Why had I bothered whispering?
At the leeward mark, Shamrock VI had grabbed another minute. ‘She’s quick off the wind,’ I said to Dad.
‘I would have expected that,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think she’s got the punch into the short sea going upwind, though.’
The spray flew as Mic drove Erewhon to the limit. We kept ourselves between Shamrock VI and the pin, and I started the watch again as we rounded the mark. They stopped the watch at five minutes thirty-two. We’d clawed back over a minute.
I looked at Mic; her gaze was firmly fixed on the mainsail. ‘Keep her going,’ I said, as I moved alongside her. ‘He’ll close the game up as we run down this leg, but we’ll outgun him as we head for home.’
Mic nodded and gripped the wheel tighter.
Ronnie and Mum were both on the lee rail studying the spinnaker and planning what they were going to do on the next upwind leg.
‘Just more of the same,’ I said, not wanting them to experiment at this point in the race.
The bottom pin seemed to be further away as we flew in its direction. The wind was increasing in strength all the time, and the crew fidgeted with their gear as the mark got closer. Mic worked the waves, and the hull hummed.
As we rounded the mark, I checked Bob’s sign for the position of the finish line. He’d set it dead into the wind, tucked under the lee of the Campbell’s Bay cliffs. I gave Mic the heading and set the watch for the split. Shamrock VI clicked off two minutes and forty seconds in arrears. They’d really flown down that last leg.
Our crew leaped around the deck as they looked to extract every last ounce of speed from the hull. Mic drove Erewhon hard through the building sea as the tide flooded back into the harbour.
I had the zapper gun in my hand and constantly monitored Shamrock VI’s speed. Dad watched their movements as they tacked and re-tacked, trying to break our loose cover. Their crew set their flying jib to try to gain an edge, but at this wind strength we didn’t need the extra sail area, so we left ours in the bag.
The spectators erupted as we crossed the line. The horns and hooters drowned out the cheering from the crowd. I clicked the watch to get their split. Shamrock VI crossed the line three minutes and forty-one seconds behind us.
‘I bet they won’t be late for the start next time,’ Dad mused, as he looked over my shoulder at the watch. Half the crew lay back on the deck, exhausted, and Mic held Erewhon head to wind as the jib and staysail were furled.
‘I don’t think we can find any more speed, Ben,’ she whispered, as I went over to congratulate her. ‘They gave us that one.’
I nodded. ‘She’s much quicker than us downwind, but I think we’ve got her measure to windward, where we can hold our own.’
Young Tom drew Shamrock VI alongside and saluted Mic, who smiled but said nothing.
Back at the J Bar that night, Tom was lamenting their late start. It turned out that six of the crew had left the barn late the previous evening and gone night-clubbing. Four of them had arrived at the Basin straight from where they’d ended up, and two never made it. They’d sailed the race short-handed. The pair were found and ferried out for the afternoon race, but Tom wasn’t amused and had them all on final warning.
The rest of the morning races had gone very much to form: KZ1 was too quick for Shamrock V, Valhalla edged out Velsheda, and the giant Reliance failed to gain a point as Endeavour won that round.
Erewhon was back in the start area for the afternoon race, this time against Reliance, the largest sloop ever to have raced for the America’s Cup. She had a massive gaff-rigged mainsail and huge sail area, but was slow and ponderous to manoeuvre. Mic won the start easily. Reliance’s crew battled bravely, but we waited at the finish for fifteen minutes before her giant bowsprit pierced the line. KZ1 easily showed Velsheda the way home, Shamrock V beat Endeavour, and Young Tom made up for the morning’s fiasco by drumming Valhalla.
As the night went on, Bob filled in the leader board, and the pattern we’d expected was emerging. While TJ hung on, only three yachts were in with a chance to make the final series. KZ1, Shamrock VI and Erewhon were the clear contenders. Bob posted the weather forecast for the next day—the wind was expected to swing around to the northeast and blow up to forty knots by lunchtime.
‘That should sort the men out from the boys,’ Dad said, looking over my shoulder.
‘It’s our best hope for Friday,’ I agreed.
TJ looked at the results and the weather fax. ‘I’ll need more than that to make the final,’ he lamented.
The Irish crew were a little more subdued than usual, and Tom had them on a midnight curfew. ‘Don’t know if they listened, but I told them if they’re not on board by seven tomorrow, they’ll be walking home to bloody Ireland!’ roared the still-irate Irishman.
‘It’s going to blow, all right,’ I said to Paint, who was checking gear when I climbed onto the deck. He craned his neck to look above the masts, where the clouds scudded across the sky. He nodded and grunted but said nothing, as he returned his gaze to the boom fitting.
The rest of the crews arrived, and the usual hubbub filled the Basin. The big screen was flashing updates of the weather report, as the crews tried to work out what sail combinations they’d need for the day. As the public arrived and looked at the leader board, they saw it would be KZ1 against “The Stealth”, and some serious bets were being waged.
The Irishmen were first out through the seawall, followed closely by Sir Ian’s men. The Irish had gathered a large supporter group. Not surprisingly, many of their number were female, but there were still plenty of cheers for the Kiwi yacht.
As everybody filed out into the gulf, the breeze was boxing all around the compass. Bob hoisted the postponement flag, and the giants milled around, waiting for Hughie to make up his mind.
Our crew went about their job, rechecking all the details. Endeavour wasn’t going to offer much resistance, but we weren’t leaving anything to chance. Bob got a call from his tender out in the gulf that the breeze was filling in as predicted, from the northeast, and fifteen minutes later KZ1 and Shamrock VI heard their ten-minute warning.
At the five-minute gun, the Irishmen took charge. KZ1 ducked and dived to shake free, but Young Tom fought to keep his advantage. The gun fired, and KZ1 tacked away to clear her air. Tom carried on for a couple of boat-lengths, then tacked on top of them to keep the pressure on.
The breeze filled in quickly, and by the time we were ready to start, it was whipping the tops off the waves. As usual, Mic dived into the start box and gained the upper hand. Endeavour’s skipper was a lot more conservative and kept well clear of us.
Out in the gulf, Young Tom applied the pressure, but KZ1 fought back. At the windward mark, Shamrock VI rounded three boat-lengths ahead, and the crew set the big green reacher.
Mic had Endeavour safely tucked to leeward as we reached the lay-line and tacked to head for the pin. The sea had built remarkably, and it was difficult to see what the rest of the fleet was doing. As we rounded the leeward mark to complete the first triangle, I caught a glimpse of a green-and-white spinnaker heading in our direction. As we crossed the rhumbline, Shamrock VI shot by. The shower of spray extended fifty metres behind the hull.
We climbed to the top of the next swell, and I looked for KZ1. She was well back, with her spinnaker down, heading for home under mainsail only.
‘What do you reckon’s gone wrong there?’ I asked Dad, as we disappeared down into another trough.
‘Maybe they blew a spinnaker to bits,’ he replied.
‘Don’t think that’s all it was—the crew were all back in the cockpit. They weren’t trying to set anything else.’
At the top of the next crest, we could see Young Tom heading for the line.
Our downhill run was every bit as spectacular as Shamrock VI’s. Mic worked the helm to get Erewhon surfing down the face of the swells, and she performed beautifully in the extreme conditions. We crossed the finish line to colle
ct another valuable point. Endeavour finished a creditable seven minutes behind, with Valhalla easily beating Shamrock V. Velsheda made no race of it against Reliance.
Dad quickly got on the radio to Bob Sorensen to find out what had happened to KZ1. He reported back that on the last run the crew had heard some alarming cracking noises coming from the bowels of the yacht, and had decided to down the spinnaker as a precaution. When they slowed, they found the hull was shipping water, and headed back to the harbour for safety.
The diehards of the spectator fleet and the remaining competitors headed for shelter under the lee of the Rangitoto lighthouse. The crew rested their aching bodies while we waited for the afternoon start. Bob Sorensen came in and anchored nearby. ‘Wind isn’t abating!’ he yelled across to us.
‘Do you want to postpone the afternoon race?’ Dad called back.
‘No!’ Bob replied, emphatically. ‘You all agreed to no upper limit!’
Dad nodded and gave him the thumbs-up.
We looked around the fleet. KZ1 was notable by her absence, and Reliance’s crew were working feverishly to repair a broken boom vang. Later, they reported to Bob that repairs were proving to be fruitless on the water and they wouldn’t be starting in the afternoon. TJ only needed to sail around to gain a point, and Endeavour, likewise drawn against KZ1, had no opposition. TJ and Endeavour’s skipper decided to race against each other to make the afternoon more interesting, and Bob gave his consent.
The wind was now firmly in control as the yachts headed back out into the gulf. Mic again took control at the start, and we out-sailed Velsheda to win comfortably.
Shamrock VI easily led her namesake around the buoys to take the gun, and TJ pipped Endeavour, but they both received winner’s points.
Back at the Basin, the night crews worked frantically to restore broken gear. Every available rigger was pressed into action, and the hum of portable welders carried on into the night. The high winds had damaged all the yachts, but under Paint’s eagle eye Erewhon had the least to repair.
On the other side of the Basin, KZ1 was out of the water, and a frantic band of boatbuilders were crawling over the hull. It looked ominous. Mic joined Ronnie and me in the saloon while I was writing up the log. ‘What’s going on over there?’ Ronnie asked.
‘Well,’ Mic said, ‘the news isn’t good. She’s broken her back.’
‘Does that mean she won’t be going back in the water?’ I asked.
‘The builders have already started bracing the backbone. If they get the go-ahead from the mathematicians, they reckon they’ll have her racing by midday tomorrow.’
Ronnie and I went home to get cleaned up when we were satisfied Erewhon was ready to race. The J Bar was quieter than usual, as many of the crews were still working on their yachts.
Millie had been busy and came into the barn, with one of her adopted crew, carrying a giant dixie of Irish stew. The aroma filled the barn.
‘Got to make sure my boys are well fed,’ she said, as she ladled out the steaming brew. The Irishmen jostled each other, but Millie scolded them and they fell meekly into line. When they had been fed, her other favourites were allowed to line up.
‘Hope there’s some left for the barman,’ Hepi called. Millie replied that he might like to go over to the cottage and get the second pot.
Dawn broke with the wind howling through Erewhon’s rigging. Ronnie and I had returned around midnight to sleep on board. The flash of arc welders and noise of hammering coming from KZ1 told me they were still in trouble, but to their credit they weren’t about to give up.
As I climbed on deck, just after dawn, I saw that KZ1 was back in the water, but there were still shore crew on board, working frantically.
The weather report was for the nor’easter to stay around for the day. The one o’clock start time for the last race of the first round gave the crews more time to check their yachts. Shamrock V was going to get a soft race, as Reliance had decided not to start.
Bob Sorensen left the Basin at ten to lay the marks, and we went through the seawall at eleven. The crowd cheered with their usual enthusiasm, and we were happy in the knowledge that we had a finals berth, whatever the outcome of this race.
KZ1 followed us out of the Basin, looking every bit the racing machine she was, and belying the fact that she’d just undergone major reconstruction.
The trip out into the gulf gave the crews a taste of what was to come, but it wasn’t until we nosed out of the channel from under the lee of Rangitoto Island that we realised just how much the sea had built. The start line was under the cliffs at Campbell’s Bay, and we would have to rely on Bob’s directions for the positions of the other marks.
Mic eased Erewhon up to speed as we tried to work out the start-line bias. We had the mainsail flattened and sailed on just the staysail. Mic was happy with the balance, and we wove around the few spectator craft that had ventured out.
KZ1 sailed up and down the line with her main on, which had us concerned, but just before the ten-minute gun they hoisted a small jib. They had the favoured end at the five-minute gun, and we both shot into the start box.
Despite the sea, both Mic and Sir Ian wheeled their yachts around in their bids to get the upper hand. KZ1 got on our stern. Mic ducked and dived to break free. In the big seaway, the lighter-displacement KZ1 turned more easily, and for the first time Erewhon couldn’t compete. Dad called the minute warning, and we had no choice but to line up for the pin with KZ1 clearly in a better position.
‘Go for speed!’ Dad yelled, as we wound up for the line. Mic pulled the bow down, and Erewhon accelerated to cross the line at full speed. Mic was visibly angry as Erewhon crashed through the mountainous sea and we took stock of our position. KZ1 had us covered to weather but were slightly astern. Even if we were disturbing their air, at this wind strength it wasn’t going to make a lot of difference; they could live there.
Mic crashed on. We couldn’t have tacked if we’d wanted to, and we’d have had to stall the yacht to go under their stern. Mic pulled the bow down, and Ronnie called to ease the staysail sheets. Erewhon heeled some more and the speedo climbed. KZ1 clung to her heading, and the two giant yachts edged out to the left-hand side of the course.
Our crew remained ready at their stations as we powered into the sea. Erewhon inched forward in the drag race to clear her air. The light-displacement hull wasn’t enjoying the conditions as we bounced into the troughs, and shook violently as we broke through the crests. We looked at our position on the course and decided that we didn’t want to get to the lay-line before going about.
Dad called to tack, and we dropped onto port as we crossed the next crest. KZ1 went to weather and tacked on top of us.
‘Great!’ Dad shouted, as he watched the lightweight opposition bounce into a swell and stall. They quickly recovered and gained hull speed as we tacked back onto starboard. Our crew work was impeccable, and Erewhon accelerated. KZ1 came about to cover, but stalled again. We dropped back to port and I took a bearing. ‘We’re about half a boat-length short to cross their bow,’ I yelled to Mic.
She nodded but kept Erewhon crashing in their direction. I looked at Dad, and he returned my worried stare. ‘Let’s test their bottle!’ she grinned. Erewhon crashed through the next couple of swells as we closed rapidly on our opposition.
‘Ready to go!’ Mic called as we climbed the next swell, and spun the wheel. The crew went into overdrive, and the main boom crashed across. The staysail self-tacked, but Ronnie checked its trim, and Erewhon tucked itself neatly under KZ1’s bow. The opposition screamed that we’d tacked too close, but Mic smiled and held her course. ‘Did we touch them?’ she asked Dad, still smiling.
‘No, not quite—a good six inches to spare!’
‘Then what are they bellyaching about?’
Our position was now affecting their performance, and they had to tack away. Mic banged her hand on the wheel as they again stalled in the heavy seas. We went another couple of boat-lengths, climbed
a swell, and tacked over. ‘Got you!’ Mic muttered, as Erewhon pounded towards the mark.
I walked over to her and whispered in her ear. ‘If there’d been an on-the-water judge, I reckon we might well have been doing a three-sixty right now.’
Once we were in clear air, our next concern was where in the gulf the mark lay. While Dad watched and covered KZ1’s every move, Mic kept the yacht pounding on. I went forward to join Slippery to see if we could spot the mark. He put on the harness and walked up the mast to the first spreader. From this position, he could see the small gaggle of spectators upwind, and we assumed they would be sitting somewhere near the mark. He took a compass bearing and hastily returned to the deck. ‘Your turn next time,’ he said, looking a little pale.
‘What’s the trouble?’ I replied. ‘Moving about a bit up there?’
‘Let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have to go to the mast-head,’ he replied.
I gave Mic the heading, and we ploughed on. The top mark became visible as we rode over the crests; we were now clearly ahead, and it was decision time for the run out to the wing mark. ‘I don’t know what they have in mind, but I reckon we’ll have all we can handle if we run out to the wing with the jib on.’
We unfurled the headsail as we rounded the mark. Erewhon leaped from the water as it was winched in. We raced off on an angle down the face of successive swells, with the speedo needle hard over, twenty knots plus. The spray flew as we surfed into the back of the next swell, and Erewhon shuddered as her bow disappeared underwater.
KZ1 followed us around the mark about six lengths behind, and her crew went forward to set a very small spinnaker. They were low-flying as they appeared to leap from crest to crest, far beyond the limit of control. She drew up level with us, as both yachts careered towards the Motutapu Island shoreline. We had no answer for KZ1’s speed. She burst through our lee and headed in the general direction of the wing mark.
KZ1 was out in the lead by about six lengths when I caught a glimpse of the wing mark and gave Mic the heading. The crew readied to round the mark as I called the move. KZ1 was past the mark, and her crew appeared to be having trouble gybing her spinnaker. They were still on port tack and heading towards Rangitoto as we rounded. As our boom dropped across and the crew cranked the jib on, I looked up to see where they were.
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 29