on a Hoodoo Voyage

13! The Story of a Mission Ship on a Hoodoo Voyage

From the Diary of Mrs. Georgina Seton, One of the Passengers

QELDOM has a ship, sailing out of Sydney for the South-western Pacific Islands, encountered such a run of had luck as the Melanesian Mission’s motor - yacht, “Southern Cross.” The story was told, briefly, in the April issue of the “PIM.”

After shipping a party of planters and traders (who wanted to return to their homes and could get no other transport) the “Southern Cross” set out from Sydney for her home port in the British Solomons. There were 13 passengers, and they sailed from No. 13 wharf. Darling Harbour. They left Sydney Harbour on March 13.

Twelve of the passengers were “officially” deck-hands. They were much more than “official” before the hoodoo voyage ended!

The 13 th passengers was Mrs.

Georgina Seton, from whose diary, sent to the Melanesian Mission secre tary in Sydney (Major H. S. Robin son) we have been kindly permitted to copy the following extracts. She was the only woman on the ship.

The 13 passengers were all Solomon Islands settlers, who were driven out in 1942 by the Jap invasion. Some of them had served with distinction in the American or Australian Forces.

A group photograph, taken before sailing, was published on the cover of the March “PIM”

IN the beginning, the mission yacht “Southern Cross” was scheduled to leave before Christmas. Strikes, blackouts, etc., resulted in the Navy being unable to return her to the Melanesian Mission before March. Then we packed our bags, and assembled on the yacht.

These were the passengers:— H. A. Markham, of Segi, Maravo Lagoon.

G. R. Younger, of Nono, Cape Marsh.

A. Olsen, Guadalcanal.

R. Laycock, of Papari, Ysabel.

J. M. Clift, of Aruligo, Guadalcanal.

T. Elkington, of MV “Mendana,” Santa Anna.

A. Andresen.

O. Bergin, of Yandina, Cape Marsh.

R. C. Symes, of Gold Ridge, Guadalcanal.

G. Johnston, of Yandina, Cape Marsh.

J. S. Mill, Ssem.

C. W. and Mrs. Georgina Seton, Shortlands.

Our troubles commenced early. It occurred to no one to count the “passen gers.” We were 13!

There were more strikes, and no one would load the ship. Finally, we received the gracious permission of some water side czar to load our own goods.

We left No. 13 wharf, Darling Har bour, late on March 12. I looked back at that “13” as we slowly drew away. There was something sinister about it. That night, we lay off Rose Bay.

March 13 (there it was again!) opened to a perfect morning. We sailed at dawn. All were happy.

Five miles from Sydney the port engine ran hot. That evening, we were back at No. 13 wharf, with engineers hammering down below.

ON March 14 we again left harbour; but we were not more than 24 hours’ northwards when the wind and sea rose against us. It got worse and worse, and the captain decided to run into Coff’s Harbour.

We anchored on Sunday morning, the 17th. One man was sent to hospital; engine spare parts were ordered from Brisbane: a radio man was sent for, from shore, to repair the radio. The ship rolled terribly at anchor, and the poor radio man spent most of this time hang ing over the side.

March 20: Left Coff’s Harbour at 5 p.m.

March 21: It was a rough, wet night, and all cabins were awash. The weather is worsening, and radio gives warning of a cyclone coming towards us at 50 mph The captain is making for what he calls a toe-hold anchorage off Moreton Island The ship is rolling badlv, with colossal grey seas wallowing up behind, or shoul dering up amidships, some pouring in over the rail in a solid green wall We have been baling all afternoon, but the cabins still are full of water.

The cooks put on a marvellous hot kai, but just as all hands were sitting down to it, the ship gave some frightful lurches, the food flew in all directions, and a ton of salt water came in on top of the stove. The cases near the sink were demolished and a good copper was washed overboard.

MARCH 22: We are anchored now be hind a long sand-bar, over which the sea is breaking heavily, as far as one can see. The ship is rolling badly. Landward, there are only bare inhospitable sandhills.

At 2 o’clock, we found the second mate at the foot of the ladder, where he had taken a heavy fall—he was unconscious, suffering concussion. The captain has decided to run into Brisbane. There is no pilot available, so he will take the ship up the river to Pinkenba himself We berthed at 2 a.m. An ambulance took the mate to hospital.

March 29: We are at sea again, after a week in Brisbane. J. M. Clift has joined us—a very useful deck-hand The sea is very rough.

March 30; Ship rolled heavilv in a strong south-east wind. The scuppers are running full, and many of us are sea sick The vessel drifted for an hour, w’hile a job was done on the engines. All cabins are awash.

March 31; An unpleasant day and a turbulent sea, and the ship shudders as the great waves smash at her. Decks and cabins are flooded—spray across the upper deck, and big seas creaming over the rail.

But we can put up with anything, so long as we are moving in the right direc tion (towards the Solomons). I saw our first flying-fish.

The second mate has not recovered from his fall, after all. and is unable to go on duty. The chief steward also is ill, after a fall.

APRIL I: More bad weather, and now we are hove-to. There is trouble in the engine-room.

Later: The captain has decided to turn around and run for Bowen.

Later: There is warning of a cyclone

moving south-west, so our course has been altered for Rockhampton. Visibility had been nil for two days; but we got a sight at noon, and we raised the light house at North Reef just half an hour before dusk.

The pilot took us up the Fitzroy River into Rockhampton, where we lay for a week. The second mate was returned to hospital, and a new second mate came from Sydney.

April 9: We came down the river to Sea Hill this afternoon, but the weather is bad.

April 12: We pushed out to sea at 6 a.m., but the weather is the worst we yet have encountered—a peculiar, corkscrew ing movement, like a bucking horse, and practically everyone is seasick. We have picked up some kind of ’flu in Rockhamp ton, and most of us are weak and “took down with misery something terrible.”

Everyone is in wet clothes. The saloon at night is like a nightmare, or a Hogarth painting. The nice, pale-brown Dand ling and the reseda green curtains, and the white ceiling, make an extraordinary background for the gaunt, unshaven wrecks who gather there with hollow eyes and sinewy brown arms and legs pro jecting from wet singlets and shorts The whole picture tosses wildly, like a double earthquake, as the shin is thrown about Everything that can fall, or smash, or be carried away, already has done it. No one can sleep unless he hangs on to his bunk, like a monkey in a tree-top. The floor is wet with sea-water, and slippery with black oil from the engine-room. Out in the corridor, the water rushes madly back and forth.

At the evening meal-time there is much anxiety as to whether the savoury-smell ing “Chegwidden Special” will go over board or splatter around the saloon, be fore finding its sanctuary inside the sad whiskers of our returning planters.

In spite of the wild tossing of the ship, and the general sea-sickness, all hands are doing a splendid job. The cooks have kept food up to the company, somehow, and our amateur deckhands are always on the deck when they are needed. They carry masses of bruises and abrasions; but there is not a shirker among them.

The wheel is fighting like a mad devil, in this sea, and rapping the quarter masters over the knuckles.

But nobody minds, so long as we are getting there.

The engineers have done a good job, too—their trials have been endless. The engines are running better now. Before we went to Rockhampton, the deckhands had to take turns in the engine-room, turning something or other, for 48 hours, because the lubricating system had broken down.

April 14: The port engine (the villian of the piece) did 190 revs, we are told— the best yet.

APRIL 16: At last, we have had beauti ful calm weather, for two davs, and everyone has picked up. Washing clothes, and ironing, and smelling imag inary frangipanni, and making nostalgic references to paw-paw, taro and pease soup, and other fragrant memories of the days “long before.” Guadalcanal was sighted at 7 p.m. The day’s run of 188, logged at noon, was a record for the trip.

We heard Tulagi radio this morning.

We are only 90 miles from Honiara. Home —after all these years!

We should berth in the morning. There is an air of anticipation, and relief that we have at last reached this nightmare journey’s end. We do not speculate upon the future—it is very much an unknown quantity. It may be rough in patches— but we hope that there will be to our labours what there has been to this trip —a happy ending.