IN SEARCH OF FRESH AIR.

Otago Witness, Issue 1981, 11 February 1892, Page 35

IN SEARCH OF FRESH AIR.

(By W. L.)

v. But I musn't forgot the greenstone episode. There is situated a little to the south of the entrance to Milford Sound a jiebbly beach where we had been told we could pick up greenstone pebbles smooth and water- worn. As some of us had been shown specimens from the place, some of us concluded — with a sanguine idiocy that seems inseparable from some people — that it was a sort of greenstone Tom Tiddler's ground. So we besieged the captain and prayed to be landed for an hour or two on the beach. The captain, having consulted his private time table — (he never minds taking any amount of trouble, provided that time will allow) — consented to the expenditure of an afternoon at the place. He also informed us that high upon the range above the beach was a regular greenstone quarry, which had fallen into disuse. Then some of those enterprising boys, who always think they are going to do something jolly clever, put their heads together, borrowed all the bags and kits and sacks they could lay hands on, all the pick-axes and crowbars on the ship, and set off up an almost perpendicular creek to find the reef. In the meantime the others, amidst nasty remarks about being "too jolly lazy to do any thine/," wandered aimlessly about the beach. Well, we got some 2000 or 3000 feet up the range without finding anything but the most inferior and slaty greenstone, and then we found that a hugfc slip had come down the side of tho hill and completely covered with some acres of dehris the place where the quarry should have been. Slowly and sadly we sloped down the creek to find, on our return to the beach, that the last had been first, and the loafers on the biuch had their pockets full of specimens of the real "tangiwai." We didn't say much— aloud— but we privately resolved that if we ever got the captain alone in a dark place we would remind him of that greenstone reef. To return, however, to where I, somewhat erratically, left off. We got back to Wellington on a lovely morning, and when we got to the wharf you would have thought we were a cross between a travelling circus, a museum, and a horticultural show. Such a production of birds in cages and beasts in boxes, plants in cases, geological specimens in anything you could get, abominations in spirit jars, sticks in bundles, and — more especially — penguins — penguins everywhere, alive, dead, stuffed, skinned, caged, loose, anywhere and anyhow— you never saw in your life. I never knew for certain — because it took all my attention for two days to discharge my part of this curious cargo — but I have reason to believe that, after exhausting all the ordinary " express " accommodation in the city, it took seven drays and three lorries — (what is a lorry ?)— to empty the " curios " out of that ship. I thought that by this time I should have had enough of the sea, but I found I hadn't. Hearing that the Hinemoa was going immediately to the northern lighthouses and the Kermadec Islands (with the accent on the second syllable, please), I wanted to go, too. And I went. (It was quite a unique experience — find myself able to do anything I really wanted to. I don't think it has ever happened before.) On this occasion, instead of a ship full, there were only three of us on board. And it was really a curiosity in philosophy to observe the demeanour of the two of us who had been on the other trip. We had hitherto been labouring under the delusion that we had been enjoying that southern trip, and the scenery, and the weather, and the novelty, and all that ; but it turned out that we had in reality been enjoying each other's company. There could be no other explanation, for the hopeless manner in which we moped about the ship for the first 48 hours and could hardly speak a civil word to each other. However, by the time we got to the Portland Island lighthouse, which was our first call, we had naturally forgotten all about everyone else, and were wholly absorbed in our three selves — and the captain. The captain absorbed a good deal of us with his yarns, more especially as we were on an altogether fresh track. Portland Island is, as I suppose anyone who has passed the Fourth Standard will know— I haven't passed it myself, and I don't believe I could if I tried — situated at the end of the Mahia Peninsula. Somebody told us about there being an ancient Maori graveyard there, so while the ship's work was going on we visited the place and found it even as was said. We raked about and got some skulls and bones and things which we carried away with customary desecration, and amongst the really interesting relics were found some whalebone needles. From inquiry I have made, no Maoris have been known to be anywhere about there for over half a century, and the "graveyard" is supposed to be an old battlefield perhaps a century old. At a point on the coast a little further on, we picked up another passenger, hailing from the Napier district, who had bought a piece of land in the Kermadecs and must needs go and see it. We now sailed straight for the Kermadec group, and it was not very long before we found it necessary to adopt a rather different style of costume from that we affected at Campbell Island. One of us was the fortunate possessor — at least he thought himself fortunate to begin with — of a gorgeous piece of raiment, constructed evidently for the tennis ground, of a light and airy texture peculiarly good for hot weather, and beside which Joseph's celebrated harlequin costume wasn't "in it." This was now brought into use by the owner, who began to go about as if the ship belonged to him. Perhaps this exasperated the captain ; but, anyhow, he incontinently dubbed it the " Onslow coat," and the unfortunate owner never appeared in it afterwards without some rasping reference to it from someone about. The Ouslow coat occupied most of our attention till we sighted the first of the Kermadec group. Esperance Island, more commonly known amongst sailors as French Rock, came into view early one morning, and of course we were all up like a shot to look at it. We looked, and rubbed our eyes, and looked again ; and then stole furtive glances at each other till someone asked what was the matter. One of the boys said he thought he must have something wrong with his liver, because the island looked all colours of the rainbow ; then the rest began to look uncomfortable about their livers, and said that was just how it appeared to them ; but presently the captain set us all right by saying that it was the island was out of order — not our livers. And so it turned out. The gorgeous colouring of that French Rock must be seen to be believed. Scoria of nearly every colour, ranging through greens, purples and reds of wonderfully graduated shades — sulphur "flowers" of the most brilliant yellow — are patched all over that island in an exquisite confusion. An extinct crater occupies a considerable portion of the rock, which is only a few acres in extent, and at one side of that crater had been erected a castaways' depot. This was now found to be a complete wreck, but whether blasted by lightning or shattered by the tremendous seas that musfc break almost clean over it at times, it i

was impossible to say. At any rate, the captain, after some consideration, concluded that it was not worth while to rebuild a depot on so inhospitable a rock. While lying off this island, whose sides are so steep that the steamer could go right alongside, we were surrounded by hundreds of sharks, and saw several shoals of a fair-sized fish of a dazzling gold and copper colour.

We went away the same day for Curtis Island, the next of the group, to our visit to which we looked forward with considerable interest not unmixed with some trepidation about landing, as we were regaled with descriptions of burning sulphur, boiling mud, and trembling surface enough to make one shake _n one's shoes. On the way between Esperance and Curtis Island we were all down stairs at breakfast or luncheon, or dinner, or tea, or something — (it is astonishing how one always seem to be eating on board ship) — when the mate came down and asked the captain to come on deck ; we didn't hear exactly what he said afterwards, and from his manner you would not have judged that it was anything particular, but there was something about a " shoal," or a " reel," or " ashore," or something that made us make up our minds, with a simultaneity quite extraordinary, that we had finished our meal, and wanted to get on deck. The devil-may-care nonchalance, however, we tried to assume, was considerably shaken on finding the steamer in the middle of what appeared to be a sea of mud stirred up by the propeller. A short survey by the captain explained the phenomenon. We were steaming right over a submarine volcano. In one spot, quite close to the ship, the sea was bubbling up like a ,hot spring, and jets of mud could be distinctly seen all round thrown up from the bottom of the sea — which was by no means "deep blue," but the colour of pea soup. I believe even the skipper was a bit relieved, as a shoal or reef is reported to exist somewhere in this very neighbourhood. This little occurrence by no means lessened our curiosity about Curtis Island, and the man with the diary made a dive into the saloon and wrote in it for exactly three hours and a-quarter by the clock. I don't think I have mentioned that wonderful diary before. I never kept a diary myself — yes, by the way, I did, once, for 12 hours, but I found there were so many things I wanted to say about that 12 hours, that I calculated I should want an extra two months in every year to "write up" my diary, so I concluded to let it slide. " Our diary," as we used sometimes to call him onboard, had some of the most extraordinary practices possible. He would be struck with some scene, and would take it in sections as if he was a photographic plate. Having taken in one section he would dive down at once to his diary and record what he called his "impressions." Then he'd come again, impress the next section on his diary, and so on, according to the extent of the scenery* You never saw such a man. He used to bankrupt every small town we called at in writing paper, and made the steward's life a burden to him with his insatiable thirst for ink. We used to wonder why he didn't wear out all the pens in the country, till we discovered that he had a diamond-pointed gold nib.