Their crew made some cocky remarks, and Mic stood quietly beside the wheel looking unimpressed. ‘Let them enjoy it,’ she muttered. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Paint went below to get his tools and, while the rest of the crew exchanged banter with the Americans, he made a start on the repairs. I joined him as he worked. Like Mic, he was livid. ‘Gonna kick some fat Yank arse tomorrow,’ he scowled.
We headed back to the Basin, where we spent most of the evening going over the gear for the next day. Paint disappeared with the remains of the spinnaker pole, muttering about wally welders. Ronnie and I remained on board, and at six the next morning we heard a thud on the deck.
Paint, armed with tools and the repaired fitting, stood on the deck, ready to re-attach it to the mast.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ I asked, with a grin.
‘Not going to give those bloody Yanks another chance to crow,’ he barked.
The security gates rattled again, and Patty and Jackie made their way along the jetty, looking a little worse for wear. ‘Morning, Ben!’ they both chirped, as they flitted across Erewhon and disappeared below deck on Valhalla.
‘They’ll be a big help to TJ today,’ I whispered to Paint.
He nodded but said nothing, preferring to continue with his work.
The rest of the crew drifted in before seven-thirty and got straight into checking their gear. Mic appeared shortly afterwards, and we sat and discussed our plan for the day. When Mum arrived, she and Ronnie went to work on a slight adjustment to the staysail sheeting.
TJ appeared on the dock and headed towards his yacht. I warned him to be extra quiet when he went below, but he wasn’t prepared to offer the girls any sympathy and bellowed down the companionway. They appeared on deck, with smiles on their faces, looking refreshed and raring to go. ‘How do they do that?’ I asked Ronnie.
Valhalla left the Basin early and disappeared down-harbour. We followed soon after. The wind was light, but the weather forecast was for conditions similar to the previous day. We motored out into the channel and hoisted the main. The breeze crept in from the perimeter of the gulf, as Bob Sorensen stationed himself by the leeward mark well out to sea. Paint kept the motor at full revs, but as the wind filled in he was able to silence the noise.
Valhalla swept serenely back and forth through the start area. TJ knew he needed a good start today. Twice around the track was a long race, but the start would be crucial.
The gun sounded, and the red-and-white postponement flag flew up the mast on the start-boat. Bob radioed that he wasn’t happy with the wind strength or the fact that it was boxing all around the compass.
The tension was beginning to tell as the two yachts glided past each other without a word being spoken. TJ nodded to Mic, but she pretended not to notice.
‘Hughie’s playing mind games again,’ I said. She nodded but said nothing, as the wind seemed to drop completely. Dad switched on the marine channel and listened to the weather forecast. ‘Ten knots in the city, ten knots at Great Barrier, and nothing in between,’ he muttered, looking up at the sail, which hung limply off the mast.
The crew fidgeted with the gear, and Ronnie checked the lock-pins on the jib sheet fair-leads for about the twentieth time.
Valhalla drifted past once more, and TJ couldn’t contain himself. ‘Thought you Kiwis reckoned it blows around here!’ he said with a grin.
‘Bigger than Texas!’ Dad replied.
As if the wind god was listening, the pennant on Erewhon’s stern rose. Within fifteen minutes, Bob squeezed the trigger to sound the ten-minute gun, and the two yachts jockeyed for position.
Mic quickly got hold of TJ’s stern and was in control as the five-minute gun recoiled. He twisted, turned, and ran into the spectator fleet in an effort to break Erewhon’s shackles, but Mic stayed with him. The wind had moved, and I told Mic there was a bias towards the start-boat end. She nodded and repositioned us to push Valhalla towards the pin end.
As the gun sounded, she tacked onto port, and we brushed past the start-boat anchor warp. ‘We’ve got him already,’ I called, as we ploughed back towards the North Shore coastline.
‘It’s a long race, and he won’t back off,’ Mic said, nodding in Valhalla’s direction. TJ was now on port, a little to windward but well astern.
The sea hadn’t had time to build, and Erewhon was creaming along. ‘Can we go any higher, Jen?’ Mic called to Mum, as she looked at TJ’s position.
Mum craned her neck and called to the grinders to increase the tension. Erewhon heeled a little more, and Mic eased the helm up. I watched the speedo, but Mic was more intent on listening to the hum.
‘Keep going,’ Dad yelled. ‘He’s about to go!’
Mic held her course, concentrating on not stalling Erewhon as Mum called for even more tension on the jib.
‘He’s gone!’ Dad bellowed, as he watched Valhalla change tack. Mic pulled the bow down a little, and the speedo leaped. ‘Ready to cover him,’ Dad called.
‘Ready about,’ Mic replied, and the crew pounced to their stations. ‘Helm over,’ she called, in what was to be the first of many tacks to keep Erewhon between Valhalla and the finish line.
There was no compromise that day, and TJ failed to find a passing lane at any point in the race. Erewhon moved away on every leg, and Mic smiled as the finish gun sounded. The rest of the crew celebrated. Erewhon had won her first competitive series, much to the joy of everybody on board. Ronnie rushed back along the deck, threw her arms around my neck, and swallowed me in a passionate kiss.
TJ drew Valhalla alongside, and the two yachts rafted up. The big Texan was first on board to congratulate us.
‘You’ve got a yacht and a half here,’ he said, looking in Dad’s direction. ‘You’ll have upset my boss after he’s just spent all that money to make our boat more competitive.’
Dad laughed. ‘You’ll find some more speed before we meet again,’ he said.
‘You can count on that!’ TJ replied.
The crews swapped handshakes and hugs as the spectator fleet circled to join in the celebrations. Bob Sorenson rafted alongside and came on board with a crate of champagne to toast our success. He stood on the stern and looked at all the spectators milling around. ‘More than a little interest in these boats,’ he said.
‘Just wait until the rest of the J fleet arrives. That will get everybody’s attention,’ Dad replied. ‘Talk to Matt and Jen—they’ve got some ideas about marketing this circus.’
Bob nodded and took a large swig from his glass.
Back at the Viaduct Basin, the partying continued. Patty and Jackie were in their element. Ronnie enjoyed the social side, too, but stayed sober enough to take notes for her story for Ocean Spray. As the night carried on, the party shifted back to our place. ‘Work hard, party harder’ was the order for the night, but Ronnie and I disappeared early.
As I lay back on the bed, my mind was racing, thinking of all that had happened since that fateful day on the bank of the Waiora River. It seemed almost unreal. Ronnie reappeared, silhouetted in the doorway of the ensuite. She slipped the straps of her little black dress off her shoulders, and it glided to the floor. Her taut body had my heart pumping as she paused momentarily to turn off the light and then glided across the room to join me on the bed. The room was bathed in moonlight that flooded through the open windows. I got up to close the curtains, but she pulled me back on the bed. ‘I don’t care who knows how much I love you!’ she whispered.
Her intoxicating scent filled my senses as her hair brushed over my body, and I gave myself up to her as the shadows from the trees outside danced across the walls. With the music from the party wafting through the windows, we eventually drifted off to sleep.
Patty and Jackie did their usual and prepared to see the dawn in with Matt and the crews. TJ and Dad found a quiet corner and spent hours talking over the pros and cons of the two yachts. TJ conceded that Erewhon outperformed Valhalla in all departments. ‘That yacht of yours can
spin on a dime,’ he lamented.
‘Winning the start made the rest of the races that much easier,’ Dad agreed.
‘I thought all the modifications we did would have given us an edge, but it looks like I’ll have to talk to the boss again. Maybe we need a new rudder.’
The conversation continued, with TJ and Dad agreeing to race the two yachts on every possible occasion. Late in the evening, TJ reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. ‘Nearly forgot to show you this,’ he said, as he handed over a fax. ‘Tom O’Sullivan seems to be serious. My spies have seen his hull being turned out of its mould at a yard in Holland. It’s all carbon-fibre. She should be a flyer.’
‘Whose design?’ Dad asked, scanning the fax for more information, as Mic joined them, placing her arm lazily around TJ’s shoulder.
‘They’ve reworked the original Camper and Nicholson drawings, by the look of it,’ he replied, as he drew Mic around and lifted her onto his lap. ‘You’re quite some yachtswoman,’ he said, pecking her on the cheek.
‘You’re not so bad yourself. You didn’t give us those races!’
TJ smiled as he hugged her.
‘Wonder when she’ll be in the water?’ Dad continued. He called Matt over and showed him the fax.
Matt read the paper and nodded. ‘I’ve already made contact with O’Sullivan’s PR people, outlining the connection between Erewhon and the Shamrocks and extending an invitation to race their yacht. I haven’t heard back yet, but I only sent the e-mail a few days ago.’
‘Great,’ said Dad, as he turned back to TJ. ‘Let’s hope he’ll have her ready to bring down here for the next Cup series.’
TJ put both his arms around Mic. ‘Looks like we’re going to have our work cut out if we come up against that baby,’ he whispered.
Mic smiled and nestled comfortably into his arms. ‘We’ll worry about her when she goes in the water,’ she replied, kissing TJ.
22
Over the summer months, Erewhon and Valhalla raced regularly, drawing an entourage every time they left the dock. TJ, to his credit, tried everything to make Valhalla more competitive, but nothing ever seemed to be enough. TJ’s boss came down to sail when he could, and enjoyed his time on the New Zealand coast, but never left happy because they couldn’t get Valhalla’s nose ahead in any of our encounters.
As autumn approached, he decided the Caribbean climate would be more to his liking, so Valhalla headed for Antigua.
Ronnie came bursting into the kitchen. She’d just sold her latest article on the super-yachts to Ocean Spray. While she was at the office, Tiger had told her that, because of the increase in circulation since her first report, he’d decided to sponsor the J-series regatta at Cup time next year. To encourage the yachts to come, he would also put up a purse of $100,000 for each win in the final five races.
Matt came into the room to find out what all the noise was about. When Ronnie retold the story, he sucked his cheeks in. ‘I’d better get TJ to make contact with all the other J skippers, to make sure they’re coming down. I still haven’t heard from O’Sullivan. I got an e-mail today from my old mate, Grant Stevens, who’s on a working holiday in Ireland, saying he saw the new hull being trucked to a yard in Cork for fitting out. He’s taken some pictures, and when he can he’ll zap them to me.’
News of the Ocean Spray J series quickly spread through the yachting world. The Squadron received inquiries from all corners of the globe from owners of yachts that didn’t meet J specifications but who were nevertheless keen to take part in a classic regatta linked to the America’s Cup event.
Bob Sorenson phoned one evening to ask whether we thought the event could be opened up to include all yachts that had raced in the America’s Cup as well as Js. Dad told Bob we’d call him back.
We tossed ideas back and forth. I liked the idea: it had the potential to bring many more magnificent yachts to Auckland.
‘What if Connors brought the cat down?’ Mum asked. ‘It would qualify under those terms.’
‘We want a yacht race, not a circus!’ Dad said. He phoned Bob back. ‘We haven’t got a problem—so long as it’s only open to monohull Cup yachts and Js.’
‘Jeez,’ Bob replied, ‘never gave that a thought. Don’t want that bloody cat racing down here!’
‘I wouldn’t take Erewhon off the dock if you let that happen.’
‘What if KZ1 was put back in the water?’ Bob quizzed.
‘Well, there’s a possibility,’ Dad laughed. ‘It makes me angry every time I see that thing sitting there at the Basin. Mind you, it might take some time to make her seaworthy again. Bring ‘em on down. We want to know if Erewhon is the fastest yacht in the world. Check if Tiger’s happy, and I’ll check with TJ to see if he can see any problems.’
The following morning, Matt came quietly into the kitchen. ‘Have a look at these,’ he said. The photos of O’Sullivan’s new hull had arrived. The glistening black carbon-fibre hull was being lifted from a transporter, and the underwater sections were clearly visible. The giant sleek hull had the lines of a classic J-class, and although the keel stopped at the stub she was every bit a racing thoroughbred.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Mic sighed, looking over my shoulder.
‘Have you made contact with O’Sullivan yet?’ I asked Matt.
‘Yes, and I’ve got a telephone link-up with him on Thursday night.’
The excitement grew all day as we waited for the call, and on cue at eight o’clock the phone rang. The strong Irish accent filled the kitchen as we all sat around the speakerphone. Matt introduced us all, and O’Sullivan introduced us to his wife and daughter. We quickly got on to the subject of the yachts and explained the connection between Mic’s great-grandfather and Sir Thomas. Mic told O’Sullivan how the promised race had never happened and why, and suggested that under different circumstances Erewhon and the earlier version of Shamrock would have raced for the America’s Cup.
O’Sullivan was intrigued, but the high point came when he said that, as long as the project remained on schedule, he’d be attending next year’s America’s Cup regatta with Shamrock VI. When we told him about the Ocean Spray series, he said he’d heard about it already and asked Matt to send him an entry form.
When we said we had pictures of his new hull, he was intrigued, considering he had deliberately kept the project away from the media.
Dad reassured him that if he farted we’d know about it, which struck the right chord with Young Tom, as we’d dubbed him.
‘Sounds like we might be able to complete Erewhon’s mission yet,’ Dad said to Mic as O’Sullivan rang off. ‘Both yachts will have to beat the rest of the opposition before that can happen. It’ll be a major achievement to beat this thing, though,’ he added, as he poked his finger at Matt’s pictures.
‘We’ve got an edge,’ I said, picking up one of the prints.
‘How’s that?’ Dad quizzed.
‘Where’s the rudder stub?’ I asked, as I thumped the picture back down on the counter.
‘By jingoes, you’re right!’ he replied. ‘That looks like a rudder stock at the rear of the keel stub.’
We pored over the prints with excitement, as it appeared that Shamrock VI’s rudder would be mounted in the traditional form on the rear of the keel.
‘We’ll turn her inside out,’ Mic said with glee.
‘I reckon!’ I replied. ‘Even if she’s faster in a straight line, we’ll beat her in the starts, and then she’s got to get past us.’
‘Do you think she will be faster than us?’ Ronnie asked, as she came through the door. She’d missed out on the telephone call and had arrived to hear the excited babble.
‘There’s a good possibility she’ll out-gun us in a straight line. She’ll be much lighter,’ I confirmed, ‘but it just depends on how advanced the hull shape is. It’s a bit hard to tell from these shots. We need someone to go and have a closer look.’
Ronnie smiled. ‘I may be able to help. Matt, can you jack m
e up an interview with Young Tom?’
Matt nodded. ‘I think so. Why?’
‘Tiger wants a story on the new boat and is prepared to pay my airfare.’
‘These big yachts must be good for circulation,’ Dad said, looking at Ronnie.
‘The printers are running twenty-four-seven to cope!’
‘When will you leave?’ I asked Ronnie, not really wanting her to go.
‘As soon as Matt confirms I can get an interview.’
‘I’ll jack it up tomorrow. I’ll just mention that we’ve heard he’s farted again!’
Ronnie looked puzzled.
‘Boys’ humour,’ Mum said.
I dropped Ronnie at the airport two days later. My heart was thumping as we walked to the terminal. ‘Just think of all the reunion love-making we’ll have when I return,’ she whispered, as she turned towards the departure lounge.
Young Tom welcomed Ronnie, and she gathered lots of information, including photos from inside the Cork boat-shed. She made only vague references to her connection with Erewhon but, as O’Sullivan put it, even if she was a spy from our camp, we weren’t likely to start building a new yacht for the campaign.
‘He’s a pretty relaxed character,’ Ronnie said on her return. ‘I’ve had the most amazing week. He treated me like royalty. His capacity for Guinness appears to have no bounds—he has it with every meal, including breakfast. His other vice is Jameson’s. He believes that once a bottle is opened the top must be thrown away.’
‘What about the yacht?’ I asked. ‘What’s she like?’
‘These might interest you,’ she said, reaching inside her suitcase. She withdrew a cylinder, which, when opened, revealed a full set of working drawings. ‘Young Tom reckoned that if I was going to do a cover story I needed to be accurate.’
I unrolled the plans and looked over them. ‘Why did he give you all this?’
‘As Young Tom told you, he’s been deliberately keeping a low profile on the project, but since news broke about his intentions, he’s been hounded by the British press for an exclusive. Tom’s tolerance for anything to do with the English is extremely low, so giving the story to a New Zealand magazine was his way of thumbing his nose at them.’
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 26