[Ag-eq] Stewart Island Bliss

[Jewel]

This is another of Dad's reminiscences of Southland when he was a boy/young man.  I would hazard a 
guess that you have, or had, islands that, closely, resemble Stewart Island.
In the article, Dad refers to Wekas;  The weka belongs to the rale family and is a very mischievous 
bird that is  up for all sorts of devilment.  I think that they are flightless as are many New 
Zealand birds.

1:  Stewart Island Bliss

In the year 1920, the country was recovering from four years of war and a world influenza epidemic. 
Holidays in that period were more subdued and perhaps more appreciated than in these days of high 
pressure plans and tours.
A sojourn to Stewart Island for a fortnight was taken leisurely, the only public transport being by 
that sturdy old lady of the sea, the Theresa Ward. During Christmas and New Year she shed her duties 
as Harbour Board tug, to concentrate on the ferry service to Stewart Island.
There will be many who fondly remember the old Theresa, who so bravely climbed and descended the 
mountainous seas of Foveaux Strait, when the weather decided to be unkind.
To leave Bluff or Half-moon bay on a routine crossing of two hours and then run into a big blow was 
not unusual.
Crammed to the gunwales with passengers, she churned forward, rolled and shuddered.
The holiday makers of all ages would be green with sea sickness but always confident that the 
Theresa Ward would deliver them safely.
The Island in 1920 probably has as much or more, accommodation as there is today. Certainly more 
people were prepared to rough it; a tent in the bush was a decided luxury.
Such a luxury I shared with a youthful friend Alex Walker, of Bluff, still in business in 
Invercargill today. He no doubt will remember the holiday.
Tent in the Scrub
As confident greenhorns our tent was pitched in the Manuka scrub and declared well pegged. Our next 
thought was for water.
It was found down a steep ferned gully, with a slippery track; poor planning indeed, many a billy of 
water almost reached the top only to descend swiftly again, followed by suitable words.
In the darkness there always seemed much activity, tins would rattle, papers rustle, a quick dash 
with a torch would find fleeing wekas, they had a penchant for condensed milk and teaspoons.
Through the night, one could get used to the tinkle of cow bells, Strawberry was never tethered or 
penned, she roamed freely, her bell announcing her presence, generally outside the tent.
Young George Leask and his fathers launch were adopted for 10 days, their dinghy being placed at our 
disposal. What fine people were the Half Moon Bay launchmen, wise and patient. Any trip, anytime, 
was no trouble at all; five bob a head and the day was yours.
Fishing was a blissful experience, blue cod galore, whopper groper along with odds and ends from the 
deep; just bait your line and haul in until the hands were sore and tender.
Some Didn't Fish
Some people never fished at all, they were quite happy sorting over the catch, studying each variety 
and consulting nature manuals for classification, although the Leasks could have told them 
instantly.
The launch, heavily loaded often became grounded in Paterson Inlet, the passengers would be shifted 
stern to bow and vice versa while to crew of two calmly poled the vessel free of sandbanks.
A trip to Ulva was never passed up. Old Mr. Trail was postmaster on the tiny isle, holiday makers 
flocked around him, he was always courteous and charming, even when being plied with an overdose of 
questions.
Damsel in Distress
A young damsel in distress hobbled off Ulva to the launch, a shoe in hand minus the heel, a knight 
errant was at hand. Young George Leask along with the shoe retired to the engine room to return with 
a large cork firmly attached as a heel: he was rewarded with a dazzling smile.
On a warm day when water cruising became routine, four passengers requested to be marooned in a 
quiet cove, to be picked up as the launch returned to Oban.
With a kerosene tin we collected the choicest mussels and prepared a feast.
The time passed all too quickly and we decided on a swim in our birthday suits, we were caught in 
some embarrassment as the boat returned before time and swept into the bay. A wild rush for the 
beach and cover, while our fellow trippers waited with much amusement for our reappearance.
As a small group, all males returning from a shooting trip to Freshwater, we staged a waterborne fox 
hunt in Paterson Inlet.
The foxes were swans and we pursued them with great gusto, hauling half a dozen aboard the launch 
with boat hooks. This was regarded as good healthy sport, no different from pig hunting, but what a 
hue and cry there would be today. The S.P.C.A would be up in arms-chasing swans by a powered launch 
indeed; its kinder to herd them by planes for a monster kill.
Plenty of Song
Oban then had no strumming guitars or wailing saxophones, but plenty of song, every boatload had a 
Melba or a Caruso, whole others warbled "Don't Bring Lulu" or "Daisy Bell".
Evening launch trips to Butterfield and other bays were ever popular, as were bonfire with roasted 
mussels and romance was always close at hand.
Over the years the Island probably has not changed in conformation, the bush unspoiled, few roads, 
no supermarket, fewer permanent residents, no sawmills or whaling fleets, but a swift air service to 
and from the mainland, a licensed hotel and a steady flow or tourists.
Looking Back
The "oldies" like to look back upon the years when mutton-birds were ten pence each, oysters 1/- a 
dozen but had to be imported from Bluff along with bottled stout to wash them down.
Girls were just as lovely or more so, although no so much on view as in these enlightened times.
There was not a  short cut home, the faithful Theresa Ward would call and carry you away, along with 
pleasant memories of Rakiura.
 birldgenus.  genus Raia w  WQ