Erewhon
reached the lay-line, and the spinnaker pole shot across the deck as the main boom crashed over. The crew wound the grinders as if their lives depended on it, and
Erewhon
reached for the finish line. The wind had shifted slightly, and
Shamrock VI
was forced to gybe onto port and make her dash.
The two giants were on a collision course, converging on the line. As we got closer, we were being badly affected by
Shamrock VI
’s wind-shadow, and Ronnie and the crew struggled to keep the big spinnaker drawing. Dad was on the weather rail bellowing ‘Starboard!’ but
Shamrock
’s crew suddenly appeared to be deaf.
Dad bellowed again as the yachts got dangerously close. Our spinnaker collapsed, and Tom threw onto starboard to cross the finish line.
Mic’s head dropped, and the crew slumped over their winches. The spinnaker sheet was released, and the big red extra flapped freely as we crossed the line, less than half a length behind.
The crew celebrated aboard
Shamrock VI
as Tom came alongside and tipped his cap to Mic. ‘Great race!’ he called. ‘Thank you.’
Our crew acknowledged the gesture and saluted the Irishmen in return. It was a bitter pill to swallow, as this was the first time we’d been beaten in a formal race. Sympathetic spectators gathered to support us, but we weren’t easily consoled.
The television crew came alongside, and Dad had a few words. Then the sails were dropped, Paint fired up the engine, and Mic pointed the bow towards the harbour.
That night at the debrief, Mic and I got the weather forecast, which didn’t hearten us, as it suggested that the next day would be just like this one. We sat around the saloon, going over the race, looking for where we could make improvements. Then the guys left, and Ronnie, Mic and I decided to go home for an early night.
Millie was sitting on her porch as we walked from the car to the house. We joined her in the swing-chair, and she poured us a nip of whisky from a small bottle.
‘It’s Scotch, not Irish,’ she assured us, as she passed over the glasses.
I smiled. ‘Can’t let them have it all their way, can we, Millie?’
‘No, Ben,’ she replied. ‘Still, you will do better tomorrow, I’m sure.’
I sat back on the seat and peered up at the sky. The silent language of stars seemed to support Millie.
A night in our own bed had a rejuvenating effect on Ronnie
and me, and we were raring to go as the sun rose. Dad had breakfast going as I wandered down to the kitchen. TJ had gone back to sleep on
Valhalla
, and Young Tom was with his crew at the hotel, so when Mum, Matt, Ronnie and Mic turned up, it was a family breakfast.
The topic of conversation naturally turned to the next race and how we could get an edge that day, with the weather looking the same as the day before.
I studied the weather map as we drifted out into the gulf. The light sou’wester meant we were again starting at the furthest point of the racetrack. Our supporters lined up behind the start line, and the wind flickered around five knots.
Reluctantly, Bob Sorensen fired the ten-minute gun, and we readied ourselves to dive into the box. Tom had the advantage end this time and, as the five-minute gun fired, dived into the box and hooked onto our tail.
Mic was more aggressive than ever, ducking and diving all around the start area, trying to shake off the black machine. Tom hung on as Mic shot among the spectators, and the crowd roared as Mic swung
Erewhon
around the stern of the Irish launch. The girls in their green bikinis squealed with delight as their heroes flashed by, still on our stern.
Dad called one minute, and Mic headed for the line. Tom came up under our lee and tried to force us into the start boat. Mic held her course, forcing Tom to bear away and hoist his protest flag. Bob Sorensen’s on-the-water judge called a penalty against
Erewhon
, which meant we had a three-sixty to do somewhere on the track.
I looked at Dad, and he shrugged. Mic had her eyes firmly fixed on the mainsail. ‘Sorry, guys,’ she muttered.
‘Don’t worry—we’ll just have to get far enough ahead to do the penalty,’ Dad said.
Mic drove
Erewhon
as hard as she could in the light air. Every move the Irishmen made we covered, but we couldn’t increase the gap between the yachts. At this wind strength,
Shamrock VI
seemed to be quicker on all points, though we didn’t provide a passing lane.
Downwind, Mic held the other yacht at bay. Tom tried everything he could, but continued to find himself behind our stern. We rounded the windward pin for the run to home, and they were within a couple of lengths. Mic went on the attack, determined that
Shamrock VI
wasn’t going to pass us. Tom reached, ran, and gybed all over the gulf in an effort to break the shackles, but every time he looked
Erewhon
was still ahead. Between them, Mic and Dad had sailed the perfect leg, but there was no gun as
Erewhon
crossed the line.
Mic slumped over the wheel as the gun sounded for
Shamrock VI.
The Irishmen hadn’t given us the opportunity to reverse the penalty, so we’d handed them the win by not doing the three-sixty somewhere on the track. The crew again downed the sails, and we motored back towards the Basin in stony silence.
I looked at Dad, and he was pretty down. ‘Barbie back at the house tonight!’ I said out loud.
Dad looked at me and nodded. ‘Come on, guys, there are three races to go!’
Paint went forward and stood by the mast. He appeared to be chanting. After some minutes, he raised his arms above his head and then whipped them down to his ankles with such force that he fell forwards. He stood up and shook his head, opened his eyes, and walked back down the deck. ‘There will be wind tomorrow,’ he announced, as he sat in the cockpit.
The rest of the crew had watched the performance, but
nobody dared ask how he knew.
All the crew turned up at the house that evening. Hepi entertained the now very confident Irishmen in the barn, but we stayed away and went over the day’s race. Mic tried to take all the blame for the result, but everybody knew that if
Shamrock VI
had got her nose in front, we’d have had no show in that wind.
As I walked the crew out to their cars, we passed the barn, where the Guinness had loosened the Irishmen’s tongues. They were singing a medley of ‘We Are the Champions’ and ‘You Are a Loser’. I looked at the guys and didn’t need to say anything.
I walked down the dock early the next morning to find the crew already on deck and checking the gear. I climbed on board and looked across to
Shamrock VI
, which was sitting unmanned at her jetty.
‘They must be confident,’ I said to Ronnie, as she came over and gave me a hug.
‘Just the way we want it,’ she replied.
I nodded and went below to get the latest weather forecast. The wind in the Basin was definitely stronger, and a more promising forecast for midday onwards brought a smile back to my face. ‘Twenty knots plus!’ I yelled, as I reappeared on deck. The crew punched the air.
There was a steady stream of well-wishers on the dock, and the crowd was humming as we left through the seawall. The Irishmen had arrived, all well and truly hung-over.
Dad looked at me and laughed. ‘Fatman’s done his bit for us,’ he chortled. ‘Can’t imagine how many bottles of that black tar he’s poured down their throats.’
As we went through the breakwater, Paint, Tane and Mickey had taken up their now familiar positions on the bow and were in full flight with their haka, with added zeal.
The wind was still southwest, but the forecast of twenty knots seemed to be on the light side.
Erewhon
, under full rig, was moving nicely. I looked at Dad. ‘Cutter rig for the first beat?’
He nodded, after looking in Mic’s direction. The flying jib stayed in the bag.
It was our turn for the advantage end to start and, as the five-minute gun fired, Mic dived. Tom glanced over his shoulder to find
Erewhon
in her usual position. He wove and ducked to shake us off, but Mic wasn’t going to lose two starts in a row. I checked the coordinates for the first mark, as Mic lined up for the starboard end start.
Tom continued to try and shake us as Dad called the minute, and we wound
Erewhon
up, forcing
Shamrock VI
straight at the start boat. Tom again tried to bear away, but Mic wouldn’t concede and he got the message. Having nowhere to go, Tom crash-tacked, and the yacht stalled.
The gun fired. Tom gybed around and cranked on, but we were well out on the course. With impeccable teamwork and in increasing wind strength, we rounded the first mark with a four-minute advantage and raced off to the wing mark. On the second time to windward,
Erewhon
’s hum seemed even louder, and Mic’s grip became tighter as she drove
Erewhon
into the short, steep seas.
Around the weather mark and back out into the gulf, we scanned the horizon for the finish line. We passed the Irishmen as we headed down the track, but they didn’t even acknowledge us as they bashed on towards the windward pin.
The crew fidgeted with their gear as we continued the downwind slide with spray flying everywhere. Every creak
and groan from the rig had twenty-five pairs of eyes focused on it, but nobody was going to take this one from us, and the gun resounded in the late afternoon air.
Shamrock VI
steamed down the track and crossed the line within three minutes. We were happy with that, but it made us aware that they weren’t a spent force.
‘Glad to see the smiles back on everyone’s faces,’ Mum said, as she looked around the crew. Mic, in particular, was beaming as she turned
Erewhon
towards home.
That night, we decided to repeat the barbecue and, as we all sat down, we were surprised by Tom’s sudden appearance. He came to congratulate us on our race win and placed a large bottle of Jameson’s on the table. ‘You all have a drink on me!’ he chuckled.
Dad reached forward and removed the bottle. ‘We’ll save that until after the final,’ he said.
Tom laughed heartily. ‘Got to try and get some sort of an advantage over you Kiwis,’ he said, as he turned to look at Mic. ‘And you, young lady—I have the feeling that if I’d held my course in the start box, you’d have cut us in two!’
Mic looked him in the eye and nodded.
‘I believe you,’ he said, as he turned and left.
‘Do you think he’s got the message?’ I asked, looking in Mic’s direction. She smiled.
The debrief was a little more buoyant that evening, and the noise from J Bar a little more subdued. I checked the forecast, which was for more of the same. While the wind strength didn’t give us an edge, it certainly evened our chances. Hepi came in earlier than usual, as the Irishmen had gone back to their hotel early.
‘They’re pissed off with you lot,’ he said, as he sat down among the crew. ‘They thought the money would be in the bag after today’s race!’
Ronnie and I arrived at the dock at the usual time the next morning, and to my surprise the Irishmen were on board and about to leave the Basin. The wind hadn’t abated overnight and looked promising. I checked the forecast: it was going to back around from the southwest to the northeast later in the day. I talked to Mic and Dad when they arrived—even though the wind-shift would probably come after the race had finished, we needed to consider it, because we didn’t want to be in the wrong position if it came early.
If the pre-starts had been aggressive up to now, none matched the intensity of this one.
Shamrock VI
had the favoured end to enter the box and immediately latched onto our stern. Mic wheeled
Erewhon
around, desperate to shake Tom off, but he wouldn’t let go. The yachts moved quickly in the fresh breeze, darting back and forth across the start line. Dad and I tried to fix the advantage end, as Mic dived into the spectator fleet, while the crew worked intensely, with Mum and Ronnie calling the trim.
We swooped past an anchored launch, and Mic gybed quickly around its stern. Tom missed the timing as he followed around and dropped back a few metres. Mic screamed for more power, and the boys nearly had the winches glowing as they cranked in the sheets. We dived for the pin end of the line on starboard, and that few metres meant we had clear air. The gun fired as we crossed the line, and with full power on we surged out onto the racetrack.
Erewhon
revelled in the breeze, and the hum told us we were up to hull speed. Young Tom hung off our hip as we tried to squeeze up to force him about.
Shamrock VI
pounded hard into the short seas but couldn’t gain ground. Mic called for
absolute concentration as we ploughed on and she inched the hull to windward. We closed up slowly on
Shamrock VI
‘s breeze until they had to concede and threw to port to clear their air.
We went a few metres and threw to cover them. A major wind-shift helped us lift well above them, now clearly ahead. My heart raced as we rounded the first mark, set the reacher and blasted off in the direction of the wing mark.
Shamrock
rounded thirty seconds in arrears but seemed to be in trouble. There was loud yelling as the main boom skied and two crewmen skated across the deck and were jettisoned into the sea. Their hydraulic boom vang had exploded and sprayed oil all over the deck, turning it into an ice rink. The crewmen found themselves bobbing around in the ocean as the on-the-water judge rushed to their aid.
Shamrock VI
’s problems were still not over. With no vang, the giant yacht was difficult to control, and they weaved their way to the wing mark. Some of the crew went forward to get the boom under control, while others tried desperately to clean the deck, knowing they needed to be able to walk on it for the next gybe. The rest of the crew wrestled with their reacher in an effort to stay in touch with us.
Paint looked at me and smiled. ‘I might offer to make them a new vang after the series,’ he said with a grin.
We turned our attention back to sailing
Erewhon.
With
Shamrock VI
now short-handed and with an out-of-control boom,
Erewhon
moved away on the downwind leg. It wasn’t until they came back on the wind that they could fashion a temporary vang.