A Yacht Called Erewhon

by Stuart Vaughan

I smiled. ‘Can’t let them have it all their way, can we, Millie?’

  ‘No, Ben,’ she replied. ‘Still, you will do better tomorrow, I’m sure.’

  I sat back on the seat and peered up at the sky. The silent language of stars seemed to support Millie.

  A night in our own bed had a rejuvenating effect on Ronnie and me, and we were raring to go as the sun rose. Dad had breakfast going as I wandered down to the kitchen. TJ had gone back to sleep on Valhalla, and Young Tom was with his crew at the hotel, so when Mum, Matt, Ronnie and Mic turned up, it was a family breakfast.

  The topic of conversation naturally turned to the next race and how we could get an edge that day, with the weather looking the same as the day before.

  I studied the weather map as we drifted out into the gulf. The light sou’wester meant we were again starting at the furthest point of the racetrack. Our supporters lined up behind the start line, and the wind flickered around five knots.

  Reluctantly, Bob Sorensen fired the ten-minute gun, and we readied ourselves to dive into the box. Tom had the advantage end this time and, as the five-minute gun fired, dived into the box and hooked onto our tail.

  Mic was more aggressive than ever, ducking and diving all around the start area, trying to shake off the black machine. Tom hung on as Mic shot among the spectators, and the crowd roared as Mic swung Erewhon around the stern of the Irish launch. The girls in their green bikinis squealed with delight as their heroes flashed by, still on our stern.

  Dad called one minute, and Mic headed for the line. Tom came up under our lee and tried to force us into the start boat. Mic held her course, forcing Tom to bear away and hoist his protest flag. Bob Sorensen’s on-the-water judge called a penalty against Erewhon, which meant we had a three-sixty to do somewhere on the track.

  I looked at Dad, and he shrugged. Mic had her eyes firmly fixed on the mainsail. ‘Sorry, guys,’ she muttered.

  ‘Don’t worry—we’ll just have to get far enough ahead to do the penalty,’ Dad said.

  Mic drove Erewhon as hard as she could in the light air. Every move the Irishmen made we covered, but we couldn’t increase the gap between the yachts. At this wind strength, Shamrock VI seemed to be quicker on all points, though we didn’t provide a passing lane.

  Downwind, Mic held the other yacht at bay. Tom tried everything he could, but continued to find himself behind our stern. We rounded the windward pin for the run to home, and they were within a couple of lengths. Mic went on the attack, determined that Shamrock VI wasn’t going to pass us. Tom reached, ran, and gybed all over the gulf in an effort to break the shackles, but every time he looked Erewhon was still ahead. Between them, Mic and Dad had sailed the perfect leg, but there was no gun as Erewhon crossed the line.

  Mic slumped over the wheel as the gun sounded for Shamrock VI. The Irishmen hadn’t given us the opportunity to reverse the penalty, so we’d handed them the win by not doing the three-sixty somewhere on the track. The crew again downed the sails, and we motored back towards the Basin in stony silence.

  I looked at Dad, and he was pretty down. ‘Barbie back at the house tonight!’ I said out loud.

  Dad looked at me and nodded. ‘Come on, guys, there are three races to go!’

  Paint went forward and stood by the mast. He appeared to be chanting. After some minutes, he raised his arms above his head and then whipped them down to his ankles with such force that he fell forwards. He stood up and shook his head, opened his eyes, and walked back down the deck. ‘There will be wind tomorrow,’ he announced, as he sat in the cockpit.

  The rest of the crew had watched the performance, but nobody dared ask how he knew.

  All the crew turned up at the house that evening. Hepi entertained the now very confident Irishmen in the barn, but we stayed away and went over the day’s race. Mic tried to take all the blame for the result, but everybody knew that if Shamrock VI had got her nose in front, we’d have had no show in that wind.

  As I walked the crew out to their cars, we passed the barn, where the Guinness had loosened the Irishmen’s tongues. They were singing a medley of ‘We Are the Champions’ and ‘You Are a Loser’. I looked at the guys and didn’t need to say anything.

  I walked down the dock early the next morning to find the crew already on deck and checking the gear. I climbed on board and looked across to Shamrock VI, which was sitting unmanned at her jetty.

  ‘They must be confident,’ I said to Ronnie, as she came over and gave me a hug.

  ‘Just the way we want it,’ she replied.

  I nodded and went below to get the latest weather forecast. The wind in the Basin was definitely stronger, and a more promising forecast for midday onwards brought a smile back to my face. ‘Twenty knots plus!’ I yelled, as I reappeared on deck. The crew punched the air.

  There was a steady stream of well-wishers on the dock, and the crowd was humming as we left through the seawall. The Irishmen had arrived, all well and truly hung-over.

  Dad looked at me and laughed. ‘Fatman’s done his bit for us,’ he chortled. ‘Can’t imagine how many bottles of that black tar he’s poured down their throats.’

  As we went through the breakwater, Paint, Tane and Mickey had taken up their now familiar positions on the bow and were in full flight with their haka, with added zeal.

  The wind was still southwest, but the forecast of twenty knots seemed to be on the light side. Erewhon, under full rig, was moving nicely. I looked at Dad. ‘Cutter rig for the first beat?’

  He nodded, after looking in Mic’s direction. The flying jib stayed in the bag.

  It was our turn for the advantage end to start and, as the five-minute gun fired, Mic dived. Tom glanced over his shoulder to find Erewhon in her usual position. He wove and ducked to shake us off, but Mic wasn’t going to lose two starts in a row. I checked the coordinates for the first mark, as Mic lined up for the starboard end start.

  Tom continued to try and shake us as Dad called the minute, and we wound Erewhon up, forcing Shamrock VI straight at the start boat. Tom again tried to bear away, but Mic wouldn’t concede and he got the message. Having nowhere to go, Tom crash-tacked, and the yacht stalled.

  The gun fired. Tom gybed around and cranked on, but we were well out on the course. With impeccable teamwork and in increasing wind strength, we rounded the first mark with a four-minute advantage and raced off to the wing mark. On the second time to windward, Erewhon’s hum seemed even louder, and Mic’s grip became tighter as she drove Erewhon into the short, steep seas.

  Around the weather mark and back out into the gulf, we scanned the horizon for the finish line. We passed the Irishmen as we headed down the track, but they didn’t even acknowledge us as they bashed on towards the windward pin.

  The crew fidgeted with their gear as we continued the downwind slide with spray flying everywhere. Every creak and groan from the rig had twenty-five pairs of eyes focused on it, but nobody was going to take this one from us, and the gun resounded in the late afternoon air.

  Shamrock VI steamed down the track and crossed the line within three minutes. We were happy with that, but it made us aware that they weren’t a spent force.

  ‘Glad to see the smiles back on everyone’s faces,’ Mum said, as she looked around the crew. Mic, in particular, was beaming as she turned Erewhon towards home.

  That night, we decided to repeat the barbecue and, as we all sat down, we were surprised by Tom’s sudden appearance. He came to congratulate us on our race win and placed a large bottle of Jameson’s on the table. ‘You all have a drink on me!’ he chuckled.

  Dad reached forward and removed the bottle. ‘We’ll save that until after the final,’ he said.

  Tom laughed heartily. ‘Got to try and get some sort of an advantage over you Kiwis,’ he said, as he turned to look at Mic. ‘And you, young lady—I have the feeling that if I’d held my course in the start box, you’d have cut us in two!’

  Mic looked him in the eye and nodded.

  ‘I believe
you,’ he said, as he turned and left.

  ‘Do you think he’s got the message?’ I asked, looking in Mic’s direction. She smiled.

  The debrief was a little more buoyant that evening, and the noise from J Bar a little more subdued. I checked the forecast, which was for more of the same. While the wind strength didn’t give us an edge, it certainly evened our chances. Hepi came in earlier than usual, as the Irishmen had gone back to their hotel early.

  ‘They’re pissed off with you lot,’ he said, as he sat down among the crew. ‘They thought the money would be in the bag after today’s race!’

  Ronnie and I arrived at the dock at the usual time the next morning, and to my surprise the Irishmen were on board and about to leave the Basin. The wind hadn’t abated overnight and looked promising. I checked the forecast: it was going to back around from the southwest to the northeast later in the day. I talked to Mic and Dad when they arrived—even though the wind-shift would probably come after the race had finished, we needed to consider it, because we didn’t want to be in the wrong position if it came early.

  If the pre-starts had been aggressive up to now, none matched the intensity of this one. Shamrock VI had the favoured end to enter the box and immediately latched onto our stern. Mic wheeled Erewhon around, desperate to shake Tom off, but he wouldn’t let go. The yachts moved quickly in the fresh breeze, darting back and forth across the start line. Dad and I tried to fix the advantage end, as Mic dived into the spectator fleet, while the crew worked intensely, with Mum and Ronnie calling the trim.

  We swooped past an anchored launch, and Mic gybed quickly around its stern. Tom missed the timing as he followed around and dropped back a few metres. Mic screamed for more power, and the boys nearly had the winches glowing as they cranked in the sheets. We dived for the pin end of the line on starboard, and that few metres meant we had clear air. The gun fired as we crossed the line, and with full power on we surged out onto the racetrack. Erewhon revelled in the breeze, and the hum told us we were up to hull speed. Young Tom hung off our hip as we tried to squeeze up to force him about. Shamrock VI pounded hard into the short seas but couldn’t gain ground. Mic called for absolute concentration as we ploughed on and she inched the hull to windward. We closed up slowly on Shamrock VI‘s breeze until they had to concede and threw to port to clear their air.

  We went a few metres and threw to cover them. A major wind-shift helped us lift well above them, now clearly ahead. My heart raced as we rounded the first mark, set the reacher and blasted off in the direction of the wing mark. Shamrock rounded thirty seconds in arrears but seemed to be in trouble. There was loud yelling as the main boom skied and two crewmen skated across the deck and were jettisoned into the sea. Their hydraulic boom vang had exploded and sprayed oil all over the deck, turning it into an ice rink. The crewmen found themselves bobbing around in the ocean as the on-the-water judge rushed to their aid.

  Shamrock VI’s problems were still not over. With no vang, the giant yacht was difficult to control, and they weaved their way to the wing mark. Some of the crew went forward to get the boom under control, while others tried desperately to clean the deck, knowing they needed to be able to walk on it for the next gybe. The rest of the crew wrestled with their reacher in an effort to stay in touch with us.

  Paint looked at me and smiled. ‘I might offer to make them a new vang after the series,’ he said with a grin.

  We turned our attention back to sailing Erewhon. With Shamrock VI now short-handed and with an out-of-control boom, Erewhon moved away on the downwind leg. It wasn’t until they came back on the wind that they could fashion a temporary vang.

  ‘Two all!’ I yelled, as we took the gun. The crew celebrated as we looked back at Shamrock struggling to the line. ‘Didn’t need to worry about that wind change,’ I said to Mic, as she turned the yacht for home.

  The third barbie debrief was a serious affair. Hepi had arrived early and didn’t even bother to open J Bar. The Irishmen were going to be too busy.

  The fax machine was running hot with messages of support. Ronnie and Mum took turns to read them out, while Millie fussed around the crew, making sure everybody had plenty to eat.

  Mic came into the room with a piece of paper in her hand. ‘Special note,’ she announced, as we all stopped to listen. She looked around the crew as she hesitantly started to read.

  ‘It comes via Nana and reads: “Jack and I have never been so proud as we are tonight. Good luck and Godspeed for the win tomorrow…”’ She paused. ‘Signed Sam!’

  The group sat in silence, looking at Mic and Millie. Tears welled up in their eyes, but no one made a sound. Mic walked over to Millie, hugged her, and gave her the note.

  The gate at the bottom of the garden swung open, and TJ, Patty and Jackie bowled up the path. ‘Who died?’ TJ asked in his usual brash style.

  Dad stepped forward and shook his hand. ‘Nobody tonight!’ he said, laughing. ‘We were just reflecting for a moment.’

  ‘Good. I thought we’d gatecrashed a wake. We just popped in to wish you Kiwis all the luck for tomorrow. And the offer still stands for Erewhon, win or lose!’

  Dad laughed again and slapped him on the back. ‘You never give up, do you?’

  TJ continued to chuckle as he went around each of the crew and shook their hands, saving a big hug and kiss for Mic. ‘Good luck, little lady!’ he whispered.

  Next morning, I threw the hatch open and made a beeline for the radio. The wind was still out of the southwest and, although it was blowing as hard as yesterday, there was no sign of the promised change to the northeast.

  ‘The front stalled off the Taranaki coast last night and is expected here around midday,’ I said, relaying the forecast as I went on deck, wondering if they were going to get it right today.

  The crowd gathered early, and Erewhon followed Shamrock VI out through the seawall. This time the green-bikinied supporters were wearing green wigs, flying green streamers from every available spot, and blowing bugles, as they followed their yacht down the harbour.

  Off Orakei Wharf our crew settled to the task at hand, and the mainsail rattled up the mast. Millie was on board today; the crew had insisted she be there as our good luck charm. As we neared the start line, Dad signalled to Mic to pull the head to wind. The crew all gathered in the cockpit. We reminded each other about where we’d come from and what we hoped to achieve today. Millie hugged each person for luck.

  ‘Right!’ said Dad, as Millie released Mic. ‘Let’s go sail!’

  Mic pulled the head down, and the sails filled. We made several runs at the start line for Mic to get the feel. She seemed particularly aggressive as we tried each end. God help Young Tom, I thought.

  The ten-minute gun fired, and we soared up and down the line, clearing the start box and turning back as the five-minute gun sounded.

  Tom looked over his shoulder to find Erewhon in position. As he spun his wheel to break free, Mic wouldn’t let go, so he broke tacks and ran to the less-favoured pin end. Mic hardened in on the start-boat end, and Erewhon was at full speed on starboard.

  The two yachts pounded towards the coast into the sou’wester, with Erewhon clearly in the lead. We were sailing with our cutter rig and able to keep the opposition under control. The wind moved to the south and improved our position to give us a five-boat-length advantage at the first mark. The wind-shift made the second leg too tight for the reacher, so we cracked the sheets and set the flying jib. Spray flew as the speedo needle climbed. Shamrock rounded the mark, set the reacher, and ran well down to leeward. They sailed through our lee, got to clear air off our port bow, downed their extra, and hardened on. We had the faster angle and edged in front. Mic aimed Erewhon straight at the pin and screamed for absolute concentration.

  The mark couldn’t come fast enough as Dad moved to the stern to check on the overlap. Tom’s bowman moved ahead of their forestay and screamed overlap, but Dad wasn’t listening and bellowed to Mic to hold her course. She didn’t need to be to
ld twice and, despite their protests, held her ground.

  Tom, determined not to let Mic gain the upper hand, hardened up in an effort to touch our stern. Shamrock VI‘s spearpoint carbon-fibre bow whistled past Erewhon’s pohutukawa stern-rail.

  ‘See!’ yelled Dad. ‘No overlap—you missed by a good six inches!’

  Tom’s bowman’s head dropped as he stepped back behind the forestay and Mic swung the wheel to gybe around the mark.

  Tom followed around, but didn’t gybe, preferring to get well clear of us.

  Mic gybed back to keep the pressure on, and the spinnaker pole rocketed across the deck, then she ran again under Tom’s lee, forcing him to alter course, before we gybed back to speed down the track.

  Tom opted for a flatter, more direct course, while we gybed back and forth, keeping the boat speed up on the faster line. He decided to take us on in a gybing duel, but with our better manoeuvrability and Paint’s secret weapon, we started to move ahead, so they reverted to their original course. I looked at Mic. Tom could have had twice our boat speed today and he still wouldn’t have passed us.

  The leeward mark loomed. Tom could find no way around us, and we rounded first again, to cheers from the watching fleet.

  The wind had increased and was moving more to the east as I checked Bob’s board for the position of the windward pin. ‘One-hundred-and-eighty,’ I called, as I aimed Mic in the direction of the Rangitoto shoreline. Erewhon enjoyed the increasing wind strength, and with Dad’s calls and Mic’s determination we had no trouble staying between Shamrock VI and the windward mark. ‘God, I love this yacht!’ I said out loud, as we crashed on towards the rugged Rangitoto shore.

  The Irishmen threw everything at us, but we wouldn’t give way. My heart was beating harder as we neared the coast and the wind started to fade. The two giant yachts ghosted to a near standstill, and Shamrock VI closed right up on our stern.

  I dived below to check the weather report on the radio, and they were still predicting the wind to go around to the north later in the day. Shamrock VI picked up a little zephyr and ghosted through our lee as our crew watched in disbelief. I continued to scan the radio for information and eavesdropped on a fisherman reporting to his mate that they were heading back to Tryphena as it was blowing twenty knots from the northeast out there.