A TRAGIC FIGURE.

Hauraki Plains Gazette, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 5132, 30 May 1927, Page 2

A TRAGIC FIGURE.

HERMIT LOSIES REASON.

WELLINGTON MYSTERY MAN

He turned his back on the world and lived alone, communing w.ith nature, and speaking to no man. Nobody seems to know—and most likely nobody ever will know—why Robert Norman Nicholson severed his associations with his fellowmen and came to live in a large whaleboat in Wellington Harbour. Nobody seems to know —but many whisper suggestions —what lays behind the mask of inscrutability which lias kept Nicholson aloof from inquiring and wellmeaning people.

This mystery man, for over two years a real hermit of the sea., was placed last week in the hands of the' authorities, who will look after him in an institution. Since his boat was wrecked just after the Cnristmas holidays. he has been frequenting the city like a wandering spirit, carrying with him a pair of blankets, and sleeping where Fate decreed. No longer will the little boat be seen riding easily the waves on the choppy harbour; no more will the mystery man himself be observed from Oriental Bay Para.de sunning himself on fine days and warming himself |>v vigorous jerks when winter comes. Alone he led his eccentric life, wedded tp the sea—rising and falling with the movements of t'he tides —■ his only accommodation his little boat, which possessed two masts and a canvas awning, beneath which he used to reside.

His boat was a familiar sight. Everybody in the city knew of “Sinbad,” or, as some called him, the “Sea Hermit,” and many would see his craft pulled up on the beach at Day’s Bay at nights. Following the prevailing winds, he landed at the various little bays, seeking the sheltered spots, occasionally doing a little gardening work for some of the people—then going his own way iind resenting intrusion. On the foreshore he had become a well-known figure, and children and adults would watch for the beaching of the little houseboat as evening shadows enveloped the suburban seaside resort.

Nicholson obviously is cultured and well-educated, but he has shut the book of his past life with a decisive snap, and those people who sought his history received scant informatipn. It is told of him, however —and on as reliable authority as can be procured —that he is a former Oxford man, who practised the lipv—indeed, he is said to have admitted this much to the caretaker of the boathouses on the city side of the harbour—until some- person masquerading as a friend swindled him of a legacy to which he was entitled.

Perhaps this ijccounts for his embittered attitude towards man, and his invariable demand that payment for his little gardening services at Day’s Baj' be made in advance. No longer did he trust his fellows ; no longer did he possess implicit faith in human nature. v Another story which received wide currency was that trouble with the Tasmanian Government over somepropertj- provoked him to turn his back on the world and its conventions, and migrate to Wellington. It is said that he was in Lyttelton at one time, but as soon as he came to the capital he was given rfhe little craft which he made his home, and which was originally the captain’s gig on the Torch.

The police described him as being 18 years of age, but he appeared not a day under 60, with his neatly-trim-med beard and moderate stature.

It was after a voyage across Cook Strait to the Marlborough Sounds that Nicholson lost his boat. He was returning to his heme port, and when off Terewhiti he beached the boat and went ashore for water. The craft apparentlj- drifted while was ashore-, for later it was found keel upward, floating on the waves. At first the discovery caused alarm, for it was thought that it was'from a yachting pi’rty which had been spending a holidaj- in the Sounds ; but it was subsequently found to be the little houseboat of the "Sea Hermit.” Without his boat Nicholson, the recluse, was thrust back into civilisation, into an environment in jvhieh he cpuld no Longer fit. He was like a lost soul, and wandered aimlessljabout. The call of Davy Jones still rang in his ears; but he could not respond. He carried Jiis blankets through the streets —a tragic figure of unfilled purpose. Who knows what the loss of his boat cost him ? Who will ever know what his feelings were when his house and home lay tossed, upturned, and out of reach on the angry waves, of the Pacific ?

For now his reason is gone, and Wellington may see its mystery man, no more.