A Yacht Called Erewhon by Stuart Vaughan Page B

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
    T he 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 solidresistance. 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