Dad called. ‘We need time to get squared away before we g
o back on the wind.’
Mic looked over her shoulder again. ‘They won’t go early!’ she cautioned.
‘Don’t worry, doll,’ Dad replied. ‘You’ll move away from them once we head upwind. They’re on their best point of sailing right now, and in this slop they’ll bounce round like ping-pong balls.’ Mic wasn’t so sure, but called for the early spinnaker drop.
Matt and I guided the sail down the chute, while Paint cranked hard on the return sheet winch. Mic dropped below the mark and hardened in on port tack. The competitors saw the early drop and held theirs until the last minute, considerably closing the gap.
‘That’ll give them hope,’ Dad chuckled, and the rig groaned as the load was applied.
As Erewhon laid into the breeze, Ronnie called for more tension. Derek and Jason responded, but were struggling, so Matt and I dropped back to help. The speedo leaped to thirteen knots as we headed towards the North Shore. The speed continued to climb, and Mic drove the yacht even higher into the wind. The hull hummed, as the bow cleaved the sloppy channel water.
Dad looked over his shoulder and laughed out loud. The late spinnaker drops were now causing further chaos among the rest of the fleet, as crews fought with thrashing wet sails. ‘Keep her going, girl,’ he called above the crashing and bashing as Erewhon punched back into the harbour.
Mic watched the sails and listened to the hum. Dad looked ahead and could see the shallow water off Cheltenham approaching, so called for a tack.
Mic barked the tack and, with spray flying and winches singing, Erewhon headed into deeper water. Mum craned her neck to watch the jib and called instructions to Tane and Mickey.
A short board gave us clearance to pass North Head, and Derek and Jason swung into action again as Erewhon turned into the harbour, Paint and Matt giving them a hand.
With Erewhon’s ability to climb to weather, from our position halfway up the harbour we were now able to lay the Barwell Buoy. I looked over the stern and smiled. The opposition had disappeared.
The winches screamed again as we rounded the mark and headed back down-harbour. We passed Formula, the harbour scratch yacht, by the Devonport Wharf. The rest of the fleet was spread between there and North Head. The gybe under the lee of the head was uneventful, and we sprinted out to A Buoy again. We were back on the wind by the time Formula was rounding North Head.
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 23