‘Contracts are made to be broken. Go on, tell me where you learned this stuff.’
Paint looked sheepishly at Dad.
‘Paint worked for the Government for a while,’ Dad said, ‘and the mob he worked for produced parts for bridge construction.’
‘That fitting is the same as one we manufactured for a bridge down Clutha way,’ Paint continued, thankful Dad had got him out of a tight corner.
‘Looks bloody strong. What do you reckon, Bill?’ Terry asked his mate.
‘Bloody sight stronger than the ones we can buy,’ Bill replied. ‘Reckon you could make them for us?’
Paint didn’t know where to look.
‘We’ll work something out,’ Dad said. ‘Either Standish will open a marine fittings division, or we’ll fund you into your own shop, Paint, if that’s what you want.’
Paint said nothing.
Terry and Bill got on with fitting the spreaders, and I gave them a hand, eager to learn all I could about working on a carbon-fibre mast. Terry noticed me watching. ‘Trade secrets, lad. I don’t want to see Standish making masts next week.’
‘No fear of that,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got my hands full as boatmaster.’
Paint and Dad left, and I now had my car back. Terry continued to sing Paint’s praises as he examined the new vang.
‘What was he inside for?’ he asked.
‘Did time for murder, but how did you know he’d been in jail?’
‘It’s a sure bet, with that many bad tattoos. I’ve had a couple of employees who worked for the Government. With talent like his, it’d be a bloody waste to see him get into trouble again.’
‘Don’t worry. If Hepi and the old man can’t keep him straight, nobody can.’
Hepi arrived at the dock later that afternoon. ‘Just came down to see if she’s going to be ready to take the iwi out this weekend.’
‘Too right!’ I replied. ‘How many?’
‘’Bout fifty!’
‘Jeez, Hepi, that’s more than a boat full. We’d better make that two shifts, one on Saturday and one on Sunday.’
Hepi nodded.
‘Tell you what—why don’t we take half of them and sail up to Kawau on Saturday, have a barbecue on the beach through the night, and the other half can sail the yacht home on Sunday. The only problem will be getting the second crew to Kawau.’
‘Sounds a good scheme. Leave the transport problem to me,’ Hepi replied, as he walked off along the jetty.
T
he weekend came around quickly. Veronica—or Ronnie, as she liked to be known—and I arrived at the yacht to find the Saturday crew waiting at the security gate. She was keen to go sailing on
Erewhon
and had jumped at the chance. I was looking forward to getting to know her better, and it would be good to have another experienced hand on board.
Hepi had brought the iwi by bus, and when I opened the gate I nearly got killed in the rush, until a firm voice said, ‘Stop!’
The iwi halted in their tracks.
In a few short sharp words, Paint had everything under control.
‘The first thing I need to see before you get on board is a little respect.’ The group remained hushed. ‘We have a karakia to perform before you step off the dock. Now line up!’
They positioned themselves along the jetty as Ronnie and I stepped on board to find Mic already there. Paint blessed the yacht, and the iwi filed quietly on board.
Matt arrived with Mum, Dad and a couple of my mates, Jason and Derek, who would supply some experience to help sail the yacht. Mic took up her station at the helm as Matt and I made ready to cast off.
We motored out into the harbour. The guests were strangely silent as Paint slipped the gear lever into neutral and
Erewhon
glided to a halt. I called for hands to work the grinders and
twenty volunteered. I directed pairs to the winches and showed them what was required. The main was at the masthead in no time. Mic held the head to wind as the jib was unfurled, then gently pulled the bow downwind. She called for the main to be sheeted, and the whole group hushed as
Erewhon
heeled in the gentle morning breeze wafting in from the northeast. ‘Jib on!’ Mic called, and Matt egged the sheet grinders into action.
Paint silenced the engine and, apart from the usual creaks from the rig and the ensign flapping on the stern, there wasn’t another sound.
Erewhon
responded lazily in the gentle breeze, and we ghosted out into the channel. The tack at Bean Rock went without a hitch, and the crew began to chatter among themselves again. Mic called for a couple of tacks to make life more interesting for the eager hands, and as we moved out into the gulf the breeze filled in and
Erewhon
responded.
Tiritiri faded off the stern as one of Paint’s nephews came up and tapped me on the arm. ‘Can we put up the balloon, Mister?’ young Danny asked, politely. ‘The big balloon sail up the front that makes the boat go fast!’ The grin said it all.
I explained that the spinnaker could only be put up when the yacht was going in the other direction. Mic looked at me. ‘We’ll be at Kawau in no time. Why don’t we tack now and sail out around Sail Rock? We can run back down to Motuora with the spinnaker up and then back on the wind into Mansion House Bay.’
‘If the wind stays at this level, let’s give it a go.’
Mic yelled, ‘Ready about!’ and the young men jumped to their winches. The yacht changed direction, and we headed further out into the gulf.
Young Danny edged closer to Mic, and she beckoned him to stand between her and the wheel. The grin grew a mile wide as he placed his hand on the huge wheel. Mic quietly whispered into his ear, and when her hands came off the wheel
the others all roared with excitement. The huge grin masked the boy’s absolute concentration as Mic told him how to watch the sail.
Mic looked at me. ‘Do you think we can lay through to Sail Rock yet?’
‘We’ll go close so long as the wind doesn’t break the other way,’ I replied, as I checked our new heading.
She whispered into Danny’s ear. Danny looked up at her, ‘Now, Miss?’
Mic nodded. ‘Remember—big voice!’
He rose up on his toes and took a big breath. ‘Ready ‘bout!’ he yelled. The whole crew roared with laughter and placed their hands on their winches.
‘Helm over!’ he called and swung the wheel.
Erewhon
eased through the eye of the wind, and the giant boom swung over our heads.
‘Straighten up,’ Mic whispered to Danny, and he brought the helm back to the centre as the winches hummed and the sails were sheeted in.
‘Well done, Danny!’ she said as the speed returned.
Sail Rock passed under the stern as we squared away for the run back down to Motuora. Matt, Jason and Derek joined me on the foredeck to set the spinnaker. The young men, ever eager, ground the huge sail to the masthead, and the light breeze filled the sail as the spinnaker pole snapped into place. Mic pointed to where she wanted Danny to steer.
Erewhon
quickly covered the distance between the two points, and we had to drop the extra to come back on the wind for the leg to Mansion House Bay.
The wind from the northeast faded as we stood off the Coppermine and stowed the sails and gear. We glided into Mansion House Bay to meet the rest of the iwi.
Hepi had ferried over the other group earlier in the day, into
a private little cove where the young men had dug a hangi pit and scoured the shoreline for suitable rocks. The sea around Kawau Island had provided a bountiful harvest of crayfish, snapper, scallops and oysters.
Erewhon
’s anchor pierced the calm waters of the cove, and the chain rattled over the bow. Hepi’s flotilla of runabouts descended on
Erewhon
, as the Saturday crew transferred to the waiting boats. They babbled excitedly about their day’s sailing, and the others on the boats were equally excited about their day’s fishing and diving.
Mic, Ronnie and I stayed on board and squared the remaining gear away, while the others joined the festivities on shore. Food and drink flowed, and the music got louder.
A kaumatua made a speech, which Hepi translated in a hushed voice, and then the hangi was opened and the hot food lifted out.
Later, Ronnie and I stood at the water’s edge and looked out into the bay. ‘Doesn’t she look fantastic?’ she said, as
Erewhon
glistened in the moonlight.
It was a great night and, as morning broke, Ronnie and I found the dinghy and rowed out to
Erewhon.
The music was still going, but as we climbed into the cabin it became tolerable. We both curled up on my bed, and she drifted off to sleep in my arms. Mum and Dad had found the safe haven as well, and were fast asleep in the main cabin.
The peace was finally broken by a familiar bellow and a gentle thud on the outside of the hull.
‘Do you lot want lunch or what?’ Hepi yelled down the companionway.
‘Stuff Hepi!’ we all replied.
‘Come on, you lot. Grub’s up!’
As I poked my head out through the companionway, the sun was high overhead. I gazed, bleary-eyed, at my watch.
‘It’s nearly midday!’ boomed Hepi, from the waiting runabout, which he’d nosed in under the counter-stern.
‘What’s all the bloody commotion?’ Dad asked, as he followed me up the stairs.
‘Come on, Bollocks, the day’s half over!’
Dad’s head popped through the hatch. ‘Jeez, Fatman, can’t you sleep? What’s for lunch?’
‘Paint and the boys have rustled up a feed. Morning, Miss Jenny!’
Mum smiled as she joined us on deck. ‘Morning!’ she replied.
Mic had been sitting on deck, enjoying the sun, and Ronnie joined her, now dressed in a red bikini with a loose wrap around her waist. How could somebody look that good just after waking up?
Mic gave me a furtive wink of approval.
‘Come on, get on board! There’ll be no grub left if you don’t shake a leg,’ Hepi bellowed. Ronnie whipped her wrap off and tossed it to Mic as she stepped to the gunwale. ‘Race you to the shore!’ she yelled, looking at me as she dived. Luckily I had my speedos on under my shorts, and I dropped the extra clothing on the deck and went over the side. Ronnie had a ten-metre start as I dug hard into the water. The shoreline was looming as I drew level with her flaying feet. Ronnie was one stride ahead as we both stood up, then flopped down again, exhausted, in the warm shallow water. I reached out to congratulate her on the win, and she rolled up my arm and rested her head on my chest. We both lay there gasping as the waves washed over us.
Hepi ferried the others ashore, and Mic came over to us with two dry towels and Ronnie’s wrap draped over her shoulder.
The music was still playing, but sounded more subdued, as we walked over to the camp. Everybody was moving a lot
slower, but the banter continued. Matt, Derek and Jason were all in a very sorry state.
With lunch finished, Paint organised the clean-up and made sure nobody was going to slip out of his or her share of the work. Hepi organised the group to sail back on
Erewhon
, and checked that the others all got into runabouts. A few of the eager ones who had sailed up on Saturday managed to get back on board, including Danny. With the wind still out of the northeast, it was going to be a downwind slide all the way home.
Mic and I decided that, to give them a taste of real sailing, we’d tack out to Sail Rock before we turned for home.
The ride home was relaxing, if uneventful, and North Head approached quickly in the late afternoon sun. Danny helped Mic at the wheel all the way down the coast. Everything was squared away as we gybed into the harbour, where Danny swung the yacht head to wind and the mainsail rattled down the mast.
I was pleased to be able to note down in my diary the names of two young guys from the iwi who’d shown potential as crew members, and Dad made a promise to the iwi that we’d do it all again soon.
T
hat evening, we all sat around the pool after I had dropped Ronnie off at her flat. She wanted to write about the weekend while it was still fresh in her mind.
Mum refused to cook, so Dad had the barbecue cranked up, and a few sausages were developing a tan. Matt had been checking his e-mails and came out to the patio with some pieces of paper in his hand.
‘TJ’s on his way back down here with
Valhalla.
They’ve decided to do the refit earlier so as to be in time for the Antigua regatta next March. He’s asking me if we want an entry form faxed down.’
‘Too bloody right,’ Dad replied.
‘I’ll reply to him in the morning,’ Matt said, as he flipped over to the next page. He was quiet for a few seconds, but then became animated as he turned to the third page. ‘He’s sent us a copy of a newspaper article from a friend in Ireland. I’ll read it to you.’
The article was about Thomas O’Sullivan, a grand-nephew of Sir Thomas Lipton and CEO of an Irish telecommunications company. He was currently having the plans for Sir Tom’s never-built
Shamrock VI
redrawn, with a view to having her built to the original design using today’s technology. TJ’s e-mail went on to say that the clipping was a few weeks old and he’d since heard that planning was complete and Young Tom had given the go-ahead.
Dad grabbed the e-mails. ‘This is too good to be true.’ He reread the note. ‘Well, I’ll be!’ he exclaimed. ‘We need to get in contact with O’Sullivan and tell him about the connection with
Erewhon
and see if he’d be interested in a race,’ Dad continued. ‘We’ll do the match with
Valhalla
, then we’ll take on O’Sullivan’s new boat. When you stop to think about it, it’s highly likely that if Sir Thomas had won the cup in
Shamrock V
he would have had a new yacht for any challenges, and it would have been a version of this new yacht that
Erewhon
would have been racing.’
‘I’ll try and contact O’Sullivan,’ Matt said as he, too, was swept up in the enthusiasm.
‘We’ll need as much racing time as we can get in the meantime,’ Dad added. ‘In particular, match-racing. TJ won’t lie down for us, and if he’s coming here earlier, we’ve got no time to waste. Ben, we need a programme and a crew now!’
I nodded. ‘Mic and I’ve been working on it, but I’d like us to try the Squadron’s Wednesday Night Race this week.’
‘Can you scratch a crew together?’ Dad asked.
‘We only need fifteen, and I have them all lined up.’
‘Good, then we’re set for Wednesday!’ Dad confirmed. He rose from his chair and headed for the bedroom. ‘Come on, doll, I’m pooped.’
Mum followed, and Matt headed for his room, leaving Mic and me alone. ‘Want to go over that crew list?’ she asked.
We thrashed out the pros and cons of about thirty hopefuls. Paint was the obvious choice for motorman, but since we were eventually going offshore his criminal record could mean visa problems. But we’d worry about that later.
‘If you’re comfortable taking the helm, I see the old boy as tactician and back-up helmsman.’
‘Won’t he want to be master helmsman?’ Mic asked.
‘When it comes to racing, Dad’ll want to win, and he’s tone
deaf—so no sailing by the hum for him. The job is yours. I’ll be navigator. Putting us in the right part of the ocean is important enough for me. Matt seems pretty happy on the foredeck, as well, so he will be forward hand. That leaves two slots amidships, and I reckon Mum and Ronnie could be the trimmers, which would give us some chefs as well,’ I continued with a chuckle.
I spoke to Hepi the next day about the two iwi boys I had my eye on, and he told me they’d be at the dock on Wednesday morning.
I arrived at the dock early on Tuesday morning to find the security guards with two young Maori boys bailed up at the gate. ‘Caught these two trying to climb the fence,’ said one of the guards. ‘Reckon they’ve got jobs as crew on your boat.’
I smiled. ‘You two are keen. The race isn’t until tomorrow night.’
‘Just want to get the feel of the yacht, sir,’ Tane said.
‘Forget the “sir”. I’m Ben,’ I replied, as I thrust out my hand. ‘Welcome aboard!’
‘Thank you, sir, ah, Ben,’ they chorused.
Derek and Jason arrived soon after, and Mic appeared as well. All four were keen to join the crew.
‘
Erewhon
’s first race tomorrow night will be a soft start, but we still need to win,’ I said. ‘If we’re going to attract sponsors with deep pockets, we need to win most of the time. To do that, we need to be in top physical shape, and I’ve asked Ivan Jamison to help.’ Ivan was my old rowing coach and never took excuses, so they’d be fit by the time he finished. Derek and Jason nodded; they were part of my old rowing crew.
We worked out areas for each crew member to look after, and set up rules for maintenance and cleaning, and the boys got stuck in.
Ronnie stepped lightly onto the deck, and I followed her
below when she went to stow her gear. She turned and threw her arms around me when she thought nobody was watching, and I kissed her passionately as we sank down onto one of the couches in the saloon. We’d been entwined for some minutes before I noticed someone else in the saloon. Mic coughed as we both turned around.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Am I interrupting?’
As we sat around the table, Ronnie told us that her old boss had accepted her resignation and offered to take any stories she wrote on a freelance basis, which would suit Mum’s PR plans down to the ground.
On Wednesday morning an overcast sky hung low over the city. The wind was crisp and out of the south as I arrived at the Basin.
Erewhon
sat serenely at the jetty, under the drab sky, with the wind rushing noisily through her rig. I’d called the crew for an early start so we could get the yacht out and ensure everything was operational. We didn’t want any hiccups when we were at close quarters with the cream of Auckland’s harbour fleet.
The course for the night race involved a start at Orakei Wharf, with a run out of the harbour to A Buoy and then back into the harbour to the Barwell Buoy off Westhaven, and a run back to Orakei. A second lap completed the race.
We left the Basin early in the afternoon with a crew of fifteen, including Paint. ‘Thank God for winches,’ said Mic, as she cast her eyes over the Spartan team. We spent the afternoon manoeuvring around the harbour. The crew settled to their work as Mic called the shots and gradually worked out their roles.
Erewhon
tacked and bore away up and down the harbour. Derek, Jason, Tane and Mickey swung into their work, but
Mic’s punishing calls had them stretched. Matt and I dropped onto the winches to assist, and Paint joined the fray as well.
Ronnie and Mum craned their necks to watch the headsail setting, and Dad kept the mainsail under control, calling the shots to his grinders.
At 3:30 pm we eased the yacht into the wind near the harbour bridge, and the grinders flopped down on the deck, staring up at the sky beyond the top of the flogging main.
‘You lot had enough for the day?’ Dad asked.
I looked at the guys. ‘Reckon they might find some more energy if they had a cuppa and something to eat.’
‘I’ll put the billy on,’ Mum called, as she disappeared down the companionway, rubbing her stiff neck. Mic followed. They returned shortly with steaming mugs of tea and buttered sticky buns.
Ronnie sat quietly sipping her tea. ‘What do you reckon?’ I asked.
‘I think this is just wonderful,’ she replied, as she took another sip, ‘but I’d like to adjust the jib. I can’t get enough tension on the leech. We’re spilling air at the head of the sail.’
Mum came over and sat with us. ‘I heard that, and I agree. We’re losing drive in the top third of the sail.’
I smiled. ‘What are you going to do about it, Ms Trimmers? It’s your call!’
‘I’d like to move the fair-leads about 300 millimetres ahead,’ Ronnie replied.
Mum looked puzzled. ‘I think they should go forward about a foot,’ she said.
I laughed. ‘At least you both agree about the distance, even if Mum can’t get used to metrics!’
The grinders appeared to have recovered, and Ronnie and Mum finished making adjustments. With the outgoing tide, we were now standing off Devonport Wharf, and we could see the
first of the fleet grouping at the start line.
‘What do you lot reckon—are we up to it?’ Dad asked, as he looked at the competition.
Under main only, Mic pulled the bow down and squared away for the start line. ‘I’d like to do a couple of runs at the line to get some line-up points,’ she said to Dad as he positioned himself at her shoulder.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ he replied. ‘Break out the jib!’ he bellowed.
Erewhon
responded and blasted through the start line. Dad looked at his watch. ‘Three minutes twenty-seven from the Compass Dolphin buoy. Want to try it again?’
‘Yes!’ Mic called. ‘Ready to gybe!’
‘Gybe!’ Dad called, and the giant boom crashed over.
‘Ready about!’ Mic called, running towards the shoreline. ‘Lee-oh,’ she shouted as she spun the wheel. The winches sang as Paint leaped to Derek and Jason’s aid and cranked the handles.
Dad sucked hard through his teeth as
Erewhon
headed back out into deeper water. ‘Good job the tide’s in.’
Mic smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Jim, we’re not going to make fools of ourselves on our first outing!’
The ten-minute gun sounded, as the fleet hustled around the line. Nobody was going to give
Erewhon
an inch. The hotshots of the fleet creamed back and forth across the line, all desperate to get the upper hand. We held back at our line-up point, which must have puzzled a few. Some of the fleet knew Dad, and we could see them craning their necks, wondering what we were up to.
Matt and I had the wooled spinnaker hoisted and the pole in position, but because we were still head to wind and far enough
away, the rest of the fleet probably couldn’t see. The five-minute gun smoked, and we remained patiently at our station. The wind had stayed at the same strength but shifted slightly to the west, giving us a flat run on starboard to the line.
Mic smiled. ‘No problems with right of way!’
‘Four minutes!’ Dad called, and Mic eased the helm down.
Erewhon
gently responded as the main dropped over the port quarter and the sail filled.
Mic watched intently as we closed on our line-up point.
‘Three thirty,’ Dad called, his eyes firmly fixed on his watch.
‘Come on,’ Mic hissed, as she willed her to pick up speed and hit the line-up point on time. The rest of the fleet were still buzzing up and down the line in a flurry of activity, crews bounding around their decks and skippers picking their lines.
‘Three minutes!’ Dad called, as his gaze shifted from his forearm to Compass Dolphin buoy, which now stood off our beam. ‘You beaut!’ he said to Mic.
She didn’t acknowledge the praise. ‘Spinnaker on!’ she called, and the grinders flew into action. The huge sail cracked as it filled, and
Erewhon
leaped instantly onto a plane.
I stayed on the bow as she made ground towards the backmarkers. I didn’t know what I’d do if one of them got in the way. Mic looked for a gap as we closed in, but nothing was apparent. I was beginning to get edgy, but suddenly, as our wind-shadow spread, the spinnakers on the yachts ahead of us collapsed as they fell into the vacuum of our lee. Skippers dived in all directions to try and gain clear air, but Mic didn’t flinch, keeping
Erewhon
dead on course. A gap opened up.
‘Twenty seconds!’ Dad bellowed. ‘Ten, nine, eight,’ he continued.
Erewhon
was now at full speed, and Mic’s smile was growing wider. The gun fired as we drew within a boat-length of the line, and the fleet scattered in all directions, trying to fill
their sails. Those that had picked the opposite end of the line nearer the wharf were also at full speed.
Erewhon
jumped clear of the surrounding yachts, but a slight shift in the wind meant we were still on starboard, but on the point of a gybe. The other yachts nearer to the wharf were now on the port tack and steaming out at a better angle.
Mic looked at Dad for a sign. ‘Reckon we should go yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘If we hold our line, we could force them to tack back and run the gauntlet of Bastion Reef or alter course and gybe in behind us. Let’s test their nerve!’
Erewhon
bore down on the fleet, and Dad could see that Mic wasn’t about to concede. ‘We’ll gybe at Bean Rock,’ she called. Dad looked under the foot of the spinnaker. The other yachts were bunching up as they ran out of water, but Mic didn’t alter course. The tail-enders broke and tried to run under
Erewhon
’s stern, but with the wind at this strength and their spinnaker poles hard on the forestay, all hell broke loose. Yachts careered all over the harbour with spinnakers thrashing. Mic held her line and
Erewhon
creamed along.
Matt and I remained on the foredeck as the remaining two yachts looked as if they were going to try to squeeze between Bean Rock and us.
‘They want to play chicken!’ Mic said, looking at Dad.
Finally, the skippers got the message and squared their poles forward, and the inevitable carnage that had befallen the rest of the fleet had them careering around the harbour.
‘Ready to gybe,’ Mic called, calmly, and the giant boom swung over our heads. Matt and I switched the sheets on the spinnaker pole as it whistled from side to side and we sped off in the direction of A Buoy.
‘You beaut,’ Dad whispered to Mic, as he watched the chaos off the stern.
One by one, the fleet’s flyers got their billowing spinnakers under control and were now in hot pursuit. Mic looked over her shoulder to see the modern light-displacement rockets in their element. They were bringing a fresh breeze with them, and the gap was closing.
Mic looked at Dad, but he reassured her everything was OK. She turned back to watch the rapidly approaching mark.
‘Do it early,’ Dad called. ‘We need time to get squared away before we go back on the wind.’
Mic looked over her shoulder again. ‘They won’t go early!’ she cautioned.