A Yacht Called Erewhon Read Free Page A

this.’
    ‘Give it up, Ben. We’ve got to get going.’
    ‘But Dad—’
    ‘I said give it up. Now come on.’
    I sighed and stepped back out into the half-light of the bush. I didn’t bother mentioning what I’d found. Dad was jabbering like an excited schoolgirl with backstage passes at a Robbie Williams concert, and I figured he wouldn’t believe me in any case.
    We arrived at the skiff to find that the repair had dried without a trace, then we flew the last kilometre down the river to the waiting Nissan.
    The trip back was a one-sided conversation, with Dad scheming how to get Erewhon home. The problems of ownership, cost, and getting such a huge hull upright, seaworthy and down to the river mouth were trifling details. When I mentioned that we needed to buy her first, Dad just laughed and said he’d get Hepi onto it on Monday. Whoever owned Erewhon didn’t realise he’d just sold her.

2
    D ad reclaimed his spot on the floating lounger in the pool, smiling and punching the air in excitement. Eleven months had passed since we’d stumbled on Erewhon, eleven months of the most intense negotiations he and Hepi had ever experienced.
    After six months, Hepi had been ready to give up. He had walked into the office and asked Lizzy, Dad’s secretary, if he could have a word with Jim. Dad knew something was wrong—Hepi hadn’t called him Jim in twenty years.
    ‘What’s up, Fatman?’ he yelled through the open door to the outer office. Hepi eased over to the doorway with his chin on his chest, looking like he had the day he was employed. ‘Jim, I can’t do it. You can’t buy Erewhon. ’
    ‘What do you mean, “can’t“? Losing your touch?’ Dad looked sharply at Hepi and saw that his old friend’s eyes were troubled. ‘What’s the problem, mate?’
    ‘It’s the tapu, Bollocks—it can’t be lifted.’
    ‘What do you mean, the tapu can’t be lifted, you dopey fat bastard!’
    ‘I’m serious, Jim. A tapu was placed on the yacht when it was washed up on shore, because of the deaths, and it can only be lifted by the tohunga who placed it.’
    ‘Bullshit!’ Dad bellowed. ‘No bloody mumbo-jumbo is going to stand in my way.’
    Hepi turned to walk out the door.
    ‘Who said you could leave!’ Dad roared.
    ‘You can’t ride roughshod over tapu—I don’t care who the fuck you are—so get stuffed, you honky prick!’
    Hepi stormed out of the office, slamming the door. Dad had never seen him so angry before. He threw himself back into his swivel chair. ‘Stuff you, you fat bastard!’ he bellowed. ‘I’m going to have that bloody boat or my name’s not Jim Standish!’
    Later, he told me he couldn’t work out if he was so angry because someone had told him his dream was over, or because he’d fallen out with his long-time friend for the first time. In an attempt to get his heart rate back to somewhere near normal, he reached into his filing cabinet for a bottle of Scotch and took a couple of swigs. What the hell have I done? he thought to himself, reaching for the intercom button.
    ‘Lizzy, tell the fat bastard I want him in my office now!’
    There was a deathly hush.
    ‘Lizzy, did you hear me? Tell Fatman I want him now!’
    Still stony silence.
    Dad rose from his chair, strode to the door, and threw it open. Cowering behind the computer sat his secretary. Finally, she blurted out, ‘He’s not here—he quit.’
    ‘What do you mean, “he quit“?’ Dad screamed. ‘He can’t quit!’
    ‘Well, he quit.’ She thrust a scribbled note in Dad’s direction. ‘And he left the yard five minutes ago, heading in the direction of the Rose ‘n’ Anchor.’
    Dad stormed back into his office, flung himself in his chair, and took another swig. He sat there, motionless, for half an hour, his mind racing. Eventually, his brain began to function again.
    I’m a bloody idiot, he thought to himself. In the thirty years Hepi had worked for him, he’d never let him down. Throughthick and thin,