Across the Seas: The Journey to New Zealand
From Tearful Goodbyes to Bright Tomorrows: The Journey South
With the children settled and the last goodbyes behind us, the ship itself became our world — a moving bubble where each day brought new sights, sounds, and small adventures. Days blurred into one another: meals in the dining hall, the children chasing each other across the deck, evenings standing at the rail with Sheila, staring out at the endless horizon.
At night, the engines’ deep rumble vibrated through our cabin, a reminder of the distance we were covering and the life we were leaving behind. At Piraeus, I stood with the children on deck as the ship slipped into harbour. “Is that Greece?” Paul asked, pointing at the hills. Julia, still too young to understand, simply clapped and laughed at the sight of small fishing boats trailing in our wake. Passing through the Suez Canal was like gliding through another world — desert on either side, dotted with soldiers and machinery.
I knew we were among the last ships to pass before war would close the route. A crewman muttered, “Enjoy it while you can.” A few days later came the crossing of the Equator, an event the children would never forget. King Neptune himself, trident in hand, appeared on deck surrounded by his “court.” Crew and passengers roared with laughter as newcomers were “initiated” — their faces smeared with flour, drenched with buckets of water, and ordered to kiss a large, wobbly fish. Paul tugged at my sleeve: “Dad, is that the real King Neptune?” I told him with a grin, “For today, it is.” The children screamed with delight and Sheila laughed at the antics that going on. In Alexandria, we made a hurried excursion to see the pyramids, their massive stones overwhelming in the midday heat.
In Aden, RAF planes streaked overhead, a reminder of Britain’s military reach. Then across the Indian Ocean, the days grew hotter and the sea rougher. Reaching Fremantle, passengers crowded the rails to catch the first glimpse of Australia. The excitement turned to worry in Melbourne when Julia came down with measles. Quarantine was enforced; we were confined and nervous, counting the days until she recovered. Sheila hardly left her side, her concern absolute. At last, clearance came — the relief on her face was unforgettable.In Sydney, the harbour dazzled with its sparkling water and skyline, a world so different from the one we had left. From there, we crossed the Tasman Sea and on to Auckland.
On May 3rd, 1967, we disembarked — weary but triumphant. A local contact greeted us with warmth and the keys to a rented house. For the first time, I felt the weight lift. We had made it. That night, as the children slept soundly in unfamiliar beds, I sat awake. The hum of the ship was gone, replaced by the silence of a New Zealand night. I thought of all we had left behind, and all that lay ahead. It was both daunting and exhilarating — the true beginning of our new life, and a chance to build something lasting for our children.
Sitting there in the stillness of our new home, I felt the full weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders — not as a burden, but as a quiet strength. The children, unaware of the journey we had endured, were sleeping safely and soundly, and Sheila’s presence beside me was a steady reassurance. I realised, more clearly than ever, that fatherhood was not just about providing, but about guiding, protecting, and shaping a life in a world of possibilities. Across oceans, through uncertainty and struggle, we had made it together — and now, at last, we could begin to build the life we had dreamed of.
At night, the engines’ deep rumble vibrated through our cabin, a reminder of the distance we were covering and the life we were leaving behind. At Piraeus, I stood with the children on deck as the ship slipped into harbour. “Is that Greece?” Paul asked, pointing at the hills. Julia, still too young to understand, simply clapped and laughed at the sight of small fishing boats trailing in our wake. Passing through the Suez Canal was like gliding through another world — desert on either side, dotted with soldiers and machinery.
I knew we were among the last ships to pass before war would close the route. A crewman muttered, “Enjoy it while you can.” A few days later came the crossing of the Equator, an event the children would never forget. King Neptune himself, trident in hand, appeared on deck surrounded by his “court.” Crew and passengers roared with laughter as newcomers were “initiated” — their faces smeared with flour, drenched with buckets of water, and ordered to kiss a large, wobbly fish. Paul tugged at my sleeve: “Dad, is that the real King Neptune?” I told him with a grin, “For today, it is.” The children screamed with delight and Sheila laughed at the antics that going on. In Alexandria, we made a hurried excursion to see the pyramids, their massive stones overwhelming in the midday heat.
In Aden, RAF planes streaked overhead, a reminder of Britain’s military reach. Then across the Indian Ocean, the days grew hotter and the sea rougher. Reaching Fremantle, passengers crowded the rails to catch the first glimpse of Australia. The excitement turned to worry in Melbourne when Julia came down with measles. Quarantine was enforced; we were confined and nervous, counting the days until she recovered. Sheila hardly left her side, her concern absolute. At last, clearance came — the relief on her face was unforgettable.In Sydney, the harbour dazzled with its sparkling water and skyline, a world so different from the one we had left. From there, we crossed the Tasman Sea and on to Auckland.
On May 3rd, 1967, we disembarked — weary but triumphant. A local contact greeted us with warmth and the keys to a rented house. For the first time, I felt the weight lift. We had made it. That night, as the children slept soundly in unfamiliar beds, I sat awake. The hum of the ship was gone, replaced by the silence of a New Zealand night. I thought of all we had left behind, and all that lay ahead. It was both daunting and exhilarating — the true beginning of our new life, and a chance to build something lasting for our children.
Sitting there in the stillness of our new home, I felt the full weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders — not as a burden, but as a quiet strength. The children, unaware of the journey we had endured, were sleeping safely and soundly, and Sheila’s presence beside me was a steady reassurance. I realised, more clearly than ever, that fatherhood was not just about providing, but about guiding, protecting, and shaping a life in a world of possibilities. Across oceans, through uncertainty and struggle, we had made it together — and now, at last, we could begin to build the life we had dreamed of.