The America's Cup is New Zealand's cup

By WARREN GAMBLE

As half of Auckland and beyond were drawn to worship at the waterfront yesterday, there should have been a warning: Danger, Sensory Overload.

Victory was in the air, and it could be seen, heard, smelled, touched and tasted.

From early morning, the sights began at the threshold arches to the American Express NZ Cup Village. Queues of people balanced precariously with wet facecloths as the tell-tale silver fern stick-on tattoo appeared on shoulders, ankles and even foreheads.

Nearby, home-knitted red booties sprouted from a rack. One woman later wore them as earrings, while others turned the ubiquitous red socks into gloves.

The by-now-almost-familiar forest of grand luxury-yacht masts were eclipsed mid-morning as the black and grey boats headed out for the last time.

Then the sounds kicked in. Boat horns provided the encore to Prada's sendoff song, Luna Rossa; the horns swelled from a tuneless symphony to a jumbled cacophony for Team Zealand's departure.

The loudspeakers voiced commentators' doubts at the Russell Coutts-Dean Barker switch but one ruddy-faced supporter in a black singlet spoke for many who had none.

"We're gonna kick butt again!" he yelled.

In fact, most fans had developed a remarkable sixth sense, from the banner that simply read "5-0" to the more elaborate sweatshirt with the slogan, "Slaughter on the water, 5-Zip."

If fate was tempted, it never showed up in Italian colours.

Over at the packed grandstand in front of the big screen, the roar greeting Barker's superb start drowned out even Peter Montgomery.

As the lead stretched, a sunburned man turned to a beer-drinking mate: "It's getting a bit boring."

"When it gets boring," the mate replied,"it gets better and better."

People started dancing to the ad breaks.

Through the day the scent of victory was everywhere; fresh coffee and spilled beer mingled with the smell of money changing hands as quickly as a Team New Zealand tack.

Everything started to run together as the black boat crossed the line to clinch the cup - horns, cheers, flags, songs and sweat.

The feel of victory arrived with the tens of thousands who lined up 15-deep around the small rectangle of water where the presentation was made.

From arm's length, to forearm, to hand's width and finally shoulder-to-shoulder, people accommodated their fellow man, woman and small child with mostly good humour during the two-hour wait.

The crush also warped another sense, stretching time as a one-minute, 200m walk to the media centre turned into a 20-minute shuffle. It was as packed as a full Eden Park, but Coutts and Butterworth rather than Lomu and Cullen were the names on everyone's lips.

Some fans looked enviously at a window cleaner who seemed to be taking an awfully long time suspended from the roof of an apartment block with the best view of the floating victory podium.

A businessman, one of hundreds who seemed to have pressing harbourside appointments, told an envious contact on his cellphone that he should live in Auckland.

An older woman who had made it to the railing told a friend: "Isn't it incredible when you saw it in San Diego and you were saying, 'Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful to be there at the end,' and now we are."

The end began with a rowdy appreciation of the Prada crew, particularly, it seemed, from teenage girls who shouted "We love you" and "Don't Feel Bad." The grey-shirted Italians did not look too depressed, perhaps glad it was all over after three months of success and two weeks of failure.

Onshore, a young Italian boy sitting disconsolately in his Prada gear resisted efforts to cheer him up, while an older Italian in the crowd tried to get his flag waving spiritedly. Like his countrymen, though, he just did not have enough puff.

The crowd was in a protective mood of the defeated opponents: a man who yelled out "Alltime losers" to the Italians was quickly told to keep his opinions to himself.

"We don't want any nastiness here," said one woman.

After the crowd had been warmed up with everything from Paint It Black to Dave Dobbyn's Loyal, and old favourites from the Exponents, the black boat entered to the third rendition of an ironic theme song, Six Months In A Leaky Boat by Split Enz.

Waves of deafening cheers, mayhem on the pontoon, Coutts and Barker raising the Cup aloft, and Rachel Hunter on the prow of NZL60 as it sagged with jubilant family members.

"Give us a kiss, Rachel," said one hopeful "Rod's not looking."

The Viaduct then developed its own microclimate - showers of fine wine followed by squalls of streamers: the red, white and green of Italy and the black and white of the home team.

Tactician Brad Butterworth planted a winning kiss on his daughter's cheek; a boy on his father's shoulders summed it all up: "Dad, the black boat rules."

Impromptu national anthems and haka broke out from the bar patrons. Nearby, a cork arced through the air into the water, followed by a shower of champagne.

Ah, the taste of victory.