Life in a lighthouse — N.Z.’s first was manned by a woman

Press, 27 January 1979, Page 15

Life in a lighthouse — N.Z.’s first was manned by a woman

Few people these days actually live in a lighthouse; that is the tower or the structure which holds the light. But many New Zealand families live alongside one, in comforta b 1 e homes, wellequipped, and comparable with those in the towns and cities. Today, there are 20 manned lights around New Zealand coasts, helping to preserve the lives of seafarers and protect the many vessels which use

our ports. Before the advent of automatic beacons the number was nearer 30. Father of them all was the Pencarrow Lighthouse at the entrance to Wellington Harbour. This first flashed out its guiding rays on January 1, 1859. It was operated by a Mrs M. J. Bennett — not only New Zealand’s first lighthouse keeper, but also the only woman to hold such a post in this country. Mrs Bennett went to Pencarrow in the 1840 s, when her husband tended a beacon there consisting

of a lamp which shone through the seaward-fac-

ing windows of a crude lean-to shed, attached to an equally crude shack which housed the Bennetts. This lamp burned oil — probably crude whale-oil — which filled the shed with smoke and blackened the windows, so they gave forth little, if any, light. Bennett complained to the authorities that this building was neither wind-* proof nor rainproof; that the water supply was a quarter of a mile away;

firewood was from one to three miles away; and the stove provided " was useless. It sometimes took four hours to boil a kettle, he said, either inside or outside. In very bad weather the Bennetts had to leave their home and shelter in a cave. Early Wellington settlers pressed persistently for the erection of an adequate lighthouse at Pencarrow, and their case was clinched by the wreck of the barque Maria near the harbour entrance in 1851 with the loss of 30 lives.

Seven years later an iron lighthouse was ship-

ped from England in 480 separate packages, each weighing about 60 tons — a classic example of a prefabrication. By the time it was erected Bennett had died; so Mrs Bennett, happy in her isolation, and in the value of her work — as so many lighthouse people are — took on the management of this tower, with all its complicated machinery. First burning colza (a type of linseed oil) and afterwards paraffin, the Pencarrow Light shone out, over a radius of 48 km. for 76 years. Then, in J 935, it was replaced by an automatic beacon at nearby Baring Head. But the original iron tower at Pencarrow still stands, and is being maintained by the Historic Places Trust. It can be reached by a 8 km walk from the seaside town of Eastbourne.

I' Today's lightkeepers I enjoy a fortnightly service ; which brings them mail, fresh food, and other 1 amenities, including schoolwork for their children from the Education Department’s Correspondence School in Wellington: so a lighthouse “Mum,” besides all her other chores, has also to be something of a teacher. ' Usually the light is set iin a good acreage of usable land where the I keeper can graze sheep; I have a house cow or two; i pigs, poultry, and other I livestock; and make a garI den. Thus the children I have their pets, roam t around, bathe, and generI ally live freer, healthier, E and happier lives than do 1 many of their city coui sins. j ' They also have visitors, J I trips and holidays away I — as do their parents, | ; whose leave entitlement is i ! 28 consecutive days an- ' 1 nually, increasing to 35 1 I days after 10 years of ser- I I vice. And what better job ' could be found for saving money? | Some sitings, of course, ’ are less attractive; for example, the Boulder Bank. ; light at Nelson, now automatic. In earlier days liv- I ing conditions there were rugged. So, too, were the keepers and their wives and families. They had to be, to survive. A great-uncle of mine was one of its first keepers. His wife bore 12 children. The first girl, when aged about four or five, died of lead-poison- ! ing through drinking tank I water from a newly-paint- I ed roof. The next child, a boy, was bom dead. But the following seven daugh-

By

ARTHUR KIDSON

ters and three sons survived. The last daughter, Ruby Coleman (nee Kidson) wrote fascinating accounts of this lighthouse family’s life.

“My father John Kidson was head keeper for 30 years. He was a very robust man and none of the regulation uniforms fitted him so my mother made them to measure. Our house was separate from the tower on the north side, while on the south side stood a smaller house for the assistant keeper. On the beds were mattresses filled with straw or chaff. One day when a horse wandered down the bank and there was no other food to give it, a mattress was opened and the contents used as fodder.

“To cook we had a colonial oven which was set in the chimney. To heat the oven the fire was. put underneath but for boiling it was placed on top with bars to set the saucepans on. A medium-sized oval boiler was used to boil meat, with small meshed bags for vegetables which were cooked with the meat.”

For their schooling the children were rowet across daily to Nelson; but if the weather deteriorated they stayed overnight with friends in the town. The boys decided to build a garden. They did this by excavating a pit 12ft square by 6ft deep, and heaving out the boulders manually. Next project was to bring soil from nearby Haulashore Island in a large — borrowed — pilot boat which they towed back and forth in the course of innumerable trips. To keep out wild goats they built a five-foot board fence. That way they grew very welcome crops of cabbage, carrots, rhubarb, and some brnamental coral cactus. Many lighthouse folk can tell dramatic stories of shipwreck, distress at sea, and daring rescue. Here are just a couple recorded by Ruby Coleman:

“On one occasion a party of college boys went for a trip in the bay in an open boat and while out there a southerly storm arose which prevented their rowing back to the harbour entrance. They

therefore landed on the Bank at the back of the lighthouse, and my mother fed them and dried their clothes. The boys stayed with us until their parents collected them.” Another incident ended less happily. “One stormy evening while on watch, my father saw a sailing vessel coming down the bay. The captain tried to cross the bar but as it nearly reached the inner side it suddenly capsized. My father immediately went out in his boat but was able to save only one man. The ship did not right itself and it was later thought that the unfortunate passengers and crew were caught under the sails and so prevented from surfacing. “Among the passengers it was sadly revealed were

a young couple who never reached their destination. Nelson, where they had planned to marry,”

For his action on this occasion John Kidson was awarded the Royal Humane Society’s medal. But while it was going on his wife, alone at the lighthouse, fired continually a small distress cannon to attract attention at the port. But such was the ■noise of the storm that nobody. there heard the signal. Kidson died at the lighthouse on July 22, 1892, aged 56. Meantime three of his daughters had been married there — one to the then assistant-keeper, who subsequently took her, in the course of his career, to almost every lighthouse in New Zea-