When I open the car door the wind shuts it again. When I finally emerge, the southerly makes me stagger. There’s only sea between here and Antarctica. The lake is a violent chop. The air’s just sand and spray. Waves plume over the spit. The wind flings the gulls about. We take refuge in the hotel, where the walls are lined with fading photos of tough pioneers and enormous fish. We admire both, eat chips, drink beer and head further round the Wairarapa coast to Cape Palliser.
It’s the lowest point of the North Island, further south than Blenheim or Nelson. Seals lie among rocks, like fat brown sacks. The road becomes gravel with washouts, then ends at a lighthouse. We climb 200 steps in a wind that deafens. To look out to sea is to be grateful you’re not afloat.
Baches, a holiday park with cabins, a shop selling ice cream and coffee, and a long flat beach, well sheltered from the southerly, where once a year they race horses over the tide-wet sand. But today the beach is given over to little children holding hands with the paddling elderly, and plump parents playing frisbee with slim offspring.
Beyond the curve of the beach another lighthouse stands on a rock promontory. A path with guide rail supports a constant stream of trippers, all driven by instinct to climb to the highest point, as echo of the urge that drove Kupe, Hillary, all explorers.
Step over the guard rail and on to the sea-battered rocks, however, and the authorities start to fret for your safety. These rocks are dangerous, say the notices. Rogue waves will sweep you to your death. Go back, go back. If you still go on it’s at your peril. We’ve done our bit. These signs absolve us of responsibility for your foolhardiness.
And you can see what they mean. The landward view may be of gentle holiday-making in the sun; but to seaward it is deep, muscular water.
When a fat wave is repulsed by the cliff and collides with the next one coming, a vast spout erupts over the rock, flooding and surging. Once again you don’t want to be at sea.
The first European to set foot here was William Colenso, a missionary. What drives missionaries, what gives them, to this day, their presumption, their certainty of their own rightness, I can’t tell you. But there’s no denying their commitment.
In November 1843 Colenso boarded a ship called the Columbine at Gisborne, along with his dog, a couple of other Europeans, and an unspecified number of Māori. They were bound for Wellington, then known as Port Nicholson. But a storm blew up and they were unable to enter Cook Strait. For 15 days they travelled up and down the Wairarapa coast, battered by the winds and seas, losing several sails, unable to find any way to put ashore. Colenso was confined to his berth by seasickness throughout.
When the ship ran out of fresh water, they had no choice but to try to make landfall. Ten set out in a rowing boat. An oar broke. They could see nothing but rocks. Shipwreck seemed inevitable, drowning probable. But then through the spindrift they caught a glimpse of calmer water, slipped through a gap in the cliffs, and grounded the boat on a sandy beach under the high headland of Rangiwhakaoma. Rangiwhakaoma is Castlepoint.
Though still too weak to stand, Colenso got on with the important business of praising God for his mercies. He named the place Deliverance Cove. His Māori companions, meanwhile, faffed around lighting a fire by rubbing sticks together. The smoke attracted a band of local Māori who took the castaways back to their village and fed them crayfish, potatoes and pork.
That evening, much recovered, Colenso repaid his debt by expounding the gospel to his lucky hosts, who had not previously had a visit from a missionary but who had somehow got by without one for several hundred years.
Happy New Year.
• Joe Bennett is a Lyttelton writer.
