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© March 2005 Terry Regan
Just “seven miles from Sydney and a thousand miles from care”.
The folk knew that was Manly and the ferries took you there.
The year was nineteen thirty nine and I had just turned three
when we moved down to Manly at South Steyne beside the sea.
And then from nineteen forty, overlooking Curl Curl beach,
our home was oh so humble but what joy was in our reach.
We had the surf, the beach, the pool and all that bushland too;
my boyhood was fantastic with so many things to do.
But when it came to highlights, well, the thing that took the crown,
was riding on the ferry all the way to Sydney town.
The trips were rare; we went to Sydney once or twice a year,
and on those very special days my heart was in top gear.
I see myself, a small boy, standing there on Manly wharf;
the South Steyne was so huge it made me feel just like a dwarf.
It seemed to come in very fast; I thought, “the thing won’t stop!
It might land in ‘The Corso’ right outside the Jeweller’s shop!”
The Captain swung his handle down, the water foamed and boiled.
She ground against the pylon then the deckhands, rope uncoiled,
lassoed those black, steel bollards and no sooner had they thrown,
they had it tied off on the ship – oh how that rope would groan.
Then came the time for boarding. With the gangplanks now in place
we charged onto the lower deck and brother, what a race
to get a spot where we could look down to the engine room.
Then eagerly await the bell for engines to resume.
I still recall the smell of oil, the wafting up of heat,
while watching huge arms rise and fall to smooth and rythmic beat.
Another highlight of the trip was when the musos played.
I put a penny in their box and thought my day was made.
I think back to the wartime boom, where ferries had to wait
to take their turn with other vessels passing through the gate.
They say the midget submarine, which sank the Kuttabul,
gained access through the boom-net underneath a ferry’s hull.
Then in the early fifties, as a young apprentice lad,
I made that journey twice a day and what wild trips we had.
When huge seas thundered through ‘The Heads’ the ship would roll and dive –
I’ve seen the bottom deck awash and hoped I would survive!
When diving down from wave to trough the shudders were severe;
we often saw a passing ferry fully disappear!
To minimise the awful rolls they’d steer towards ‘North Head’,
then turn and ride the waves back in - those trips were filled with dread.
At times the fog was like pea soup and we were late that day.
With fog-horns sounding constantly we slowly made our way
past ‘Bradley’s Head’ and ‘Pinchgut’, and those huge, black cargo ships
which loomed above us in the fog – oh, they were eerie trips.
Those early Manly ferries were a vessel that had class,
their Captains were true mariners – to them I raise my glass.
Full credit also to the Scots who built those sturdy craft
which battled through the roughest seas whilst travelling fore or aft.
Yes, “Seven miles from Sydney and a thousand miles from care”,
we all knew that was Manly and the ferries took you there.
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