A Yacht Called Erewhon

by Stuart Vaughan

  The drawings confirmed what we’d guessed about the underwater configuration. ‘She’ll be a flyer,’ Mic said, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘What weight will the hull displace?’ I asked.

  ‘Tom reckons about forty tons, plus less than fifty tons of lead.’

  ‘That makes her lighter than Erewhon. With more weight in the keel, she’s going to be quick!’

  ‘She’s finer in her lines too,’ Ronnie continued. ‘We’re going to have our work cut out if she’s sailed to her potential.’

  ‘What does Young Tom know about yachting?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s won a Fastnet, among other things.’

  ‘All the more reason to keep training on our boat,’ said Mic, with her usual air of confidence. ‘We’ve got some business to finish for my great-grandfather, and I won’t let him down.’

  ‘Let’s not forget the other opposition either. TJ isn’t going to lie down, and the others will come to race. Who knows who’ll come under the extended format?’

  Our excitement grew, and as the subsequent months passed we continued to make improvements to Erewhon’s performance.

  Late one November afternoon, the sun glinted off something shiny. The America’s Cup challenger series was well under way, and the armada of followers who spilled out into the gulf each day to watch the event was heading back to the harbour. Initially, I didn’t take too much notice, as I assumed the flash was from one of the many vessels plying the gulf that day. The sunlight flicked in our direction a second time, as a large vessel loomed into view. I went below and grabbed the binoculars, adjusting the focus as I came on deck. The vessel appeared to be a large ketch. Even at that range it looked huge, with full sails set. The dark hull had me intrigued. I raised the glasses again as the yacht got closer and thought I could make out a large J on one of the sails. I blinked my eyes and looked again. I suddenly realised I wasn’t looking at a ketch. It was two large sloops sailing side by side. The leading windward vessel was Valhalla, but I couldn’t make out the leeward one.

  I called to Mic to square away and run down to meet them, as it was TJ with some company.

  As we approached, we could see Patty and Jackie on the bow waving frantically and TJ back on the wheel, grinning. We returned the waves as I tried to make out the other yacht.

  Mic swooped around TJ’s stern and rounded head to wind. The sinister black hull with its shiny new rigging looked awesome, as both yachts rounded head to wind.

  ‘It’s Young Tom!’ Ronnie yelled, as she pointed under the flapping jib and recognised the burly Irishman. ‘You told me you were shipping Shamrock down here,’ she called out.

  He laughed heartily. ‘Never trust an Irishman after he’s had a couple of Jimmys!’

  Erewhon rafted to Valhalla, and Young Tom eased Shamrock VI alongside. The crews all trans-shipped to the new yacht, and while I hugged Patty and Jackie, Ronnie threw her arms around Tom. TJ embraced Mic in his usual bear-hug. The crews traded high-fives as if they’d known each other for years, strong Irish and American accents being all that set the crews apart.

  ‘How come you sailed down?’ Ronnie quizzed Tom again.

  ‘Well, after the launch, we decided we needed to find out what made this girl tick, and we weren’t going to find that out if she was sitting on the deck of a freighter. If we were going to be competitive in this Ocean Spray outing, we needed to train, so when TJ said he was sailing from San Diego, I persuaded him to meet us at Panama. We match-raced across the Pacific.’

  ‘Who won?’ I chipped in.

  ‘We’ve both had our moments,’ TJ replied, joining in the conversation.

  Tom shook everybody’s hand as if they really were longlost family, and soon had everyone charmed with his silvertongued Irish brogue. Meanwhile, Ronnie tried to find out how Shamrock VI had been made ready so quickly.

  Tom laughed. ‘Wanted to surprise you lot down here. It’s cost me a bloody king’s ransom—I had to fly boatbuilders in from all over Europe!’

  ‘They’ve done a fantastic job,’ said Dad, as he cast his eyes around the deck.

  ‘Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,’ replied Tom, and we all followed him down the companionway. ‘I’ve kept the hull light by not lining it. The interior designer had a fit, but I think he came up with the right result.’

  The interior of the hull was the familiar black carbon-fibre pattern. The rest of the fittings had been gilded, and the furnishings were in white leather, oozing opulence. The effect was stunning.

  ‘Pretty happy with the way it turned out,’ he continued, ‘but we had to make a concession to air-conditioning to come through the tropics.’

  I moved over to the nav station. It was bristling with state-of-the-art electronics. ‘Think I’ve just about got everything covered there,’ Tom said with a chuckle. ‘The boys reckoned I wasn’t allowed to leave port until she was a working laboratory for the company’s new gear.’

  I continued to pore over the yacht as Young Tom invited everybody back on deck for a drink. He was handing out the champagne when he caught a glimpse of Mic. His mouth dropped open.

  ‘Who are you?’ he finally stammered. ‘My god, girl, you’re the spitting image of the mystery girl in Great-uncle Tom’s picture!’

  Mic looked puzzled, but Tom continued. ‘I’ve got a copy on the bulkhead in the main saloon. The original is on the wall at Lipton Manor, back in Ireland. It’s been a family mystery for years as to who the gorgeous creature was. You could be her twin!’ Tom handed Mic a glass of champagne. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but I thought I’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘This is Mic,’ said Ronnie. ‘She’s a close friend of the family and the great-granddaughter of Erewhon’s original owner. She’s also the helmswoman you’ll be racing against.’

  ‘TJ has told me all about you, Mic, and he’s warned me not to give you an inch at the start line.’

  Mic smiled back. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you, Tom.’

  Tom turned and ducked below, returning with a picture held out in front of him. ‘This is you, I swear,’ he said, thrusting it in Mic’s direction.

  We all gathered around to look. Even in black and white, the likeness was unmistakable. ‘You must be the reincarnation of that young lady,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you know who she is?’ Tom asked. ‘The resemblance is too close for her not to be a relation.’

  Mic smiled. ‘I think that must have been my nana. It was taken on one of her and great-grandfather’s trips back to Scotland. They detoured on their way home to see Sir Thomas’s yacht, which was soon to sail to America to race for the America’s Cup.’

  Tom placed the picture down on the squab. ‘Hmm! If she was as beautiful as you are in the flesh…’

  I thought this had gone far enough and moved around the deck to where TJ was standing. ‘How fast is she?’ I interrupted.

  TJ laughed. ‘So fast that if they stay sober long enough to sail her properly, they’ll slaughter both of us!’

  I looked back at the Irish crew. They had dispensed with the champagne and were back on their favourite black liquid.

  ‘I tell you what,’ TJ continued, ‘in the first week out of Panama, we could foot it with them. She was sailing with her bow down, and I thought there was something wrong with her design. Turns out, there was so much Guinness stowed in the bow it was affecting the trim. As we crossed the Pacific, the crew set about drinking the yacht out of its trim problem, and as the bow started to rise so did the hull speed.’

  I laughed, but then I looked at the rate the crew were downing their Irish brew at and realised he might not be kidding. Young Tom had assembled an all-male group of ocean vagabonds to sail his yacht. Their common bond was the ‘sail hard and party harder’ ethic. As the weeks unfolded, they provided plenty of entertainment around the Viaduct Basin.

  The sun was getting lower in the sky as the bottles were emptied and the three yachts cast adrift. Crews cranked up the sails, and we headed for the harbour. It quickly became apparent
that there was an unofficial race on, and nobody would give an inch as we punched through a short chop back towards the channel.

  TJ bellowed at his crew, the Irishmen drove their yacht hard, and Mic demanded absolute attention to the job.

  Shamrock VI was ahead but to leeward as we crossed the channel on port, and TJ was to windward but astern. Shamrock VI was inching ahead, and TJ could have tacked, but he chose to sit on us as we weren’t far enough ahead to cross his bow. We continued to head for the North Shore coastline as Young Tom became uncomfortable and called for sea-room, not knowing how close he could get to the shoreline. Mic called the crew to get ready for the tack when she thought she could clear TJ.

  ‘Go now!’ Dad shouted as the wind broke under the lee of the cliffs.

  Erewhon crash-tacked as Shamrock VI stalled in the wind-shadow. TJ bellowed that we’d tacked too close, but the wind-shift had him above his proper course and he conceded and went about in our lee.

  ‘Full power!’ Mic screamed, as the crew spun the grinders to extract every last ounce of speed from the hull. Shamrock VI broke clear of the wind-shadow and was now in hot pursuit. The Irish crew unfurled their staysail and hoisted their flying jib. The sleek black hull scythed the smoother water of the channel, sailing right over the top of Valhalla. TJ dropped the bow down, looking for more speed and hoping to be lifted as he headed out towards Rangitoto.

  Mic held her course, coaxing Erewhon to weather as much as she dared, knowing that even if the new boat was faster she wouldn’t be able to sail through our lee.

  Bean Rock loomed as the yachts sailed back into the sloppy water of the outgoing tide. Spray flew as Mic steered close to the rocks and then threw back to port for the run up the harbour. I raced along the deck to give Derek and Jason a hand to winch the starboard jib sheet in. Mum called the tension as Ronnie, with Tane and Mickey’s help, set the staysail. Erewhon’s lee rail was disappearing under the water, as Young Tom tacked behind our stern. TJ slotted in behind him, and the three yachts drove hard up the harbour. Mic took a quick peek over her shoulder and was reassured by Dad that everything was under control.

  As the unofficial race drew to its conclusion, the giant yachts all rounded into the wind off Prince’s Wharf, and the crews downed the sails and squared their yachts away. Young Tom motored up alongside and looked at Mic. ‘TJ did warn me about you, lassie.’

  Mic just smiled.

  ‘That’s one mighty fine machine you’ve got there!’ Dad called, as Young Tom saluted the Erewhon crew.

  ‘We live to fight another day,’ the Irishman replied.

  ‘We’re going to have our work cut out when it comes to a real race,’ I whispered to Mic, as she stood silently by the wheel.

  She nodded while continuing to smile at Tom. TJ drew up alongside. ‘You’ve upset my crew again,’ he called. ‘You’ve found some more speed. I thought I might have found an edge, but you’ve got that thing flying!’

  I looked at Valhalla. There was something different. In the late afternoon light I could just make out a dark shadow towards the stern under the water. ‘You’ve got a new rudder!’ I called.

  TJ grinned.

  The crowd at the Viaduct Basin entrance swelled as the three Js motored through the gap. Patty and Jackie enjoyed the attention as they moored, but the roar went up as the sinister black hull entered the harbour. The Irishmen played to the crowd.

  Customs officers climbed on board the two visiting yachts and went about their business. They were a little concerned about the amount of alcohol still on board Shamrock VI, but Tom signed a declaration to say they intended to drink it and not sell it, so the officers left. The crews finally went ashore and made hasty tracks to their hotels for hot showers.

  ‘Barbie at the farm!’ Dad shouted.

  Young Tom and TJ accepted invitations to stay at the farm. The thought of home-cooked meals was too much for either of them to resist. Ronnie enjoyed the opportunity to talk at leisure to the skippers of the three ocean greyhounds while they had their guards down.

  Millie, who’d been at a loose end without Sam to fuss over, revelled in the job of assisting Mum in the kitchen, and the Irish crew adopted her as their own. On several occasions she went out on the ‘Stealth Bomber’, as the yacht had become known, but although she enjoyed the fuss the crew made of her, she always made a point of wearing her Erewhon uniform to let the Irishmen know where her allegiance lay.

  As the days went by, it became clear that the farm had taken on a new life. The barn was now the unofficial clubhouse for the Auckland J-class Squadron. Sam’s toolkit became the focal point above the bar I’d built, and Hepi took over as bar manager. Dad provided Mum with a chef and housekeeper to lighten her load as we spent each day out in the gulf tuning Erewhon.

  Shamrock V, Endeavour and Velsheda joined Valhalla, Shamrock VI and Erewhon, and with the arrival of pre-J-class yachts Resolution and Reliance the fleet swelled to eight. The Ocean Spray event was going to be spectacular.

  One night in the barn, while Hepi was giving his rendition of Engelbert Humperdinck’s ‘Please Release Me’, Bob Sorensen burst through the door. ‘I’ve got a new entry,’ he announced. ‘KZ1 is going back in the water!’

  The barn went silent momentarily, and then the buzz grew. The talk centred on whether it was going to be a fair competition and whether a handicapping system needed to be introduced. Tiger Bentene was vocal about his company only backing a scratch event. Dad and I agreed with his sentiment.

  ‘KZ1 is a J-class yacht and also qualifies for the event by being an America’s Cup competitor,’ Dad announced. ‘So let’s see how good she’ll be on the water!’

  The crowd reluctantly nodded their agreement.

  ‘Who’s going to sail her?’ I asked, when I got near to Commodore Bob.

  ‘Some of the crew who originally sailed on her, I believe,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not sure who’ll be the skipper.’

  Mic came in just after the announcement, and when I told her about our new competitor, she looked worried.

  ‘We’ll just have to be faster,’ I said emphatically.

  She smiled as her confidence returned. ‘We can still win, Ben,’ she said.

  ‘Too bloody right we can. That tub still has to make it back into the water and cross the finish line before we have a problem. Another thing—whoever sails her has got to get past you on the water, and that’ll be their biggest problem!’

  Two days later, I drove into the Basin and couldn’t help noticing the skyline had changed. The towering mast of KZ1, which had dominated the Basin for so long, was no longer in position.

  The Cup event was well into the round-robin to select the challenger, and the boat harbour was bursting at the seams.

  Matt was on board helping Derek to lube a winch as I climbed aboard.

  ‘There’s definitely more boats here this time,’ I said, looking at him.

  ‘Yes, eight confirmed starters.’ Resolution had been withdrawn because the owners felt that her old hull would be well short of speed compared with the other yachts, and she was due for a complete refit.

  I’d been sure our main opposition was going to come from Shamrock VI, but now that KZ1 was entered I wasn’t so certain. Still, they’d left their run late, and they needed to prepare her for the event.

  We continued to train on the water each day. The Irish crew sailed daily and partied all night. Ronnie, whenever she wasn’t on the water, was in Matt’s room tapping out her latest scoop for Tiger’s magazine. One morning, as we headed out through the breakwater, we spotted KZ1 ghosting down the harbour in the light wind. ‘Wahoo!’ I yelled, as we pulled out into midstream alongside our new foe and made ready to hoist our sails.

  Paint went forward and performed a menacing haka from the bow, and Mickey and Tane joined him; the three of them were a fearsome sight.

  KZ1‘s crew acknowledged the challenge and waved their salute.

  ‘Look who’s got hold of the wheel,’ I said to Dad, as I walke
d across the deck.

  He smiled and nodded.

  ‘Who is he?’ Mic asked.

  ‘That, my love, is Sir Ian Richmond,’ Dad replied.

  She took a second quick glimpse and returned her gaze to Erewhon‘s mainsail. She pulled the helm down, and Erewhon heeled slightly as Paint silenced the auxiliary.

  The two giants glided down the harbour with the wind over the stern quarter, both crews watching each other as the yachts stayed side by side.

  ‘I reckon they’ll want a crack at us later in the day,’ I whispered to Dad.

  ‘Too right,’ he replied. ‘Just look at that crew. They don’t know the meaning of the word “second”. They’ll be busting to know how they’re going.’

  The two yachts eased out into the gulf and separated as each crew went about its own programme. We worked on a new system to tack the flying jib faster, while KZ1‘s crew familiarised themselves with her handling.

  Whenever the two yachts got close, the crew’s attention heightened, and the yachts would swing into full race mode for a few hundred metres until one of the skippers was happy with the information he or she had gleaned, and bore away.

  At the end of the day, the yachts came together for an impromptu race back into the harbour. Mic was at full alert, and our crew responded. KZ1 was to leeward but ahead as the two vessels charged into the channel on starboard. Mic called for full power, as our giant competitor seemed to be inching ahead. ‘We need to go higher to clear our air,’ she called to Mum, who was trimming down on the port rail.

  ‘Grind!’ Mum bellowed to Derek and Jason, and Erewhon heeled a little more as the sea breeze freshened.

  ‘We’re climbing OK,’ Dad called, as he watched the opposition to see if they responded. ‘They’re not coming up with us. They’re going for speed.’

  ‘Good!’ Mic replied, without taking her eyes off the sail.

  ‘They’re moving ahead,’ I cautioned.