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In Memoriam | Early Instructions | A Rough Day At The Office | An Old Hand Works The Bar | Sea Tales From A Past Era
Sea Tales From A Past Era
Captain Nic Campbell has kindly given permission for the use of an extract from his
book, "Ramblings With Old Nic", which also appears in the September 2011 issue of
the NZ Company of Master Mariners quarterly publication, "On Deck"
Background pic of "Titoki" or "Totara" silhouetted in evening sunlight
while riding out rough seas at the Manukau Bar photo source unknown
While on holiday in Karaka some months ago I was able to look across the vast stretch of water contained within the Manukau Harbour. I was reminded of the times I had come into this harbour as a young man. Those were also the days when shipmasters were usually taciturn and made sure their young officers weren't told too much so one had to learn from one's own experience. A consequence of this attitude was that most small ships had their radios installed in the master's room so only he could use it and ensure we couldn't know too much of what was going on. Although I probably only went to this port no more than about five or six times I can recount some stories still.
Even the great can err
The only time I went to Onehunga as Master I had great difficulty berthing due to the strong tidal flow I had made insufficient allowance for. I used so many engine movements that the compressors couldn't cope and we ran out of starting air. It was embarrassing, especially as while doing it I had a large audience of wharf labourers offering free but mostly useless advice. Certainly it was not one of my better berthings. Looking back I was probably young and reckless. I did get her alongside without damage but I think I spent about fifteen minutes or so doing it.
Flags can be dangerous
My first crossing of the Manukau Bar could quite easily have been my last. I was mate of a small coaster and had arrived off the bar in the late evening. The weather was misty with passing showers so that the leading lights were often obscured. A fair westerly swell was running under a light westerly breeze. I was aware of the fearsome reputation of the coast here so had favoured a seaward course and fetched up some eight miles off the coast by dead reckoning. I also knew the bar extended some five miles out to sea from the coast.
I called the Master and true to form he wasn't pleased with our position and told me to move in closer on the leading lights. He went below to call up the Manukau signalman and returned later to tell me we would go in two hours. I was told to head slowly out to sea for an hour then return on a reciprocal course close to the leads. He would come up then and take the ship over the bar. I did as ordered but on the return course towards the land I felt we were getting much closer to the shoals than was wise. There was no way of plotting a position in the conditions so I called the Master again and told him my concerns.
All I got for my trouble was a bit of verbal abuse and told to keep her heading in. I did, realising that he knew the area much better than me, but I didn't like it. As it turned out I was right to feel nervous because we were actually less than four miles from the coast and less than half a mile from the bar. We were to find this out in a very short time. About five minutes later the Master did arrive on the bridge muttering something about the impossibility of getting proper rest with a young no-hoper (me) on the bridge.
It was just as well he did arrive then because suddenly the bows dipped viciously, at the same time the visibility cleared slightly. There right in front and too close to turn away was the first breaker of the bar. I was aghast at the maelstrom that suddenly appeared around us and stretched as far as one could see. The Master reacted and rung for half speed then we rushed to assist the helmsman at the huge hand geared wheel. The helmsman on the starboard side, me on the port side, and the Master on the skipper's spoke in front of the wheel.
The ship staggered across the first part of the bar then began to lift aft as a particularly large swell lifted her. This passed beneath and as the stern dropped off into the trough a real monster swell came racing over the stern. It swept the raised after deck and smashed its way into the wheelhouse, carried on through and smashed out the wheelhouse windows as well. I don't remember what happened to us but the water must have been several feet deep in the wheelhouse.
Our first fear was that it may have knocked us out of the channel towards the shoals but it was soon clear we were still more or less in the channel but lying at an angle to it. The greatest danger was regaining control for the sea had smashed the signal flag locker and washed out the flags which were now draped about the bridge and around us too. They had tangled around the wheel and jammed it with a turn or so of starboard helm. The Master ran to the telegraph and tried to ring stop but it took him some moments to clear away the flags that were covering it as well. Thankfully we were over the bar but still with three or four miles of channel to negotiate before we reached the harbour entrance. The channel was now easy to identify because we could see the wild breaking of the shoals either side but we were still being affected by the breakers roaring over the bar. A last breaker reared up behind and pushed the vessel into a full broach as the Master finally managed to ring stop. We finished up across the channel and rolling heavily before we got the wheel free, and it was an alarming operation getting the ship about and started up the narrow channel with such a close view of the tumult of foam and spray each side that would have been almost sure death if touched.
You know, by the time we entered the harbour and started up the channel to Onehunga that old scoundrel of a captain had rationalised the whole incident as being a result of my inexperience. I'm sure he believed that until he died many years later. I still hold a different opinion.
Buoys will be Buoys
On another occasion, in a different ship, with a different captain, we had crossed the bar and were proceeding up the channel past Paratutai Rock and approached a new channel buoy.
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Neither the Master nor I had been into Onehunga since this buoy had been laid and were not aware of it. In those days a black buoy was passed to port. Naturally, as he kept all the Navigation Notices I had no chance to make myself conversant with changes. He asked me what colour it was but with the glare of rising sun ahead I couldn't be sure and said I thought it was black.
We conned to pass it to port but the ship wouldn't answer. Once again it was all hands on the wheel and a plethora of engine orders. None had any effect and the ship ploughed on determined to pass the buoy to starboard. As we drew abeam and waited for the possibility of the vessel stranding the ship's shadow sheltered the buoy from the glare and it was red after all! The tidal flow in the channel was so strong that it forced the ship on to the correct course despite all our efforts to take the wrong one. I wasn't blamed this time.
That old captain died in Levin a few years ago and when we sometimes met he often mentioned this navigational contretemps.
The Pompous Parson
On one trip from Onehunga the master invited his father to take a trip with us as far as Wellington via New Plymouth. He was a parson and a zealot and turned out to be a real trial to us even before we sailed. He quizzed us to find out our various religious beliefs then rubbished them and held forth on the absolute truth of his own. He wandered about the ship telling us we had a great life without the pressures and worry he had to endure. I formed the opinion that any pressures and worries he had were probably of his own making! He was not welcome amongst us but being the master's father what could we do? Certainly his son was a nice enough bloke and did not seem very religious.
Anyway, we sailed and he was on the bridge going down the harbour and through the channel. Unfortunately the weather was reasonably fine at first with low seas. As we approached the bar he commented that it seemed all the tales he had heard about the Manukau Bar were much exaggerated as it appeared quite tranquil to him. I was well fed up with him by this time but I think his God decided to teach him a lesson because as we gained the bar one of those freak series of huge waves, that occur fairly often on this bar, reared up in front of us and the bows shot up with immense acceleration to be followed by an equally sickening slide down into the trough. We shipped a huge quantity of water with each wave and pitched wildly up and down with express train speed. The ship staggered at each onslaught and wallowed heavily as she tried to recover. It scared all of us on the bridge but we were used to hiding our reactions. The parson went white and I realised he was shaking but instead of feeling sorry for him I am ashamed to say I was pleased.
God hadn't finished with his servant yet though. A brisk south-westerly soon began which was at full gale in an hour and up to storm force in the next hour. The trip to New Plymouth which should have taken about 10 hours lengthened to about 24 hours as we punched and pounded our way south. The ship did all those violent things one expects of a small ship in a storm and a few one didn't.
It was a harrowing trip but illuminated with the small satisfaction that the parson was probably experiencing a taste of real life for possibly the first time. He was certainly sicker than a dog. The parson wasn't seen at all again. He disappeared quickly at New Plymouth having decided he didn't want to go on to Wellington. He wasn't missed.
I wonder if he changed his mind about the seafaring life after he recovered. Possibly not, he probably thought we were all in league with the devil and were trying to proselyte him by fear. His next sermon must have been an interesting one! After he left the captain apologised for his father and that was the first and only apology I ever received from a shipmaster!
The Manukau Harbour Entrance
The entrance is surrounded by sand shoals that have been known to extend as much as seven miles out to sea but more normally only for about four miles. There are three channels through the shoals North, South and Middle but generally only the middle channel is suitable for all shipping. This leads straight through the centre of the shoals but has the disadvantage that it leads right into the prevailing westerly seas that is the normal wave pattern in the Tasman Sea. Naturally in this sort of wave climate the banks are constantly breaking and give the entrance an intimidating aspect. To make matters worse the outflow of water from the harbour is confined within the channels so that the flow retains much of its energy until reaching deep water. This results in the bar being some miles from the coast. Although I cannot confirm it, the outflow of water is reputed to be arguably the greatest volume of water discharged from any harbour in the world. The entrance needs local knowledge and as conditions are in constant flux the latest information is essential before any entrance or departure.
This bar was the scene of New Zealand's most tragic shipwreck, the naval vessel Orpheus was appallingly mishandled by an arrogant naval officer and foundered with the loss of 189 lives, most of them young men. At least 25 significant vessels have left their bones on the Manukau banks and probably others that are not recorded. It is a stretch of water that demands much respect. Without modern navigation aids this was even more true when I used the port forty years ago. It is a difficult port, similar to most others on the northwest coast of the North Island but much busier. Probably Port Waikato was the worst and needed the most skill to enter but that port is no longer used by commercial shipping.
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