Daily Photo – KiriKiri Bay (Useless Bay)
Sometime around 1827, the French explorer Dumont d’Urville sailed along an unforgiving stretch of on south-eastern coastline of the North Island. He was uninspired by what he saw, he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Unable to land because of heavy seas, he named it Useless Bay and moved on. It was a blunt assessment, but not entirely unfair. This part of the coast has never made things easy for those who arrive by sea. The shoreline is jagged, the weather unpredictable, and the rocks have claimed their fair share of ships. Today, Useless Bay goes by a much friendlier name, Kirikiri Bay, and sits quietly beside one of the most recognisable landmarks in the Wairarapa, the Cape Palliser Lighthouse.
I was heading there late in the afternoon under a sky that seemed intent on making a point. Heavy, dark clouds hung overhead like a thick blanket, pressing low over the land. Out to sea, a wall of weather loomed on the horizon, advancing steadily from the south. Earlier in the day I had read that snow was forecast for the Wairarapa. I had chosen to ignore this information entirely. After all, how often do you really believe snow will fall when it is forecast. Now, with the light fading and the air sharpening, it seemed the forecast might finally have got it right.
Cape Palliser has a long memory for bad weather, and the sea here has never lacked for stories. One of the more tragic is that of the schooner Witness, lost in 1854. Sailing from Lyttelton to Wellington with a varied cargo that included a large load of potatoes, the ship encountered rough weather as it neared its destination. Blown off course, it was driven south toward Cape Palliser and Palliser Bay. As the schooner began to flounder and drift dangerously close to the rocks, the captain gathered his crew and prepared them for the worst.
Fighting against the wind and heavy seas, he told the men that when the ship was close enough to shore, he would give the word to jump. He then followed this with further instructions to several crew members nearby. The cabin boy, misunderstanding the situation and believing the order had already been given, leapt into the sea. He drowned almost immediately. His body later washed ashore near the mouth of the Wharepapa River. The Witness was lost, uninsured, and its owner lost everything he possessed. It is a grim reminder that along this coast, mistakes are rarely forgiven.
Another shipwreck story from these waters carries a very different ending. In 1861, the Sydney-based brig Shamrock left Lyttelton bound for Otago, carrying timber and five passengers. Almost immediately it ran into violent gales. Under the command of Captain Thomas Dixon, the ship battled mountainous seas through the afternoon and into the night. By morning it was badly off course and taking on water. Fearing he could not keep the vessel afloat much longer, Dixon made the decision to beach the ship.
Against the odds, the Shamrock ran aground on a sandy stretch of Palliser Bay. Passengers, crew, and cargo were all brought safely ashore. The ship itself eventually broke apart on the beach, but lives were saved. Captain Dixon later reported that the storm had been so fierce the shoreline was littered with dead albatrosses, porpoises, and other marine life. For years afterward, locals referred to it simply as the Great Gale of ’61.
By the time I arrived at the Cape Palliser Lighthouse, the wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall in earnest. The parking area could generously be described as makeshift. Standing there, bracing myself against the gusts, I looked up at the red and white striped tower perched on a rocky point some 60 metres above me. Getting there requires a commitment. First, you must climb the 252 steps that zigzag their way up the cliff face, steps that were not added until 1912.
The lighthouse itself was first lit in 1897, which means that for its first fifteen years, keepers had to scramble up a steep, muddy track just to reach their place of work. That was only the beginning. Large drums of oil and kerosene had to be hauled up the cliff by hand using a winch. Supplies to live on were delivered just once every three months, and only if the weather allowed it. When seas were too rough, stores were landed six kilometres away at Kawakawa Bay, leaving the keeper with the unenviable task of somehow getting everything back to the lighthouse settlement.
Climbing those steps, even in modern clothing with a clear path underfoot, I could not help but think that the job description for an early lighthouse keeper must have included a generous dose of stubbornness. Reaching the top, I stopped to take in the view. The wind tugged at my jacket, rain swept in sideways, and the sea below was a shifting mass of grey and white. It struck me that life here would have been deeply lonely, especially during long winters when storms cut off all contact with the outside world.
After exploring the lighthouse and navigating my way back down, I drove on, skirting fishing villages and avoiding sections of road that looked as though they might slide into the sea at any moment. At Ngawi, I stopped and walked along the beach. That was when I noticed it properly. To the south, an enormous, dark wall of weather was advancing, swallowing the horizon. Snow or not, it was clearly time to leave.
With one last look back toward the lighthouse standing firm against the elements, I turned inland and headed north, chasing warmth, light, and the familiar comfort of the Martinborough Hotel.