Today I used my random number generator to decide what to write, and got number 17: A place that is no longer there. I am glad I got that one so early on, because I already had an idea for it.
A Place That Is No Longer There
It is still there; the island. I would imagine it will be there for a great deal of time to come. What isn’t still there in the Waimea Estuary of Nelson, on Saxton Island, is my home.
I lived on that island for ten years on and off; my tenure beginning at three-and-a-half-years-old, and ending when I was 17. The bach itself remained a holiday home until sometime into my 20’s. It was a home unlike most, in that it was completely inaccessible by road, and had to be approached by sea vessel or helicopter. We never went there by helicopter, but you could, probably. There is one census record that shows Saxton Island as having a population of three: my Mum, my Dad, and me.
Some of my fondest memories of “the island” are: hooning around on a three-wheeler, before they became illegal, and only occasionally driving over a tussock and rolling it on its side but not telling my parents it had happened; finding a magical staircase to nowhere in the forest behind my house; some pretty epic parties - including my first wedding; friends I made there from other baches; taking the dinghy almost right up to our door on those high kingtides; hooning in the dinghy, with our outboard motor, to other islands in the estuary and sometimes even camping on those islands and meeting new people; having something to sorta show off about when I got old enough to understand how unique my situation was; so so soooo much alone-time and space for my imagination to run wild (oh the stories I wrote); wheelbarrow rides when I was sick and the three-wheelers had broken down; the sweet sleepout my parents built me, when I was a teenager, that they later took over when I left home; skimming stones; chasing crabs; throwing endless sticks for our dogs; and exploring to my heart’s content.
Our bach, one of five, was basically in the middle of the almost horse-shoe-shaped island, with three baches curled around the island behind it making it the second closest bach to “the point”. The point was the closest point to “the mainland” and where we usually anchored our boats - unless it was high tide and we needed to boat almost the whole way to our bach and anchor at “the hump”. The hump was over a narrow coastal ridge that gave way to an inland estuary, which is where our bach was found atop a small hill in the middle. It was so-called because my parents cleared a path through the scrub at the top of the ridgeline, which sort of looked like a saddle, or a hump. I helped them build a path from it, to our bach, out of stones. I also begrudgingly helped them maintain it over the years; I did not like manual labour as a child!
The first bach was one my parents discovered through a colleague, that had been abandoned and vandalised. I remember my Mum telling me that “vandals” had been through it, and imagining short greyish-green troll-like creatures with balaclavas, that like fucking shit up - not bored humans. Mum and Dad got permission from the Saxtons, the owners of the island, and did the place up. I don’t really remember the first bach very well - except that I had my own room and so did my step brother who had come to live with us. I remember very well though, the night it burned to the ground.
It was one of those freak cooking accidents that spiralled out of control into a perfect storm. Cooking oil met flame, and flame decided it wanted to dance and to grow. It grew until it had engulfed the entire bach. My main memories are of my Dad only in his undies, having used his clothes in a vain attempt to fan the flames, scooping me up in my socked feet and running me outside. Mum was accounted for, my step brother was accounted for, and we got the heck out of dodge - my socks getting muddier with each step towards our boat. We literally escaped with whatever we were wearing and nothing else. Someone on the mainland had seen the glow and dialled 111. Firefighters somehow went across the water and tried to do what they could to save our wee pad, but save it they could not; it was simply too late. It happened just after my sixth birthday and all of my presents, along with everything else we owned, became ashes. My parents were beneficiaries at the time and now we had nothing but a boat, a bike (I think), and a car. My school did a toy drive for me, and I was so grateful; one girl spent her whole $30 of pocket money on a Barbie doll for me. My parents made the front page of the, then, Nelson Daily Mail; a sullen pair in sepia sitting on the bare concrete slabs where our home once stood. You could be forgiven for thinking my parents had a fame ambition, as that same year we were on Fair Go because some turnip sold them a hovercraft full of holes. You read that right: a hovercraft. While it lasted it was bloody fun!
Mum and Dad rebuilt onto the water tank that had been left standing. I still don’t quite understand why the Saxtons let us, but hey - it happened. I helped Dad by sitting on top of bits of wood while he cut them to size. Unfortunately what we built was initially just one big room, and my step Brother stayed with his Mum. I was in a wee bed behind a curtain in the corner, with my parents in a double bed in the middle of the room (I think), and privacy was unheard of. I wasn’t very good at going to sleep when my parents wanted me to so it wasn’t a good time for anyone. Then they built me a small room with a top single bunk over a spare double and a desk. I fondly recall Dad fashioning a cutout love heart from a sheet of wood, sticking it to the wall at the end of my bed and painting the relief heart a lovely shade of red. That was so sweet and I felt so special. Eventually they built themselves a nice cosy bedroom, and our home was as livable as the first bach had been. We were home again.
Over the years we met new people and made new friends when they moved into the other four baches, or made them their holiday homes. One of my first, very short-lived, romances eventuated from the bach directly across the mudflats behind ours. One bach housed a “weirdo” who once threw our cat across the room. Another bach along from that was home, every summer for three months, to a couple that became very good friends with Mum and Dad. The most memorable neighbour we ever had though, had to be Bunj Harris. You can read about him and his other bach on Nelson’s Boulder Bank here. Bunj had the bach at the point of the island. He built it up and he built it down, and he made a quaint quirky fun but functional home for his wife and their two kids. The parties were legendary. Bunj was the sort of person you don’t soon forget; his exuberance was generous and infectious. He was a rough rugged Hawaiian shirted, long bearded, sarong wearing pirate type who had been many places and seen many things - not much fazed him. He always had time for me, for everyone really, and I miss him. I regret not keeping in touch. I heard recently from my parents that he has since passed away, and I’ve been grieving harder than I expected to given that I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a decade. He was life itself.
The island introduced me to some unforgettable people, and some incredible experiences: my first wedding, with 100 guests ( I walked from the bach over the hump and we got married on the beach nearby); my parents actually bringing my bigass heavy literal piano over, on a boat, from one of our mainland living stints; my parents letting me go to school as far away as frikken possible, even though it was a five vehicle mission every day (bike, boat, car, bus 1, bus 2), because my best friend was going there; new years parties more fun and wild than your average shindig; a cat that swam (we think?) home to the island from our mainland house somehow, and earned her right to live out her days there; a real human skeleton from 150 years prior found near one of the neighbouring baches; two treehouses; a front page article, and a TV appearance. It was an existence unlike many others.
Our stint on the island ended in my 20’s when the Saxtons decided they wanted the bach for one of their grandsons. My parents made a deal that didn’t quite go as planned, but the Saxtons bought the bach off us even though we had not paid a cent for the first one. They didn’t quite pay its worth, but they did recognise that it was ours - we had built it. It ended messily and I won’t go into details, but we have not been back since. I thought I didn’t miss it, as it was a somewhat haunted place from memory - with a lot of baggage and a gutful of vague unease. Yet the more I think of its lush greenery, short walks from end to end or longer ones around it at low tide, beautiful beach life, and general serenity (save the longdrop), I do long for those aspects of my island home.
I will always be an ocean girl; it’s in my blood.