THURSDAY NIGHT, WELLINGTON, JULY 1961

We gathered on the wharf with the other friends and families who were farewelling loved ones. Streamers thrown from the wharf never quite reached the rails and softly arced down into the dark and oily water or, whipped by the ever present breeze, were draped across hawsers or wrapped around bollards. The streamers thrown from the ship fared better, landing amongst the crowd and being eagerly snatched up by little boys. The Maori III stood impressively with all of its 8,303 tons seeming much more. It hummed and rumbled like a big animal, and had an exotic atmosphere, alternately scary and welcoming. Strange, not quite identifiable sounds came from above - steam-like hisses, thumps and clangs, which mingled with the shouts, laughter and occasional female screech indicated the prevailing excitement. A bell, whistles and then a deep toned horn signalled that it was time. Silently the wharf started to move. The people standing felt slightly unbalanced and swayed. Sliding past the big ship the wharf left it stranded amongst the waves before the wharf stood still and the Maori III slowly and easily moved away into the dark harbour, its lights twinkling until it was swallowed up in the mist.

I remember those nights farewelling relatives who were returning to the South Island after visits to Wellington. This was in the 1960's at a time when whole families welcomed and farewelled travellers. Trips weren't taken for granted then. Everything was an adventure.