A Special Kind of Magic

We never asked, “Are we nearly there yet?” on the long and dusty journey from the Waikato, but when the Ford V8 grumbled onto the wide verge opposite the place where cold spring water cascaded down a bank near the Kaimai summit, we knew we were nearly there.

Before continuing, we observed the tradition of topping up our radiators. Dad produced the travelling glasses in their leather case and as we drank the pure spring water to quell any lingering twinges of car-sickness, stoically enduring the stabbing pain in our temples caused by drinking icy water too quickly, Dad unscrewed the radiator cap and added more water to the steaming liquid bubbling in the V8’s cooling system. After he’d checked the towing link to our caravan we were back in the car, heading for our first glimpse of the Mount and the Bay.

“I saw the Mount before you!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Well, I said it first!”

“Now, now, children, I saw it first because I’m driving,” said Dad firmly, but with a little smile twitching the corner of his mouth. He was just as excited as we were.

When we pulled up by our usual site on the campground at the foot of Mauao (though in those days we just called it ‘the Mount’), we children tumbled from the Ford and scarpered barefoot across the road to the sands of Pilot Bay, leaving the grown-ups to the tense task of manoeuvring the caravan into its precise position under the big Norfolk pine.

After splashing up to our knees in the lapping sea water, giggling with excitement, we clambered over rocks to the little stone jetty to check whether sprats were still plentiful there, and watched a ferry come in at the Pilot Bay wharf a little further along the base of the Mount. By the time passengers coming had swapped seats with passengers going, and the ferry had ground its propellers in reverse then swung away from the wharf to chug off towards Tauranga, our caravan had its awning up and we could hear the ringing of tent pegs being hammered in. It was time to return for lunch.

The site next to ours was always occupied by the same man. While I was little I was allowed to use his Christian name, so for some years I called him ‘Wolf.’ I particularly enjoyed watching him clean his teeth at the tap under the Norfolk pine. Perhaps I hoped they might provide a clue as to why he was called Wolf. I was disappointed when I later learned his name was really Wilf. He never corrected my pronunciation of his name, and why would he? I’m sure he enjoyed—maybe even fostered—the awed respect with which I regarded him as ‘Wolf’.

Dad built our six-berth caravan when I was a baby. It was streamlined and comfortable. Dad also made surfboards for us to use in the waves at the ocean beach. Mine was made for me when I was four. It was as long as I was tall, although it was quite light. It was exciting to wade into the ocean and catch a wave at the right moment to surf back onto the beach.

But my board didn’t feel light the day it hit me on the head when the waves were bigger than usual and very powerful. They took me and my board and rolled us over and over. I couldn’t get up to the surface and gulped a big mouthful of sea. Dad hauled me out as I was dumped near the shore, coughing and spluttering. After that our name for the ocean beach was the ‘bowl-you-over’ beach.

The ocean beach also had donkeys. I adored them. They turned up most afternoons, wearing decorated harness. Sadly the rides cost money so I could have only one or two rides each season. The donkeys walked at their own deliberate pace and no amount of kicking from my small heels could get them to trot on their route to the rocks and back.

We were sometimes allowed to buy an ice cream from the store on the road that joined the two beaches. These were equivalent to a small meal—whopping great mounds of deliciously lickable ice cream on tapering cornets.

I was allowed to fish from the stone jetty by myself. To get there I could either walk halfway along the narrow dirt road which led to the ferry wharf and clamber down the bank onto the jetty, or scramble along the rocks below. The road route took me past masses of strong-smelling fennel, taller than I was. I tried to hold my breath until my face purpled. Then my involuntary gulp of air seemed doubly-loaded with the distinctive smell. I preferred the rock-hopping route. Having gathered pipi from the ocean beach at low tide I would take some to the jetty, smashing the shells against its stone to get at the tongue for bait. A shard of broken pipi shell was useful as a knife. I caught sprats, which could be used as bait when fishing off the ferry wharf with my older siblings. The worst problem was snagging the hook in my fingers, or the rocks, which often happened. Once in a while I got lucky and caught a small mohimohi, which I gutted and Mum fried for my tea. Or Dad might row me out to the moki hole in the dinghy, and we would use his handlines to catch moki for a family meal.

No holiday was complete without a family walk around Mauao, and on another day a climb to the top with our siblings to enjoy the spectacular view of the peninsula with its white beaches curving away into the smudgy distance. Racing to be the first down to the caravan again usually meant skinned knees, scratches and grazes, as the fastest way was straight down, mainly on our bottoms.

Ah, those magic summers of the ’forties at The Mount.