4 June 1936

A PROSPECTOR GOES TO SEA

Unenviable Experiences On The Tasman

In 1904, accompanied by Tom Miller, who was also following the rainbow-end of mining, I went to Flinders Island, in Bass Strait, to examine some tin deposits on behalf of an Adelaide syndicate. On arriving in Tasmania, we found that the only means of communication with the island was by a ketch which was sailing that afternoon.

We booked passages on her, arranging to share the cabin with the skipper and mate, but just before we sailed a woman with a 16-year-old daughter came aboard, so we vacated the cabin. The captain and mate were not greatly inconvenienced, as they could take turn about on the settee in the little deckhouse which formed a combination of galley, chartroom, and companion hatch, but Miller and I had three alternatives in the way of places to bunk - the hold, the fo'castle, or the open deck.

We had a look at the hold. On the previous voyage the ketch had carried a cargo of pigs below decks, and the only "cleaning" which appeared to have been done after they had been discharged was to scatter a bit of sand about. We hastily replaced the hatch cover, walked for'ard, and had a look at the fo'castle. Like that of every other sailing vessel I ever saw, it appeared to have been designed with the purpose of seeing how narrow, stuffy, and uncomfortable the accommodation for the seamen could be made. In this case the result was a miserable hutch, in which one could not move upright without striking one's head against that most unyielding of all a vessel's timbers, a deck beam, and all movement was hindered by having to dodge the ladder, table, bunk corners or other fittings at every step. It had a further drawback, unseen but inevitable.

Miller summed it up. "I reckon we'll bunk on the deck, George. There may be a wooden ship afloat somewhere without bugs in the fo'castle, but I hardly think it's this packet." We slept that night on the monkey poop in the shelter of the deck-house, rolled up in a spare staysail, but in spite of our canvas covering we managed to get pretty damp by morning, for the ketch shipped a few seas and we lay in an almost continuous patter of spray. Still, the brine of the open sea is a clean liquid, and anything was better than that ghastly stench in the hold, or a probable sleepless night in the fo'castle on account of the itching torment of the most loathsome of all forms of parasitic life.

We landed on the island next morning, and at once set off to tramp across the tussocky hills to the tinfield. It took only a cursory examination of the workings to dash all our hopes; it was a "fossicker's show" of stream tin, in which our company would not be interested. We debated whether we should walk back at once or accept the hospitality of a fossicker's camp for the night, chose the latter, and walked back to Killiecrankie Bay next morning.

On arrival, we were greeted with the news that the ketch had called in two hours previously and had sailed again. "The skipper left a message for you," said our informant. "He's been offered a charter he can't afford to miss, and he couldn't wait for you to come back from the mines. He'll pick you up in a month's time."

I cursed the ketch master's impatience, but Miller took a more tolerant view. "A lot of men wouldn't have come back at all," he pointed out. Still, even he grew restless after we had put in a week on that lonely island, with its bleak hills, ceaseless boom and rumble of surf, and winds which blew with a maddening strength and persistence.

Then a fisherman sailed his cutter into the bay, and we hurried down, to see if he would take us across to Bridport, the nearest harbor on the Tasmanian mainland. Mansell, the fisherman, was quite willing to oblige us; moreover, he did not take advantage of our eagerness to leave when he made a bargain with us. We sailed within an hour, and put in at Barren Island, where we picked up two half-caste descendants of the extinct Tasmanian aborigines to help work the cutter back from Bridport.

We left Barren Island late in the afternoon, and at sunset the wind dropped, leaving us becalmed 12 miles out. All night we tossed. and rolled on a lumpy swell, and at daybreak the half-caste on watch roused us out with a shout of "Squall coming." Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I scrambled out of the little cabin to see an alarming change in the weather. At sunset the sky had been clear save for a haze of "mare tails" to the north. I now beheld a sky covered with a dense haze of cirrus cloud and a very ugly sunrise. I had scant time, however, to look at these heralds of dirty weather, for a heavy squall was coming from the north-east. Within a few minutes we were flying before it under a reefed jib. Still, it was a fair wind, and I had visions of arriving in Bridport within a few hours, but Mansell thought otherwise. "Looks like a real 'buster' to me," he said. "This wind's veering too quickly for my liking. If it goes round to the west before we get into the shelter of the land, you'll be lucky if you see Bridport, or any port, within the next few days."

His fears were confirmed within an hour. Low heavy clouds were scudding across the sky, the wind had veered to the westward, and an ugly sea had risen. Driven by a wind which was fast reaching a gale force, we were heading straight out into the Tasman sea, with never a smell of land between us and far-away New Zealand. By contrast, Flinders Island now seemed a paradise indeed.

In one of the "ups" of my mining days, after selling a claim on the Coolgardie fields to the late Lord Fingall, I had played with the idea of owning a yacht, and had gone so far as to get estimates from boat builders and to read a text-book on navigation. I now tried to recall some of the contents of the book to mind, and from a mental jumble of Professor Ballot's law of storms, dangerous semi-circle, sailing north until the barometer ceases to fall, &c. I sorted out one clear instruction, which stressed the importance of heaving-to, and allowing the storm to pass over rather than running before the wind, as we were now doing. I mentioned the matter to Mansell. He did not give a gasp of relief, and hail me as the one who was to save the cutter and her crew from a watery grave far out in the Tasman. He did not ask for further enlightenment up-on this point of storm strategy and seamanship. And he did not heave-to. He shouted, "What?" and looked around at the huge grey rollers. When the next smoking wave-crest slid under our keel, he said, "Heave-to?" and a minute later he exclaimed. "Good God!" He did not mention the subject again. Neither did I.

At last a brightening of the western sky indicated that the sun was setting. Moved by a sudden impulse, I clawed my way to the mast, and stood up-right with the stout Oregon spar hugged to my chest. As we lifted on the rollers, I scanned the horizon. A hissing rain-squall had drifted ahead of us, and through the grey curtain of rain I saw a black smudge; as I stared at it a steamer appeared below it. A gaff was lashed to the cabin coaming; I found my pocketknife with numbed fingers, opened it, and slashed it free. Then I tied the bath towel, which Miller passed me, to one end, and held it aloft against the drag of the wind. Within a minute the towel had cracked to tatters.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the steamer alter her course towards us. As she came up, I read the name "Charlotte Fenwick'' on her bow. She ran down to give us her lee, and willing hands helped us over the rail as we came scrambling up the Jacob's ladder. But only Miller and I boarded her. Mansell had shaken his head when I suggested that he and his two companions should abandon the cutter.

"Took me a long while to earn the money to buy her," he replied. "I won't leave her." He watched the steamer drifting close and added, "Get up that ladder as quick as you can - it'll take us all our time to keep my boat from having her side stove in when we're alongside."

It was a wonderful relief when the warmth of a cabin shut off that numbing, bitter wind. The last glimpse I had of the cutter was the triangle of her jib on a wave-crest. Then swift darkness closed about her. Captain Charles Young came to see now we were faring, when his packet was under way again. "Funny how I came to pick you up," he remarked. "My wife's aboard, and this morning she put her canary in the chart-room to give him some sun. When this blow hit us she went below and forgot to take the bird. At sunset I went down to the cabin to tell her that I'd have to keep the bridge at night, and she remembered the canary. I told her that he'd be all right up there, but you know what a woman is; so, in the end I went off to get him. I had taken down the cage and was making for the ladder, when I remembered that I hadn't taken a look around the horizon before the light went. So back I went to the chart-room, picked up my glasses, and saw that signal of yours. Say, I don't envy those chaps on that bit of a cutter tonight, for it looks as if we're in for a real dusting."

The promised "dusting" arrived all right. Towards midnight the steamer hit three big combers in swift succession. The first lifted her nose sky-ward, then dropped her as if she was going over the edge of the world; the next brought her up with a jar, and threw her off her stride; and the third came over the bows and swept her with a rumbling roar. Next morning, when I was surveying the battered steamer from the bridge, I noticed that the binnacle glass had been smashed, and enquired what had caused that particular damage. The weary-eyed captain gave a wry grin. ''Bit of a splash," he said. 'There was a lot of water up here at one time last night."

We steamed into port, at noon next day. I never realised how good it was to have solid land underfoot until I trod the planking of the Hobart wharves. At the first opportunity I wrote to the police constable on Barren Island, asking him to let me know if Mansell and his two mates had arrived safely, but he did not reply. - G.S.L.

Tricks In Every Trade

Old Masters had the reputation of being a hard man from whom to get a penny, and just fine reverse when it come to something for nothing. When two kerosene stove salesmen, therefore, came to Tommy Byrne's place in search of business, he told them that he did not want a demonstration, but said that if they could sell one of their contraptions to Masters over the creek, he would buy one without them having even to unpack it. The salesmen called it a sporting offer, apparently not realising that Byrne had used the same stall for years with uninterrupted success.

Off they went to Masters's place, and got a hearing by offering to use their own kerosene to cook dinner for Masters's family. After that a demonstration was inevitable, but nothing seemed able to induce the old fellow and his wife that 'that there blasted thing didn't eat kerosene.'

Finally the salesmen made a sporting offer, in their turn. They would fill up the tank, seal it, and let Mrs. Masters use It to her heart's content for a fortnight. At the end of that time they would come round, unseal the tank in Masters's presence, and settle the fuel consumption there and then. Masters jumped at the idea. He had no intention of buying, but he would get a fortnight's free cooking. Unfortunately for the salesmen, they were held up by rain, and were a week behind schedule when they reached Masters's sliprails, where they went into conference.

'It's no good, old man,' said the senior salesman. 'That tank must be nearly bone-dry by this, and will give the old devil the opportunity he's looking for to back out. You go up and talk to his wife, while I'm fooling round with the car here; and don't let up for at least ten minutes.' The junior salesman detained the mistress of the house in conversation while his companion made his way unseen to the back verandah, removed the seal from the tank, replenished it generously, and sealed it up again. He then crept back to the car, and made an approach, whistling loudly.

Old Masters was well on the scene by this. 'Well, here y'are,' he commenced. 'I'll just get the marked stick we used last time you were here, and we'll see how much the kero's gone down.' He got the stick, broke the seal and plunged the stick into the tank. One of the salesmen managed to lever it out of his grasp, and held the dripping piece of old ruler up to the light. 'Cripes!' roared old Masters. 'There's more in it now than before you went away!'

Both salesmen turned a sickly green sort of color, and the junior grabbed the stick again for a last expiring effort. 'Look,' he said. 'The first time this tank was filled, the stick went straight down to the bottom and we marked it. This time it must have gone in on a slant and wet it higher up.' His mate breathed again. This was excellent. Masters looked at the stick thoughtfully, gripped it and plunged it straight as a plumbob into the tank! 'Euchred!' groaned the younger salesman to his companion.

'No, son,' said old Masters grimly, 'You're wrong. There's more in it now than when she started!' He reflected, while his auditors quaked. 'All my life I've struggled with horses that ate corn before they would do any work, men that had to be fed before they'd even pretend to, women that had to be dressed before they'd even cook for a man, and fires that chewed wood before they'd warm his tucker; but here's a flamin' machine that does the job, and makes its own supplies as it goes along. How much did you say it was?'

The astonished senior salesman signed a receipt, struggled down to the car with his junior salesman hanging to his arm, and drove off. Round the bend they pulled up dead and laughed until the tears rolled down their faces.

The next stop was Byrne's sliprails. They produced old Master's cheque, collected Byrne's, and sent off a wire to the company in Adelaide to send up another stove. Byrne was too stunned to argue the matter. Where the travellers stopped next is not recorded. If you ever want an easy 'fiver,' however, just find out and tell old Masters. Only make sure you get the 'fiver' first.— 'Dingo.'

Real Life Stories of South Australia (1936, June 4). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92342757