A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 16

  ‘I must say it’d be easy to get lost here. She’s the second most beautiful yacht I’ve ever seen.’

  TJ looked shocked. ‘Whaddya mean, second most beautiful? You’d have to go a long way to find anything as beautiful as Valhalla!’

  I quickly qualified my statement. ‘She’s the most beautiful yacht afloat,’ I conceded, ‘but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, there’s another J-class that will be even more beautiful. You won’t have heard of her. Her name is Erewhon, she’s a wooden J, and my dad’s the new owner.’

  ‘A wooden J? This I’ll have to see. Most Js were built in steel, because they couldn’t build them light enough in timber.’

  ‘Well, Erewhon is all timber and she probably weighs less than Valhalla. Why don’t you come out and take a look? We’ve just turned her over after a major re-plank.’

  ‘I’d love to. When can I come?’

  ‘Whenever you like. Sam and I’ll be working on the new toe-rail on Monday.’

  Mic finished her drink and said, ‘Come on, Ben, it’s time we were going.’

  ‘You don’t need to go yet. The night’s still young, and we have a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘No, it’s time we went, but come out and see us on Monday.’

  ‘That’s a date!’ confirmed the giant.

  Back up on deck, I handed TJ one of my cards with our address on, and followed Mic up the ramp.

  Mic took hold of my arm as we walked back to the car. She was positively glowing. ‘You fancy him, don’t you?’ I said.

  ‘No, I don’t!’ she retorted. ‘TJ was an old sailing adversary of my ex’s. We just go back a long way.’

  I didn’t believe a word of it.

  Monday morning found Sam and me stripping off the remains of the toe-rail. There wasn’t much left in places, but we’d managed to get enough for a pattern, and Sam left me to finish the job while he sorted through the pohutukawa.

  I’d just finished, when a taxi pulled up outside the barn. The rear door swung open, and an unmistakable Texan drawl announced itself.

  ‘Where’s this god-damned tree-trunk you call a J?’ he boomed.

  A shadow entered the doorway, followed by two large cowboy boots, complete with spurs.

  ‘Morning, TJ!’ I called.

  I climbed down to find him introducing himself to Sam.

  ‘My, my,’ he said, as his eyes adjusted to the light and he turned to look at the hull. ‘Never seen a baby like this—she’s very beautiful.’

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘Yessir! If she holds together, with those lines she’ll be a flyer.’

  Sam, a little taken aback by the Texan’s brashness, took up the offensive. ‘She’ll be around a lot longer than that tin tub you sail!’

  ‘Ya reckon, old man?’

  ‘I bloody reckon!’ Sam snapped, as he went to find his pipe.

  TJ circled the hull. ‘She’s magnificent, but it looks like you’ve got a lot more work before you get her back in the water.’

  ‘We reckon another twelve months, and then she’ll be ready to race.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be up to that?’

  Sam reappeared, puffing on his pipe. ‘I know she will be. Erewhon has some unfinished business,’ he said, emphatically.

  ‘How’s that?’

  I joined in at that point. ‘Erewhon was built to challenge for the America’s Cup after Sir Thomas Lipton took it from you Yanks in Shamrock V, but two things upset that plan. Sir Thomas didn’t win, and the daughter of the original owner went missing, supposedly drowned, while the yacht was on a training run.’

  ‘What do you mean, supposedly drowned?’

  ‘That’s another story,’ I replied, with a wry smile.

  Sam puffed hard on his pipe as the Texan turned his attention back to the yacht. I took him on deck and inside the hull. He was in awe of the beautiful timber finish. ‘Is this the kayori timber I’ve heard so much about? I never believed it could be so beautiful.’

  ‘That’s what’s known as mottled kauri,’ I said pointing out the internal bulkheads, ‘and the topsides are heart kauri.’

  ‘Amazing timber, and such long lengths of planking. What’s the dark timber?’

  ‘Pohutukawa—that’s what we’re using for the new toe-rail, but it’ll be laminated.’

  ‘What’s the point of that if you’re going to cover it in paint?’

  ‘You don’t paint kauri!’ Sam butted in. ‘She’ll be completely varnished above the waterline.’

  TJ nodded. ‘Damn right.’

  Another, smaller, shadow appeared in the doorway. Mic was standing silently, listening as TJ completed his tour. As he rounded the bow, he caught a glimpse of her.

  ‘Morning, ma’am.’ Somehow he’d changed from brash Yank to smooth Texan charmer in a breath.

  ‘Good morning, TJ. I’m glad you made it.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure to visit such a beautiful young lady and such a magnificent craft as well.’

  ‘When you’re ready, Jenny has morning tea up at the house.’

  ‘I’m a starter,’ I replied, and Sam followed me out the door.

  Mic hung back as TJ pretended to be still looking at the hull. She moved closer, enjoying being near this colossus of a man. Gently, he drew her into his arms and kissed her softly. ‘Tell me, Mic, who’s the lucky man in your life now?’

  Mic blushed. ‘Nobody, only this beautiful yacht. Come on, your coffee will be getting cold,’ she continued, as she eased herself out of his arms and headed for the door.

  TJ took the hint: back off. He followed her quietly out the door. There would be plenty of time.

  ‘I did some research last night after you left,’ he said, as they walked up the path to the house.

  Mic interrupted him as they stepped onto the patio. ‘Jenny, this is TJ from Valhalla. TJ, this is Jenny. Her husband, Jim, is the owner of Erewhon.’

  ‘Why hello, Jenny,’ he drawled. ‘You and Mic must be half-sisters?’ he continued, as if trying to piece the puzzle together.

  Mum smiled. ‘Stop it, TJ. That’s all the flattery I can take for one morning. Mic is our dearest family friend, who happens to love Erewhon even more than we do.’

  ‘Yes, Erewhon,’ TJ said. ‘As I was telling Mic, I did some research after you left last night. I dug out Valhalla’s original log, because I remembered it had a section in the back recording all the known Js. An appendix mentioned a rumour circulating around the New York Yacht Club about a challenger coming from down under. They thought the challenge was from Australia and the challenger was made of timber. Everyone thought it would be impossible to build a competitive timber hull light enough to match the steel and bronze yachts in racing trim at that time. It seems the truth behind the rumour was here in New Zealand.’

  Mic smiled. ‘It just confirms that they never took my greatgrandfather’s challenge seriously.’

  TJ looked at Mic. ‘Your great-grandfather had something to do with Erewhon?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he had her commissioned.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll really sail her, or will she become another museum piece on the Viaduct Harbour?’ TJ asked.

  ‘Not only will she be in race trim, but she’s got some unfinished business. I intend to find Shamrock V’s present owners and challenge her on the original terms!’ Dad had slipped through the door. ‘While we wait for that, we’ll take on any other J that wants to race.’

  ‘That sounds like a challenge I might just be interested in. Do you think you could foot it with my boat?’ TJ asked.

  Dad stepped onto the patio and thrust out his hand. ‘Jim’s the name, and who might you be?’ he asked.

  Mic stood up. ‘Jim, this is my old friend TJ. He’s sailing master of Valhalla.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jim. She’s a mighty fine craft you have tucked away in your barn. I was just telling the folks how great it was to cast my eyes on the mythical wooden J from down under.’

>   ‘TJ has a report in Valhalla’s original log of a rumour about a Southern Hemisphere yacht, which fits Erewhon’s description, that was circulating at the time she was originally sailing,’ I explained, as Dad looked puzzled.

  ‘Yeah,’ TJ continued, ‘but nobody took it seriously. As Shamrock showed, wooden Js couldn’t compete with the lighter steel- or bronze-hulled yachts.’

  ‘Well, you’ve just seen one that can. I’m not going to tell you what she weighs, but let’s just say she is competitive,’ Dad replied smugly.

  ‘Do you think she’ll be back in the water by the time the next Cup comes around?’ TJ asked.

  ‘You can put money on that,’ Sam replied.

  ‘If your boys hold the Cup, my boss wants me to bring Valhalla back down here. He just loves the place, so I’ll tell him we’ve got a race!’

  ‘You’re on!’ Dad replied. ‘Where’s the coffee?’ Dad sat back in his chair. ‘A man could die of thirst around here!’

  Mum produced a mug and filled it, as Dad grabbed the last scone. ‘I’ve seen your tub tied up at the museum—she’s something special.’

  ‘I’ve been her master for ten years, and I still love being aboard,’ TJ replied. ‘Js are from another time, but they get into your blood.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Erewhon has been in my blood for a very long time, and all I want is to take her sailing.’

  Sam stood up. ‘Well, come on, lad,’ he announced, ‘we’ve got a race deadline to meet. Can’t sit around here jawing all day.’ We left the others talking and headed back to the barn. Sam’s pace had quickened, and he had a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘We’ve got to get Erewhon back afloat, so we can blow that loud-mouth Yank out of the water!’

  I smiled as I walked to the bench. Sam grabbed his pipe and, with a billow of smoke, we were back on the job. I watched him inspect the individual pieces of pohutukawa closely. ‘I’m looking to see if I can interweave the grain, lad,’ he replied, when I asked him what he was looking for. ‘I want to splice the timber along the natural lines, so nobody knows we’ve joined it. Just watch and you’ll learn.’

  He selected lengths of timber and carefully numbered them. Then we set about cutting and gluing the pieces together. This process took about a week for each side, but the effect was stunning. To the untrained eye, they looked like single pieces of timber. Dad came into the barn one afternoon as I was applying the sealer coat to the port rail. It glistened under the lights.

  ‘That’s bloody magnificent, Sam,’ he pronounced, as he patted him on the shoulder. ‘Absolutely bloody magnificent!’

  Unmoved, Sam lit up his pipe, the only clue to his satisfaction a glint in his eyes.

  ‘I reckon that job has earned a beer or two,’ Dad announced, as he headed for the door. ‘Go and get Millie, and I’ll put some steaks on the barbie. I’ve got some news.’

  When Millie and Sam arrived at the house, Dad sat Millie down and handed her a glass of sherry.

  ‘I’ve secured a new carbon-fibre mast,’ Dad said.

  ‘And how much did that cost?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Hepi got me the deal of a lifetime. He wouldn’t tell me the price, but he’s swapped it for some work on Terry Espie’s new factory. It’s not brand-new—it was a prototype for one of the America’s Cup syndicates—but it didn’t bend to their liking. Terry tells me he can extend the length for us. What we need now are some calculations on the changes we’ll need to make to the ballast with this new lightweight rig.’

  ‘Wish Jack was around to work all this out for us,’ Sam lamented.

  ‘I think I can find out for you,’ said Mic.

  ‘Where from?’ Sam looked dubious.

  ‘Just leave it to Mic,’ I said quickly. She’s got some good mates who know all about super-yachts.’

  ‘The other thing we need to think about is the new deck layout,’ Dad continued. ‘We want to be able to sail her with about twenty men, not the original thirty.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I’ll need to know that so I can strengthen the deck to carry the winches and grinders.’

  ‘Just leave it to me,’ said Mic. ‘I’ll get you all the information you need.’

  Next morning, Mic came into the barn with a roll of paper in her hand. ‘Morning, Sam,’ she chirped, as she ducked through the door.

  ‘Morning, lassie,’ he replied. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘The calculations and drawings for the deck strengthening and the layout you wanted.’

  ‘Blimey, that was quick,’ he replied.

  ‘We can’t let anything hold up progress on our Erewhon,’ she said, as she unrolled the plans.

  ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered. They look as if they’ve been taken off the original drawings,’ Sam noted, as he perused the blueprints. ‘Someone knows their stuff,’ he added, as he inspected the fine detail. He was about to say something more, when he stopped, gazing intently at the plan. ‘Where did these come from?’ he asked, jabbing his gnarled forefinger at the mark in the corner.

  Mic looked at Sam, explaining nothing.

  ‘That’s Jack’s mark!’ he continued, drumming at the Maltese cross symbol. ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘let’s just say she can make contacts that you and I can’t!’

  ‘But I swear these drawings look as if Jack himself did them!’

  ‘Let’s just say Erewhon has a guardian angel, and he’d dearly love to see his yacht back in the water,’ said Mic.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me Jack is Erewhon’s guardian angel?’

  Mic smiled.

  Sam turned back to the plans. ‘I’m too bloody old for all this mumbo-jumbo,’ he said, ‘but this detail is bloody good.’ He picked up the plans. ‘You don’t see blueprints like these any more, lad. Look at the detail.’

  By now, all the exterior woodwork, apart from the sanding and finishing, was done, so the arrival of the plans for the internal strengthening and structural work was timely. Work inside the hull wasn’t easy. While there was plenty of room below deck, with all the lights on it soon became really hot, though working with the beautiful timber panelling somehow had a calming effect on our overheated nerves.

  Each night, before we turned the lights off, Sam would sit for a few minutes, looking around. ‘I’ll die a happy man after this job,’ he would say. ‘Jack and I will have a few beers over this one.’

  Initially, I didn’t take much notice when he said this, but as the job neared completion it seemed to come up more often. I mentioned it to Mum one night and found she’d noticed a change in Sam’s demeanour as well.

  Dad, in his usual kick-arse style, decided that the best cure was to make sure Sam knew he had work to go on with after Erewhon was finished.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Jim,’ Mum cautioned. ‘It’s not just about work—it’s more to do with passion. Sam probably sees his life as complete when Erewhon floats, and the best will in the world might not be able to change that. He’ll make his own mind up where he goes from here.’

  ‘We’re not going to let the old buzzard just curl up his toes, are we?’ Dad asked.

  ‘You may not get a choice, Jim.’

  Dad decided that the sealing and varnishing of the hull was beyond our capacity and called in the experts. North Epoxy Systems chief chemist, Stacey Barrett, arrived to supervise the final sanding of the now-clean hull, and Dad agreed to enclose it in a plastic tent for the varnishing.

  Sam and I were able to carry on with the finishing touches to the interior of the hull while the exterior was being prepared, but, the night before the spraying was to begin, Ken Black, the foreman painter, told us that the barn door would be locked and the area would be off-limits for a week. He had fifty coats of varnish to apply, and unless everyone had the right breathing gear, the fumes would be lethal.

  We took the hint and decided to have a few days off. I contacted TJ to see if the trip he’d offered on Valhalla was still a possibility. He agreed, but on three conditions. One was
that I bring some help, two that I bring Mic, and three that we make a week of it.

  I asked him what qualified as help, and he said that what he really needed was some hungry bodies to eat an over-supply of food. Valhalla’s owners and their friends had returned to America, and he had to deal with the leftovers. It would also be good if I could supply a couple of extra hands.

  ‘No problem!’ I told him.

  14

  We arrived at the Maritime Museum to find TJ waiting at the turnstile. As he shook our hands, he gave each of us a kit bag and ushered us into a side room. I opened my bag to find a complete Valhalla uniform. ‘Let me know if I’ve guessed your sizes wrong,’ he announced, as he shut the door behind him. The kits were complete, down to fresh sets of underwear. Mum, Millie and Mic hustled into a side room, giggling like excited schoolgirls, eager to try on the new gear.

  Dad, Matt, Sam and I delved into our kits and selected the gear we felt most comfortable with while we listened to the squeals of delight coming from next door. Mic was first back out through the door, resplendent in a tight navy T-shirt and white shorts, her dark hair secured in a pony-tail under a navy baseball cap. Mum and Millie followed, both in polo shirts. Mum wore shorts, and Millie, long white trousers. They both had caps on and looked wonderful. Sam’s mouth dropped open when he looked at Millie.

  ‘My God, girl, you’ve got pants on!’

  ‘Do you like them?’ she asked.

  ‘You look wonderful!’

  Millie beamed. ‘I must say you men all look rather dashing as well,’ she added, as she led the way down the jetty. TJ thrust out his giant hand again and welcomed everybody on board. We were all excited, but Millie flitted around the deck, running her hands over the polished brass. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she kept repeating.

  Valhalla had a permanent crew of ten, including two cooks, who were making the yacht ready. Like TJ, they were all dressed in versions of the same crew uniform.

  TJ ushered Dad, Mum, Sam and Millie into the cockpit and Mic to the starboard wheel. ‘Let’s get under way,’ he called to the crew. ‘Do you and Matt want to help?’ he asked. He attracted the attention of Bill, the forward hand. ‘Give these Kiwis something to do!’ he bellowed.