A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 5

  As Mac stepped forward, the Rear Admiral, who was one of the invited guests, signalled to two of the band, who, to the delight of the crowd, broke naval protocol to pipe him aboard. Mac, though a little embarrassed at being the centre of attention, acknowledged the tribute and waved to the crowd as he stepped aboard. The onlookers roared again, and a steady procession of well-wishers boarded the yacht to congratulate the pair. Mac had been on board about ten minutes when he started to notice the motion of the yacht. He mentioned to Mercedes that he was feeling a little queasy, within earshot of Jack, who laughed and reassured him Erewhon would be a lot less skittery when her ballast was in place.

  Mac was happy with Jack’s explanation but decided to step back onto the wharf, as he felt that in view of the occasion it would not be appropriate to revisit his breakfast. When the crowd eventually dispersed, the admiral’s barge came alongside to tow Erewhon across the harbour to King’s Wharf. Erewhon had her own auxiliary, but, as the men from Gray Marine had said they wanted to do some further testing, Erewhon made her first voyage courtesy of the Navy.

  Over the next week, the mast was stepped, ballast loaded, engine tested, sail wardrobe installed, and all the last-minute adjustments made before the sea trials could begin. Mercedes had no shortage of volunteers. With Toby’s aid, she selected thirty-five keen young men who were to become the backbone of Erewhon’s crew.

  Jack took on the role of sailing master, and all was ready as Mac sauntered along King’s Wharf. As soon as Mac was on board, the crew cast off. To everyone’s surprise, the moment the shore lines were released Mac started to look green, and before long he was prostrate on the counter-stern leaving his breakfast over the stern rail. This brought peals of laughter, but Mac couldn’t find any humour in the situation. The sea trial went ahead, and despite his enthusiasm for the yacht’s performance, Mac’s condition didn’t improve. Much to everyone else’s disappointment, the yacht returned to dock early.

  Mercedes, Jack and Toby were ecstatic about Erewhon’s power and, once he had his feet back on the dock, Mac shared their excitement. Sea trials and fine-tuning continued for the next few weeks, and any of the running gear that didn’t come up to standard was altered or replaced.

  Each time the yacht left its mooring at St Mary’s Bay, Mac would be on board, but only as far as Orakei Wharf, where he would be put ashore. Mercedes, Jack and Toby would carry on with the day’s sailing. Despite trying every remedy known, Mac simply couldn’t find his sea legs. He’d travelled the world on steamers, sailed on the lochs in Scotland as a boy and, since arriving in Auckland, had crossed the harbour on the ferry at least twice a week, but had never felt the slightest bit squeamish. Despite all the pills and potions, nothing could get his stomach to settle when he placed a foot on board his beloved yacht. In desperation, Mac wrote to his old friend, Sir Tom. Tongue in cheek, Tom could only suggest that Mac change his brand of tea. He reminded Mac that the wager was still on, once he had wrested the Auld Mug back off those bloody colonials.

  Sir Tom’s letter made Mac even more determined to overcome his problem and, as Christmas was approaching, he decided that Mercedes, Toby and the crew should sail the yacht to the Bay of Islands. He’d meet them there and try his sea legs out in the sheltered waters.

  The arrangements were made, and Erewhon was entered in the Squadron’s race to Russell. It was Erewhon’s first official race, and the yachting fraternity soon had a book running on the time it would take for the yacht to cover the distance and the lead it would have over its nearest rival.

  The jaunt to the Bay of Islands, while being a great success for everybody else, did nothing to improve Mac’s comfort level. He even tried cold-turkey and insisted on being on board for the trip back down the coast, but it didn’t work.

  Finally, Mac resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t cut out for this sailing lark. He handed the reins over completely to Mercedes. His only problem was the wager with Sir Tom. To keep his end of the bargain, he wrote to suggest that Mercedes be allowed to sail the craft when the time came.

  Sir Tom, a little nonplussed about the thought of racing a woman in an event that involved such a large wager, wrote back to call the deal off. When Mac received the note, he promptly replied that a deal was a deal and he would up the ante if Sir Tom was running scared.

  Mercedes was visibly upset by Lipton’s effrontery, but decided to sail against another J skipper to prove her ability to the yachting world.

  The search began to find suitable opposition, but the nearest J was a yacht called Jabberwocky, which sailed on Sydney Harbour. Jabberwocky was, in fact, a sister ship of Lipton’s Shamrock IV, which had been fitted with a new Bermuda rig so that it could be raced in J-class events on the East Coast of America. Her owner, Buffalo Smith, a self-made millionaire, had made his fortune in the gold-fields of South Australia. He’d always fancied himself as a yachtsman, and didn’t mind spending a large part of his earnings on having a crack at the toffee-nosed boys who sailed out of Rhode Island.

  Buffalo wasn’t a complete novice at the helm and, before purchasing Jabberwocky, had stamped his mark in smaller yachts. His campaign, like Erewhon’s, was hindered by the lack of competition, as he too left all comers way behind on Sydney Harbour. When the news of Erewhon’s launch filtered through to Australia, Buffalo quickly dispatched a letter to Mac, challenging him to a series of races over an America’s Cup-type course at a location of his choice. Mercedes was ecstatic—at last, a decent race for Erewhon—and, under extreme pressure from his daughter, Mac replied with tentative arrangements.

  Buffalo Smith had made arrangements for Jabberwocky to be shipped to the East Coast of America, and was booked to sail from Sydney to Auckland and then on to Fort Lauderdale via Panama. He kept the booking for the Auckland–Panama leg, but opted to leave early to sail Jabberwocky across the Tasman for the match with Erewhon. As was the norm in that era, Jabberwocky was fitted with a special set of heavy-weather sails and a shortened rig for the ocean sortie, and her appearance in the Waitemata Harbour was less than flattering. The crossing had taken its toll, but Buffalo and his crew set about re-rigging the yacht back to her best. The original mast, which had been shipped ahead, was reinstalled, the sail wardrobe was refitted and, after a few days of sea trials, the two yachts were introduced.

  While the refit had been going on, Buffalo took time out to introduce himself to Mac and the sheila he was supposed to be sailing against. On meeting Mercedes, he made it known that he’d crossed the Tasman for a proper race. Judging by his comment, she knew he didn’t consider her a serious threat. Politely, she informed the obnoxious Australian that she would stand aside in Toby’s favour if she didn’t win the first race. Mercedes’ dander was up and, so far as she was concerned, hell would freeze over before she’d let that buffoon beat her to the finish line.

  Mac added fuel to the fire by suggesting a wager on the outcome of the three-race series. To simulate America’s Cup races, Mac and Buffalo agreed to a windward-leeward course, similar to the Long Island event, to be held in the Hauraki Gulf. Then, to mirror the original Round the Isle of Wight course, a race around Great Barrier Island, starting and finishing at Orakei Wharf, would complete the event.

  The wager was put in place, too, with the loser to present a gold cup to the winner. Both men shook hands.

  The two yachts stood proudly alongside each other at King’s Wharf, the iron gate flung wide open to the enthusiastic crowd, permitting them to look close-up at the sleek racing machines.

  The crews pushed their way down the wharf and climbed on board to make ready. Mercedes and Toby arrived in the blue Bugatti, and the crowd parted as they walked hand-in-hand to Erewhon. As Mercedes boarded, three cheers went up, and her heart pounded even harder. Buffalo arrived with his tactician, and the crowd courteously made a path for them, though he had to endure their partisan jibes.

  Jabberwocky’s pristine white hull was reflected in the inkblue water, and she looked every bit a racing thoroughbr
ed, with varnished decks and polished brass fittings gleaming in the morning sun.

  Buffalo took the beating badly as Erewhon swept the series three–nil, but consoled himself with the fact that Erewhon was longer and carried more sail. A man of his word, he kept his part of the wager by presenting Mercedes with a gold cup, inscribed The Mercedes McAlister Challenge Cup, at a function in the new clubhouse. Mercedes was absolutely delighted with the result. She accepted the trophy and re-presented it to the club as the prize for challenge races between Australian and New Zealand J-class yachts.

  As the evening went on, Buffalo handed Mac an envelope. ‘I would like you to consider this,’ he said. Without another word, he turned on his heels and joined the rest of his crew at the bar.

  Mac, somewhat bemused by these strange antics, found a quiet corner and opened the envelope. Inside, he found a signed blank cheque and a note requesting first option on Erewhon, should she ever come up for sale. He returned the cheque to the envelope and, in his usual business-like manner, quietly walked over to Buffalo and slipped the package into his top pocket.

  ‘Thank you, old man,’ he whispered, ‘but she’s not for sale!’

  ‘Keep it as a memento, then,’ answered Buffalo, handing it back. Mac grunted, and shoved it away out of sight.

  ‘The Mercedes McAlister Cup was never raced for again,’ Dad said, as he looked around his audience. Mum and Matt were curled up on their sun-loungers, fast asleep. He looked at me. ‘Bedtime? I’ll finish the story tomorrow night.’

  We threw a couple of blankets over Mum and Matt, sprayed them with insect repellent, and stoked the fire. I crashed into my bunk, and Dad headed for the comfort of the caravan.

  4

  The next morning, we chugged back through the bush on Aggie, planning to lift the hull onto bogies. Matt and Dad stripped the lean-to doorway away while I edged Aggie around the hull, clearing back years of built-up undergrowth. Lifting the bow was the first challenge. I edged Aggie’s bucket up just inches short of it, angled the scoop down, and took a bite. As I hauled back on the lever, the hull lurched but sank to the ground again. The kauri toe-rails disintegrated—years of sitting on the wet ground had taken their toll, and a quick check around the gunwale confirmed that the damage wasn’t confined to the bow.

  Dad was upset, but I wasn’t ready to give up. I backed Aggie a few feet and drove the bucket deep into the ground under the bow.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he yelled above the roar of the engine.

  ‘I’m going to undermine the bow and see how far that rot goes!’

  I flung Aggie’s throttle full open. Within minutes, there was a trench under the bow. I backed the machine off, calling to the others. Then I dived into the trench and, on my hands and knees, got right under the bow. Dad rolled in alongside me, with a small jemmy in one hand and a torch in the other. As we looked up at the hull, Dad stabbed at the timber, scratching off the dirt and rubbish clinging to the deck—and struck solid resistance. The toe-rails were gone, but as Dad thrashed around with the bar he started to smile again. The teak decking was as solid as the day it was fitted. He climbed out of the trench and gave the hull a good thump below the deck line, the jemmy’s ring giving him the answer he was looking for.

  ‘It’s only the toe-rails, Ben!’ he yelled. ‘She’s OK from the deck up. We’ll just have to be very careful how we lift her!’

  While Dad and Matt prepared the first bogie to go underneath, I repositioned Aggie close to the bow, placing dunnage blocks on the lip of the bucket so we were able to lift on the solid deck timber and not the rotten toe-rails.

  Everything was ready. I cranked Aggie’s throttle wide open and pulled hard on the bucket lever. The engine roared and the hull groaned, but I only managed to raise the hull an inch. I pulled even harder on the throttle and the bucket lever, but Erewhon didn’t budge. Dad leaped up on the track beside me. ‘Give me a bloody go!’ he hollered.

  I knew it wasn’t time to argue and jumped out of the seat. Dad took up the position and flattened the bucket back down, raising the heel off the ground. ‘Block the back of the bucket!’ he yelled over the pulsing of Aggie’s exhaust. Matt and I swung into action with two large blocks of timber either side. Dad threw the throttle wide open again and hauled back on the tilt. As the hull started to rise, he eased the clutch out, and in a rolling lifting motion the giant hull moved skyward. Erewhon was now about a foot off the ground, and Matt and I rolled blocks under the deck to support it. As Dad continued to scream orders above the roar of the engine, we repeated the operation several times, and each time we gained a little more height until we had enough space under the bow to slip the bogie in.

  Aggie’s engine returned to idle as Dad jumped down from the tracks. ‘Silly old bastard’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve!’ he chortled.

  I looked at Matt and laughed. ‘Not bad for an office wallah,’ I conceded.

  ‘Fill that bloody hole you dug under the bow, and make sure you pack it down tight!’ Dad barked.

  The stern section was even heavier than the bow, and we could only manage to raise the hull six inches. Slowly, Erewhon lifted clear of the undergrowth, and the higher we lifted the sleeping giant the more she groaned. ‘The old lady doesn’t like being disturbed,’ said Dad, as we finally positioned the two bogies either side of the hull and lowered the yacht onto the waiting carriages.

  ‘I don’t think I’d be too keen to move after thirty-odd years,’ I said.

  ‘Must be lunchtime!’ announced Dad, as he leaped up on the counterweight. Matt was half a step behind, and I swung Aggie in the direction of the base camp. As we approached the caravan, I saw Mum lying in the hammock.

  I slewed Aggie around and jumped down from the machine. ‘What’s for lunch?’ I shouted, drawn by the aroma.

  ‘Oyster soup and some fresh bread,’ Mum replied nonchalantly.

  ‘I suppose the oysters turned up like yesterday’s crayfish,’ smirked Dad.

  ‘As a matter of fact, they did!’ retorted Mum. ‘Mic brought them over for your lunch because she thinks you’re all working so hard.’

  ‘Where is she then? Why haven’t we seen her?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Oh, she’s a bit wary of men at the moment.’

  ‘Let’s eat!’

  ‘It’s in the pot, and the bread’s in the maker, so help yourselves!’

  Mum returned to her hammock.

  The oyster soup and fresh bread were delicious. When we’d eaten our fill, I cleared the dishes while Matt and Dad wandered down to the beach. I drifted over to where Mum was resting. She dropped her magazine onto the ground below her as I pulled a deck chair alongside.

  ‘You look deep in thought,’ she said, sitting up.

  ‘I reckon your friend who keeps giving us lunch is the same person I’ve seen over by the yacht. Every time I try to get near her, she disappears. What’s her connection to Erewhon?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she’s very interested in what you’re doing over there.’

  ‘What did you say her name is?’

  ‘She calls herself Mic.’

  Dad and Matt hadn’t returned, so Mum and I decided to walk over to the yacht, so she could see what we’d done. As we neared the clearing around Erewhon, I saw Mic by the bow resting in the sun, dressed only in her black bikini bottom. Mum grabbed my arm, beckoning me behind a tree. I dropped back, and Mum walked casually up to Mic, who was initially startled but relaxed when she saw who it was. I stayed in the shadows as they chatted. At Mum’s signal, I walked out towards them. Mum handed Mic the white towel, and Mic quickly drew it around her exposed breasts.

  ‘This is my second son, Ben,’ Mum announced. ‘Ben, say hello to Mic…Ben!’

  I’d never seen such haunting brown eyes—and I was stunned. Finally, I coaxed my jaw into action. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hello’ came the amused reply.

  I had trouble getting my tongue to work. ‘Thanks for the oysters,’ I blurted out. ‘Mum made some fantasti
c soup.’

  ‘My pleasure’ was the reply. ‘Your mother tells me you’re here to take Erewhon home and restore her.’

  ‘It’s Dad’s dream, and I’m pretty much hooked into it, too. She’s such a beautiful yacht, and I know we can get her sailing again. I’ve been trying to catch up with you, but you’re pretty light on your feet.’

  ‘Just wary of strange men when I’m out here on my own. Not many people come here,’ she replied.

  ‘I can understand that,’ Mum said.

  ‘Do you know much about Erewhon?’ I asked.

  ‘A little,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you live around here?’ I asked.

  Without answering, she tightened the towel around her breasts, then called over her shoulder, ‘Sorry, I have to go.’ In the blink of an eye, she was gone.

  Why didn’t she want us to know where she lived? I was about to open my mouth when we heard voices. I turned to see Matt and Dad entering the clearing.

  ‘So this is where you two disappeared to—we’ve been looking all over,’ Dad bellowed. He was eager to get Erewhon on the move, so I offered to walk Mum back to the camp and get Aggie.

  ‘OK, Matt and I’ll attach a strop to the front bogie, and we’ll see if we can move this old lady when you get back.’

  Mum retired to her hammock as I kicked Aggie into life and spun her around. As I pounded down the track, I caught a glimpse of Mic through the trees. I slammed the throttle shut and pushed hard on the brakes. Aggie groaned to a halt.

  ‘Hey, Mic!’ I called. ‘Why did you run off?’ I asked.

  ‘Too many questions.’ Mic smiled and sat down on a log, her bronzed body shimmering in the filtered light.