Monday, 30 May 2022

Hull Asymmetry.

 Some thoughts.

I have had disappointing feedback from many people about the poor performance of proas they have built

Proas attract the attention of a group of people who see this vessel as a quick and easy boat to build and sail.

Quick, simple & cheap is an uncomfortable triad, poor quality is the result.

Considerable care must be taken to produce a high performance, reliable and safe sailing vessel. Care in design, construction, choice of materials will have a huge impact on the end result.

Many have built to their own design, often deep V ply construction or some other composite sheet material.

Building an efficient asymmetric hull is not a simple matter of making one side flat and the other curved.

No foil built in this way can be considered efficient.

I have never published plans of my proas and I never will. My conscience prevents me from doing so. The intellectual property belongs with the Micronesian people who designed the proa. The proa is a highly specialized and potentially dangerous sailing vessel. It takes years to learn the skill needed to sail one. I do not wish to place novices in danger of their lives.

The so called Kiribati dimple built into the lee side of the main hull is the secret to the success of a true asymmetric shunting proa. Without this feature your proa build will disappoint you with the absence of true windward lift.

Hull speed is another factor that contributes to hydrofoil efficiency. (Hull asymmetry) the faster the more lift. If you live in a region with consistently light winds this too will be a factor in poor lift performance.

Here in NZ we experience seasons with consistently high winds from 15-30 knots on a regular basis. Plenty of power to maximize the potential of an asymmetric hull.

Due to ill health I have retired from building and sailing proas, therefor my publication of more material will cease here.

Good luck to those who are prepared to keep an open and enquiring mind.

To the deniers and non believers, take a long walk on a short pier.

Best wishes from Harmen Hielkema.

Sunday, 2 May 2021

Pearls before swine.

 I find myself containing a lifetime of experience in the field of research into the sailing properties of the Micronesian sailing canoe. My extensive experience is logged here in these pages.

This is the age of doubt. It was preceded by the age of reason, those unqualified to have a reasoned opinion now have a platform to promulgate unreasoned arguments.

I'm sad and lonely because I find myself clear in my mind about my research findings through practical enquiry, only to find that a vast number of fools discredit what I have found to be true without lifting a finger to find out for themselves.

Get to work, do the mahi, I will answer reasonable questions and delete the rest.

Harmen Hielkema.

Sunday, 23 December 2018


Chapter 4.

Finntasia. The end of the innocence.

As well as wearing it out, outgrew my OK Dinghy.

At 17 years of age I bought my first Finn. What a boat that was. Peter Morely was an ex NZ champ, his boat Finntasia was one of the oldest in the New Zealand fleet at that time, KZ7. He delivered it to our door in Waiake with his brand new Honda Accord which, he proudly announced, he had purchased with overseas funds, the only way to buy a new imported car at that time.

I on the other hand, had bought and ageing 1956 Vauxhall Velox, one year older than I was. It had only had one careful owner, a colleague of my father, who had brought it new into NZ. When it landed at Wellington docks, my father and he had caught the train to Wellington and had collected the car from customs. My father had his driver's licence so he drove it home, back to Auckland, with the owner as passenger. One year later I was born. Now, 17 years and 80,000 miles later, I owned the car.

I went to the Albany Auto Wreckers yard and selected a tow bar from a derelict Vauxhall of the same year as mine, unbolted it, paid for it and took it home. I drilled the holes, fitted the bolts, connected the wires and presto, I was ready to tow my new-old Finn wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Fuel was 55 cents for 4 litres from memory. I named my new-old car "Barrymore" after the drummer from Jethro Tull whom I greatly admired.

Finntasia was poorly painted in Kermit Green, not my colour. I applied a fresh, gloss coat of British Racing Green, much more my style and she looked amazing! Finntasia immediately caught the eye of my new friend Mike Toy. He liked the colour too. He made me an offer I could not refuse so before long I was looking for anther boat.

The author sailing Tarkus off Waiake Beach, 1976

Tarkus, a much newer Finn, painted a beautiful powder blue with dark varnished wooden deck, built by the famous Elder of Christchurch became available and I bought her, she had a new Needle Spar aluminium mast and new Elvstrom sail, this was what I wanted. Mike and I became inseparable in spite of our 19 year age difference. We sailed everywhere together, each in our own boat. We thought nothing of sailing to Tiritiri Matangi and back of an afternoon. During this period we hatched a plan to collaborate on the building of an experimental boat, a Micronesian style Proa adapted by Mike to his own design. This story will form the basis of chapter 5.

See the full story of this collaborative project on my blog:

I began to race Tarkus locally but could not compete with the new fibreglass boats that were coming out of Europe. This was a disappointment to me so, at the end of the season, I decided to search for local competition. I travelled far and wide, from Porirua in the south to Houhora Harbour in the north and everywhere in between, New Plymouth, Napier, Taupo, Tauranga, Manukau, Whangarei. Local clubs in Birkenhead and Waiuku had fleets of older Finns and I enjoyed the casual racing they offered.

By now I had quit Teacher's Training College after only completing half the course. I did not enjoy the profession at all. I had followed my father's advice and not my heart. Still avoiding my true calling I took a job at Brisc Marine as a shop salesman and in-store ticket writer, not an illustrious start but a start in something I knew and understood, boats.

My beautiful olive green car, my ticket to freedom was written off one morning. On the way to work I made my usual stop at the top of Beach Road to pick up my old friend Mike Williams. From time to time I would drop him off at the Auckland University where he was studying for a degree in quantum mechanics and mathematics. Mike was about to open the passenger door when he suddenly looked to his right and took a big step backwards as a Holden Monaro drove into my car at 40 miles per hour. The enormous impact carried me and my heavy old relic 20 meters down the road. The back of my seat collapsed and my head went through the skin of my bass drum which was in the back seat. I was knocked unconscious and was bleeding from a head wound. I came to to the sound of loud voices, a local man, Mr R, had rushed from his house to see what the cause of the loud bang had been. In the meantime the upset owner of the Monaro had it in his head that I was responsible for the crash and was in the process of hauling my unconscious body out of the car to give me a good beating! Fortunately for me Mr R, who was confident and powerfully built, restrained the angry driver until the police arrived. I had a brief period of recovery at home from my head injury much to the chagrin of my employers.
The result of this accident for me was ongoing problems with concentration and headaches. Neither the driver of the Monaro nor I were insured. There was no chance of recovering anything from him without taking court action which I could not afford so I was forced to regroup. He was eventually charged with dangerous driving.

Public transport was now my only way to get to work. On the bus I met a beautiful young woman. We travelled together daily, she always kept a seat for me. I liked her, she had long blond hair, light blue eyes and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. I made her smile with stories of my recent adventures and tried to convince her to come tramping with me that winter on the High Plateau of the central North Island, something I did every winter when I wasn't sailing. She was quite timid about that idea, she was a librarian and not inclined to do anything too adventurous she told me. She did invite me to dinner though.

L lived in Waiake, near the beach, alone in a little Fibrolite clad cottage with her Doberman Pincer called Bunny Rabbit. She invited me in and we sat in the lounge chatting about our day with the dog sitting right next to me. We ate the meal that she had prepared, on our laps, there was no need for a pre rinse for the dishes, Bunny Rabbit saw to that. After dinner she told me she was going out of the room for a moment. When she returned she was perfectly naked. I'll never forget how she looked as she walked across the room towards me, took me by the hand and lead me to her bedroom. She had a beautiful pink scar which ran from hip to hip that looked for all the world as if she had been welded back together by a skilled engineer. I thought nothing more of it at the time. When we awoke in the morning it was still dark. At that time I was still living at home and I needed to get back for fresh clothes and a shower before running to catch the bus to get to work in the city.

I remember walking home in the dark that morning with the sun just staining the eastern sky, my mind had been blown wide open. I was ecstatic, confused, overjoyed to the extent that I could not focus on anything else.

When I climbed aboard the bus that morning L was not there in her usual seat. Nor was she there the following day or the one after that. I had hardly slept but I imagined that she may have been unwell, she had no telephone line on which to call her. I finally decided to pay her a visit at the little cottage. I knocked on the door but got no reply. I looked through the window into the lounge where we had shared a meal only a few nights before, it was completely bare, no furniture, nothing. She had gone and I was devastated, I had no clue as to what had happened to her. This confused me even more. I can't easily describe what I felt but I was badly upset. I resigned my self to checking at the Library that day after work.

I had been so distracted by what had happened to me that I could not concentrate on my job. The sales manager took me aside and suggested I find some work that might suit me better. I did not argue with him, he was right, the work did not suit me, I simply burst into tears, I gathered my things and walked away across town to look for L at the Auckland Library. I knew Colleen the head librarian there, she was a near neighbour of ours in Torbay and a sympathetic friend who was aware of my connection with L. She informed me that L had resigned a couple of days before, had made no explanation and left no forwarding address for herself. I had no further contact with L except that one day, some weeks later, I received a parcel in our letter box. It was a heavy book wrapped in brown paper, it contained note with a few words hastily scribbled onto a piece of note paper.

"Sorry I left so unexpectedly, here's a book I thought you might like. Much Love, L"

Nothing more. The package contained an expired library book written by Howard Williams called "Sails." It was the bible of sailmakers worldwide at the time. I still have that copy, who knows what happened to the note.

Some months later I was rigging my boat at the beach, it was early on a Saturday morning. In the distance I noticed a young couple walking a doberman pincer along the beach towards me with a small child about 3 years of age. As they approached I saw that it was L! She noticed me with a shock but walked shyly past me with her companion, a tall dark hared, bearded man who I thought looked significantly older than her. She walked past me without as much as raising her eyes, she never once looked back and I never laid eyes on her again.

The Red Baron

Chapter 3.

The Red Baron.

After my success in Paper Tigers it seemed inevitable that I would continue sailing in this class. Not so. I was too physical and a bit to heavy for these frail craft, Doctor Ord had to spend some money rectifying cross beam to hull connection fractures and a slightly bent mast section after my successful regatta. I had driven his boat hard, he would not allow me to pay for or even contribute to the repairs however he did remark that it would be a good idea if I got my own boat. Waikiwi went up for sale and was quickly sold for the same price that I had paid for her. I put that money away and continued working weekends to accumulate more.

By this time I was in the 5th form at Rangitoto College. I had made several new friends, Graham Cross and Craig Gilbert, both sailed OK dinghies at Murrays Bay Boating Club. Their mentor Harold Bennett had one too and he knew of a good boat that had been abandoned in NZ by its owner, a German named Thomas Jungblud. He has been runner up in the world champs hosted by the Takapuna sailing club in 1973. The Red Baron was a bright red, European built, fibreglass OK Dinghy with a lightweight Gaboon ply deck. The rig was too light for me but Harold introduced me to Clive Roberts who had a spare rig from his recent successful bid to win the world cup t and yes he would sell it to me for a reasonable price. My father and I went to his home in Campbells Bay and after several hours with Clive discussing the new rig and its suitability for my needs, (I was the same weight as he was) we secured it in place on the Red Baron and drove it home. I became a member of the school sailing team, I needed no excuse to avoid school, I hated every minute of it. One day per week we were allowed to take our boats down to Murray's Bay and go sailing. This went on into my sixth form year as well.

Not long after the new rig was fitted I entered my boat into the OK Dinghy Nationals held at Takapuna Yacht Club. By this time I had successfully attained my drivers licence but had no car. This meant that I had get up very early, pack my lunch and a drink, then walk my boat down to Torbay Beach on its road trailer, sail to Takapuna Beach about 10 KM down the coast and then, without landing, line up for the start of two or three races per day then sail all the way back again to my trailer, run the 2.5km up hill to our family home, hop into the family car then drive back to the beach, couple up my boat, tow it home, wash it, bolt down dinner, do my home work and finally fall into bed exhausted! I did this for three days running. I gained 14th place over all in a fleet of 67 boats. "Not too bad for a beginner" was Clive's best shot. I'd beaten him to the top mark from the start line twice!

I loved my OK dinghy. It gave me a freedom I had not experienced before. One afternoon, after school sailing I decided to take the long way home. I set out toward the Rangitoto Channel, down wind on a beautiful fresh easterly breeze. I skirted Rangitoto Island, hardened on into the lumpy Motuihe Channel and made my way up the southern shoreline of Motutapu Island. I turned left at the channel between Rakino and Motutapu and eased the main sheet for a thrilling downwind ride toward Torbay Beach. By now it was getting dark. The light faded completely by the time I was half way across the Gulf. No problem, I knew all the lights of the East Coast bay beaches by heart. It was wonderful hurtling along, planing fast, catching wave after wave, I could have continued sailing like that for hours.

About 3 km from the beach I noticed some nav lights and a very bright spot light on a large, fast moving vessel heading straight towards me. In no time the powerful beam of light was on me and a loud speaker hailed me asking who I was and where I was heading, sitting in my rocking boat with the sheet fully eased I shouted back that I was heading for Torbay beach. The police boat Deodar informed me that my parents were concerned for my safety and could I make my own way home? Of course I could I said rather irritated. They steamed off in the direction they had come after satisfying themselves that I was competent and knew where I was. I arrived at the beach with the head lights of the family car shining at full beam on the retrieval of my boat on to its trailer. My father shared his mixed feelings with me about my escapade, I had thoughtlessly worried my mother.

There is one more memory I would like to share from this time.

One Sunny Sunday, Graham Cross and I had arranged to meet off Murray's Bay and sail on to Mission Bay to visit a family friend of his. The day turned out rather differently to what we had expected. Neil Deverall joined us in his boat and the three of us eased our sheets and headed down the channel with a bright 25-30 knot easterly behind us accompanied by huge swells against an outgoing tide, just the kind of conditions we loved. We were equally matched, highly skilled and as fit as we could be. There was a great deal of tussling and shouting as we planed, carving a pure white path down wind, gathering ourselves, trimming and placing our boats so that we could catch the cresting swells and surf down their steep faces, slow in the trough then gather and trim for the next one, It was fantastic sailing! I hauled on my mainsheet to catch the next swell, very large and steep, The Red Baron hurtled down the face and buried itself in the back of the next swell, I was as far out of the boat as it was possible to be to counter balance the straining sail. The next moment the hiking strap lashing broke. I was under water, I surfaced with the tiller still in my hand, I glimpsed the boat rolled over on its windward side with the boom standing straight up 100 meters away. I began to swim. The sails of my companions disappeared down wind. I swam in that confused sea for what seemed like hours until I finally came up to my upturned boat. The centreboard was fully housed, the venturies were open, the tiller was still in my hand!

I had some trouble righting the boat in that sea. The wind was as strong as ever. I held on to the bow for some time as I recovered my breath. This had the positive effect of bringing the bow into the wind and sea. I began the ritual of righting the boat which reluctantly but finally sprang upright with water whipping of the violently flogging sail in a fine mist down wind.

I rolled in to the swamped cockpit and took stock. There was no way to repair the tiller, I had no control over the rudder at all. What to do? I decided to drop the sail. This involved capsizing the boat again, swimming out to the tip of the mast, unclipping the masthead halyard lock and then re righting the boat. This done I gathered in the sail and lashed it to the boom. I then leaned over the stern and unclipped the flogging rudder and secured it to the remaining stacking strap. Next I went as far aft as I could sit and allowed the boat to drift down wind. Under the windage of the mast I was making 3-4 knots, not bad, I put a foot over the windward side and used it as a rudimentary rudder which allowed me to gain some control over my direction. The Red Baron and I eventually came ashore at the southern end of Narrow Neck Beach. I had no idea how long all this had taken me but it must have taken quite some time because it was late afternoon. I dragged my stricken boat as far up the beach as I could and then set off to find a telephone.

A likely looking house opposite the boating club on Vauxhall road welcomed me to its blue front door. I struck it lucky with a keen boatie who was sympathetic to my situation and allowed me to use his phone to call my father. Father was less than enthusiastic about turning out during his afternoon drink time with mum but to his credit he came. He had driven down to the beach and coupled up my trailer before driving to meet me in the falling dark. I enjoyed telling him of my adventure and I believe he quite enjoyed hearing it. What a treat it was to get home to a shower and a wholesome, savoury meal kept warm for me by my dear mother.

Tuesday, 27 November 2018

Waikiwi my 12 foot skiff.


At age 14 I had been working for a year or so with a local lawn mowing contractor, during my free time, at weekends and during school holidays. I earned some money which accumulated to a sum sufficient to buy my own sail boat. I trawled through the Auckland Star Classifieds for a boat for sale. One came up in Greenhithe. It was described as a 12 foot sailing dinghy on a registered road trailer. Father and I went to view it and were immediately impressed by its quality. It had beautifully varnished timber decks and varnished spruce mast. The double chine, plywood hull was immaculately painted in bright yellow with white below the water line. No one had any idea what class it was but I did not care, it looked just right to my eye. I paid the $150.00 asking price and made arrangements for its delivery to our family home in Waiake. The owner had to take it for a WOF. This took much longer that anyone had anticipated. My brothers and I sat on the curb waiting for several hours before it finally arrived in the late afternoon.

We rolled the trailer into our driveway and immediately set about rigging it up. 

What a monster it turned out to be. This was a boat to be reckoned with. The rig and sail area were big enough to power a boat of twice the size. The fully battened mainsail and genoa jib were of a beautiful light blue terylene sail cloth. It also had a masthead spinnaker in lightweight, rip stop nylon in navy blue and white stripes. The spinnaker pole alone was almost as long as the boat!
Waikiwi, From Left: Brother Marten, me and Father.

Waikiwi was 12 feet long and the mast was 18 feet. Once rigged it would not sit upright on the beach without the support of its trailer cradle. It had 2 trapeze wires with harnesses. No one locally had any better idea of what this boat could be. Someone suggested that it might be a Cherokee. (designed coincidentally by John Chapple, more of him later)

At the next available opportunity I took it to the beach for my first sail. All my friends were sailing P class and Starlings. They and their parents thought I was mad thinking about sailing a boat like Waikiwi by myself.

I didn't care. My first sail was memorable.

Thankfully the wind was light. Waikiwi shot away from the beach at high speed. The centreboard was close to 6 feet long which made it difficult to manage. I felt mildly anxious but exhilarated. This boat was a thorough bread after the Heron! After a short time I sailed back to the beach and made the obligatory passenger trips for my brothers, my Father and other curious onlookers keen for a ride. Oddly they never wanted to sail with me again after that.

I sailed Waikiwi at every available opportunity including every day after school. This involved handling the heavy road trailer and walking it all the way down the hill to the beach 2.5 km away and back again, up the hill, when I was cold and exhausted. This was no mean feat! There was an incentive for me to attain my drivers licence. (That is another story)

With a newly fitted longer tiller extension I rapidly learned how to manage this oversized sailboat including single handed trapeze, jib and spinnaker handling.

I did not realise it at the time but I was developing a level strength, fitness and skills that few of my peers could match. At age 14 I was a relative giant at over 6 feet tall and I weighed 12 stone. Furthermore I was reading everything that I could find about sailing. I read every book on the subject in our school library, in our local library and it gave my parents the perfect gift idea for every birthday and Christmas for several years running.

My father subscribed to several sailing magazines including Seaspray, a New Zealand wide yachting and boating publication. He also bought back issues when they came up for sale. It was from these back issues that I learned what Waikiwi actually was.

In an issue from the 1960's I found an article about the Silasec Cup which was alternately contested one year in Australia and in NZ the next. This issue covered the shock defeat of the reigning Australian champions to a North Shore based man called John Chapple and his boat Flamingo. Black and white photos illustrated the article and to my amazement and surprise the boats were identical to Waikiwi. Each competing boat featured a Q emblem on the sail. My mystery had been solved, Waikiwi was now identified without question as an unrestricted 12 foot skiff Q class from the early 1960's. The article revealed to me that Waikiwi was between 10 and 12 years old, no longer race competitive in her fleet but still relatively quick for its size and weight. 

Once I knew this I set about painting her new identity on her mainsail in the form of a capital "Q" in black enamel, the start of my sign writing career.

Once I had mastered sailing Waikiwi I began paying the entry fee to join in the local weekend yacht racing at the Torbay Boating club.

The race committee put me in with the Paper Tiger race feet, these were 14 foot racing catamarans, still popular today. We had a summer of comparatively light winds that season, as a result, me in my Q class sailing single handed, cleaned up on the scoreboard more often than not. I was getting attention from the senior sailors in the club and earning the respect of my peers for my skill and local knowledge. I quickly realised that boat speed wasn't everything. I learned to read the wind shifts on the water, to look for the tide and use its advantages when they were there. I read the racing rules and used them to my advantage as well. I could tack very quickly compared to a Paper Tiger which came to a complete standstill when tacking. Once it got above 10 knots of wind though, I was overpowered and they showed me a clean pair of heels. 

The following summer I began to tire of battling with Waikiwi on the race course.
I did not enjoy being the odd boat out all the time and the miss match when the wind blew hard made life very difficult for me. This was to be a summer of cold south westerly winds. I could not find a suitable crew and preferred my own company on a boat anyway, something I have never lost.

I took to sailing long distances, sometimes with a friend Peter Bailey in his Sunburst and occasionally with a girlfriend! The first girl I ever kissed was onboard Waikiwi during a homeward sail from Stillwater where I found a proper rival in the form of an old school friend Jeff Thompson in his R Class, Rebel. He had painted a large wine glass on his mainsail which you could see from miles away.

On one of my solo trips to Stillwater, on my homeward beat, the wind increased to a worrying degree. I could not reduce my sail area and I found myself overwhelmed, unable to make progress. I returned to Arkles Bay, the nearest beach where, fortunately for me, our sailing club fleet had made an interclub day visit. I hurtled down wind and made an impressive landing on the beach in front of a crowd of onlookers. I was able to convince my friend Kim Dikstaal to assist me to sail home. Kim put on my spare trapeeze harness, we tied her unrigged Starling to a stern tow line and set off for Torbay in a stiffening easterly. It was rough going being held back by the towed boat wich lurched and fretted at the end of the tow line, Waikiwi really wanted to be released, Kim was a highly skilled sailor with instincts and reflexes at least as good as mine and we enjoyed the teamwork that we developed, I don't mind admitting I was very impressed by her by the time we got back to the beach at Torbay. Sadly she did not return my interest being a year or so older than me and with a long list of older suiters in the senior ranks of the club, I stood no chance. We remain life long friends though.

That year (1974) there was to be a regatta hosted by the Torbay Boating Club. The North Island Paper Tiger Championships. I longed to compete in this regatta. There was a local Dr, Tom Ord, who was and older gentleman of heavy build who wanted to but could not compete because of his size, inexperience and a certain wilfulness that prevented him from learning. We could all see this and to his credit so could he.
Being a successful local GP Tom had the means to have a very high quality sailboat made for him. It was painted bright orange (which, being the Dutch national colours, my Mother approved of). 
Tom asked me if I would like to campaign his boat in the upcoming regatta which I readily and excitedly agreed to. So that was me occupied at every available opportunity, out learning how to sail a PT as quickly as possible. Off the water I continued to study the art of sailing tactics from Paul Elvstrom and Jack Holt, books in my birthday list collection. I applied what I learned into the mix of my local knowledge. 

When the much anticipated weekend finally arrived I paid my entry fee and set out to beat the fleet. I was in the running the entire weekend scoring a 1st and 2nd though not quite consistent enough to beat the senior, more experienced PT skippers for line honours.
I admit to feeling disappointed and was ready to go home without even a minor prize. However, the race committee had a surprise for me when, with the encouragement of my parents I reluctantly attended the social and prize giving at the clubhouse by the creek on the last evening of the regatta. I was painfully shy at that time and chose to stand at the very back of the room whilst the beer flowed and the smoke filled the crowded, noisy room. I was looking for a way out, when all of a sudden, in a gap in the cheering, I heard my name being called out, I had to hear it several times before I reacted. I was pulled roughly through the crowd and shoved on to the dias where the club Commodore and the class designer warmly shook my hand and presented me with a prize and a trophy! 

I just stood there dumbfounded and even more embarrassed, red in the face. 

"You won the regatta on handicap mate" someone shouted (I think it was Simon Grain, someone I liked and admired who liked and admired Kim). I wanted to disappear. 

I walked home in the dark with my trophy and my prize feeling perplexed and confused, what was a handicap? Father explained it to me with a broad grin on his proud face.

My earliest memories as a sailor.

It's late at night, the house is still, I'm sitting in my chair writing down my thoughts and memories as they flood in. I'm recovering from skin cancer surgery and tomorrow I face the prospect of a prostate biopsy.

I tried going to go to bed early tonight. I had no sleep in me despite my willingness to relax and empty my mind of thoughts. Instead the emptiness was overwhelmed with memories. Thinking about sun damaged skin, I had been reviewing some photographs of my early years in sailing. One of the earliest images I have in my collection must have been taken in my father's Heron sailing dinghy. We were returning from a day trip from Waiake Beach to Motutapu Island in Auckland's Hauraki Gulf. The image is a black and white photo which can only have been taken by my younger brother Marten from beside the centreboard case in the floor of the boat looking aft. I am on the helm and managing the mainsheet.

I must have been 8 years of age. My face is covered in freckles. There is no sign of sun protection of any kind.

I took to sailing with a passion. It was in my blood, I can stay at the helm of a sailboat for hours and hours at a time without tiring of it. Being in command of a small sailing craft is one of my enduring life pleasures.

It very likely began with my Father's passion for sailing. He read to us every evening before bedtime when we invariably insisted on stories and adventures involving sailing. Swallows and Amazons, A Wizard of Earthsea, the Hornblower series, The long Ships. The list is long and the stories mingled with my desire to live these adventures for myself.

As me and my 2 brothers grew our Father elected to build a succession of small boats. My first was a 2 foot long, sailing model of a 1930's style keel boat called Marina.

I kept control of it by attaching a light fishing line to its bow so I could haul it onto the other tack if it sailed out of my depth. I studied that little boat and experimented with its various adjustments to sails and rudder so that I understood the forces that were acting on that little model. Furthermore I could visualise myself in miniature, sailing on board my little model yacht.

Our first sail boat was built by our father with our willing participation, an Englishman, Jack Holt designed "Yachting World Heron" it was barely 12 feet long and featured a gunter rigged mainsail.

It was moved to and from the beach close to our home by a homemade, wooden trailer fashioned out of telegraph pole timbers by our resourceful father. It sat on the front axle of an old Model A Ford chassis which he had freed from entanglement in our ancient hedge row separating us from our neighbour's place.

This little boat served as our sailing school until our Father judged that we were ready to go solo. We covered great distances in this little boat enjoying picnics on many visible islands and local beaches within a days sail of our home beach. In it I fished, rowed, chased my model yachts, which I was beginning to build with greater skill and confidence.

As time went by my brothers and I began to yearn for independence so my father set about building 2 new boats, one was a 15 foot Frank Pelin designed, American Indian style canoe, the other a small 7 foot sailing dingy called a Piraat. I commandeered the canoe whilst my younger brother Marten took up the little Piraat. Ron was still a bit young to be out with us all day.
From Left: Brother Ron, The Piraat dinghy, sister Joanne, brother Marten.

That canoe encouraged me to make my own journeys along the coast and up all the local waterways that penetrated inland as far as fallen trees and waterfalls would allow. I became familiar with all the wildlife on land, in the air and in the sea. I saw many rare and special sights in that little canoe, spent many nights camping with my friends on those long summer days so long ago now.

A few years went by and our Father in his quest to build the ultimate family boat bought plans from Richard Hartley to build one of his 14 foot Trailer Sailers. Now we were old and skilled enough to be of real assistance and the new boat took shape very quickly. It was painted chocolate brown and orange, influenced by the popular colour fashion of the early 1970's and launched bearing the name I so carefully painted on the stern "Gimli" after our favourite Dwarf from The Lord of the Rings which our Father had been reading to us.

Gimli was a small ship. There was a cabin and a bunk, there were storage compartments, it even had a long shaft, 4 hp, Silver Century, Seagull outboard motor.
Gimli the 14 foot Hartley Trailer Sailer.

Poor Father had little opportunity to enjoy this new addition to the fleet. I hogged the use of it to his dismay and eventual annoyance.

Gimli and I travelled all over the Hauraki Gulf. At age 14 I was able to sail and manage it with perfect confidence. I sailed it with my Parents reluctant agreement all the way to Kauwau Island and back, a trip which lasted a week. The condition was that I should take a friend. Richard Morris was my crew, he had no idea how to sail but that did not matter, I knew enough for the both us. With a line trolloing over the stern as was my habit we never went short of fresh fish and we cruised the entireity of Kauwau Bay before returning home to the relief of my Mother and Father.

I recall a number of special details from that trip. The weather was perfect with a steady 15 knot sea breeze daily, we learned from my local fisherman friend Brian Burrell that there was a hermit living on Moturekereka, one of the small islands dotting the coastline offshore from Mahurangi. He assured us that a dozen beer would be the price Snow Hansen (he called himself) would require for a night's anchorage and possible access to his Island. We delivered the beer to his corrugated iron hovel overlooking the bay that his predecessor ( the real Snow Hansen) had created by dynamiting the hulk of the old barque Rewa. In hindsight he probably suffered from scurvey, he was very unwell and could barely walk. We anchored Gimli close in the lee of the old rusted remains and rowed ashore in the little dinghy that I had borrowed from my friend Mike Toy.

Mansion house Bay, Bon Accord Harbour, North Cove and a visit to the old copper mine were highlights along with an evening encounter with hundreds of wallabies whose meeting we disturbed in a beautiful grove amongst old pine trees.

Dolphins accompanied us all the way from Kauwau to Tiritiri Matangi right through the Tiri Passage.

Another adventure was to follow a year later. To his credit Father allowed me to take Gimli to Coromandel harbour via Waiheke Island. Again the condition was that I should take a friend so I took my school friend Peter Edney along, he was not a sailor either.

We set off from Waiake Beach early one morning and set a course for the distant Noises Islands, somewhere I had longed to visit as long as I had been sailing. We anchored Gimli in the glorious calm shelter of the southernmost Island and entered the clear water wearing our snorkelling gear. We swam the distance to shore and explored the rock coastline finding a beautiful sea cave. After a couple of hours in the water we made to return to Gimli. To our horror Gimli had decided to leave without us. On the incoming tide and with only a shingle bottom for the danforth anchor to hold in our little ship was away. We decided to swim for it and eventually, after an exhausting and increasingly desperate chase we caught up and barely managed to climb aboard with what little strength we had left!

We hoisted sail and continued on to Garden Cove on the northern coastline of Waiheke Island. This is a horseshoe shaped bay with a narrow entrance, perfect anchorage for a tiny vessel like ours. Peter chose to sleep ashore in his pup tent. We cooked our fresh kahawai over a fire on the beach before retiring for the night.

The next day there was very little wind so we drifted our way south and east past Gannet rock to finally enter the bay at the south eastern tip of the island where we anchored for the night. As we were setting up our gas stove with boom tent erected over the cockpit we felt something rub against the hull. By now it was quite dark. I held the Coleman lamp over the dark water and saw the biggest kingfish I had ever seen. It streaked away from the boat leaving a comet trail of green and blue phosphorescence the like of which I had never seen. Before long the entire bay was lit up by fish chasing fish, it was the most extraordinary sight!

The fish disappeared as quickly as they had come. That's when we decided to take a swim in that amazing phosphorescent water. We looked like something from the set of Avatar, our hairs and skin sparkling with other worldly light. The next morning we decided to make the crossing from Waiheke to Coromandel. Again there was little wind. What little there was came from the North. For a time we reached under mainsail, jib and an old flying dutchman jib that I I had rigged as a kind of early code one, reaching headsail. Under that rig Gimli was quick in the light air, fast enough to troll a line. I let the lure follow in our wake with the end of the line tied loosely around my foot as I steered us toward the distinctive entrance to Coromandel Harbour.

I awoke to a jolt on the line. I had drifted off to sleep just as a large kahawai took the lure. I was still slightly groggy, fumbling for the spool when suddenly a violent tug on the line and an enormous splash from the vicinity of my kahawai revealed some competition in the form of a thresher shark which neatly sliced the body of the fish leaving the head and intestines for us to argue over.

During the course of the rest of the day the wind left us and we drifted on a sea of oil. It was utterly still and calm. The tide began to run out of the Firth of Thames and we drifted along with it. I decided to start up the seagull outboard, a noisy, smelly, rattly, oily affair that I never liked much. It got us the rest of the way to the left of Whanganui Island which meant navigating the narrow passage through to Coromandel Harbour.

We pulled up to the long pier and tied up to a fishing boat named "Boy Roel" (my father's name coincidentally).

We took our wallets and walked the 2 miles in to Coromandel Township in search of fresh bread and the address of my old friend Isobel Airey. We found both. Isobel assured us that we would need a wash before she could tolerate a visit from us so she gave us soap so we could bathe ourselves in the rocky stream that flowed through her garden. How refreshing that clear fresh water was. Our hair was stiff with salt.

We chatted with Isobel, until late into the night before walking the 2 miles back to the boat. The next day we walked back into town to refill the fuel can with 2 stroke mix and add to our dwindling dried food supplies.

Our next port of call would be Great Barrier Island, another elusive and tantalising destination visible from our family home on a clear day, 60 miles away. We set out early the next morning taking the narrow passage our of Coromandel harbour on a building south westerly. We passed island after island off the western Coromandel shoreline. I judged that we were making good enough time to make the crossing to Tryphena Harbour. But that southwesterly kept on building and building until it was at gale force. By now we were off Channel Island and encountering a sea state the likes of which I had never seen. Gimli was like a cork being tossed in a shore break. We managed to reef the mainsail with the roller, the jib came down and we attempted to carry on but the wind kept building until it shrieked in the rigging and caused the sail to slam making the whole boat jump and pulse alarmingly. Then the leach tore off the sail, next the sail battens flogged out until there was not much left to work with. I was getting worried at this point and so made the decision to abandon the goal of Great Barrier Island. We tried to tack once the jib was reset but we could not get the bow through the eye of the wind. I started the motor, no mean feat in a bucking small boat in that steep, aggressive seaway. The motor was almost useless as the windage of the boat resisted the thrust of that little prop. Added to this the prop came clear of the water at every pitch the boat took. We eventually managed to gybe around, a very perilous maneuver but thankfully successful. We eased sheets and flew across the waves, lurching and diving, soaked to the skin with spray, finally reaching smoother seas near Happy Jack Island. We could not weather Happy Jack with its enticing Elephant Cove shelter so we had to carry on to Double Island where we gratefully anchored. I was particularly pleased with myself for having stowed a spare anchor as we needed it.

We set up both anchors at 90 degrees from each other off the bow and fixed the to both the bollard and the mast base. It blew so hard that Gimly sawed heavily from side to side like a wild horse all night long and all the next day, and the next. On our second day we were ashore when a large grey fishing trawler made its way heavily into our relatively sheltered anchorage. We rowed out to meet our new neighbours. The Larsen Brothers, Danes, in charge of a Watties fleet trawler. They were astonished at our presence there, both front windows of their ship had been stove in by the seas as they rounded the cape. They had a chiller hold full of fresh fish. We had had some success with our Hawaiian sling picking up the odd Moki but fresh deep water sole cooked in the comfort of the cabin was a welcome change. So was the Carlsberg beer!

They also had a radio! We were able to call the coastguard and police to set our parents worried minds at rest.

Peter and I climbed to the ridge of Rabbit Island and attempted to stand in the force of the gale. Tiri lighthouse reported gusts up to 70 knots during the peak of that gale.

We were relieved when on the 3rd day the wind had subsided. I had taken the time to sew basic repairs on the damaged mainsail and we made good use of the Reacher to get us well out into the Gulf on a beautiful sea breeze so that by the end of another long day in which we spotted a whale in the distance, we landed again at Waiake Beach where, at the local dairy, at the closing of the day we telephoned my father who gladly came to tow us home.

I have many more memories that I intend to document.

Hope you enjoy these stories.

Toroa by Harmen Hielkema & Mike Toy.

Header Photo: Toroa at Rawene by Julie Holton.

This blog is dedicated to the memory of my father Roelof Hielkema who instilled in me the willingness to learn.
These pages are intended to inform and add to the growing body of knowledge concerning the Canoe Culture of the Pacific, past, present & future, from the Tupuna, the Ancestors of the Pacific cultures to the people of the world.

These pages contain Images and text relating to our two proas, Toroa & Takapu, some history relating to our experiments & experiences.

The dissertation that I posted on this blog in April 2008 "Takapu The Proa" was written by me in 1997 in response to an assignment that I was set whilst studying for my design degree. The dissertation covers many issues that a proa enthusiast may benefit from reading about.

Waka define culture as culture defines waka

Waka reflect the individuality and uniqueness of a society which in turn is governed by the geography, geology, topography, climate, location, resources, isolation, origin, flora, fauna, flotsam, jetsam, etc.

Waka are our link to the past, they have shaped our present and define our future.

Waka are the vessels of knowledge, physical and mental development, freedom of bondage to the land, key to our inquisitiveness, expressions of our ingenuity and courage, our love of shape and form, the seat of our power.

Waka are the source of our material culture, from which all processes are derived.

Waka are who and what we are.