“OF OLD, A FRIEND.”

Hokitika Guardian, 16 May 1931, Page 2

“OF OLD, A FRIEND.”

OTHER DAYS, OTHER SEAS. (By Mo?ta Tracey in AucMand “Herald.“) Hokitika was full of sunlight that lay, and full of history. 1 wandered down Reve 11 Street, charmed to be .jgsuiju.in. this..fascinating town, of tjm vest; and were you to have told me, is so many have tried that Hokitika s unbeautiful or that Hokitika is unomantic, I should have laughed and carried my dreams still with me. there was beauty, and to spare, in he great open sweep of the bead, ,-ith its lines uj gleaming, many-col-ured pebbles, worn smooth by th< relentless surges of the Tasman r«ca Is for romance, it was everywhere bout me.

In a little hotel, so legend tells, tin v’ust Coast bushrangers had their one-: .une meeting place, and the old walls ( they had ears, must have listenei o the discussion of many a grim plan So I came at last to Hokitika’ vharf, that wharf across which s i.anv thousand pairs of eager feet ad passed. Here in the golden sixties acre sometimes lay clank on rank, as uany as fifty ships at a time; while thers, without the bar, awaited a iv o-u ring wind and a favouring tide ,o sweep in and set ashore the>r imminent- 1 freightage of gold-seekers, ’erclied above the jade-green river ■,-hat has com tor' he a backwater of tin town, and with the surge on the bar .at a subdued, distant murmur, there s usually to be found on the wharf a .ee’p; and abating place. An urchin my come down to it, on fishing in* ~nt; a slitty-eyed Chinese may shuffle y, pausing for a moment to gaze leditatively at the water or inciuus’y at the stranger; or a group oi mngers may drift along, arguing the ,iopeats of the next race meeting, ut time and time again 1 have found uyself the wharf’s sole occupant, therefore, on this golden day of sunhine 1 was surprised to discover an mwonted bustle about this place oi uiet dreams. A little ship was on the joint of departure, and sawn planks ere being loaded aboard her at hectic ipeecl. In charge of the operations was i Viking of a man, clad in moleskin rojusers and a bright, pink flannel shirt. He was shouting a provision list to a small boy who stood beside iim, clutching a pound note in a

mown paw. “And a side of mutton and six .oaves ” came the Viking’s leep tunes. “Small ones?” inquired the imp. The Viking roared: “No, you -•hump! Big ones!” 'i.ie boy sped on the errand, and die Viking turned away to attack anchor pile of planks ; but, as a typical master, lie paused to reply courteously to a query regarding the little ship’s destination. “Pulling out for Bruce Bay in a few *minutes,” he told me. Bruce Bay! I had heard a hundred tales of it, this most isolated of settlements, away to the south of southernmost Westland. Was it not at Bruce Bay that the settlers, descendants

unity of them of the early diggers, ised to be cut off, for months at a ime, from news of the outside world? And was it not there that on the nontrrival of the ship' bringing in the half-yearly stores (sometimes, owing ,;o a sudden shoaling of the bar, sru* vouid be trapped for weeks in Okarto Lagoon) that the people were forc'd hack to a diet of pigeons and their )\vn potatoes, and were grateful be,’ond measure for a pannikin of nouldv flour? One of Bruce Bay’s "liaraeters, 1 as I remember, was historic. Learning belatedly that a world war was in progress, he walked n an incredibly short time from the Bay to Hokitika, there to bo rejected for military service because of flat feet and a weak heart. Round ho turned again and tramped back the ong miles to Bruce Bay, gloomily nsured that a land in which such offiial imbecility reigned was destined i lose any war! more was a friendly sound about 'nice Bay. Suddenlyl 1 wished to oyage there. I told myself that one tight go to Bruce Bay without wnmtg, drop in at the first settler’s house nd receive the warm welcome, the pontaneous hospitality that never :ils in outback Westland. Even the ittle ship, cluttered as her decks ere with planks and boxes and barHs, had a friendly aspect. There was something very familiar in her snubbv bows and pert black and white funnel that recalled other days, other seas, other little voyages. Then 1 saw her name and knew why. She was the Gael!

Now, where had I been in the Gael? Was it to one of the islands of the Hauraki Gulf, to Waiheke of the high hill and the ferny gullies, to Motutapu the sacred isle, to Rakino, or to grassy Chamberlain’s? Was is to Deep Creek or one of the Omahas, or to Mullet Point, happily in nectarine time? Or to Port Kitzroy, a mirror of silver framed which the rubies of poluitakawa; to Mowich of the wandering roads and the fragrant hedgo"ows, to Coromandel or to Thames? •’erliaps, indeed, it was on the Gael hat, as a small child I may have had my first trip up the yellow Ohinemur) fiver, catching breath as the steersnan laconically dodged snags that ■opined t ; o threaten certain destruction.

.... The grinning errand boy was back, in his wake a perspiring delivery men loaded down with mutton ind bread (six big loaves!) and sunIry parcels of undisclosed contents. Hie last pile, of planks . was hastily thrust aboard. A grimy engineerclimber from below docks, consulted with the Viking and disappeared again. The engines began to cough the mooring ropes were cast off, and the Viking took his place at the wheej. The Gael moved slowly down the jadegreen river. And so 1 parted from an old friend of other days and other seas.