The Wahine hit Barrett's Reef and sank in Wellington Harbour during Cyclone Giselle, one of the worst storms in New Zealand's history. (NZ Herald Archive)
The Wahine hit Barrett's Reef and sank in Wellington Harbour during Cyclone Giselle, one of the worst storms in New Zealand's history. (NZ Herald Archive)
There were many heroes and brave rescuers on the day the Wahine sank, with the loss of 52 of the 734 people on board.
In the desperate hours after the ship struck a reef at the entrance to Wellington Harbour during one of the fiercest storms the country has everknown, scores, if not hundreds, of people on land as well as on the ship, did what they could to help.
Just one example reported in the Herald next morning was Mr R.T. McDonald of Christchurch who dived into the surging 6m sea to rescue a struggling child.
Many more stories have since come to light. So we nominate all those, on land and sea, who stepped up on that day.
What they faced and what they achieved is perhaps best expressed in the words of
reporter Iain Macdonald who was on the ship and played his role, both as rescuer and rescued, but remained true to his craft and filed the memorable story below when he reached land.
Image 1 of 6: The Wahine hit Barrett's Reef and sank in Wellington Harbour during Cyclone Giselle, one of the worst storms in New Zealand's history. (NZ Herald Archive)
The seas outside still looked mountainous and visibility was almost nil. The ship still rolled and pitched. But this had become part of life as we knew it.
Suddenly, what had seemed to start as just another roll to port never reverted to even keel. Those of us at the outer edges were flung headlong into those sprawled against the bulkheads.
Almost simultaneously a bell somewhere sounded a single extended peal.
"What does that mean?" somebody asked.
"It means get outside to lifeboat stations," replied an elderly stewardess.
"Open those doors," yelled a masculine and authoritative voice. Two other men and I strained at the double doors leading to the weather deck. Finally they burst open, drenching us with gale-driven rain and sea spray.
Through the shriek of wind and hiss of water a half-heard voice over the loudspeakers ordered us to "assemble at the lifeboats on the starboard side".
A moment later the same cracking voice said starboard was the right hand side. But even this did little to ease the situation on the crazily tilted, ice-rink deck of the wallowing ship.
Most of us slid and crashed from port to starboard. This must have accounted for many of the broken limbs.
Some of us - passengers and crew - formed a chain to pass women and children through to the boat deck. We worked with one hand grabbing a rail and the other grasping hands, shoulders, legs and even hair to steady the tumbling bodies.
From the boat deck rail - which was leaning at about 40 degrees - I saw one lifeboat jam-packed with old folk, women and children, splash into the water.
Thank God I missed seeing it capsize a few minutes later.
From the shouted comments around me I gathered it had become pretty hopeless to try launching any more boats.
As if to confirm this the Wahine gave another lurch and the sea began washing round my feet as I stood against the rail.
Inflatable (so-called) rubber liferafts lay wallowing alongside the ship, some punctured by flying cables and sharp projections, some floating upside down.
"Jump" yelled a crewman.
I climbed on to the rail, pondered jumping for a split second, then thought of that heaving mass of metal leaning over the water. I changed my mind and tried an outward dive.
My experiences after that must have been typical of those of hundreds of survivors.
I surface near a half-submerged rubber raft and was half floated, half dragged into its watery saucer.
Glancing up, I saw the bulk of the Wahine looming over us. At that moment she heeled even further, threatening to roll right over and take us down with her.
All round me men were trying desperately to paddle rafts away from the ship's side with pieces of driftwood and their bare hands. But each heaving wave threw us back under her.
Then someone in our raft scooped a floating plank from the sea and half punted, half-paddled us along the ship's side and out past the stern.
Clear of the worst danger we were lucky enough to bump against a properly inflated raft (right side up too).
There seemed room in it for only our smallest, but most important passenger. This was a small baby being held clear of the water by its young father.
As I took the crying bundle in its waterlogged blanket the father shouted to me: "Just in case we don't make it, tell them her name is Judy Vaughan."
I passed the baby and message on board the safe raft and a few seconds later helped push the baby's mother on board as well.
Later, from our half-sunk raft, we managed to grapple another raft floating upside down - but at least floating.
A couple of valiant characters in a small runabout motorboat threw us a line and towed us under the lee of a tug which took us on board.
I have written this hastily by the fireside of a generous Wellingtonian, one of the many who awaited survivors at the Wellington wharves and railway station reception centre.
For the first time in my life I can see my entire wardrobe drying on the back of a single chair. The rest - together with some lifelong treasures - are locked in my car at the bottom of the sea.
But we who live to bemoan such things are the lucky ones.
