Dress code was formal for the Oranje farewell dinner on April 28, 1962. Photo / Peter Cape
Putting pen to paper and mouse to keyboard in the late hours of this Labour Day evening it has been difficult to gather the essence of rapid world developments over recent days and make some palatable narrative from the unfolding picture.
As seasons change the storms of social unrest sweep the globe. From Chile to Belarus, Nigeria to Ivory Coast, USA to France, political tolerance seems to be at an all-time low.
I have a sense of dissociation creeping into my perception of life here in New Zealand, heralding a false sense of security which could prove lethal. It seems easy to believe that life is normal, that Covid-19 is nothing but a bad dream, a passing figment of imagination.
The world's unrest has nothing to do with us. We've woken up to a new day. We're okay. Right?
These past few days I seem to be the only one wearing a mask and using sanitiser and standing back. I'm reminded of the film Oh! What a Lovely War directed by Richard Attenborough in 1969. In that musical epic the Western Front was depicted as a cricket match with the scoreboard tallying in the thousands.
According to Johns Hopkins University the USA had 82,000 cases on Sunday and 1000 deaths a day. France has 52,000 cases today. Yet protagonists like Armenia and Azerbaijan continue to pulverise the living daylights out of each other.
New Zealand is fortunate to have governance that will, I hope, be stable and intelligent and thankfully, because of distance, to some degree, we are shielded (but not immune) from the growing turmoil overseas.
Oh it's a lovely war ... until you actually have to stand in the detritus on the front line. We forget that the real enemy is invisible to the naked eye.
In April 1962 I was in Florida with my parents and sister. The unrest was similar, with Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights movements becoming provocative.
Tensions were running high with the Cuban Missile Crisis. Soviet missiles were targeted at the US mainland from Cuba. We sighted the American naval blockade of Cuba, along the horizon, from Miami Beach. I was 8 and in retrospect I'd say the gravity of these events didn't concern me.
This, after all, was not our war. We were just passing through. We were sailing to England where my father was to train with the BBC in television production techniques, and we would then travel the UK and Continent. Of course in truth, it was our war. The events I was part of were potentially world shattering.
Our ship, the MS Oranje (Netherland Line) was berthed in Fort Lauderdale. Apart from the politics I recall a couple of memorable moments.
My parents bought a stuffed, brown, baby crocodile about 18 inches long. Bringing it back through Customs on Queens Wharf in Wellington in November that year, my mother brazenly waved it in the face of the Customs officer who duly took a step back and let it through along with our other collected shells and trinkets.
My father took his guitar to London. I learned to play on that instrument. Somewhere between Florida and England our cabin flooded. The tap in the hand basin was left on. The guitar and case were found floating and as a result, for years, the guitar had a wrinkled back panel.
When my parents separated in the 1970s the guitar went to Nelson with my father. I've kept the case (with shipping labels). I finally got that guitar back last year, after 40 years.
We stayed in Florida for several days and, I imagine, being able to leave was a relief. We sailed out of Port Everglades under blue skies and a flat sparkling sea amongst scattered pleasure craft and a huge dredge.
My sister and I had, between us, my new civil war musket, a toy puffing billy, and a tin pirate chest money box. The Oranje steamed east over the Atlantic. There were the usual rounds of competitions, sports, fancy dress occasions, and evening events for the adults. I dressed as a confederate/rebel soldier complete with uniform, water bottle, slouch cap, musket and flag – thanks to my mother's theatrical skill.
The ship would roll like a pregnant duck and during mealtimes sometimes we had to hold on to our crockery so it didn't go flying. On one occasion we encountered a storm in mid Atlantic.
On another, a seabird sought refuge on the ship. Rumour has it that it was captured and cooked by the crew, but I suspect that was a tall tale. I was told of frogs legs being served but again I don't actually know. They weren't on the children's menu. Life went on. By the end on April 1962 we were approaching England.
My parents attended a wedding dinner on April 27 and on April 28 the ship's company presented a sophisticated farewell dinner. Dress code was formal. The tables were elegantly laid and furnished in white linen.
The centrepiece at the top table was a three foot tall white pastry windmill. On April 29 we entered the English Channel and saw England for the first time in the form of The Needles and white cliffs of the Isle of Wight.
We were met by the local pilot vessel and escorted to Southampton. We had arrived and my father's diary, covering our time in the UK and the Continent, will be the basis for my future columns.