HERMIT OF THE SEA

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 47, 18 May 1927, Page 9

HERMIT OF THE SEA

Wellington’s Mystery Man Who Lived in Whaleboat LINK SNAPS IN CLOSED MIND (From Our Resident Reporter.) HE turned his back on the world and lived alone, communing: with Nature, and speaking: to no man. Nobody seems to know—and most likely will never know—why Robert Norman Nicholson severed his associations with his fellowmen and came to live in a alrge whale boat on the Wellington Harbour. Nobody seems to know—by many whisper it—what lays behind the mask of inscrutability which has kept Nicholson aloof from inquiring and well meaning people.

This mystery man, for over two years a literal hermit of the sea, was this week placed in the hands of the authorities, who will look after him in an institution. Since his boat was wrecked just after the Christmas holidays he has been frequenting the city like a wondering spirit, carrying with him a pair of blankets, and sleeping anywhere fate decreed. No longer will the little boat be seen riding easily on the waves the choppy harbour; no more will the mystery man himself be observed from Oriental Bay Parade sunning himself on fine days, and warming himself by vigorous physical jerks when winter comes.

Alone he led his eccentric life, wedded to the sea, rising and falling with the movements of the tides —his only accommodation his little boat which possesses two masts and a canvas awning, beneath which he used to reside.

His boat was a familiar sight. Everyone 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 did a little gardening work for some of the people there, going his own way, and resenting intrusion. On the foreshore he had become a well-known figure, and children and adults would watch for the beaching of the little house-boat as evening shadows enveloped the suburban seaside resort. Nicholson is obviously cultured and well-educated, but he has shut the book of his past life with a decisive snap, and those who sought his history received scanty information. It is told of him, however—and on as reliable authority as can be procured —that he is an ex-Oxford man, who practised law in fact, lie is said to have admitted this much to the caretaker of one 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 accounts for his embittered attitude toward man, and his

Invariable demand that payment for his little gardening services at the Bay be made in advance. No longer did he trust his fellows; no longer did he possess implicit faith in human nature.

Another story which received wide currency was that trouble with the Tasmanian Government over some property 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 the little craft which he made his home, and which was originally the captain’s gig on the steamer Torch. The police described him as 4S years of age, but he appeared not a day under 60, with his neatly trimmed beard and moderate stature. LOSS OF HIS BOOKS It was after a journey across the Straits to the Sounds that Nicholson lost his boat. He was returning to his home port and when off Terewhiti he beached the boat and went ashore for water. The craft apparently drifted while he was ashore, for it was later found keel upward floating on the waves. At first the discovery caused alarm, for it was thought that it was from a yachting party which had been spending a holiday in the fjords; but it was subsequently found to be the little houseboat of the “Sea Hermit.” ’vV ithout his boat, Nicholson, the recluse, was thrust back into civilisation, into an environment where he could no longer fit. He was like a lost soul, and wandered aimlessly about. The call of Davy Jones still rang in his ears; but be could not respond. He carried his blankets through the streets —a tragic figure of unfulfilled 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 waves of the Pacific?

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