KZ1 was down to leeward with her spinnaker wrapped around the top of her mast. They’d managed to gybe onto starboard and were heading in the right direction, but things didn’t look good for them.
The third leg was a reach, and we set our spinnaker. The speedo went to full-scale again as we raced back into the lead. KZ1 had a man up the mast desperately trying to hack away the remains of their sail. Slippery looked at me and smiled. ‘Better him than me!’
I looked over the stern to see our opposition setting another spinnaker. ‘Here they come!’ I yelled. KZ1 again blasted through our lee as if we weren’t there, heading for the mark off Campbell’s Bay. Spray blinded us as we ran into the back of the next swell. Erewhon shuddered as we started to climb to the next crest. I wiped my eyes and scanned ahead, searching for the other yacht. To my surprise, she’d disappeared. I blinked and broadened my gaze.
‘Look!’ Mickey yelled, pointing off our port beam. KZ1 was stationary, with the mast lying flat in the water and the hull on its side.
The crew downed the spinnaker as Mic readied to bring Erewhon around into the wind. The crew moved quickly, and we headed back in the direction of the stricken yacht. I could see many of their crew in the water, all waving to get our attention. Mic manoeuvred Erewhon as close as she dared before we dropped the main and Paint engaged the auxiliary. The sea was an absolute tempest as we inched closer, and our crew started to throw lifelines to the nearest survivors.
Unlike the America’s Cup races, there were no chase boats and we knew we were the closest help. Not wanting to get ensnared in the net of rigging, Mic held us to windward of the keel-less hull, and one by one we pulled the very wet and shocked yachtsmen on board. Mum and Ronnie took them below and got them dry. Other boats arrived and helped pick up survivors. Within ten minutes and a few radio calls, everyone was accounted for.
Mic turned Erewhon’s bow towards the Basin, while Mum and Ronnie dished out mugs of piping-hot tea.
24
Back at J Bar on Saturday night, all the crews and supporters turned up to celebrate the first round. As Erewhon hadn’t actually finished the final race, Mic and Dad wouldn’t accept the winner’s points. It didn’t matter. Shamrock VI had won her final race, so we both ended up with six points and were announced finalists.
The Irishmen turned up with their fan club and fresh supplies of their favourite black drink. Ronnie had her photographer there, and he rattled off roll after roll of film.
The talk that night centred on what had happened to KZ1. TJ cornered Dad and again tried to buy Erewhon, and Young Tom plied our crew with Jameson’s in an effort to extract information about our yacht.
Ronnie and I left the party at three o’clock. The soft bed cradled our aching bodies, and we were quickly sound asleep.
‘Come on, you two,’ Mum chirped, as she came into the room with two mugs of coffee. ‘Day’s half over!’
I tried to focus on my bedside clock, but the bright sunlight streaming through the open blinds obliterated its digital display.
‘What bloody time is it?’ I asked tersely.
‘It’s gone midday, and you have to get Erewhon back in the water.’ We’d lifted her out to check the hull.
I shook my head, trying to clear my brain, while Ronnie groaned and rolled over, burying her head under the pillow. ‘Wake me up for Christmas,’ she muttered.
By the time I got to Erewhon, the guys cutting the underwater sections were almost finished. I inspected their work closely. Sam would be pretty happy to see this, I said to myself, as I ran my hand over the smooth finish.
That evening, we put Erewhon back into the water and returned her to the Basin. The cafés and bars were relatively quiet as we edged through the seawall. The Basin was mirror calm, belying the carnage that had taken place just three days before. The weather forecast was for light winds for the next couple of days, building later in the week. I switched the radio off. ‘That’s not what I wanted to hear,’ I whispered to Ronnie.
Shamrock VI sat on the opposite side of the Basin. As if they thought the event was already in the bag, they hadn’t even slipped their yacht.
I woke as the sun reached in through the companionway. The Basin was quiet. Mic fossicked around in the galley, and Ronnie was still asleep.
‘What’s the plan for today?’ I asked, as I joined her for coffee.
‘To win!’
I bent over and gave her a hug. We went up on deck and breathed in the still morning air as the gleaming Basin reflected all the super-yachts. The security gate rattled, and I turned to see Paint making his way along the jetty with his toolkit in his hands. ‘Morning,’ he grunted.
‘What have you got there?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got a new spinnaker pole fitting that’ll speed up changing the sheets at the gybe. I saw a picture of one in a magazine, and I made it last night.’ Paint handed me the part for my approval.
‘How does it work?’
He demonstrated it. The new fitting was operated from the mast end of the pole, negating the need for someone to stand on the bow to switch the sheets.
‘Slippery will love you! How long will it take to fit it?’ I asked.
‘About half an hour, and if we don’t like it, it’ll take me about ten minutes to change it back.’
‘What’s holding you up then?’ I asked.
Mic looked at me. ‘You’ve got to love that man,’ she said, knowing Paint would have been up all night making the new part.
As the morning passed, our nerves got tighter. Supporters came down the dock to wish us good fortune, and Mum arrived with a handful of faxes from all over the country. TVNZ were set up on the seawall. Tiger Bentene arrived and was whisked away for an interview, while a steady procession of launches and runabouts nosed around the Basin.
I went below to switch on the weather forecast, and switched it off just as quickly: zero to five knots on the gulf and a one-metre leftover swell.
‘Come on, Hughie!’ I pleaded, as I returned to the deck. Ronnie followed me out and stretched in the morning sun. ‘Morning, doll,’ I said, as I walked over and kissed her.
‘Where’s the wind?’ she asked, muffling a yawn.
‘You may well ask.’
At eleven, we cast off, to rapturous applause from the crowd. We headed for the gap in the seawall and were greeted by Hepi and some of the iwi, who’d been waiting for us to pass. Paint moved up to stand by the mast and, as we passed through the gap, the group broke into a haka. Paint, Mickey and Tane responded.
Shamrock VI followed us, and they, too, received the rousing challenge.
‘They’re not going to be late today,’ I whispered to Mic.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘We’re going to have to win this one for ourselves.’
The harbour was full of spectator craft, most flying New Zealand ensigns, but one or two launches sporting the green, orange and white of Ireland. The Irish crew saved their biggest wave for their most avid supporters: a launch carrying about twenty young ladies all dressed in green bikinis.
The trip down-harbour and out into the channel under power with the sails flogging overhead was frustrating, as Auckland turned on a perfect calm day.
Paint shut the auxiliary down as we neared the start line, and Erewhon drifted to a halt. The Irishmen lay around their deck, as the heat became oppressive. The ten-minute gun sounded, followed immediately by the raising of the postponement flag. We sat back and waited.
Bob Sorensen was constantly on the radio, enquiring all around the gulf for any signs of wind. I scanned the horizon in vain, and even the leftover swell abated, turning the gulf into a giant millpond. The supporter fleet were now all anchored, and a lot of people were in the water cooling off.
At four, Bob fired the gun to cancel the day’s race, and the entourage slowly made its way back into the harbour. I flicked ZLD on to get the update on the weather after we arrived back in the Basin. ‘Only five to seven knots after lunch tomorrow,’ I announced as I wen
t back on deck.
‘At least we’ll get a start,’ Mic said, cheerfully.
‘Yeah, but I want it to blow seven bells, and that doesn’t look likely until Wednesday!’
Back at J Bar, the green-bikini mob was making plenty of noise, and the Irishmen, even though they were on a curfew, were getting stuck into the Guinness.
The next morning, light gusts raced across the water, disturbing the mirror calm. Ronnie joined me, with two steaming mugs in her hands. She looked lovely, her long dark hair flowing over her blue team shirt.
‘Thank you, doll,’ I said, as I hugged her and took a mug. She stretched up, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me.
‘What was that for?’
‘Just letting you know I love you,’ she replied. I returned the kiss.
‘Little bit of a breeze,’ she said, looking at the broken surface of the water as I released my grip from around her waist. ‘Don’t worry. Hughie won’t abandon us for the whole week.’
‘Day two, round one,’ I said, as Paint shut the engine down and we glided out into the gulf. The breeze had filled in to the expected five to seven knots, so a start was likely today. The crew moved around the deck checking the gear, while Mic, Dad and I surveyed the start line. Bob Sorensen posted the first mark, which was again back against the East Coast Bays shoreline.
We did several timed runs at the line, as the crew of Shamrock VI readied themselves.
‘Pin end on port,’ Dad whispered to Mic.
The breeze settled on six knots, and Bob fired the ten-minute gun. We moved up and down the line, waiting for the five-minute gun, and as it sounded we swooped in from the starboard end. Shamrock VI entered from the pin end and immediately tacked away. In the light breeze the yachts moved slowly, but Mic swung for Tom’s stern, right where he didn’t want us. His crew flew into action as they tried to break free. Tom ran for the spectator fleet and wove his way through the gaps, to the cheers of the crowd, diving for the starboard end of the line. Mic got under him and pushed him up, putting Shamrock VI on a collision course with the start boat. He tried to push Erewhon down the line, but he should have known better. Dad bellowed at him, and he was left with no option but to go about; and the moment he did, Mic squared away and ran for the pin. At ten seconds, we went about and crossed the line at full speed on port.
Tom did a three-sixty and was back on starboard but two boat-lengths behind the line. Mic screamed for speed as Erewhon heeled in the gentle breeze. The wind shifted, and the bias was definitely at the pin end. As Erewhon headed out onto the course, it was clear that we were ahead. We crossed Shamrock VI‘s bow easily, went to windward by two lengths, and tacked on top of her. Tom immediately tacked away, and we covered.
The hot midday sun beat down as the crews went into battle; the decks were awash with sweat. Each time Tom tacked, Erewhon followed, and at each tack we inched ahead. Dad watched their every move and even called their false tacks as Tom tried to get clear air.
The East Coast Bays shoreline gradually loomed, and the gathered spectators surrounded the windward mark. It was now a drag race to the mark, as Tom passed under our stern and threw slightly to windward. We rounded the mark, and the boys set the reacher. The wing mark was in the Whangaparaoa direction, and Erewhon picked up speed.
‘One minute seven!’ I yelled, as the giant green reacher burst into action behind us. I looked at Dad as he watched where Tom was going. ‘Pretty happy with that leg,’ I said.
‘I’ll be happier when we get to the bottom mark,’ Mic chimed in. I checked the speedo and zapped Shamrock VI. ‘He may be a little quicker,’ I said.
‘We need some more wind,’ Mic muttered, as she clung tightly to the wheel, willing Erewhon on to the next mark.
I took another reading with the zapper, but said nothing. ‘What is it now?’ Dad asked.
‘It’s not bad. They’ve pulled back a little, but I think they’re bringing down a little more wind with them.’ The crew fidgeted as they got the yacht ready for the peel to the spinnaker as we rounded the next mark.
‘No mistakes,’ Mic called.
Mum and Ronnie were both down to leeward watching the big red reacher, calling the trim. Slippery was on the foredeck, with Paint running over the new spinnaker pole fitting action. They were nervous about getting it to work right the first time.
At the wing mark, the pole flicked to the starboard side and latched itself onto the sheet without a moment’s hesitation. The big red spinnaker burst open as the reacher dropped below. Paint punched the air. The spinnaker cracked as the breeze filled it, and Erewhon didn’t break stride.
Mic banged the wheel. ‘Yes!’ she crowed.
I clicked the stopwatch as we passed the mark and watched the sleek black machine as it got ready to round the mark. I clicked them off at fifty-three seconds; they were closing.
We finally got fresh pressure as the wind took a shortcut across the corner of the track and Erewhon surged ahead.
Ronnie crossed the deck to confer with Mum on the trim, as the crew hunched over their grinders. Our progress down the leg felt painfully slow, and it seemed that Shamrock VI had all the wind.
The supporters were huddled around the start boat as we willed the mark to come closer. The cheers grew louder as we neared and the crew readied for the drop. I zapped the distance back to Shamrock VI, but said nothing. We wrestled with the giant extra as Paint pulled the return line.
Derek and Jason were on the jib winch and cranked the sail in. Mickey and Tane had the staysail under control, and even more quickly the flying jib was up and drawing.
Mic held onto the starboard tack after rounding, and as soon as Tom rounded she tacked to port and climbed to windward. I clicked off the time at forty-two seconds.
We were still in front and could dominate the race, as long as we didn’t make any mistakes. Dad watched the opposition closely and seemed to be able to read their minds, knowing when they were about to tack and when they were about to try a false move. Mic drove Erewhon as hard as she could, and on each tack we inched ahead. I checked the pin and gave Mic the heading. The Irishmen were becoming frustrated with Dad’s ability to call their moves, and he revelled in knowing what they were about to do.
‘How are you second-guessing them?’ I asked.
Dad smiled. He’d noticed that every time they were about to tack, the grinder they called Finn Macool would turn his cap back to front, and on completion of the tack he would turn it back to protect his face from the sun. Any time they called a false tack, he never bothered turning his cap around.
The top mark loomed, and I zapped the distance. I figured they weren’t any closer. But how could we keep them out on the downhill run?
The spectators roared as we rounded the mark. The spinnaker cracked open, the breeze was increasing, and we raced away on the port gybe. Shamrock VI rounded one minute behind, and the Irishmen gybed onto starboard. Dad called the gybe to cover, and with Paint’s new fitting the pole was on the other side without Erewhon missing a beat.
The offshore breeze was increasing all the time, and Shamrock VI was getting the first taste of the wind, closing down on us. For the first time in the race, they were able to affect our wind, and Mic altered course to maintain our speed. We swapped tacks repeatedly. Shamrock VI closed right up on our stern and was in the controlling position. Mic tried everything to stay ahead, but the new super-light yacht had better speed in this wind strength and edged alongside.
‘Go out to the port lay-line,’ Dad called. ‘We’ll try to reach under him after the gybe.’
Mic nodded and eased the bow towards the port line, resigned to the fact that we couldn’t foot it with Shamrock VI downwind. Tom continued to inch forward.
Erewhon reached the lay-line, and the spinnaker pole shot across the deck as the main boom crashed over. The crew wound the grinders as if their lives depended on it, and Erewhon reached for the finish line. The wind had shifted slightly, and Shamrock VI was forced to gybe onto port a
nd make her dash.
The two giants were on a collision course, converging on the line. As we got closer, we were being badly affected by Shamrock VI’s wind-shadow, and Ronnie and the crew struggled to keep the big spinnaker drawing. Dad was on the weather rail bellowing ‘Starboard!’ but Shamrock’s crew suddenly appeared to be deaf.
Dad bellowed again as the yachts got dangerously close. Our spinnaker collapsed, and Tom threw onto starboard to cross the finish line.
Mic’s head dropped, and the crew slumped over their winches. The spinnaker sheet was released, and the big red extra flapped freely as we crossed the line, less than half a length behind.
The crew celebrated aboard Shamrock VI as Tom came alongside and tipped his cap to Mic. ‘Great race!’ he called. ‘Thank you.’
Our crew acknowledged the gesture and saluted the Irishmen in return. It was a bitter pill to swallow, as this was the first time we’d been beaten in a formal race. Sympathetic spectators gathered to support us, but we weren’t easily consoled.
The television crew came alongside, and Dad had a few words. Then the sails were dropped, Paint fired up the engine, and Mic pointed the bow towards the harbour.
That night at the debrief, Mic and I got the weather forecast, which didn’t hearten us, as it suggested that the next day would be just like this one. We sat around the saloon, going over the race, looking for where we could make improvements. Then the guys left, and Ronnie, Mic and I decided to go home for an early night.
Millie was sitting on her porch as we walked from the car to the house. We joined her in the swing-chair, and she poured us a nip of whisky from a small bottle.
‘It’s Scotch, not Irish,’ she assured us, as she passed over the glasses.
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 30