A Yacht Called Erewhon Read online

  On the fourth return, the crew held tight to the sheet as John reached over the side and grabbed Toby by the forearm. ‘Come on, sir, it’s no good. She’s gone. It’s been seven minutes.’

  Toby refused to stop. This time he went even deeper, but there was still no sign of his beloved Mercedes. As he reached the surface, the crew hauled on the sheet. John and Jed placed firm hands under his armpits and dragged him on board. Toby was too weak to resist and sat slumped on the deck, completely exhausted. The crew returned to the rail. All eyes were cast down in a desperate search for any sign of life. Minutes had passed when Jed spotted what looked like a lungful of air breaking the surface of the now oily-calm waters. He turned and walked away, as he knew what that meant. As he walked past Toby, he looked down at the distraught, slumped figure. ‘She’s gone, Mr Toby, she’s gone!’ he muttered, trying desperately to hold back the tears.

  Toby tried to rally the strength to try one more dive, but his arms and legs felt as if they had been nailed to the deck, and he couldn’t move. John approached him but found himself unable to speak. The crew sat around the deck, peering into the water for about an hour, without saying a word. The cove was completely silent, apart from the water lapping against the hull; even the normally raucous gulls didn’t utter a sound.

  Eventually, without a word, Toby went below, returning with a small buoy with a rope and lead weight attached. He walked to the stern and cast the float adrift, the lead descending to the ocean floor, securing it in position.

  ‘I’ll bring the Navy divers back to find her body,’ he reassured the crew. Without an order being given, Jed started the motor while the anchor was weighed, and Erewhon returned quietly to Auckland.

  Mac was in his living-room when Erewhon rounded North Head. It took him by surprise, as he had not been expecting the yacht for at least two weeks, and he wondered what Mercedes was up to. He thought they might have broken some gear, but when the crew dropped anchor in Judge’s Bay, he knew something was wrong. Grabbing the telescope, he watched the crew lower the dinghy over the side before Jed and Toby got in. He ran the telescope over the rest of the hull, but everything looked in order.

  Mac’s heart sank as the two sailors stepped ashore. He grabbed his cane and rushed off down the path. The two men met him halfway and, as Mac looked at Toby, he broke down.

  Mac didn’t need them to tell him that his worst nightmare had just come true. Toby tried to speak, but couldn’t utter a word. Jed, who was following, tried to help, but all he could muster was, ‘She’s gone, Mr McAlister, she’s gone.’

  Mac tried to maintain a stiff upper lip, but even he couldn’t hold back the tears. As he turned back towards the house, he stumbled. Toby and Jed lunged forward and grabbed him as he fell, and the two men half-carried, half-dragged the distraught old man up the path. Try as they might, Mac could not be consoled, so Toby took it upon himself to call a doctor, who duly arrived and, after consultation, sedated the grieving father.

  Weeks were to pass before Mac was remotely approachable. In that time, he consumed a case of Scotch and ate nothing. Toby remained with him for the duration, leaving his side only to organise the Navy dive team to search for Mercedes’ body. He wanted desperately to go with them, but when Jed offered to lead the party he accepted, knowing that he would be better employed supporting the old man.

  The divers soon found the marker buoy but, despite their best endeavours, found no sign of Mercedes.

  As the days went by, Mac ordered that Erewhon be slipped. Toby tried to convince him that the project should continue, as a memorial to his daughter, but he would not be swayed. He told Toby he had dreamt that Mercedes had come to him to tell him she was living on board Erewhon, and he wanted to keep the yacht safe for her. Toby took this to be the ramblings of a drunken, broken-hearted old man, but didn’t have the heart to argue. Erewhon was pulled out onto the hard ground at Okahu Bay.

  Mac grew more introverted: his butler was his only contact with the outside world. Toby tried to keep in touch, but Mac rejected him as well, and in the end he gave up.

  Mac never recovered from the tragedy, and in 1947 he died in his sleep. As he had no living relatives, his fortune was donated to charity, with the exception of a sum of money set aside in a trust for Erewhon’s slip fees and maintenance. Even on his death bed, he still believed adamantly that his beloved daughter was on board the yacht.

  Ten years went by and, with increases in fees and maintenance costs, the sum of money dwindled. By 1957 the trustees were left with little alternative but to start discussions on the sale of the vessel.

  As the lawyer for the trust was going through the papers in Erewhon’s file, he came across the blank cheque with the note from Buffalo Smith. He decided to write to Buffalo’s last-known address. To his surprise, he received a reply from Buffalo’s son a month later, expressing interest in the yacht his father had always talked about. Buffalo had been killed while sailing offshore, and his son was looking at buying Erewhon as a memorial to his late father. It would be set up as a sail-training vessel for the children of Australia.

  The lawyer considered it unlikely that anything similar would happen in New Zealand in the foreseeable future, and decided that Mac would probably have approved. He convinced the trustees to start negotiations.

  Buffalo’s son was a chip off the old block, and in a typically straight-shooting letter told the lawyer that he had no intention of negotiating for the yacht. The original agreement was that the cheque be filled in for the amount required, and that would be honoured.

  It was decided that proceeds from the sale would be held and the terms of the trust deed redefined. The money would be made available for a sail-training school in Auckland.

  Having no idea of the value of Erewhon, the trustees got in touch with the commodore of the yacht squadron. He, in turn, solicited Toby’s assistance, as he knew of his connection with the yacht.

  Toby, who hadn’t been near Erewhon since the day she had been slipped, was appalled at the state of the grand old lady. Although still an object of beauty and awe, the ravages of time, wind and sun had taken their toll on the land-based hull. The trust had appointed a maintenance company to look after the yacht, but, because they had struggled to keep up the varnished hull, they had decided to paint it white to reflect the heat. The elements had further left their mark, and she was in a very sorry state.

  Toby was duly appointed a trustee to oversee the sale of the yacht and pondered long and hard. In the end, he filled the cheque in for £200,000. He knew Mercedes would have been heartbroken at that price, but in fairness to Buffalo Junior and bearing in mind the amount of money he would need to spend to restore Erewhon, Toby was relieved to see the end of the sorry saga.

  Buffalo’s son, Billy, on becoming the proud owner of the yacht, got in touch with Jack, through Toby, to make Erewhon seaworthy so he could sail her across the Tasman.

  Jack, now close to retirement, was even more apprehensive about Erewhon taking on blue water, and tried to convince Billy to ship her home. But, after several letters back and forth across the Tasman, he agreed to make her fit for the trip.

  Erewhon was refloated, and to nobody’s surprise the hull leaked like a sieve. Years of being high and dry had opened her up, and it took a week of soaking and pumping for the timbers to take up. At this point, the Marine Department became interested and laid down strict guidelines on what was required before she left port. Compliance took time, and it was late in 1960 before Erewhon cast her shackles from the dock. Despite her shabby appearance, the yachting fraternity lined the waterfront to watch the grand old lady slip quietly down-harbour and around North Head for the last time.

  Billy had a delivery crew of six, and some of those who watched were uneasy, wondering if that would be enough for the yacht’s safety. Jack said that more crew were needed, but the Aussies were confident. The weather forecast warned of an impending storm from the south, its likely path up the coast. Billy laughed. He’d seen the forecas
t, too, and was sure they’d be around North Cape and well out into the Tasman before the storm passed under their stern. He could see no sense in delaying their start if they could outrun the wind, and bid Jack and New Zealand farewell.

  The storm’s progress up the coast was far more rapid than predicted, and a ponderous Erewhon, under storm rig, couldn’t outrun it. The six crew struggled valiantly with the huge sails but had nowhere near enough strength to control the yacht, so they hove to under the lee of the cliffs on the southern shore at the mouth of the Waiora River.

  The seaway was massive, and the huge sails flogged violently as they rounded the south headland into the mouth of the river. The yacht was out of control as the crew fought on, and only stopped when, with a sickening crunch, the keel bit into an unmarked reef, ripping off the hull. The men were thrown into the water, and all six perished in the foaming cauldron, their bodies later washed up on the beach at the north side of the river mouth.

  Billy, who had been at the helm, managed to stay with the yacht by hanging onto the huge steering wheel as the keel-less hulk rolled onto her side. The huge yacht never went completely upside down, as the mast prevented that by digging into the sand.

  As the storm continued to lash the semi-submerged hulk, the mast finally snapped, punching a hole in the side of the hull. Fortunately, by this time, the hull had been driven up onto the northern side of the river mouth and was left there as the storm abated. Billy managed to scramble ashore, where he collapsed from exhaustion and was found two days later by a couple of young Maori boys who had ventured down to the river mouth to see what had been washed up in the storm.

  To their surprise, they found Billy in a state of delirium, trying to dig graves for his six dead companions, so they took him back to the marae.

  It took the kaumatua three days to settle Billy down enough to find out that he was the owner of Erewhon, and had been taking her back to Australia. The six men, later buried in unmarked graves by the river, were the sum total of the crew.

  When asked what he was going to do with the hulk, he threw his hands up in the air and said that if the iwi wanted it, it was theirs.

  The kaumatua graciously accepted the gift, but their tohunga immediately placed a tapu on it, out of respect for the sailors who had lost their lives. The kaumatua organised for the hull to be pulled up off the beach and stored until the tapu was lifted.

  Having been embroiled for some time in a land dispute with the Government, the tribe was in no mood to let the authorities know about their windfall. When Billy disappeared one morning and was never heard from again, they decided to plant a screen of trees between the hull and the shoreline to divert prying eyes.

  Some weeks later, Erewhon’s broken mast and sails were washed ashore at Spirits Bay. On inspection of the remains, it was assumed that she had been lost at sea with all hands. The iwi had no inclination to ruin a good story, and went about their business.

  6

  Dad sat up in his recliner, his part of the story now complete. He looked at Mic. ‘There’s a bit more to the story,’ she said, looking at the glowing embers.

  ‘Now how did I guess that?’ Dad replied, throwing on another log.

  Mic took a sip of her nearly empty glass. Dad reached over and topped it up.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Your story was very accurate, except for one thing.’

  Dad nodded.

  ‘Mercedes survived. The story given to me by my grandfather, Rei, was different. Nana wasn’t sure what happened, because she had blacked out, but it seems that when the weighted rope hit the bottom, the tension came off her leg and she floated free. If it hadn’t been for the strong current, she would have floated straight to the surface and into the arms of Toby, but the underwater rip-tide dragged her out into the bay and around the point.’

  Unaware that Erewhon was in the next bay, Rei was out in his punt, retrieving his long-line. He was in his mid-twenties, working on Great Barrier Island with a logging team who had felled the last of the giant kauri. Offside with the law and his own whanau, Rei was in no hurry to return to the mainland when the logging team pulled out. He remained in one of the huts they had built. He’d been on his own for some time, living off the land and the kai moana.

  That morning, as Rei hauled on his line, the peace was broken by a sound he knew only too well. Without even looking, he called over his shoulder, ‘Get your own bloody fish, you lazy bugger!’ The jabbering came from Tangle, a dolphin that had befriended him after he had untangled it from the remains of a fishing line some months before. Tangle always came around when Rei was pulling in the long-line. Even though he knew Tangle could catch his own meals, Rei enjoyed his company and always gave him a fish.

  That morning Tangle seemed more boisterous than usual. When Rei finally turned around to see what all the noise was about, he noticed the dolphin was pushing what looked like a pile of seaweed. ‘What the hell you got there, eh fella?’ he called, as Tangle nudged the mass closer. When a hand broke the surface of the water, Rei’s heart jumped a couple of beats.

  He reached out, grasped the limp arm, and dragged a woman over the side of the punt, laying her on the floorboards. Tangle did a tail-dance into the bay and disappeared out to sea.

  Rei’s mind was racing. What was he going to do? He was in enough trouble with the law already. He couldn’t take this person to anyone who might help. He grabbed her cold arm and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He pressed his ear to her chest. Still nothing. By her body temperature he knew she must have been in the water a while, but not long enough for him to believe she was past help. He stretched her out and began artificial respiration. It was the only class at school he’d bothered to pay attention to, and at that moment he was glad he’d listened.

  Rei pumped hard at Mercedes’ chest, but there was no sign of life. ‘Breathe, damn you, breathe!’ he yelled. He thrust his ear to her chest again. He listened hard. He thought he could detect the faintest of thumps. He resumed pumping at her chest. ‘Breathe, for God’s sake!’ he screamed. Mercedes’ lips suddenly turned white, and on Rei’s next pump she fountained a lungful of water up into the air. She started to cough and vomited up more water. Rei let out a whoop and dived forward. He grabbed some sacks and propped her up against the rear seat. Mercedes didn’t look well at all as he leaped into the centre seat and grabbed the oars. Rowing for his life, Rei willed the shore closer. He knew he had to get her somewhere where he could warm her blue body. The hut and the open fire were her only hope, and he pulled hard on the oars.

  Rei rowed the punt straight up onto the beach and leaped out. He reached back into the boat and scooped the limp body into his arms. Mercedes’ breathing was laboured and sporadic as he ran the short distance to his rough hut. Kicking the door open, he found the bed in the gloom and laid her down. He took two strides to the nearly dead open fire and threw on some logs. It wasn’t cold, but he knew that if he didn’t get her body temperature up she would die.

  Next, he needed to get her out of her wet clothes, so he hunted for something to dress her in, tipping his clothes sack on to the floor and grabbing an old bush shirt. She was shivering violently as he slipped the shirt over her head and rested her back on the rough bed.

  She continued to shiver. He’d seen this before when his mates had succumbed to hypothermia—or ‘the shivers’, as he knew it—and he knew that there was only one thing he could do. He rounded up as many blankets as he could, threw them on top of her and climbed in beside her.

  Four hours passed before colour returned to what Rei could now see was a beautiful young face. She’d stopped shivering, but remained unconscious, and he became increasingly concerned as he listened to her laboured breathing.

  He decided to watch her through the night, and if she hadn’t woken by morning he’d seek help from Gladys on the other side of the island.

  When morning broke, Rei hadn’t slept, keeping vigil all night. Mercedes’ temperature had risen to a point where she broke out into a sweat, but s
he was still unconscious and Rei knew he needed help urgently. Placing a cool, damp towel on her forehead, he bolted up the track in the direction of Gladys’s house.

  Gladys was the only person on the island with medical experience. She and her husband had retired to what they had hoped would be a quiet life. But life on the island was anything but quiet, as her nursing skills, learned on the front line during the First World War, were called upon regularly to patch up loggers and fishermen who’d sustained injuries as they tried to extract a living from a very unforgiving environment.

  Rei bashed his way along the narrow, dew-wet track. Gladys turned from her garden to see him approaching with a look of terror on his face. Despite his gasps, she gathered the gist of what Rei was saying and was soon off along the track with her medical kit in hand.

  Back at the hut, she ran her trained eyes over the feverish young woman and knew that she had to get her temperature down. She barked instructions at Rei, as she worked with her meagre medical supplies. He was sent out into the bush to gather certain roots and herbs from which she mixed up potions in a frenzied battle to save the young woman. Fortyeight hours passed before they could relax. Mercedes was still unconscious, but was breathing more freely.

  Rei, who by now hadn’t slept for three days, crashed on one of the other beds while Gladys remained on vigil. He eventually awoke to find the young woman propped up and sipping water from his old tin mug.