THE FRATERNITY

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 852, 21 December 1929, Page 6

THE FRATERNITY

Those Whose ClubHouse is the Waterfront OLD PIPES AND SEA LORE j Between the Ferry building and Prince’s Wharf gates is a “rest area” frequented by the membefs of a fraternity peculiar to waterfronts the world over. Tragedy is there along with humour, love, pathos, drunkenness, comical fanaticism and the reminiscences of old men. Consistent observation in this area over a period produces for us a phantasmagoria the figures of which are widely diversified and ever changing. The first figure that crosses the screen is that of a little wizened brown man, oldish, with beady brown eyes that are ever alert and with a profusion of fierce whiskers. He is a, regular frequenter of the wharves and “waterfront rest area.” Any attempt at conversation with him is futile—a grunt perhaps, or a shrug of the shoulders as he shifts his well-

seasoned pipe to the other side of his mouth is all that is vouchsafed the would-be inquirer. And the subject’s gaze is again, as ever, concentrated on some passing scow, or he merely surveys the sea placidly, while in his mind revolve goodness knows what thoughts of roaring windjammer days when sailors were sailors and not merely seamen, and a man had to be a man or else be relegated to that place of ignominy—the waist of the ship. The little brown man moves off and we are transported to the interior of one of the waterfront shelter houses with its collection of strange humanity. In a loud voice, a grey-haired man is reading to his fellows and all are attention. “The Mock Trial of Sir Joseph Ward” is the subject of this doggerel and it is, apparently, vastly amusing. The finale is a howling success, and at its conclusion the reader departs well satisfied—and the various units of his audience revert to their former occupations or inertness. WRITING HOME In one corner sits a pale English lad, the galley-boy on a tramp steamer in port. In his left hand is the veriest stub of a pencil with which he is laboriously contriving to write his “home letter,” probably to a pale little mother in Liverpool. Over yonder lies a drunken fireman "sleeping it off”; beside him is a man of wild expression who violently propounds to an utterly uninterested listener strange and moving theories on the Hand of Providence in its relation to mortal men with dashes of Communism, mesmeriem and altruism thrown in; here is an old, old man who is very tired and sleeps peacefully, not even snoring; there are a couple of uaemployables, unshaven and unsavoury. The scene fades and gives place to the long line of seats between the two rest-houses. Here are more of the heterogeneous waterfront fraternity. Cupid, the übiquitous, has invaded this area as he does all regions. His flaming little darts have lodged in the breasts of a seaman from the Niagara, and his lass, who, oblivious to their surroundings, are being as affectionate as daylight will permit. Further along are three old-timers who gaze at the vessels lying at Queen’s and Prince’s wharves, chatting and reviving past incidents with a fervour which shows that sea-fever still has them in its toils. SAD SILENT SOULS Again there are pitiful examples of the unemployed who sleep disturbed, fitful slumbers, or stare hopelessly seaward. There are other unhappy souls here, too, men and women, young and old, who sit out the long day in silence. . . . Occasionally their silence is broken by unintelligible mutterings. To Waitemata they all come, these unhappy souls. She is their “Father Tiber” —their “Mother Ganges.” One hopes she gives them at least a modicum of solace. And so the fraternity lives out its day in silence, inertness, slumber. . . . yarning, reading that treasured weekold newspaper, or indulging in its own particular brand of humour. And every hour its members come and go, but of their comings and goings the heart of the big city takes no stock.