Passion Over, Pasha Bulker
Ξ July 27th, 2007 | → | ∇ Pasha Bulker, Shipwreck, history, ships |
Eleven o’clock departure time was an hour ago, yet Newcastle Harbour lay wide, flat, blue .. and empty.
There was no sign of that injured Panamax freighter about to leave the people of this busy little sea port, to whom it had become so endeared.
A march of waves slapped against rocks, catching our attention: "Perhaps we missed it!" someone chuckled, creating a ripple of giggles.
Another: "Well, if the choppers are circling it, then it must be heading upstream towards Tomago shipyards" and the amiable crowd smiled some more.
"It must have run aground in the basin" was another theory contributed to explain the non-appearance of Pasha Bulker, leaving port for climes unknown in Asia for repairs.
"Well, there’s five tugs this time, not the usual three. I’d say they’re all tangled and are trying to sort the mess!"
After all, we had to amuse ourselves in the absence of the star attraction, "it," the coal freighter Pasha Bulker whose astonishing arrival had been the most sensational event in decades.
Meanwhile the Newcastle Port Corporation’s dredge, David Allan, chugged by for the umpteenth time, paranoid, it seemed, to ensure the channel hadn’t suddenly developed a threat that might embarrass the Port, and particularly the Pasha B., in some far-fetched mishap.
"Let’s just check the draught one more time" one imagines the Captain thinking.
The first chopper to arrive that morning was the Australian Broadcasting Commission’s sleek silver bird that thundered into Newcastle’s perfect calm July morning from the south.
After a commanding sweep of the harbour it took station above the Eastern Basin where the Pasha Bulker was being manoeuvred from it’s cosy berth near the wheat silos, scene of many a grand launching in Newcastle’s ship-building glory days.
Soon the bright red Seven Network chopper arrived, then two Hunter Valley tour helicopters and, adding to the cacophony, more Sydney TV network whirlybirds, the swarm buzzing around like so many Hexham Grey mosquitos mistaking the harbour for Hexham Swamp.
Shores north and south of Newcastle Harbour were packed with delighted sightseers, both locals and from several hours drive distant. Even the TV choppers had flown 80 aerial miles north from Sydney.
The day was balmy, clear, blue-skied and bright, with a gentle cooling breeze.
Image right: Fort Scratchley fires a four-cannon salute in honour of a common little ship that became so special.
It was simply the most stunningly-perfect Newcastle day for a perfect harbour spectacle.
Busloads of school students filled the northern breakwater to partake a historic juxtaposition: the Pasha Bulker, a rare escapee from coastal peril, sailing by those rusting hulks beneath the rocky barricade on which they walked.
On this most serenely-beautiful of days before this glorious vista of Newcastle’s headland, sand and harbour these kids stood, absorbing the irony of innumerable broken ships around them that became Oyster Bank victims (and, eventually, the harbour’s northern breakwater) and the sleek silent passage of our lady of the sea, the Pasha Bulker, bruised and scarred, cruising seaward mere tens of meters away, having just escaped both sudden death on Newcastle rocks - and lingering decay on the sands of Nobbys Beach.
And past us she went, shiny and clean, humming efficiently, filling the channel with red and cream hugeness, a large yellow bungee strap hanging from bow, two big staples mending her side, all with spectacle and ceremony, at the same time with respect and humility.
Image left: Local NBN Television news team capture the moment of the decade.
People and vehicles simply packed the northern shore from the east-most tip of the northern breakwater back to the passenger ferry terminal.
Every vantage on the south bore - from Horseshoe beach, along The Foreshore, through restaurant precincts to Honeysuckle - unprecedented crowds .. for a mere Panamax coal ship.
No-one onshore would guess the emotions of those onboard the Pasha B. as she swept briskly along the channel toward Nobbys.
First, curious surprise, as the port narrowed past Stockton, upon seeing the people lining the shoreline, by any standard an immense crowd for this tiny city.
Then the Pasha Bulker’s crew would finally have understood what was happening. This was no idly-curious gathering, nor bored city residents seeking novelty.
Thousands of curious yet appreciative eyes followed the injured ship. A consensus wave of relief flowed with the giant stricken lady, a silent surge of well-wishing for her homeward limp.
This was no mob of gawky sightseers, but a giant communal ‘helping hand’ of encouragement, a show of appreciation for men and ships that are still the life blood of this great port and seafaring nation.
Each time one of these magnificent vessels tests the brink of survival, they become suddenly alive, gathering, as a symbol, tributes and attention normally unexpressed towards the convoy floating just off our coast.
Newcastle .. loves ships.
Fort Scratchley’s World War Two cannons - that last shelled in anger sixty-two years ago - fired four salutes during the Pasha’s channel run. This was indeed a special and fun day, yet something more. Novocastrians, by the simple presence of a port, feel empathy and duty towards ships.
We feel pride when they arrive, pride when they leave. We instinctively - though few realise it - feel a loss, too, when they go. Especially to elsewhere in the world when this country, and this 200 year old port, should still be the major maritime nation it once was.
Now Australia is just a quarry, the very thing our teachers warned us in school, decades ago, while other nations gather the lucrative fees for our huge offshore tonnage.
Did you know the "Australian National Line" is a foreign-owned shipping line and world’s third-largest, yet began life as the Australian Coastal Shipping Commission fifty years ago? Of course you didn’t. You’ve forgotten successive Australian governments have pretty-well given away the farm for some peppercorns.
Each time a ship leaves our port, it steals a little of our pride and former glory.
