20115
Time at Sea by Michael Morrissey
Main BodyLate in 1969, I went to sea.
I had heard that stewards on the inter-island ferries earned $60 a week ($900 in today's money) - fifty per cent more than I was earning as a barman. No one told me how hard they worked. Our day began at 6am and finished around 10pm. We assisted passengers to carry their luggage on board, served food and refreshments in the cafeteria, mopped up afterwards at breakneck speed, then returned to the gangway to see the passengers off.
If the second steward decided that the cafe was insufficiently busy, two of the stewards would be asked to remove their white jackets and bow ties, change into work clothes and give a stairwell or a wall a wash down with a cloth and bucket. As the walls were already clean (so it seemed to me) it was unnecessary work. It felt like a punishment. And in fact, the second steward contrived to make sure that people he didn't like were so charged.
This included me.
After a while, I gained acceptance and he started to pick on someone else. The chief steward never liked me either and one day, God knows why, I eyeballed him until he glanced away. In other words, I was challenging his authority. This arrogance signed my death warrant. Though I never arranged a liaison in the Laundromat, I had earned a reputation as a skirt-chaser. So much so that Rick had nicknamed me Radar, meaning I could detect sexual possibility at a distance.
One evening I was at the rear of the vessel talking to a young woman clad in tight black leather when the chief steward appeared.
“Pay off in the morning,” he said.
The young lady was somewhat surprised I could be sacked for merely talking to her, but I was in a forbidden part of the ship and the Chief Steward had wanted me gone.
During our long day, there seemed no time off. However, we were fed royally, unlike the passengers who were often sold stale sandwiches.
A couple of times when the sandwich makers weren't looking I emptied them into the rubbish bin. I was too ashamed to serve them.
From time to time, we had colourful passengers, like the Bull, a huge Māori guy with a ring through his nose. He ordered ten asparagus rolls, then another batch and then another, making thirty in all.
In general, the crew seemed to regard the passengers with disdain.
One evening when working the last crossing, I came across one of the Perano brothers who was to be night watchman on the vessel.
The Perano brothers had operated a whaling station at Yellerton Bay, Tory Channel, near the head of the Marlborough sounds until 1964. Thus ended 180 years of New Zealand whaling. It had been running since 1911. I had recently read Moby Dick by Melville and my mead was still frothing with the romance of Ahab's doomed combat with the giant white beast.
Whaling in its modern form meant no risk to the whalers, who had long since stopped venturing forth in whaling long boats no larger than our lifeboats. But Mr. Perano was still linked with the past so I enjoyed hearing talk him about the subject.
“It was a fine sight," he reminisced, “to see the whaler boats out on a fine morning …”
A fine sight for the whalers, doom for the whales. By 1960, the Perano brothers were taking two hundred whales a year, but by 1964 the number was thinning out. Protection of the whales only came in the 1970s.
I had to get used to sharing a small cabin with a man – an unnatural intimacy to be handled with reserve. Whenever I feel at odds with my social environment, I behave in a similar way. My fellow crew members had all been at sea a while and knew I was a rookie. I was gradually pulled into their social world.
Many were Englishmen, often Liverpudlians, known as ‘scouses’ – Liverpool Irish who had been around the world several times. Scouse was short for lobscouse, a meat stew frequently eaten by sailors.
Some of these scouses had had gone down with the Wahine.
I become friendly with Rick, a 27-old with black swishy Presley-style hair, who had an astonishing array of tattoos including the Union Jack emblazoned close to an intimate place. Rick was the acknowledged champion seducer on board ship. Apart from being tall and an entertaining talker, he had the advantage of the Merseyside sound – the same accent as the Beatles – a guaranteed path to seduction success with the young ladies, often Nelson nurses, who came aboard.
What surprised me was the speed of seduction at sea. The trip from Wellington to Picton took three hours and twenty minutes. When a young woman came into the cafeteria for a cup of tea and a sandwich, Rick, or another crew member, would ‘chat them up,’ i.e. charm them in a few minutes. The newly and briefly formed couple would meet at the ship's stern in the Laundromat where the deed took place.
Making love in a Laundromat was not my style, but after a while I picked up the scouse speed of seduction, though not the accent. I would suggest meeting ashore. These Laundromat assignations aboard ship were, of course, illegal. From time to time, stewards would be caught and paid off. However, after some time cooling their heels on land the offending steward would be allowed back to sea.
Talk about the sinking of the Wahine, remarks like ‘the biggest wave I have ever seen’ and the observation that the Cook Strait was one of the roughest and most dangerous in the world
made me apprehensive (yet paradoxically eager) about when I would encounter a proper Cook Strait storm and how I - or the ship - would react.
Rick had described how when he had hit the water during an attempt to rescue drowning passengers from the doomed Wahine, the lifejacket had simply washed off over his head. Those white, insecurely-tied former lifejackets had been replaced with a bright orange type more easily spotted – double tied and with a whistle to attract attention.
‘Mountainous seas’ was a description I was inclined to disbelieve until I hit my first big storm. Not exactly mountainous, more house-sized or even larger. As the ship's bow nosed down into these huge waves, a giant green hammer would strike the windows of the forehead lounge. Each time it struck I was sure the windows would break. Thick wooden slats were attached to the windows.
These rollers were not white-capped but green from top to bottom. My estimate was 30-40 feet. Fear was my reaction though I could not show it. In the forehead lounge, which had the greatest amount of up and down movement, some two hundred people were being seasick and we were handing out self-sealed brown bags to the those who were vomiting warmed-up pies and stale sandwiches.
We would shove the bags into cardboard boxes and heave them over the side. After tossing over a couple of these I started to feel sick myself. I went to the ship's stern to get some fresh air and who should emerge from the laundry but a red-faced Rick with a girl in tow, attired in a low-cut dress.
The encounter with the Cook Strait storm only lasted about an hour then we reached the shelter of the Marlborough Sounds. We made the trip four times day, the last in the middle of the night. While the waking movement of the ship helped put me to sleep, the night time mooring never disturbed me. When someone asked me how many times we made the trip a day and I replied four times, a frequent response was,” Doesn't that become boring?” I had to refrain from saying that this question had also become tedious.
Yes, boring indeed; but the sea always changed as did the passengers. And the new passengers, apart from agreeable nurses, sometimes included old friends crossing between the two islands.
And what happened to the Aramoana? After 22 years service on the Cook Strait, she was sold to the Najd Trading & Construction Company of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia and renamed the Captain Nicholas I. In 1986, she was renamed Najd 11, repainted rust-red and carried pilgrims across the Red Sea. In 1992, she was at Singapore then at Mombasa, reputedly involved in smuggling immigrants (I wonder if any made love in the Laundromat?) before coming to rest at the United Arab Emirates port of Ajman in 1993.
Finally, as were many ships, she was towed by tug to Alang beach on the western shore of Jhamhhat in Gujarat State, India, for demolition.
About the writer: Michael Morrissey has published twenty books, his latest being Taming the Tiger, a memoir of manic depression. For full bibliography, view Michael J. T. Morrissey at Wikipedia.
‘Time at Sea’ was written for the Memoir & Local History Competition 2011, run annually by the New Zealand Society of Authors (Bay of Plenty Region) with support from Tauranga Writers.
Please note: This article was originally part of Tauranga City Library's 'Tauranga Memories' website (2011-2020). To your right the 'Archived Kete Link', if present, will take you to a snapshot of the original record. Tauranga Memories was made of several focus areas, called 'baskets'. This article was part of the New Zealand Society of Authors Bay of Plenty basket. It was first licenced under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 New Zealand License at http://tauranga.kete.net.nz/new_zealand_society_of_authors_bay_of_plenty/topics/show/442. Initially created 20/02/2012, it underwent 6 edit, the last edit being 15/10/2016. Editors included: Tauranga City Libraries staff (Debbie Mc. Cauley) and Tauranga City Libraries staff (Harley Couper). The original article may have included links, images etc that are not present here.
I had heard that stewards on the inter-island ferries earned $60 a week ($900 in today's money) - fifty per cent more than I was earning as a barman. No one told me how hard they worked. Our day began at 6am and finished around 10pm. We assisted passengers to carry their luggage on board, served food and refreshments in the cafeteria, mopped up afterwards at breakneck speed, then returned to the gangway to see the passengers off.
If the second steward decided that the cafe was insufficiently busy, two of the stewards would be asked to remove their white jackets and bow ties, change into work clothes and give a stairwell or a wall a wash down with a cloth and bucket. As the walls were already clean (so it seemed to me) it was unnecessary work. It felt like a punishment. And in fact, the second steward contrived to make sure that people he didn't like were so charged.
This included me.
After a while, I gained acceptance and he started to pick on someone else. The chief steward never liked me either and one day, God knows why, I eyeballed him until he glanced away. In other words, I was challenging his authority. This arrogance signed my death warrant. Though I never arranged a liaison in the Laundromat, I had earned a reputation as a skirt-chaser. So much so that Rick had nicknamed me Radar, meaning I could detect sexual possibility at a distance.
One evening I was at the rear of the vessel talking to a young woman clad in tight black leather when the chief steward appeared.
“Pay off in the morning,” he said.
The young lady was somewhat surprised I could be sacked for merely talking to her, but I was in a forbidden part of the ship and the Chief Steward had wanted me gone.
During our long day, there seemed no time off. However, we were fed royally, unlike the passengers who were often sold stale sandwiches.
A couple of times when the sandwich makers weren't looking I emptied them into the rubbish bin. I was too ashamed to serve them.
From time to time, we had colourful passengers, like the Bull, a huge Māori guy with a ring through his nose. He ordered ten asparagus rolls, then another batch and then another, making thirty in all.
In general, the crew seemed to regard the passengers with disdain.
One evening when working the last crossing, I came across one of the Perano brothers who was to be night watchman on the vessel.
The Perano brothers had operated a whaling station at Yellerton Bay, Tory Channel, near the head of the Marlborough sounds until 1964. Thus ended 180 years of New Zealand whaling. It had been running since 1911. I had recently read Moby Dick by Melville and my mead was still frothing with the romance of Ahab's doomed combat with the giant white beast.
Whaling in its modern form meant no risk to the whalers, who had long since stopped venturing forth in whaling long boats no larger than our lifeboats. But Mr. Perano was still linked with the past so I enjoyed hearing talk him about the subject.
“It was a fine sight," he reminisced, “to see the whaler boats out on a fine morning …”
A fine sight for the whalers, doom for the whales. By 1960, the Perano brothers were taking two hundred whales a year, but by 1964 the number was thinning out. Protection of the whales only came in the 1970s.
I had to get used to sharing a small cabin with a man – an unnatural intimacy to be handled with reserve. Whenever I feel at odds with my social environment, I behave in a similar way. My fellow crew members had all been at sea a while and knew I was a rookie. I was gradually pulled into their social world.
Many were Englishmen, often Liverpudlians, known as ‘scouses’ – Liverpool Irish who had been around the world several times. Scouse was short for lobscouse, a meat stew frequently eaten by sailors.
Some of these scouses had had gone down with the Wahine.
I become friendly with Rick, a 27-old with black swishy Presley-style hair, who had an astonishing array of tattoos including the Union Jack emblazoned close to an intimate place. Rick was the acknowledged champion seducer on board ship. Apart from being tall and an entertaining talker, he had the advantage of the Merseyside sound – the same accent as the Beatles – a guaranteed path to seduction success with the young ladies, often Nelson nurses, who came aboard.
What surprised me was the speed of seduction at sea. The trip from Wellington to Picton took three hours and twenty minutes. When a young woman came into the cafeteria for a cup of tea and a sandwich, Rick, or another crew member, would ‘chat them up,’ i.e. charm them in a few minutes. The newly and briefly formed couple would meet at the ship's stern in the Laundromat where the deed took place.
Making love in a Laundromat was not my style, but after a while I picked up the scouse speed of seduction, though not the accent. I would suggest meeting ashore. These Laundromat assignations aboard ship were, of course, illegal. From time to time, stewards would be caught and paid off. However, after some time cooling their heels on land the offending steward would be allowed back to sea.
Talk about the sinking of the Wahine, remarks like ‘the biggest wave I have ever seen’ and the observation that the Cook Strait was one of the roughest and most dangerous in the world
made me apprehensive (yet paradoxically eager) about when I would encounter a proper Cook Strait storm and how I - or the ship - would react.
Rick had described how when he had hit the water during an attempt to rescue drowning passengers from the doomed Wahine, the lifejacket had simply washed off over his head. Those white, insecurely-tied former lifejackets had been replaced with a bright orange type more easily spotted – double tied and with a whistle to attract attention.
‘Mountainous seas’ was a description I was inclined to disbelieve until I hit my first big storm. Not exactly mountainous, more house-sized or even larger. As the ship's bow nosed down into these huge waves, a giant green hammer would strike the windows of the forehead lounge. Each time it struck I was sure the windows would break. Thick wooden slats were attached to the windows.
These rollers were not white-capped but green from top to bottom. My estimate was 30-40 feet. Fear was my reaction though I could not show it. In the forehead lounge, which had the greatest amount of up and down movement, some two hundred people were being seasick and we were handing out self-sealed brown bags to the those who were vomiting warmed-up pies and stale sandwiches.
We would shove the bags into cardboard boxes and heave them over the side. After tossing over a couple of these I started to feel sick myself. I went to the ship's stern to get some fresh air and who should emerge from the laundry but a red-faced Rick with a girl in tow, attired in a low-cut dress.
The encounter with the Cook Strait storm only lasted about an hour then we reached the shelter of the Marlborough Sounds. We made the trip four times day, the last in the middle of the night. While the waking movement of the ship helped put me to sleep, the night time mooring never disturbed me. When someone asked me how many times we made the trip a day and I replied four times, a frequent response was,” Doesn't that become boring?” I had to refrain from saying that this question had also become tedious.
Yes, boring indeed; but the sea always changed as did the passengers. And the new passengers, apart from agreeable nurses, sometimes included old friends crossing between the two islands.
And what happened to the Aramoana? After 22 years service on the Cook Strait, she was sold to the Najd Trading & Construction Company of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia and renamed the Captain Nicholas I. In 1986, she was renamed Najd 11, repainted rust-red and carried pilgrims across the Red Sea. In 1992, she was at Singapore then at Mombasa, reputedly involved in smuggling immigrants (I wonder if any made love in the Laundromat?) before coming to rest at the United Arab Emirates port of Ajman in 1993.
Finally, as were many ships, she was towed by tug to Alang beach on the western shore of Jhamhhat in Gujarat State, India, for demolition.
About the writer: Michael Morrissey has published twenty books, his latest being Taming the Tiger, a memoir of manic depression. For full bibliography, view Michael J. T. Morrissey at Wikipedia.
‘Time at Sea’ was written for the Memoir & Local History Competition 2011, run annually by the New Zealand Society of Authors (Bay of Plenty Region) with support from Tauranga Writers.
Please note: This article was originally part of Tauranga City Library's 'Tauranga Memories' website (2011-2020). To your right the 'Archived Kete Link', if present, will take you to a snapshot of the original record. Tauranga Memories was made of several focus areas, called 'baskets'. This article was part of the New Zealand Society of Authors Bay of Plenty basket. It was first licenced under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 New Zealand License at http://tauranga.kete.net.nz/new_zealand_society_of_authors_bay_of_plenty/topics/show/442. Initially created 20/02/2012, it underwent 6 edit, the last edit being 15/10/2016. Editors included: Tauranga City Libraries staff (Debbie Mc. Cauley) and Tauranga City Libraries staff (Harley Couper). The original article may have included links, images etc that are not present here.
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Michael Morrissey, Time at Sea by Michael Morrissey. Pae Korokī, accessed 25/03/2025, https://paekoroki.tauranga.govt.nz/nodes/view/20115
