Sport of Kings - Part Two
Created | Updated Aug 13, 2003
I had been in New Zealand a couple of months and was starting to feel a bit guilty that, having flown halfway around the world, I hadn't made any attempt to meet my pal Loonytunes.
We sleep two hours, then spend four on deck. I'm first down, and it's too early to be sleeping so I lie and listen to the chatter on the radio as the rescue helicopter swings into action, and drift into that delicious half-awake state that preceeds actual Z's. Then we tack and I need to be on the other side of the boat to keep the weight in the right place. After moving various bags and sails to make a space I get back to pretty much where I was and feel like a real old salt because I can tell what's happening on deck by the sounds - without actually having to expend any mental energy that might inadvertently wake me up. Hmmmm, sounds like a spinnaker hoist, yep there's the headsail coming down in the cold, snuggle, glad I'm not up there.
Opening my eyes I see the spinnaker piled up on the floor of the cabin, dripping water onto Sharyn who thought that was a safe place to sleep. I've had 20 minutes, during which someone has obviously changed sails, and now we're tacking again so I have to change sides again. Grrr. Back into bed and the radio comes alive with a long forecast... winds building... Seas rough... Barometer 991 and falling rapidly. Now I'm awake and I hear the phrase 'Scary shit' float down from the cockpit. Plus there's a coastal navigation warning for our area: 'Yachts are racing!'
I picture the poor fishermen, caught up in the midst of a herd of mushroom-crazed yachties heading out to 'a c**t of a place' in weather that'll tear your arms and legs off - to try and win a bottle of rum. 'Wide berth requested' Bloody right! And I've got ten minutes left to sleep so I might as well get up now and spend another four hours huddled on the rail in the cold and wet, trying to spot the rest of the fleet in the dark.
It's easy enough the first time but at 4am it's really hard. At least I've managed a whole hour and a half of sleep this time, and know that now is when it counts. Races are won and lost overnight by crews who do or don't manage to keep their acts together. The ability to keep sailing the boat, instead of just sitting on it, when you would much rather just sleep is the difference between success and failure and I'm pretty certain that I've got something to prove on this, my first big offshore race.
So I bound up the steps into the cockpit, and raise a laugh a few minutes later by complaining bitterly that they've tacked the boat again, and the peeing side is not the side it was previously. I bet even the mighty Shackleton cheered his stranded crew up by peeing on his own leg occasionally. And, in fairly high spirits, I sit back on the rail - first in line to shelter everyone else, as is expected of the foredeck crew.
Night wears on, as we push northwards along a coast without any signs of human habitation. The fleet spreads out and we lose sight of most of the other boats. It blows, but not as badly as we had anticipated, and rains. But we're used to that, and fumbling for something in my pocket I find some hitherto undiscovered slots lined with fur. I told you the Kiwis knew how to make foul weather gear! And so, with warm hands, I mumble silent hosannas in praise of the gods of furry pockets and the sky turns from dark grey to light grey, which looks like as good as it's going to get, and we forge steadily onwards on wings of white Dacron and gold Kevlar.
Coming up from my mid-morning nap the scene is transformed. The wind is howling in the rigging and we're heeled over excitingly on a sparkling blue sea sprinkled with white caps. Waves gather themselves behind us and then, with a leisurely explosion, lift the stern and rocket us forward so that we're momentarily surfing in brilliant sunshine. The sky is dotted with fantastic cloudscapes and, to the west, New Zealand is as uninhabited and majestic as it was when Kupe came here a thousand years ago.
And so I barf.
I'm hungry, making soup and sandwiches below the deck of a small boat in a big sea. Anybody would get queasy under those circumstances and I'm glad to hand out the food I've prepared for those that want it. With empty hands I can haul myself into the cockpit safely, only to watch MY sandwich and soup being consumed by someone that didn't want anything five minutes ago. Aaargghh! My stomach is screaming as I plunge below again, grab a couple of slices of bread, the last of the hot water, and a tea bag.
I curl up at the back of the boat, but halfway into my feast something rebels and it all comes back up, dripping sadly off the fittings at the stern. I feel instantly better, breathe deep of the fresh breeze, devour the other piece of bread, savour the shimmering horizon, swig my tea, dip the empty mug into the foam to wash off my mess, and dive below to make another breakfast. Sniffy is oblivious, a big happy man in his element, succoured by my soup and sandwich.
B*****d!
We progress north in wind that rises and fades, changes it's mind about where it's coming from, gusts, swirls, and finally settles down into a beautiful evening's sailing. Things are marred a little by the feeling that we're going around in circles. It seems that whatever cunning strategy we come up with to outwit the wind works against us, and we find ourselves backtracking or changing course again while the coastline remains obstinately stationary. The overwhelming memory is of Gucci's sail, close inshore, and apparently gaining ground on us but we made it to Kidnappers Point ahead of them and entered Hawkes Bay savouring the anticipation of an imminent finish.
That's a part of the trip I never want to relive. It seemed to go on forever. The wind had filled in and we were making good headway directly for where we wanted to be - but it was so bloody far away! After a couple of days of cold, wet, and tired the lights of Napier were like will-o-wisps in the gloom, seductive but unattainable. I began to despair of ever getting there until, as if by magic, a small motor launch appeared and welcomed us to Napier.
There was Cuddles, a cheerful grin on his face, and there was the welcoming committee from Napier holding up a big box of goodies for us - local produce and more than a few beers that were passed across by a lady perched in the bow of the launch. God, I love New Zealand sometimes.
It got better too. We moored directly in front of the yacht club bar and amongst the crowd milling about I spot Loonytunes1, who has been alerted by a phone call. And in his hand is a bottle of rum, which I have promised to Andiamo to replace the one we drank a few weeks earlier. What a guy!
Andiamo is empty, the crew on a mission somewhere, so we repair to Distraction and (not wanting to waste the opportunity) celebrate our safe arrival by broaching the bottle. The result was pretty predictable really. A few hours later no one has got around to having a shower, and we're now dancing barefoot in the bar, still dressed in whatever it is that sailors wear under their foulies. (This is an official secret, and can not be revealed here for fear of upsetting sensitive readers.)
I got my shower at the loony's place, and a bed, and breakfast, and spent a pleasant day being shown around Napier and further enjoying Kiwi hospitality. Napier is beautiful, and is also the only place on Earth that I have ever eaten pizza made with blue cheese. While poking suspiciously at my lunch I am amazed to learn that my host is the nude arm-wrestling champion of the Hawkes Bay area, and has even taken on members of New Zealand's All Blacks rugby team. The mind boggles.
I also had to buy yet another bottle for Andiamo, the previous one having gone mysteriously empty. Then it was time for the prize-giving ceremony at the club and an early night in preparation for bay racing the next day. Napier doesn't have a lot of keelboats, and was keen to challenge the visitors, who were equally keen to defend their honour. We gathered early to rig the boat and eyed the weather excitedly...
