Tamaki

 

I joined the Navy in 1991, in the summer.

I remember it being a perfect day on the Auckland waterfront, in the early afternoon. I had caught the bus, the 'intercity coach' up from Hamilton, not very far really. There must have been other young men and women on the same bus, but we weren't Navy yet, still incognito in civvies and everyday haircuts.

The terminus caught everything, all the city buses, the trains, right down on the waterfront just beyond the point where Queen Street spilled down to the ferry wharves. As I took my turn to step down onto the tarmac people were everywhere, heading away to an afternoon business meeting, or back into their Auckland lives. 

I had really wanted to join up, do something that was alien and completely unknown, but as I picked up the small bag packed with the few things we were supposed to bring I thought for a long moment how wonderful it would be to just slip away, join the slow exodus out into the sunshine of the beautiful harbour afternoon, maybe have a couple of beers in one of the waterfront bars. 

A friend of mine joined the Navy here long before me and has almost the same memory, the subtle change from your life up to that moment and then bang, the reality when you really couldn't go back. His is hilarious, the navy even sent him some money for the trip to Melbourne and so he had a boozy farewell lunch with his mates before boarding the midday bus. He describes perfectly the 'hail fellow well met' moments of taking his bag from the intercity coach and finding the minibus that would take them to base, lots of smiling faces and banter amongst the young men. The trip wasn't very far, and then they turned onto the last small road leading into base, and as it passed between twin gates marking the entrance the Petty Officer, who had been sitting silent in the seats behind the driver leapt to his feet, filling the aisle, and let rip with a stream of expletives and threats of bodily harm if they all didn't shut up and realise what a world of pain they were entering.

I don't really remember the short trip to Tamaki, although it was familiar to me because Dad's parents and brother lived in Takapuna, and as we rose up over the harbour bridge and down again I looked out to the restaurant nestled right in under the bridge on the north side, you could always just see the hexagon of its roof. Mum and Dad went there with Dad's sisters and their husbands for New Years Eve some years when we were little boys. It all seemed so exotic to me sitting on the couch at Grandma's Takapuna townhouse, Grandad in his chair watching something like Roald Dahl's Twisted Tales. We would wake up to breakfast with presents of the little cocktail umbrellas and things from their night.

There was a sense of finality as we turned into the broad driveway leading up to the guardhouse of Tamaki base, thankfully none of the screaming and abuse though, kiwis are a bit more reserved I guess. It was such a beautiful late afternoon the quiet beach below the base was filled with mums and little kids dancing about in the quiet water stretching away towards Rangitoto. It was hard not to join them, just rip your shirt off and dive in.

We were allowed to do our own thing until dinner in the huge mess hall. I remember standing on the small parade ground near the guard house, watching recruits who lived in Auckland walk up the driveway with their bags. One young guy arrived on the back of trail bike, in filthy overalls and muddy gumboots. When he took off his helmet and gave it to the rider a huge afro exploded out in all directions. I think a lot of us wondered if a Sargeant Major wouldn't beam down and just end him right there on the tarmac.

I trained with that guy, we were communicators. I vividly remember about a month later, we all looked the same, rock hard fit to the point of being pinched and thin, buzz cut down to the quick so that our necks and ears were burned from the hours on parade. It was in the evening, after dinner, and we were in the dorms doing our kit as we always did. He was giving me tips on how to iron the collars we wore over our square neck shirts. How the shot of steam was crucial, not too much, just enough.

I looked at him and thought I bet your mum always wished you might come in the front door in a crisply ironed shirt, instead of those filthy overalls stuffed in your bag in storage.