The following is an article published in the Taranaki Daily News, 26 November 1932. It is a highly moving account not only of the danger in whaling and the courage and skills of those who took part, but also of the esteem that so many held of Dicky and Rāwhinia Barrett. It is also an explicit account of the brutality of whaling, an activity that is thankfully well in the past.

“There she blows!” was a cry which sent a thrill through the Moturoa whaling station in the old days. It was a call to action, and the boats were soon afloat pulling out to the spot where a whale had been seen. It was not uncommon to see two boats strike off in a direction quite different from the one following the main line of the chase. The leader of these two has seen some indication, or thinks he has, in the direction of the whale’s tail when she last “fluked” or some change in the wake she left behind her, which, to his experience, bespeaks a possible change of direction. He therefore tries to cut off the whale by crossing the line of her supposed new run. Again the whale appears, though too far away for anything but observation of its movements by the hunters. Even by the watchers ashore some of the excitement of the chase is felt, the leading boat is well ahead and there is the feeling that the whale may rise ahead of it at any moment. A long wait and again, not far ahead, the whale blew aloft a cloud of smoke like water. She flukes her enormous tail 30ft. into the air and casts her great body playfully out of the water. Quietly but speedily the boats draw nearer, and once again the huge black mass leaps out of the water, throws up its tail and plunges again head first into the sea. To the whaler, wise in his work, some indication of the “course” the whale is taking is apparent, and Dicky Barrett manoeuvres his boat to the place where he expects the whale to appear next. Suddenly the whale rises, a few yards in front of the boat, and the harpoon flies true and straight into the black mass. This is called “making fast.” The harpoon line whistles over the pulley wheel, and the boat positively flies through the water.

Now comes the skill of the whaler in steering the boat at frightful speed and in watching every movement of the frightened, tortured whale. It rapidly takes the line and the 200 fathoms in the boat are nearly exhausted by the whale’s determination to try the depth of the water, technically called sounding. Gradually the rush of the line slows down, the slack is taken up slowly and carefully and the boat’s crew wait for the next move in the game of skill against strength. Soon the whale rises to take breath again and another harpoon finds its mark. The whale gradually becomes exhausted, runs less rapidly, and rises more frequently. Slowly it rolls one fin out of the water, and, like a flash, another harpoon flies a good foot into the spot below which the “life” is said to be. Only superb seamanship saves the boat from annihilation as the whale swings around its huge tail out of the water and brings it down with a tremendous report. The whale wriggles and plunges, twists more furiously than ever. It now spouts thick blood, and the men in the boats know it is theirs.

That, put briefly, was a scene well-known in Taranaki waters 90 years ago. The risks were tremendous, yet to Dicky Barrett and his mates they were all part of the day’s work and the reward was worth the risk.

There came day, records Mr J. T. Wicksteed, when Dicky Barrett was killing a whale that had run unusually close in. Three boats from Richard Brown’s station, which had joined in the chase, hung about within a short distance. Barrett had four boats out, and he headed the seven-oared craft himself. As a rule these sights were watched from the high ground where the flagstaff stood (now cleared away from the railway station site), but on this occasion, the tide being out, and the whale being so close in, a group of excited merchants and idlers stood close to the sea watching through one or two telescopes. The men in the boats and all their actions were plainly visible. The whale was spouting blood in a vortex of spume when Dicky Barrett ran in to put a finishing lance into its “life”. Suddenly the cry went up, “There she flukes! By jove! she’s done for Barrett!”. The great tail had appeared to fall upon the boat, which, for the moment, was lost to view in the churning cauldron worked up by the dying whale. Soon, however, the boat was again visible, but there seemed to be no one in her. A little later, first one, and then another figure arose, till all where there except for the brave-hearted headsman. It was soon evident that the boat was a mere wreck and she cast off the now useless line which was fast to her harpoon and began to paddle to the shore like a wounded bird. Two or three of her men sat on the gunwhale, on one side, so as to throw the shattered side as high out of the water as possible, and so, on her side rather than on her keel, she approached the shore slowly.

Still no Dicky Barrett was seen. The boat ran into a little cove sheltered, in those days, by two reefs of rocks. This little harbour was called “Candish’s Bay”, and lay about 200 yards nearer the Sugar Loaves than the regular landing place. When the stove-in, crippled boat at length was paddled to the beach poor Dicky Barrett was lifted from her bottom, insensible, and carried ashore.. He lay on the warm sands above hight water mark for some little time, and then he was carried and half walked between two strong supporters to Richard Brown’s, which was the nearest house. They were rivals in the whaling business, but Mr Brown would, as all present knew, do everything within man’s power for his friend.

The men in the boat told the story of the mishap and declared that the whale had not touched the boat and all the mischief had been effected by the concussion of the air as that terrible tail fell. It seems probable, however, that the tail struck the oars and wrecked the gunwhale and the planking. A man was bailing hard all the way in to keep the boat afloat.

Possibly Barrett’s health had not been good before he went out, or even such a shock could hardly have shaken his iron nerves so badly. He never headed his boat again, and seemed never quite well. He aged rapidly in appearance, and died a year or two later. So ended the stout, kind, honest-hearted old whaler, regretted by all who knew him.

His passing broke a link between the New Zealand of the Maori and its settlement by white man. Barrett would probably have laughed if anyone had told him he was an Empire-builder. Nevertheless, it has been the pluck and endurance of such as Dicky Barrett that have extended the British mana over countless leagues of land and sea.

Dicky Barrett’s body was interred in the Maori cemetery at Ngamotu. Some years ago the little cemetery , which is near the Bayly Road, almost on the beach, was cleared and an old headstone to Barrett uncovered. His wife, who whatever her rank, was a Maori of influence and character, is buried alongside.

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