Finntasia

Chapter 4.



Finntasia. The end of the innocence.

As well as wearing it out, outgrew my OK Dinghy.

At 17 years of age I bought my first Finn. What a boat that was. Peter Morely was an ex NZ champ, his boat Finntasia was one of the oldest in the New Zealand fleet at that time, KZ7. He delivered it to our door in Waiake with his brand new Honda Accord which, he proudly announced, he had purchased with overseas funds, the only way to buy a new imported car at that time.

I on the other hand, had bought and ageing 1956 Vauxhall Velox, one year older than I was. It had only had one careful owner, a colleague of my father, who had brought it new into NZ. When it landed at Wellington docks, my father and he had caught the train to Wellington and had collected the car from customs. My father had his driver's licence so he drove it home, back to Auckland, with the owner as passenger. One year later I was born. Now, 17 years and 80,000 miles later, I owned the car.

I went to the Albany Auto Wreckers yard and selected a tow bar from a derelict Vauxhall of the same year as mine, unbolted it, paid for it and took it home. I drilled the holes, fitted the bolts, connected the wires and presto, I was ready to tow my new-old Finn wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Fuel was 55 cents for 4 litres from memory. I named my new-old car "Barrymore" after the drummer from Jethro Tull whom I greatly admired.

Finntasia was poorly painted in Kermit Green, not my colour. I applied a fresh, gloss coat of British Racing Green, much more my style and she looked amazing! Finntasia immediately caught the eye of my new friend Mike Toy. He liked the colour too. He made me an offer I could not refuse so before long I was looking for anther boat.

The author sailing Tarkus off Waiake Beach, 1976

Tarkus, a much newer Finn, painted a beautiful powder blue with dark varnished wooden deck, built by the famous Elder of Christchurch became available and I bought her, she had a new Needle Spar aluminium mast and new Elvstrom sail, this was what I wanted. Mike and I became inseparable in spite of our 19 year age difference. We sailed everywhere together, each in our own boat. We thought nothing of sailing to Tiritiri Matangi and back of an afternoon. During this period we hatched a plan to collaborate on the building of an experimental boat, a Micronesian style Proa adapted by Mike to his own design. This story will form the basis of chapter 5.

See the full story of this collaborative project on my blog:

http://harmenhielkema.blogspot.com/2008/04/takapu-proa-dissertation.html

I began to race Tarkus locally but could not compete with the new fibreglass boats that were coming out of Europe. This was a disappointment to me so, at the end of the season, I decided to search for local competition. I travelled far and wide, from Porirua in the south to Houhora Harbour in the north and everywhere in between, New Plymouth, Napier, Taupo, Tauranga, Manukau, Whangarei. Local clubs in Birkenhead and Waiuku had fleets of older Finns and I enjoyed the casual racing they offered.

By now I had quit Teacher's Training College after only completing half the course. I did not enjoy the profession at all. I had followed my father's advice and not my heart. Still avoiding my true calling I took a job at Brisc Marine as a shop salesman and in-store ticket writer, not an illustrious start but a start in something I knew and understood, boats.

My beautiful olive green car, my ticket to freedom was written off one morning. On the way to work I made my usual stop at the top of Beach Road to pick up my old friend Mike Williams. From time to time I would drop him off at the Auckland University where he was studying for a degree in quantum mechanics and mathematics. Mike was about to open the passenger door when he suddenly looked to his right and took a big step backwards as a Holden Monaro drove into my car at 40 miles per hour. The enormous impact carried me and my heavy old relic 20 meters down the road. The back of my seat collapsed and my head went through the skin of my bass drum which was in the back seat. I was knocked unconscious and was bleeding from a head wound. I came to to the sound of loud voices, a local man, Mr R, had rushed from his house to see what the cause of the loud bang had been. In the meantime the upset owner of the Monaro had it in his head that I was responsible for the crash and was in the process of hauling my unconscious body out of the car to give me a good beating! Fortunately for me Mr R, who was confident and powerfully built, restrained the angry driver until the police arrived. I had a brief period of recovery at home from my head injury much to the chagrin of my employers.
The result of this accident for me was ongoing problems with concentration and headaches. Neither the driver of the Monaro nor I were insured. There was no chance of recovering anything from him without taking court action which I could not afford so I was forced to regroup. He was eventually charged with dangerous driving.

Public transport was now my only way to get to work. On the bus I met a beautiful young woman. We travelled together daily, she always kept a seat for me. I liked her, she had long blond hair, light blue eyes and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. I made her smile with stories of my recent adventures and tried to convince her to come tramping with me that winter on the High Plateau of the central North Island, something I did every winter when I wasn't sailing. She was quite timid about that idea, she was a librarian and not inclined to do anything too adventurous she told me. She did invite me to dinner though.

L lived in Waiake, near the beach, alone in a little Fibrolite clad cottage with her Doberman Pincer called Bunny Rabbit. She invited me in and we sat in the lounge chatting about our day with the dog sitting right next to me. We ate the meal that she had prepared, on our laps, there was no need for a pre rinse for the dishes, Bunny Rabbit saw to that. After dinner she told me she was going out of the room for a moment. When she returned she was perfectly naked. I'll never forget how she looked as she walked across the room towards me, took me by the hand and lead me to her bedroom. She had a beautiful pink scar which ran from hip to hip that looked for all the world as if she had been welded back together by a skilled engineer. I thought nothing more of it at the time. When we awoke in the morning it was still dark. At that time I was still living at home and I needed to get back for fresh clothes and a shower before running to catch the bus to get to work in the city.

I remember walking home in the dark that morning with the sun just staining the eastern sky, my mind had been blown wide open. I was ecstatic, confused, overjoyed to the extent that I could not focus on anything else.

When I climbed aboard the bus that morning L was not there in her usual seat. Nor was she there the following day or the one after that. I had hardly slept but I imagined that she may have been unwell, she had no telephone line on which to call her. I finally decided to pay her a visit at the little cottage. I knocked on the door but got no reply. I looked through the window into the lounge where we had shared a meal only a few nights before, it was completely bare, no furniture, nothing. She had gone and I was devastated, I had no clue as to what had happened to her. This confused me even more. I can't easily describe what I felt but I was badly upset. I resigned my self to checking at the Library that day after work.

I had been so distracted by what had happened to me that I could not concentrate on my job. The sales manager took me aside and suggested I find some work that might suit me better. I did not argue with him, he was right, the work did not suit me, I simply burst into tears, I gathered my things and walked away across town to look for L at the Auckland Library. I knew Colleen the head librarian there, she was a near neighbour of ours in Torbay and a sympathetic friend who was aware of my connection with L. She informed me that L had resigned a couple of days before, had made no explanation and left no forwarding address for herself. I had no further contact with L except that one day, some weeks later, I received a parcel in our letter box. It was a heavy book wrapped in brown paper, it contained note with a few words hastily scribbled onto a piece of note paper.

"Sorry I left so unexpectedly, here's a book I thought you might like. Much Love, L"

Nothing more. The package contained an expired library book written by Howard Williams called "Sails." It was the bible of sailmakers worldwide at the time. I still have that copy, who knows what happened to the note.

Some months later I was rigging my boat at the beach, it was early on a Saturday morning. In the distance I noticed a young couple walking a doberman pincer along the beach towards me with a small child about 3 years of age. As they approached I saw that it was L! She noticed me with a shock but walked shyly past me with her companion, a tall dark hared, bearded man who I thought looked significantly older than her. She walked past me without as much as raising her eyes, she never once looked back and I never laid eyes on her again.

The Red Baron

Chapter 3.



The Red Baron.

After my success in Paper Tigers it seemed inevitable that I would continue sailing in this class. Not so. I was too physical and a bit to heavy for these frail craft, Doctor Ord had to spend some money rectifying cross beam to hull connection fractures and a slightly bent mast section after my successful regatta. I had driven his boat hard, he would not allow me to pay for or even contribute to the repairs however he did remark that it would be a good idea if I got my own boat. Waikiwi went up for sale and was quickly sold for the same price that I had paid for her. I put that money away and continued working weekends to accumulate more.

By this time I was in the 5th form at Rangitoto College. I had made several new friends, Graham Cross and Craig Gilbert, both sailed OK dinghies at Murrays Bay Boating Club. Their mentor Harold Bennett had one too and he knew of a good boat that had been abandoned in NZ by its owner, a German named Thomas Jungblud. He has been runner up in the world champs hosted by the Takapuna sailing club in 1973. The Red Baron was a bright red, European built, fibreglass OK Dinghy with a lightweight Gaboon ply deck. The rig was too light for me but Harold introduced me to Clive Roberts who had a spare rig from his recent successful bid to win the world cup t and yes he would sell it to me for a reasonable price. My father and I went to his home in Campbells Bay and after several hours with Clive discussing the new rig and its suitability for my needs, (I was the same weight as he was) we secured it in place on the Red Baron and drove it home. I became a member of the school sailing team, I needed no excuse to avoid school, I hated every minute of it. One day per week we were allowed to take our boats down to Murray's Bay and go sailing. This went on into my sixth form year as well.

Not long after the new rig was fitted I entered my boat into the OK Dinghy Nationals held at Takapuna Yacht Club. By this time I had successfully attained my drivers licence but had no car. This meant that I had get up very early, pack my lunch and a drink, then walk my boat down to Torbay Beach on its road trailer, sail to Takapuna Beach about 10 KM down the coast and then, without landing, line up for the start of two or three races per day then sail all the way back again to my trailer, run the 2.5km up hill to our family home, hop into the family car then drive back to the beach, couple up my boat, tow it home, wash it, bolt down dinner, do my home work and finally fall into bed exhausted! I did this for three days running. I gained 14th place over all in a fleet of 67 boats. "Not too bad for a beginner" was Clive's best shot. I'd beaten him to the top mark from the start line twice!

I loved my OK dinghy. It gave me a freedom I had not experienced before. One afternoon, after school sailing I decided to take the long way home. I set out toward the Rangitoto Channel, down wind on a beautiful fresh easterly breeze. I skirted Rangitoto Island, hardened on into the lumpy Motuihe Channel and made my way up the southern shoreline of Motutapu Island. I turned left at the channel between Rakino and Motutapu and eased the main sheet for a thrilling downwind ride toward Torbay Beach. By now it was getting dark. The light faded completely by the time I was half way across the Gulf. No problem, I knew all the lights of the East Coast bay beaches by heart. It was wonderful hurtling along, planing fast, catching wave after wave, I could have continued sailing like that for hours.

About 3 km from the beach I noticed some nav lights and a very bright spot light on a large, fast moving vessel heading straight towards me. In no time the powerful beam of light was on me and a loud speaker hailed me asking who I was and where I was heading, sitting in my rocking boat with the sheet fully eased I shouted back that I was heading for Torbay beach. The police boat Deodar informed me that my parents were concerned for my safety and could I make my own way home? Of course I could I said rather irritated. They steamed off in the direction they had come after satisfying themselves that I was competent and knew where I was. I arrived at the beach with the head lights of the family car shining at full beam on the retrieval of my boat on to its trailer. My father shared his mixed feelings with me about my escapade, I had thoughtlessly worried my mother.

There is one more memory I would like to share from this time.

One Sunny Sunday, Graham Cross and I had arranged to meet off Murray's Bay and sail on to Mission Bay to visit a family friend of his. The day turned out rather differently to what we had expected. Neil Deverall joined us in his boat and the three of us eased our sheets and headed down the channel with a bright 25-30 knot easterly behind us accompanied by huge swells against an outgoing tide, just the kind of conditions we loved. We were equally matched, highly skilled and as fit as we could be. There was a great deal of tussling and shouting as we planed, carving a pure white path down wind, gathering ourselves, trimming and placing our boats so that we could catch the cresting swells and surf down their steep faces, slow in the trough then gather and trim for the next one, It was fantastic sailing! I hauled on my mainsheet to catch the next swell, very large and steep, The Red Baron hurtled down the face and buried itself in the back of the next swell, I was as far out of the boat as it was possible to be to counter balance the straining sail. The next moment the hiking strap lashing broke. I was under water, I surfaced with the tiller still in my hand, I glimpsed the boat rolled over on its windward side with the boom standing straight up 100 meters away. I began to swim. The sails of my companions disappeared down wind. I swam in that confused sea for what seemed like hours until I finally came up to my upturned boat. The centreboard was fully housed, the venturies were open, the tiller was still in my hand!

I had some trouble righting the boat in that sea. The wind was as strong as ever. I held on to the bow for some time as I recovered my breath. This had the positive effect of bringing the bow into the wind and sea. I began the ritual of righting the boat which reluctantly but finally sprang upright with water whipping of the violently flogging sail in a fine mist down wind.

I rolled in to the swamped cockpit and took stock. There was no way to repair the tiller, I had no control over the rudder at all. What to do? I decided to drop the sail. This involved capsizing the boat again, swimming out to the tip of the mast, unclipping the masthead halyard lock and then re righting the boat. This done I gathered in the sail and lashed it to the boom. I then leaned over the stern and unclipped the flogging rudder and secured it to the remaining stacking strap. Next I went as far aft as I could sit and allowed the boat to drift down wind. Under the windage of the mast I was making 3-4 knots, not bad, I put a foot over the windward side and used it as a rudimentary rudder which allowed me to gain some control over my direction. The Red Baron and I eventually came ashore at the southern end of Narrow Neck Beach. I had no idea how long all this had taken me but it must have taken quite some time because it was late afternoon. I dragged my stricken boat as far up the beach as I could and then set off to find a telephone.

A likely looking house opposite the boating club on Vauxhall road welcomed me to its blue front door. I struck it lucky with a keen boatie who was sympathetic to my situation and allowed me to use his phone to call my father. Father was less than enthusiastic about turning out during his afternoon drink time with mum but to his credit he came. He had driven down to the beach and coupled up my trailer before driving to meet me in the falling dark. I enjoyed telling him of my adventure and I believe he quite enjoyed hearing it. What a treat it was to get home to a shower and a wholesome, savoury meal kept warm for me by my dear mother.