I handed her the gun, ‘Now don’t miss any of the nipples, or she won’t start,’ I warned. She delicately placed the gun on the first nipple and gently squeezed the handle. ‘Give it heaps, or the sun will be down before we get her going.’
‘Good job I got you up early then,’ she replied, with a cheeky grin. She soon had the job done and handed the gun back to me, looking disdainfully at her now blackened hands.
‘Good. Get into the driver’s seat and crank the engine.’
Mic obliged and pressed the start button. Aggie roared into life, and she threw her into gear. Spinning on the spot, she didn’t wait for us to climb on, and was soon off down the track in Erewhon’s direction.
‘Reckon our little lady is in a hurry!’ Dad said, as we watched Aggie disappear.
By the time we reached the site, Matt had joined us. Mic had turned Aggie around and was hooking up the tow strop.
‘Come on, you lot, we haven’t got all day!’
‘Yes, boss!’ we yelled back, chuckling as we quickened our stride.
Now that Erewhon was past the ring of puriri trees, getting her the rest of the way to the water’s edge was relatively straightforward. We placed planks end-to-end under the bogies, Aggie took the strain, and with very little effort Erewhon was soon at the river, waiting for her ride home on a barge.
Dad beamed. ‘Stage one complete!’ he announced to the world.
That afternoon, we shifted all the spare planks to the foreshore in readiness for the loading, then I took Aggie back to the old site to clean up. Mic sat on a log watching as I restored order to the churned-up mess we’d made. Dad and Matt eased the windlasses on the tree stays and removed the ropes. The trees relaxed back to their former positions, and, apart from the trampled undergrowth, normality was restored.
It was late afternoon when we finished. Matt and Dad had gone and I was about to return Aggie to camp, when I found Mic back on the log with tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘Nana’s going to miss this place. She’s been here for nearly forty years.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll bring Erewhon back here when she’s sailing again,’ I reassured her. ‘Come on!’ I added, turning toward Aggie. ‘Drive me home.’
Back at camp, Mum was in the hammock, coffee in hand. Matt and Dad had gone fishing. Mic suggested we catch some crayfish for dinner—she knew a good place where we could dive for them.
I grabbed my mask, snorkel and fins. I offered Mic Matt’s gear, but she said she didn’t need it. Mum decided to come for the walk, so we headed off around the rocks.
The spot was just offshore from where Mum had first encountered Mic. I donned my gear and eased into the water. The visibility was around twenty to thirty feet. I filled my lungs and dived down about fifteen to twenty feet. Fish of all shapes and sizes darted across in front of my mask. They weren’t perturbed by my presence, but seemed curious about my intentions. I surfaced to fill my lungs just as Mic entered the water. Mum, in the meantime, had located a large rock pool and was sitting in the warm water.
I refilled my lungs and dived down to a likely crevice. To my surprise, I found Mic alongside me—no mask, fins or snorkel, and, apart from the lack of a tail fin, looking every bit like one of King Neptune’s daughters. I surfaced again and Mic followed. Taking a deep breath, I descended again, and as I reached the bottom Mic swam over. She pointed to the catch-bag clipped to my waist, and when I opened it she popped in a medium-sized crayfish. My lungs were bursting and I had to surface. On the third dive, she grabbed me by the arm and pointed to a crevice. I followed, and in no time she had two more crays in the bag.
My lungs were screaming as we broke out into the air.
‘Are you OK?’ Mum asked, as I scrambled onto the rocks.
I handed her the catch-bag. ‘We’ve been busy,’ I said smugly.
Mic stretched her long legs out in the sun, as rivulets of water from her dark hair trickled down her bronzed body.
‘You’ll have to explain how you do that without a mask and flippers,’ I said, as the sun dried us.
‘Twelve months of practice, and lessons from Nana,’ she replied.
I grabbed my snorkelling gear, picked up the catch-bag, and headed for the camp. Mum and Mic gathered up their towels and followed. ‘We need to have a serious hunt for the keel tomorrow,’ I said as they caught up. ‘We have to find it before the barge arrives.’
‘It’s out in the centre of the bay,’ said Mic.
‘Where? How do you know?’ I asked.
‘Just out there in the deep water,’ she said, pointing to the area in the centre of the bay beyond the river mouth. ‘Nana told me.’
‘We assumed it would be resting on one of the reefs.’
‘It is, but not one of the reefs you can see. In the middle of the bay there’s a rock outcrop about ten to fifteen feet below low water. If the tide had been in on that particular day, Erewhon would have sailed right over it and reached the safety of the river mouth. She would never have foundered. The Australians sailing her knew this stretch of the coast and knew the Waiora was the only deep-water haven in the area, but the rock outcrop was uncharted and cost them their lives.’
‘How deep is the keel?’
‘About eight fathoms.’
‘Eight fathoms—forty-eight feet—that’s within our depth. We’ll go and have a look tomorrow.’
‘How are you going to get down that far?’ Mic asked.
‘With our scuba gear.’
‘You’ve got dive gear? Mine’s stashed in the bush, but I’m out of air.’
‘Good job we brought the compressor then,’ I replied.
As we arrived back at the caravan, Matt and Dad came into view at the south end of the bay, the outboard on the tinny shattering the tranquillity. Matt couldn’t wait to get out and sprint up the beach. I walked over. Still thrashing around in the bottom of the boat were six nice-sized snapper. Mic and Mum followed to see the catch, and we lifted the dinghy above the high-water mark onto the grass bank.
Dad reached in and grabbed a couple. ‘You two can bring the rest, and I’ll whack the fillets off them.’ He noticed the catch-bag thrashing around on the bench and couldn’t resist opening it to have a look.
‘Where did they come from?’ he quizzed.
‘Mic and I went for a swim.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘It’s true. I was sitting on the rocks watching,’ Mum confirmed, ‘but I think Mic had more to do with it than Ben.’
‘I held the bag,’ I protested.
Dad laid the snapper out on the bench ready for filleting.
‘Mic knows where the keel is, Dad,’ I said, to change the subject. ‘We’ve been looking in the wrong places. It’s in the middle of the bay!’
Dinner over, we sat back in our loungers, sipping glasses of wine.
‘Will you tell us the second half of the Erewhon legend, Jim?’ requested Mic.
‘Do you mean you were listening in the other night?’
‘Yes, and apart from a couple of minor points, it was pretty accurate.’
Dad reddened. ‘It doesn’t seem right for me to tell the story when Old Mac’s great-granddaughter is here.’
‘Please, Jim,’ pleaded Mic.
‘OK then, pour me another drink!’ We settled back in our seats with our glasses in our hands, and Dad cleared his throat.
5
‘Now, where did I get up to the other night?’
‘Buffalo Smith was sent back to Australia with his tail between his legs.’
‘Ah, yes, that’s right. Now let me think a minute. Shamrock V had made safe passage across the Atlantic and was being prepared for the match with Enterprise. Much was expected within yachting circles after Sir Thomas’s near miss in the previous challenge. Media hype had Sir Tom taking the cup home even before the racing started, but the Americans, upset with the close call in the last encounter, wouldn’t let it happen again. Sir Tom was sent packing in a 0–4 whitewash. So, upset by the
drumming he took, Lipton took Shamrock home, and the proposed match with Erewhon faded into history.’
‘The legend becomes a little fuzzy at this point, but would I be right in guessing you might know what happened next?’ Dad said, looking at Mic.
She smiled at him and picked up the story.
Mic’s great-grandfather had written to Sir Tom on several occasions, but he thought there was little point in the match, since the Auld Mug wasn’t at stake. So Mac hatched his master plan to revive Lipton’s interest. In the lead-up to the 1934 America’s Cup challenge, Mac wrote to the New York Yacht Club expressing an interest in challenging for the cup. In the meantime, he instructed Mercedes to prepare Erewhon to race on the American East Coast.
The Americans wrote back, doubting the validity of the challenge on several counts. Even though the news of Erewhon’s drubbing of Jabberwocky had reached their shores, they doubted Mac could mount such a challenge from New Zealand. Erewhon’s crew had had little experience, and the only yacht they had beaten was an updated version of Shamrock IV. The other stumbling block was that any challenger had to sail to New York to meet the terms of the Deed of Gift, and they couldn’t see anyone attempting to sail a J-class yacht around Cape Horn.
Mac was never one to give up and, as far as he was concerned, problems only needed solutions, so he took the Deed of Gift to his lawyer. The lawyer was sure that the deed specified only that the challenger must sail across the Atlantic, so Mac could mount a challenge from his old country, and Erewhon would only have to sail from the Clyde.
Mac duly wrote back to the Americans, stating he would ship Erewhon to Scotland and sail her across the Atlantic from there.
The Americans wrote back, insisting that any yacht that sailed out of the Clyde could only represent Scotland. While Mac had nothing against representing his homeland, he felt it was a little unfair on the New Zealanders involved with the yacht not to challenge from his adopted home.
The letter-writing continued, but the Americans were adamant that the rules were not going to change. For a New Zealand challenge to be accepted, the yacht would have to sail to the venue on its own bottom from its own port.
It was an impasse, but Mac dug his toes in and instructed Mercedes to get Erewhon out on the water in all conditions and have her in best possible trim for when he broke the deadlock. Time passed, and Erewhon spent many hours on the harbour and in the gulf with her volunteer crew, all keen to make her go as fast as possible in the hope that one day she would take on the Yanks.
Because of a lack of credible opposition, they set up a series of courses. For a given wind strength and direction, lapsed times were logged, and the race involved trying to better those times. Although this could be a little frustrating, Erewhon responded to the tuning. Whenever the yacht was performing up to par the hull would start to hum, and the crew weren’t happy unless they could get the hum at any wind strength.
Mac continued to correspond with the New York Yacht Club, but to no avail; the old boys were unbending. One day, when Mercedes arrived home from a day’s sailing, he asked her if she thought it was possible to sail Erewhon offshore.
Taken aback, she said she’d ask Toby and Jack for their opinion.
Jack was adamant that Erewhon wasn’t designed for blue water, and Toby was only a little less emphatic. But Mercedes wasn’t keen to dismiss the idea and suggested that they needed to test Erewhon’s capabilities.
Against his better judgement, Jack made a reduced sail-plan, and Toby and Mercedes made ready to test the yacht in open water. They decided an around-the-North-Island trip would give them a sufficient range of weather and sea conditions to show whether Erewhon was capable of sailing to New York.
Under the shortened rig, Erewhon lazed out into the gulf, and everyone on board was excited about the prospect of what lay ahead, if a little subdued about her less-than-startling performance under reduced sail area. The weather wasn’t in the mood to help either, with the wind under five knots all day, which added to their frustration. Much to the crew’s disgust, the shipping forecast was for more of the same for the next couple of days. This wasn’t what they were looking for, so they decided to wait out the dull patch in a little cove off Great Barrier Island.
Toby received more forecasts and, despite his lack of proficiency with Morse, was able to determine that a front was approaching and they would soon have more than their share of wind.
On the second day at anchor, the wind swung to the south and increased. The crew were buzzing with expectation as they rigged up.
The auxiliary spluttered into life and the crew raised the anchor. Toby slipped the engine gear lever ahead to hold the bow into the wind while the anchor came on board, but the motor stalled. Not one to panic, he calmly returned the lever to neutral and restarted the willing motor. As he engaged the lever, the motor stalled again. This aroused Jed’s attention, as he was one of the team who had installed the engine.
‘Like me to have a go, Mr Toby?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Just get the bloody anchor up,’ retorted Toby, who didn’t take kindly to the ribbing, especially in front of Mercedes.
‘Let Jed have a go, Toby,’ she said, with a giggle.
‘I can manage!’ Toby snapped. ‘The engine’s just a little cold.’
‘I hope it warms up before we sit on those rocks,’ added John, the mainsheet hand. Toby ignored him and restarted the motor for the third time, but it promptly stalled as he engaged the lever.
By this time, Jed wouldn’t be put off. ‘Let me have a go, sir!’
Toby stepped aside and Jed grabbed the controls. He restarted the motor twice, and each time it performed as it had before. Toby stood back with a smug look on his face.
‘Don’t you think it might pay us to put the anchor back down while you sort out this little problem?’ said John, looking at the rocks.
‘Drop the anchor!’ called Toby, and a scurry of activity on the bow halted the shoreward drift. Toby turned back to Jed. ‘What’s up with that thing?’
‘Reckon the prop might be fouled, sir.’
‘Reckon you might be right—we’d better have a look. Any volunteers? Who can swim?’ asked Toby, who couldn’t swim himself. ‘Come on, one of you must be able to swim!’ But they all avoided eye contact.
‘I’ll go.’
‘No, this isn’t a job for a lady,’ he said chivalrously.
Mercedes’ brown eyes flashed back at him. ‘What else do you suggest, if I’m the only one here who can swim?’
‘Do you think you can do it?’
Mercedes narrowed her eyes at him, and Toby knew to say no more. She went below, stripped off her long pants, donned a pair of shorts and a crew-shirt, and returned to the deck.
‘I’ll go and look first!’ she exclaimed and was off over the side before Toby had time to change his mind. She surfaced a few seconds later, gasping for air, ‘There’s the remains of an old fishing net tangled around the propeller!’ she yelled. ‘Get me a sharp knife—I think I can cut it free.’
John unclipped the safety knife from its sheath in the entrance to the companionway and returned to the rail. Clutching it by the shiny blade, he passed it over the side to her small, outstretched hand. He couldn’t help noticing Mercedes’ clinging striped shirt, but quickly moved his glance to one side. Mercedes smiled as she noticed his embarrassment. ‘I won’t bite! I’m over here, not there.’ She laughed as John waved the handle just out of her reach. ‘John, give me the beastly thing!’
He looked back over the side to see he was missing her hand by about two feet and hastily corrected his aim.
‘Sorry, Miss McAlister,’ he blurted, to the amusement of the crew, who were all peering over the rail.
Mercedes took three deep breaths and was gone again. She was quickly under the hull and hacking at the remains of the net. The rope was easy to cut, softened by long-term submersion, and large pieces floated away as she hacked.
She resurfaced, gasping for air. As she
floated on the surface, the crew looking on, Toby asked how far she had to go.
‘It’ll take about two or three more dives. I’m having trouble getting purchase on the knife while I fight to stay underwater,’ she gasped. ‘I’m going to book you all in for swimming lessons when we get home!’ she yelled, struggling to get her breath.
Mercedes took three more gulps of air, hoisted her feet up in the air, and was gone. This time she found that, by wrapping her legs around the rope below the prop, she could apply more pressure to the blade. She continued hacking, and three floats, which had probably brought the net close to the surface and caused the entanglement, drifted free. Mercedes followed them up and was able to refill her depleted lungs.
Toby leaned over the rail, now concerned at the length of time she’d spent in the water: her lips were blue and her hands trembled. ‘I think you’d better come on board.’
‘It’s OK, I only need one more go.’
‘But you look cold. Come back on board for a while—there’s no hurry.’
‘If I don’t get it this time, I’ll come on board for a rest.’ Mercedes took the usual three breaths and was gone. She found the propeller, quickly wrapped her legs around the rope, and hacked at the remaining entanglement. Suddenly the maze of mesh sprang free and, to her surprise, she found herself being dragged down by the rope entwined around her legs. The rope she had been using for leverage was the lead line and, now that it didn’t have the floats to offset it, was being drawn down to the ocean floor. Mercedes panicked and dropped the knife. No matter how hard she kicked, one leg remained entangled, and down she went.
‘As she descended, she must have blacked out, because Nana still can’t remember what happened after that…You probably know more after this point, Jim. I’ll hand the story back to you.’
We were puzzled by Mic’s reference to conversing with her dead grandmother, but nobody questioned her at that moment.
Jim resumed.
On deck, Mercedes’ delay in returning to the surface was beginning to cause concern. It had been well over a minute, and the crew now crowded around the point on the rail where they’d last seen her bronzed legs disappear. Toby stripped to the waist and, despite the fact that he couldn’t swim, grabbed a sheet, tied it around his waist, dived feet-first into the navyblue water, and sank like a stone. Being a non-swimmer, he hadn’t realised that his vision would be so restricted underwater. Frantically, he searched for Mercedes. He felt the sheet go tight and seconds later was back at the surface, spluttering and gasping for breath. He filled his lungs and dived deep under the hull, again to no avail.
A Yacht Called Erewhon Page 7
