A Yachtsman’s Log

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 218, 3 December 1927, Page 10

A Yachtsman’s Log

The Plain Record of a Simple Mariner

By

Peter Galliot

Friday. December —ln sight of another iceek-end , which is very i cheering. Last week-end to I sling- , ton Bay and Motutapu on the Sun- ; day, in fair weather. The ship be- j hared well, running nicely off the j wind oil the run down-harbour on j Saturday afternoon. ; It was just the breeze for a spin- j naker, but we had left our spinnaker boom ashore. In any case, a spinnaker takes rather more handling than we could have given, with two raw men in the crew. One passenger came out with a preconceived notion that he would be a martyr to seasickness. but bowling down to Islington Bay was like riding in a tram. The Waipu nosed into port as we passed the Bean Rock, and we passed across her bows, on a diagonal line, simply by keeping on our course. The new passenger, with nice ideas of nautical courtesy, saluted the man on the bridge. ‘'We’ll give j r ou a bump, next time,” was his response to the salutation. A pretty response, indeed. There were but few craft in Islington Bay, a contrast with the previous week-end, but there were enough for company, and our eyes were cheered by the gleam of coloured frocks aboard a spacious launch. There we cast ! anchor. THE ETERNAL FEMES IE E This yachting is a man’s game I grant you, but it is yet not inseparable from the charms of gentler society than our rude company can offer. The party aboard the next launch, unhappilj’, was extremely self-contained. There were squires for every dame, even unto the chaperones. Ted says these launch-owners are an exclusive lot. Even worse than the omission of the spinnaker boom was the omission of the card-packs—no bridge for the toilworn crew, a dreadful enormity.. So out came the official banjo, and discreetly our serenade floated across the water. “Ain’t she sweet?” is the discerning yachtsman’s favourite, though “Mary Lou” is not without sentimental appeal, and the “801 l Dance” has charm, though unfortunately a charm as yet beyond the compass of the ship’s musician. I had thought “Bye, bye, blackbird.” had said its last farewell, but to our horror it answered our serenade, replying across the water from the big launch. Romance must be dead, said Ted. At this stage Tony, the passenger, made a leap for the dinghy. Tony’s complexion showed a faintly protesting gleam as he faded into the darkness toward the shore. “I would rattier sleep on the rocks of Rangitoto than on a boat that smells and rolls as yours does,” said a whisper that drifted in from the outer gloom. So Tony was gone, to sleep on the rocks if he could not find an empty hut. Well, he could have it for mine. I have not seen him since, and suspect that he must have trudged round to Rangitoto pier, returning to Auckland on a ferry boat. Sunday broke clear and fine, and the sunshine, slanting in over Motutapu raised us early. One or two launches had left at daybreak for the fishinggrounds, but on the other craft not a soul was stirring, and we had enjoyed a stimulating plunge in the waters of the bay, and were half-way through the ham and eggs that a diligent cook had prepared for us, before the drawn awning was lifted from the cockpit of the nearest launch. THE VIOLENT RAYS There was hardly a whisper of wind to puff our mainsail as we edged from

the bay, and reaching Emu Point was 1 a matter of 20 minutes or more. In j glorious sunshine we dawdled across to Alotuihi, absorbing violet rays at every inch of the journey. Judged by later results, those rays must have been violent, rather than violet, for we all peeled painfully, and Ted ha 3 been a cripple ever since. There wero any number of penguins swimming about in the. calm sea. and our passenger, now quite a useful for’ard hand, told us how he had found a penguin’s nest among driftwood in a cave at the extreme end of Cape Kidnappers, near Napier. Penguins sometimes burrow in clumps of ilax near the beaches, he told us, and lay theneggs at the end of the burrow. All this sounded like the sort of story that only a finished yachtsman would dare to tell —tall tales from the sea, so to speak, but our passenger's wide-eyed innocence seemed to vouch for its veracity. Cruising along Motuihi shore, we saw one penguin that was obviously crippled. Shots had been heard from the direction of a distant launch a few minutes before, so it looked as though penguins had been the object of the shooting. We are not thin-skinned, but object to that sort of thing. Off Motuihi we passed the two rocks where the black-fronted terns are nesting. Many yachtsmen take the pretty g-raceful birds, with their wing-spread like the faint sickle of a crescent moon, for a variety of gull. In reality the tern seen in the Gull’ is a small relation of the Caspian tern, which is world-wide in its distribution. Sunday’s breezes were fitful and unreliable throughout the day. We cruised across to Motutapu and were warmly greeted by the launches Deben and Rodney, both looking very spick and span, and each carrying a fair complement of colour and beauty. Contrary winds led us to abandon ! the intention of circumnavigating j. Motutapu, and off Rakino we stood i about, returning before a brisk breeze through Motuihi channel. CH RISTM A S ATTRA G 710 N S The trolling line, with spinner ati tached, was out on the run back and | landed the ship its first fish, a kahawai. j off Emu Point we passed a Maori i woman fishing. There was a huge wicker coal basket in the bow of her dinghy. “Why the basket,” we inquired. “I found it,” replied the wahine. Then up spake Ted: “I thought you might want it to put the baby in.” “Too many picaninnies,” was the baffling response, and we sailed on. During the week we have been discussing our Christmas cruise—to Russell, the Great Barrier, or Tauranga? Russell I think it will be. They tell me brave tales of a gallant company of yachtsmen there assembled over Christmas, and I learn that one Mick, a cook, has earned lasting fame. Gossip says that the police at Russell put away one man every season, as a matter of form. Well, here’s hoping that it will be Ted, not I.