 Ports of Call! Non-blue horizons far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands back in us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Call! The southern cross jewels the sky like four clustered diamonds. Curving sea lanes stretch eastward, pairs of adventure for the square rigors, briggs and barkentines of an age-long past. The soft lilt of the sea croons its siren song and draws us to the South Pacific, two islands of emerald and sapphire, rimmed by blue ocean. New Zealand is the name given to our magic islands by the Amsterdam map-makers. New Zealand, long bright land in the sea. The harbor at Auckland, mecca for tramp steamers, salt-crusted freighters, white burnished liners from San Francisco. As we round the north head, a green city of Auckland gleams before us, a teeming metropolis whose suburbs stretch for miles along the tooth-like waterfront. We dock at Queen's Wharf and leave the bustling harbor to travel southward. On our way we pass through a wild country haunted by native Maori legend. The ghosts of gods and warriors live almost forgotten in the shaded glens and shadowy mountains. But of all the gods that were once worshipped by the primitive Maori, the most popular was that amiable culprit, Maui. It was Maui who accidentally created the islands of New Zealand when one day he approached his two sleeping brothers. Brothers! Brothers! What is it, Maui? Can't you see we're sleeping? Raise your bones from the mat. Today we go fishing. Oh, what of it? We fish every day. I'll be asleep. Ah, pop, before I cudgel your brains out. All right, all right. Carry the canoe. Today we paddle far into the sea. I'm sick and tired of fishing in shallow water. We'll search for deep water today. But you caught a great shark only two days ago. A shark? What's a shark to a hero like Maui? I'm a god. And I want to catch something befitting a god, something big. Put the canoe in the ocean. That's it. And I'll sit in the middle. Is your paddle, Maui? Paddle. I want no paddle. Why do I have two brothers? His eyes are flashing fire. You'd better not make him angry. I suppose not. It's a vile task being brother to a god. Sometimes I wish... Stroke, brothers, stroke! Waits no time. How far must we go? Down to deep water. It may be a long journey. I can't tell. Stir your bones, stroke faster. Faster! Faster! Faster! Is that all the better you can do? Maui, we've been paddling for three days. Yes, and I'm good and tired. Well, I'll then stop. Water is deep here. I'll throw out my line. There. Aren't you going to bait it? I haven't any bait. After bringing him all this way, he hasn't any bait. I don't need it. I have a magic hook made from my grandmother's jawbone. And it's set with shell pearl. Now I'll see how it flashes. But what good is it without any bait? Now I prick my finger, rub the hook with a smear of blood, then I cast it, so, and I wait. Maui. You've got something. Pull. Pull it in. No, Maui. Let go. Let go. You'll overturn the canoe. You'll drown us. The water. Look at it. It's boiling, frothing. Let go, Maui. You can never land a fish like this. Watch me, brothers. I'll pull in the biggest fish you ever saw. Watch. Watch. Look. Look at us. Instead of having a fish in our boat, the boat's on top of the fish. Not a fish. It's an island. Maui, you've dragged up an island. Hmm. So I did. Now, what are you going to do with that? There ought to be some use for it. It's a rather pretty island. Perhaps I'll stay here. Oh, why? Well, if it were inhabited by the right kind of mortals and ruled over by a great god like Maui, I think this island would turn out to be a very enjoyable place. And so today the North Island of New Zealand is called Teika A Maui, the fish of Maui. The maores made all nature their god when they launched their big war canoes and migrated to New Zealand. Trees, volcanoes, mountaintops, all were made the basis of some fearful, amusing legend. But now the native drums beckon us east to Poverty Bay. Poverty Bay was named by Captain Cook in 1769, and on these shores the first bloody skirmish took place between Maui natives and Englishmen. Then on these same shores nearly 100 years later, an incident took place that was to bring the fierce civil wars to a dramatic climax. The scene is a tiny British garrison near Gisborne. Seated at a table flanked by two stiff-backed British soldiers, his major, John Viggs. Before him, three red feathers stuck joddily in his dark hair stands Teikuti, a broad-shouldered native warrior. Teikuti? Yes, Major Viggs. During the last battle with the Maori, you were in communication with the enemy. Is that true? No. You're a native. But you've sworn to fight with the Queen's soldiers. Do you believe that the British cause is just... If I did not believe it, would I fight against my own people? No. But you might play the spy. Spy? You know what a spy is, Teikuti. You know that to give military information to the enemy is the work of a traitor. And you also know what we do with traitors. I am no spy. I am a great warrior. And I am also a prophet. I see into the days to come. That is why I fight with the British. You are strong. My people have no weapons. They must submit to your Queen. I have seen it many times in my dreams. It's unfortunate, Teikuti, but you've been suspected of being a spy. And we cannot risk having you in our ranks. Therefore, it's my duty to send you to Chatham Island for a period of two years. Chatham Island? It's the prison colony. Why must I go to prison? You'll be well treated. I am no traitor. I am a warrior. The ship is waiting in the harbor. There are other prisoners to go with you. I will not go. This is my country, my land. Men, take him to the ship. Major Biggs, let me stay. Let me die fighting as a warrior, sure. I am no traitor. Come along, come along. Parkway there. Blood gov' me. I am a warrior. This is war, Teikuti. When the strife between natives and white men is over, you may return to Poverty Bay. Then I will return. But it shall be for vengeance. You shall answer to me for this insult. You shall pay. Teikuti will not forget. He sees far into the future. Land will be plunged in more blood. It will seep into the soil. Mingle with the salt of the sea. I am a prophet. I know, I know. Two years I have been imprisoned on this island, far from my native land. And you, my countrymen, you are all in the same plight. There will be no release. We shall stay here forever. Yes, would be better. Yes, yes. What can we do? Nothing. Teikuti, you are a holy man. You can see into the future what will happen to us. Tara, my friend and countryman, the gods tell me that we must escape. But how? I have a plan. Gather close. I will tell you. Yes, tell us what is your plan? Anchored close to the shore of this island is a British schooner. At night it is almost unguarded. We can steal several of the small boats that lie tied to the wharf. And tomorrow night, when the tide is high, we shall roll alongside this schooner. We were close to the shipman. Very solidly. We must not fear. Look, there is the night watch. He's gazing over the side. Silence, Tara. Closer. Closer. Here. Grass pulled to the ladder. I have it. Climb up very quietly, men. I shall go first. Bounce on the watchman. Seize his gun. Rest will be easy. I follow you. Cover. The watchman is looking toward the water. And ever the night is dark. He sees nothing. Up to Cody. We are behind you. Here. Here. He was this. Up, men. Up. He sees us. Help. We've been born. Help. Take his gun. Seize it when my fingers are around his throat. I have it. No. Do not waste ammunition. Strike him with the stock. I will. Well done. The ship is ours. Yes, British. Several months later, at the home of Major Biggs near Poverty Bay. It is late at night, as his wife enters the front room. John, dear, aren't you coming to bed? Yes, in a few minutes. I want to read this letter once more. A special messenger just brought it from Colonel Whitmore. Is it bad news? I'm afraid so. There's been nothing but bad news since take Cody seized that British schooner and escaped from Chatham Island. He's organized a large band of natives. Oh, they regard him almost as a god. You're hiding something from me. Yes, I am. Darling, I'm sending you and our son back to Auckland on the next boat. Why? The natives have been dancing the harker for the last month. That means war. There'll be danger. I'm not afraid. Take Cody wouldn't dare attack Poverty Bay. I know what's in that crafty mind of his. I believe he thinks I've wronged him. And this is the first place he'll come. For that reason, you must go to Auckland. But I wouldn't leave you, dear. I couldn't think of going. We'll talk it over in the morning. Good night, dear. Good night, John. Don't stay up too late. Take Cody will strike here first. I'm sure of it. But we'll be ready for him when he comes. I'll write a letter to the colonel tomorrow. We'll need reinforcements. Who is it? Who's at the door? Who's there? What do you want? Wait! Stop what I'll call the guard. Good Lord. Desire, Major Biggs. Take Cody. I told you I would return. You'll be hanged for it. No, I shall die in battle. But not until I have driven the British from the land of my people. My warriors are everywhere. And you and your family will be the first to taste of my vengeance. I am mad. You wouldn't do a thing like that. No. Have you forgotten what you did to me? I have risked everything for this moment. The moment when I should lift my gun. Point it at your round smooth face and... Take Cody! No! No! John! John! God's all good. I am avenged. From this day on, my life shall be devoted to ridding my country of Englishmen. I shall die in glory and battle. And the name of Take Cody shall live forever. For the next two years, Take Cody became a symbol of terror throughout New Zealand. But time erases all memories. And 20 years later, an officer of the crown enters a shambling native hut and inquires... Where is Take Cody, the warrior? I am Take Cody. My beard is white, but my heart is strong. I will not be taken captive, soldier. No danger of that. But I am a fierce warrior. England fears me. And I hate England. England isn't afraid of you any longer. You've been pardoned. Yes. Pardoned? That is no way for a warrior to die, taking mercy from others. If only I could have perished in battle, fighting, slashing the cries of my followers, freaking gloriously in my ears. But now, now... You're lucky you weren't hanged. Well, here's your pardon, old man. Live the rest of your life in peace. Old man. Harmly. Pardon. In spite of his crimes, Take Cody died in drab respectability. Old, faded and broken. The war drums beat no more in New Zealand. Maori and Englishmen lived together in perfect harmony and understanding. From Poverty Bay, we go to the capital city of Wellington, at the tip of the North Island. We shall travel through Cook Street and Tasman Bay, places named for the famous English and Dutch explorers. And on our way, the prow of our ship veers through a narrow slit of water called French Pass. It was in this pass that not so long ago, travelers were treated to a strange sight. Standing on the folksal head of a small packet bound for Nelson, is a young woman. She is talking to the captain of the vessel. Captain Kane. Captain. Yes, what is it, miss? Look over the bow. There's a huge fish swimming around down there. It looks like a whale. Sure, it is a species of whale. That's Polaris Jack. Polaris Jack? He's a dolphin and a fine one, too. I've seen him many times. He leads almost every boat through the pass. I've never seen anything like it. The way he dives in the spray. He seems to be enjoying himself. He is. He is. Sometimes he even rubs his back against the side of the ship. He's the pet of all New Zealand. They say that in the old days, the ship didn't need to pilot through this pass. All she had to do was follow Polaris Jack. He's pretty, isn't he? He's creamy sides flashing in the sparkle of the water. He's diving and now he's coming up. Hey, listen to the old boy grunt. Sounds like a big happy pig. Too bad if anything ever happened to him. Well, what could happen to him? Well, there are a lot of wailing ships around here. Someday, old Polaris Jack's libel will have a harpoon stuck in his midriff. Oh, that would be terrible. Well, still, he's pretty smart. They say that once the ship rammed into him, he never forgot it. He never led that ship through the channel again. It would be too bad if he were killed. Parliament makes a lot of laws. Somebody ought to make a law to protect the big fella. There will never be another dolphin like Polaris Jack. Members of Parliament, the bill I'm about to propose is a special legislation for the protection of New Zealand's most prominent inhabitant. I allude to that remarkable dolphin, Polaris Jack. You may laugh, gentlemen, but tourists come from far and wide to see this famous animal. Therefore, for his safety and for our mutual satisfaction, I propose a special act of Parliament protecting Polaris Jack from the many wailing vessels domestic and foreign, which frequent our coasts. Thus, we shall guarantee his safety and security as long as he may live. The bill passed Parliament and was the first law in history for the special protection of a whale. In spite of this law, Polaris Jack disappeared from the New Zealand coast. But there is a chance that Polaris Jack may have died of old age, for the natives claim that he had been frequenting the same waters for 275 years. Travelling along the west coast of the South Island, we see the long chain of glittering alps which overlook the sea. In the southeast, we find Otago, a province of rolling hills and meadows, a land of great herds and crops of golden grain. It was here that in the year 1861, a great discovery was made by the Scottish inhabitants. Meg! Meg! I'm right here, David, and you don't need to be shouting in a skirling. Meg, look. Look what I have in my hand. A handful of dirt. No, no, it's not dirt. It's gold. Gold? Pure gold. They'd be real reed gay to me. Gold is worth a gold in ten hours. There's riches in this soil. Why should we, Scotspeares and sheep, when there's gold under our very foot? David, didn't you be telling me you're thinking of looking for gold? Why not? Because we're doing fine as we are. Since we come from Scotland, we've been extremely prosperous. There's a hundred hoggies in the meadow right now, almost ready for the shearing. Bottle the hoggies. There's no sheep razor I am from now on. I'm leaving for two a pick ahead in the morning. David, you cannot go. I tell you, rich. Rich, I tell you, rich. And my David's been gone for three long months, Reverend McAllister. Three months. It is the curse of creation, this gold. The whole town of Dunedin is mad for it. How is your congregation, Ferrand? There is no congregation. There is no man left in the parish saved me in the press center. Do you believe it's evil to search for gold, Reverend? Well, Meg Morris is an iniquity that will not be forgot for generations. Do you not feel the urge to go yourself sometimes? Eh? No, not I. I am a minister of the gospel, and the Lord does not bless them who cares for not but worldly wealth. Ah, you're a good man, Reverend. Would that my David was like you? I tell you, Meg, the people have forgotten the teachings of the good book. The men folk should be him taking care of their families. This gold will be the ruin of New Zealand. And it is not because that I'm a minister of the gospel that I walk away. Oh, Meg, Meg. Oh, it is David. David, you're back. Ah, darling, my Meg, it is good to see you. Ah, David, my husband, you're gonna leave me again. Ah, never again. I'm glad you see the error of your ways, David. Welcome him. Thank you, Reverend. Oh, Meg, I have a surprise for you. Look here. I told you it'd be rich. Oh! What's in the on-bug? Gold! Fine glitter and gold enough to make us rich for life. Why, it is Reverend. It's just gold. Hey, gold. Where did you find it, David? Over by Tuapika. There's a rich field of it. You dig it out of the earth like turnips. Over by Tuapika. Like turnips, eh? Hey, turnips. If I was not a religious man, you'd say they're flinty of it. It is yours for the digging. Well, the Lord put the gold in the ground. I vow he won't mind if his dug up, eh? That's exactly what I was thinking, Reverend. I knew he'd say things my way, David. Well, I fancy I'll be... Reverend, will you now stay for tea? No, thank you. I'll be gone. Eh, perhaps to the fields of Tuapika, Reverend. Aye, David, maybe. As the worthy scotch farmers of Otago began to flock to the gold fields, they were joined by fortune hunters of every race and creed. Before long, 30,000 settlers poured into New Zealand in a gold rush equal to the American days of 49. Today there are still rich mines in the South Island, but New Zealand is principally an agricultural country, producing a wealth of wool, meat, and dairy products. But ahead of us lies adventure, the whaling station of Kaikua, it was here in the bygone days that men and ships pursued the warm-blooded monsters of the deep. Let's board an old foremaster and see what happens when the lookout shouts, Ah, shipload! Down go the boats, men jammed in side by side. On they go, back straining, oars clipping the faulty seed. Above the creek of oars comes the yelping, rasping voice of the headman. Ah, he- Wave the hull! Make us in! How! Who will score last? Oars bend, home flies from the boughs. The headman shouts again as a huge black body slides out of the water. Clips its broad tail and plunges head down into the sea. The boat shoots onward, over a scum of seething foam where the monster last appeared. A black towel looms from the water. There is a crisp command. Stand up, Jack! Stand up! The strongest of the men peeks his oath. Places one leg in a notch in the prowl. Lifts the long harpoon from its crotch. Give it to him! The harpoon darts through the air. The long line whips, sings, burns hard as it hisses round and round the log ahead. Then with a jerking, rending smash, the boat leaps along the ruffle seas, carrying high ridges of foam from the boiling ocean. Men sit tensely, arms folded. The man in the prowl grips a small hatchet, ready to cut the line. But the line quivers. Things like a bow string as the whale heads for the horizon, powing its human cargo. At last the whale becomes exhausted, stops to rest. This is the moment. A slicing fin rolls from the water, and the second lance flies to a vital spot. Darts after darts, turns into the tiny black hide. The whale rides, twists, rolls. White jet shoots from the spherical. More darts fly from the long boat, bringing a piercing message of death to the Leviathan. Hors flesh, the headman stands up straight. Pull up! The last lance strikes. The whale wallows in his own trough. Fluke slapping, spout hole contracting, expanding. There's a sharp puff of crimson, and then... We got him then, he's done for! The chase is over! The old gods, the old legends are fast vanishing. And the most primitive race of the South Seas has become the most civilized. And so as we return to Auckland and board our ship to seek other ports, we bear with us memories of a country in which the fresh tang of the South Seas is blended with the quiet breath of old England. New Zealand with its mighty Kaori trees standing beside English willows, white-clad glaciers melting into a Scottish countryside. New Zealand, where lonely pagan gods haunt the dark mountainsides and stare down wanderingly at English church tops. But now, as the sea surges and the southern cross twinkles above our mast head, we bid goodbye to New Zealand. To our Tearoa, the long, bright land. We invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.