HELLO, EDITOR DES HERE. I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS STORY ABOUT THE DEAR OLD FERRIES THAT PLY SYDNEY HARBOUR. MY GUARDIAN PAULINE CONOLLY WROTE IT. I FIXED UP A FEW TYPOS. HAHAHA
Each Australia Day, Sydney’s commuter ferries race down the harbour, decorated with bunting and loaded to the gunnels with cheering supporters. They remind me of well dressed matrons competing in the hundred metre dash at school sports days.
In 1984 the exertion proved too much for the aging Karrabee. Having won the inaugural race three years earlier, she was struggling to keep up. When passengers surged forward to urge her on, her bows dipped and water flooded her hull. She struggled back to Circular Quay in a commendable third place, unloaded all 500 passengers – and sank.
I suspect we love the Ferrython because the boats are the absolute antithesis of the sleek, squillion dollar yachts which leave for Hobart on Boxing Day. The ferries are the work horses of the harbour; proudly descended from the convict built Rose Hill Packet. Within a year of the First Fleet’s arrival this ungainly vessel, affectionately dubbed ‘The Lump’, was making her way up the Parramatta river powered by a combination of oar and sail.
By the 1840’s an eccentric individual called William King had added a novel element to the Parramatta ferry trip. Known as The Flying Pieman for his extraordinary athletic feats, King would hawk pies at the Sydney wharf then walk to Parramatta in time to sell another batch to disembarking passengers. Writing about King in 1952, James Tyrrell noted, ‘..today he could have raised the six-starred flag high and often at the Olympic Games .’
Appropriately, the streamlined passenger catamarans now plying the river have been named after some of our Olympic champions, including runners Betty Cuthbert, Marjorie Jackson and Marlene Matthews. Perhaps there is an argument for a future rivercat to be called The Flying Pieman in King’s honour.
Ferries appeal to the free spirit trapped within the most conservative commuter; a feeling enshrined in a short story called The Jumping Jeweller of Lavender Bay published in 1962 by Hugh Atkinson. In 1981 The Little River Band recorded a song based on Atkinson’s story. An impoverished young jeweller falls in love with a girl he sees every day on the ferry and tries to impress her by making ever more daring leaps from the jetty;
I jump as she pulls away,
The gap gets a little wider every day.
News of the jeweller’s exploits spread,
‘….people began to bet,
Would I end up with the lady or would I just end up getting wet?’
The lyrics provide no definite answer, but the suggestion is that love triumphs.
In the early 1970’s a quirky song written and performed by Bernard Bolan called The Rose Bay Ferry reached the top of the charts. It captures the romance and escapism associated with ferry travel,
Every morning at 8.25,
down to the Rose Bay wharf I drive.
Park my Humber underneath a tree,
pop along the gang-plank and then I’m free!
The ferry mentioned in the song was owned and operated by the Nicholson Bros, prompting the day-dreaming commuter to muse;
Where are we going today Mr Nicholson?
Where is it going to be?
Don’t turn left, turn right down the harbour
And out to the open sea.
In Bolan’s imagination they set off through the heads bound for some exotic location. Perhaps it will be Java today…. or Japan? But inevitably Mr Nicholson heads for the city and the dream slowly turns into reality. The song concludes poignantly; We finish up at Circular Quay.
If you would like to hear Bernard Singing this, CLICK HERE.
Besides its lilting melody, the charm of the song lies in the integrity of its lyrics. Bernard Bolan was then a corporate lawyer, living in Rose Bay and travelling to his office via the harbour. He explains; Sydney was my first real experience of city living, and I found it a bit stressful. That was the dark side of the song. But I loved my ferry ride.’ For Sydney’s commuters the nineteen seventies could be described as the golden age of ferry commuting. Influenced by the preceding ‘swinging sixties’ they dressed like cruise passengers. Women went barelegged and men discarded their uncomfortable suits in favour of shorts and long socks.
My own experience of ferry travel began while I was living above Mosman Bay in the eighties and nineties. Rob and I would wake to the sound of the morning’s first ferry rattling our bedroom windows. Later we would amble down the steps for a relaxing ride to work.
The return journey was a little less idyllic, as tired and fractious office workers converged on the Quay. It has always been thus; witness a poem published in the Sydney Morning Herald in 1925 which began;
Oh hasten to the ferry, they’re shutting the gate,
So lose not a moment, or else you’ll be late.
It’s when people are late that they make those dangerous leaps from the wharf. Well they used to…..probably be fined a fortune these days for breaching health and safely rules.
For many years the Mosman ferry has stopped only ‘on demand’ at tiny Old Cremorne wharf, prompting the deckhand’s plaintive call, ‘Anyone for old cream ‘orn?’ It is oddly appropriate as Cremorne Point was once a pleasure garden, where 19th century day-trippers picnicked while listening to brass bands, no doubt consuming more ‘cream ‘orns’ than was good for them.
Our arrival back at Mosman Bay was sometimes accompanied by a shuddering bump and the scrape of metal against wobbly wooden pylons. Ferry docking is not a precise art, although mishaps are generally regarded by passengers with amusement rather than apprehension; part and parcel of that devil-may-care feeling expressed in Bernard Bolan’s song. News that a Manly ferry has beached itself or demolished a wharf attracts hordes of smirking onlookers and newspaper photographers.
However, we should never forget that there have been tragedies on the harbour. The greatest loss of life occurred on November 3rd 1927, when the steamship Tahiti ploughed into the ferry Greycliffe as she was travelling from the Quay to Watson’s Bay. The ferry was struck amidships and sliced in two. Forty of her passengers died. Coincidently, the cartoonist Joe Lynch drowned that same year after falling into the harbour at night from the Mosman ferry. Lynch’s death near Fort Dennison inspired his friend Kenneth Slessor to write the hauntingly beautiful elegy, Five Bells, in which Lynch’s life passes before him between the chimes of a ship’s bell. The poem is an appropriate memorial not only to Joe Lynch, but to the victims of the Greycliffe disaster;
….all I heard
Was a boat’s whistle, and the scraping squeal
Of seabird’s voices far away and bells,
Five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out.
Whether gliding through a morning mist or crossing the harbour at night all lights blazing, there is something magical and other-worldly about Sydney’s ferries. This may explain why Ken Horler, who survived the Greycliffe disaster as a school boy, continued to travel on Sydney’s ferries well into his nineties.
At the start of the Sydney Ferrython the boats assemble at Fort Denison then race towards the harbour bridge. I suspect authorities fear that if the old girls were heading in the opposite direction they might charge past the finish line and vanish through The Heads. It conjures an image of the winner rounding The Horn several weeks later, her captain shouting lines from ‘The Rose Bay Ferry’ above the roar of the sea;
We’re off for Nantucket
So give that man a bucket
Cause it’s choppy when you’re out on the foam.
Here is Bernard singing his ferry song.
I hope you liked my story choice. Do you think that Australia Day is becoming jingoistic and that for the original inhabitants of this country January 26 was really Invasion Day? Please leave your comment below. We like a bit of controversy and debate at Bleakheath! It takes our mind of the weather! Thank you, Editor Des xxx
Author’s Note..I would like to thank Bernard Bolan for permission to quote his lyrics. His songs are absolutely delightful and so is he! If you would like to read another story about Sydney, click HERE