Chapter Twenty-Seven

So there I was in the Bay, feeling pretty much like a fox that had gone to ground to avoid the hunt, when a new door opened courtesy of George and Joey and the, ‘Battle of the Britomart’. I had arranged to meet George on Friday night at the Glue Pot, a well-known pub on the corner of Ponsonby and Jervois Roads. It was just around the corner from my new home. We knew that Birdie did sweeps in the downtown pubs and bars on Friday nights, so we thought we would keep out of harm’s way. Strangely, George was on Birdies’ wanted list as well. George had jumped his British ship in Auckland, his hometown. His thinking was that he was a Kiwi so he was home and couldn’t be deported back to the UK. “Not so” said the shipping company and the venerable Detective Bird. Unknown to George it was ruled that as he had signed on under British Maritime Articles he was therefore subject to UK regulations, Kiwi or not. That came as an unwelcome surprise to George.

George had been having a drink with some Kiwi crewmembers of a New Zealand ship that he had just signed on to. They were in a favourite pub of the Kiwi seamen; the infamous Britomart; a rough and ready pub, patronized almost exclusively by seamen and watersiders, many of whom were ex-seamen. It was conveniently situated on the corner of Fort and Custom Streets, not a hundred yards from the wharves. Apparently George was having a great time and drinking up large with his new shipmates. He was busy regaling them with tales of his exploits and enjoying free drinks. He was famous for surviving the Irish Sea sinking. The incident had received huge coverage in New Zealand, making George into something of a celebrity. Things were really livening up when Birdie came in and he was team handed, a wise decision considering the job that faced him. He had entered the ‘Brit’ with three constables and the firm intention of arresting Georgie boy.

Now I have to tell you that to have policemen entering a Seamen’s pub with the intention of arresting one of the patrons, particularly one who was held in some awe, was more than foolhardy, it was demanding trouble. George was in full flow when Birdie attempted to arrest him. He came up behind George and he grabbed one arm, while one of the constables tried to grab the other one, with Birdie shouting:

“Come on, George; you’re coming with me” and then belatedly “you’re under arrest.”
George who was a very strong and willing guy had struggled free.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing Birdie?”
“You’re just another ship jumper and you have to be deported,” Birdie replied.
The young constables went to move in on George. “Fuck off I’m a Kiwi,” yelled the incredulous George.

The constables rushed George and tried to cuff him. George immediately started fighting back and punching out at the cops. This was taking far too much of a liberty for the seamen in their own pub and they joined the fray.

This group was known as the “Buckos.” Ordinary seamen mainly aged nineteen or twenty. They were led by a particularly tough guy, Lucky White, the son of a well known Auckland hard man and illegal card school operator, Charlie White. Among the Buckos were ’Jake the Snake’, ‘Tricky Dickie’ McCourt’ and ‘Pete the Treat’ McKinnon. There were another three or four of them in the bar. As George got wrestled to the ground, they rushed in and a general melee started. George scrambled to his feet. Lucky yelled “Fuck off, George, we’ll take care of this.” Which he quickly did. The scrap then started to subside. Birdie was threatening all sorts of repercussions. The constables, who hadn’t really wanted to arrest and help deport a Kiwi, were smiling at the outcome. Lucky and the boys had realised this, so they had stopped the fight as soon as George was clear. Birdie knew he would have to try and arrest the whole pub if he tried to arrest anybody.

By this time, Jimmy Hewitt, had also involved himself in the skirmish, with the support of a couple of wharfies. Jimmy was a Waterside Workers’ Union delegate; a powerful union man; an ex-boxer and ex-seaman. He would become a good and influential friend of mine. You will read more of this interesting character in book two. He was a great strength to me a few years later in my publishing scam days. By then, he had become a very important man in the Labour and Trade Union movement. Upset as he might be, there was no way that Birdie wanted to invite problems with the Union. He needed to keep a good relationship going there. Most of his work time was spent on and around the wharves. His life would have become much more difficult if he fell out with them. His bosses would be mighty unhappy if he bought a fight with the Union as in those days they controlled the waterfront.

So there it was, no arrests, no charges for anyone and George lived to fight another day. What a life; but George was still on Birdies list although for the present moment he was heading across town towards Ponsonby to meet me.

“Come on you Pommie bastard,” was all I heard as Joey and George whacked me on the back. I had been sitting quietly sipping a cold beer while waiting for George to join me. I had been trying to interest a pretty girl on the next table in a date, but she was having none of it, which was probably just as well given my new status of suitor within the McGlynn household.

“Let’s go,” said Joey, taking charge, as was his habit.

“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see; be patient ya Pommie prick.”
This was Joey again. He had such a refined vocabulary. I could see that that was all the info I was going to get. George had a big grin on his face as we drove down College Hill Road in the old green monster. When we got to the bottom we turned down towards the Western Viaduct. This was a shipping area between the main wharves, the yacht clubs and the marina. The Union Steamship Company used it to berth their ships there between trips. The shore gangs would then be able to do their maintenance work unhindered. A part of this area was the Western Basin, which was essentially a harbour within a harbour. It was primarily for very small coastal vessels, fishing boats and scows. Vessels using the Basin could only access it when a swing bridge was turned. The bridge was part of the access road to the viaduct and the western areas of the port. The basin provided safe, secure births for smaller vessels. Busy ports have to cater for all shipping, not just the big cargo boats and the passenger liners. These little vessels play an important part in delivering and picking up small cargoes from the lesser and isolated ports that larger ships cannot access. In many cases they were a lifeline and prevented some communities from dying. This was particularly so as there were many small communities and towns that had been established in isolated coastal areas, on islands and on the banks of rivers. They had been established prior to passable roads being carved out of wilderness areas. Special vessels needed to be designed and built to access these isolated townships. A fleet of vessels had been built to cater for the unusual conditions. They were the New Zealand scows, originally constructed like two-masted sailing barques. They were mainly based in Auckland to service a huge area encompassing the far North Cape, the Hauraki Gulf and down to Whitianga and Mercury Bay, on the far side of the Coromandel Peninsula. Within this area was a host of small communities unserviced by road that needed to get their farm produce, special firewood for smoking fish, cattle, sand and shingle and all sorts of cargo to and from Auckland. The scows had been built with a flat bottom to allow them to be beached to cater for loading or unloading cargo in the communities that had no wharf. To compensate for the flat bottom and to make them more seaworthy, they were fitted with a centreboard, which operated as a keel that could be winched up and down. They were all originally built as sailing scows with a small diesel engine to assist them in entering rivers and creeks, but the sails produced their main movement. These scows were built in Omaha by the boat builder, Darrochs.

Omaha was a small settlement near Leigh, north of Auckland, populated by a group of Scots who had originally emigrated to Newfoundland. Because of this they were quaintly known locally as ‘bluenoses’. Their life in Newfoundland had been harsh and not as they had hoped it would be. This caused them to move on again and this time their destination was New Zealand, to a small settlement, which came to be named Matheson Bay. Their particular skill was in boat building. It was a marriage made in heaven. New Zealand needed them and they needed New Zealand.

Joey, who was driving the green monster at her top speed of about fifty along the Viaduct, suddenly slammed on the brakes. We came to a juddering halt. I was in the back on the floor and got hurled forward crashing into the back of the front seats. Joey and George got out of the car laughing; this was one of Joey’s favourite tricks. I got myself untangled from vacuum cleaners, floor polishers and buckets and climbed out of the back door as if nothing had happened. Joey used to love a reaction to his jokes. I didn’t allow him that.
“Right guys what are we doing here?” I enquired brightly, though I was hurting a bit.
Joey snorted, “I know I got you.” He looked quizzically at me.

“You’re putting on a fucking act, you weak Pom.”

But he couldn’t be sure. While all this was taking place George had called out “Okay, Dick, we’re here,” in the direction of a scruffy, unkempt looking scow which was gently pushing against the wharf pilings. I looked her over, she was about sixty-six feet long and her beam was about twenty feet wide. She had a wheel house, a large open hold and one mast for’d fitted with a boom and heavy canvas sail that was hanging loosely to dry in the late afternoon sun. I could see that the main mast had been removed. In the stern she had a little companionway leading down to some cramped accommodation that I could look into from where we stood above her. She was well down as the tide was out.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming up.” A voice drifted up from the accommodation. George then turned and said to me,” We’ve organised a job on here for you, it’s a great number, just say yes and I’ll explain later.”

I was bemused but fancied the idea.
“Sure thing,” I said.

A young, athletic looking guy of about twentyone or so climbed up onto the wharf. We were introduced. George said, “Dick this is that good Pommie mate, Len, who saw me right over there.” Dick turned, put out his hand and said,
“Dick McCourt, pleased to meet you,” with a really genuine open smile. “George and Joe have been bashing my ear about you. I don’t know how you put up with George on that Pom ship, he moans more than a Pom and he never stops yakking.”
George stepped forward smiling.
“Careful McCourt or I’ll have to drop you again.”
Dick pushed into him, smiling.
“You only got me ‘cos I was drunk,” he said.
I learnt later that Dick, although of only average height and build, had the heart of a lion and never backed down.

“Okay, this is the story,” said Dick. “I’ve sweetened Jock the Skipper and he’s okay with it. There was a problem with Len not being in the Union, but that’s sweet now. I got hold of Jimmy Hewitt to put some pressure on and he did, so they are just going to leave it for a while and quietly slip him in later. I told Jimmy you guaranteed him, Joey and that Len would keep his mouth shut. You okay with that?”

“Yeah, he’s staunch,” said Joey.
George was quietly standing there, smiling the smile of a satisfied man. I realised they had really pulled off a top move for me. There were long waiting lists to get into the Union and to get away to sea. I was impressed. It had been well worth giving that jacket and the fiver freely, with no hooks and no thought of being paid back. Dick interrupted my thoughts:
“Right, Lenny boy” (most Kiwis called me Lenny, I suppose it’s less formal) “this is the ‘Morning-Glory’ (story), have you got your AB’s certificate?”

“Er … yes, an EDH one.”

“That’s fine it’s just for Jock to look at. He likes to play Master Mariner even though there are only four in the crew.”
Everybody laughed.

“This is the plan; I want to do a trip or two over to Aussie on one of the Union boats; it should be for three or four months. I might want to slip back into this job, so you will have to stand aside if that happens. The good thing is, by that time and if it happens, we will have you covered for the Union are you okay with that?”

“Sure thing, Dick,” I said, “I just appreciate the leg up.”

“Great, get your gear down here on Monday morning early. You’ll be sailing at ten. The trip’s out to Mototapu to pick up some wild steers and then run them up the Panmure Basin. They’re probably going to the Westfield freezing works. Then Jock wants to make Kawau Island for a load of sheep. It’s a good trip. I’ll put you in sweet with the cook and the engineer and intro you to Jock. He’s a real character, a real old time sailing man. By the way, are you okay with sails? We use that one there whenever possible, it saves time and costs.”

I told him I was fine with sails, which I was. It was only a single sail and in truth I was really looking forward to it. A new chapter in life was starting. Me and the Rahiri. An old sailing scow; a new challenge. It felt good, like it was meant to happen to me.

Looking back it amazes me how one setback, the Birdie chase and then having to move on, opened a new vista and a fabulous experience for me. I spent all that summer on the Rahiri. It was such a simple, healthy life. I can only describe it as grand. We visited nearly every island in the Hauraki Gulf, running up on outlying lonely beaches to deliver farms supplies from Auckland. Then for the return trip we loaded cattle for the freezing works, or ‘ti tree’ wood that the fish merchants used to smoke their fish. We sailed as far out as the Great Barrier Island, so named because it served as a barrier between the open sea and the beautiful Hauraki Gulf. We delivered stores and supplies to Port Fitzroy and the whaling station, which led to another unique experience a year later. I was mesmerised by the natural beauty of the lonely bays and beaches we called into. The water was so clear and pure. The fish could easily be seen, some lazily moving in harmonized groups with occasional predators gliding in and scattering them. We often prised oysters off the rocks and ate them after sluicing them in the salt water. The farmers and fishermen gave us as many crayfish and snapper as we could eat. They stocked our iceboxes with home-killed lamb and beefsteaks. We lived like kings. The farmers and their wives always invited us for dinner if we were overnighting. There were pleasant long evenings, usually spent outdoors. I remember sitting in a farmer’s garden one evening with a cold beer in my hand, looking out over the beach and listening to the seawater gently lapping on the sand. I was struck by the vast difference in my life now from a mere six months before. The family hassle, the car problem, the crash and the fight, the man I had sold the car to. All these things were now far away, not just measured in miles, but in the emotional distance a memory creates as it fades; like a slowly burning old black and white photograph.