A description of the New Zealand 'mermaid'

The New Zealand mermaid is not generally supposed to be golden-haired, like her German cousin the Lorelei, nor does she alternate between the forms of seal and woman, as does the Scottish selkie. Instead, the mermaid who makes her rare appearances on the rocky shores and wilder points of the New Zealand coastline is of dark complexion, with skin faintly resembling that of a seal. Her hair, which is thick and abundant, is reminiscent of kelp. The mermaid's most distinctive feature, her tail, is said to possess a dark translucency which has been compared both to the appearance of a stormy ocean, and to the interior of the common mussel shell (Perna canaliculus): the predominantly indigo colouring of this shell has an opalescent sheen which can include violet, green, and cerulean tints. The lower half of the mermaid has been observed to contain encrustations of limpets and other small, pearl-like shells; the dramatic contrast of these against the predominantly dark background can be imagined. Among scientists the mermaid has long been supposed to be a southern species of manatee (Trichechus). However, Mr E R Dodson of the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research argues that the mermaid, if she exists, is more likely to be a species of giant eel.

from A H McDermott: History and Geography of the New Zealand Shoreline (1966)

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page 252

The greater frequency of mermaid sightings on the southern shores of the South Island, Rakiura and the other, offshore islands historically the haunt of sealers and whalers, has fuelled speculation that the mermaid's home may lie in the Southern Ocean, the great expanse of rough water and weather that lies between the south coasts of New

Zealand and the Antarctic.¹

No specimen of 'mermaid' exists. This is despite the persistent rumour that a consignment of shrunken heads illicitly taken on board the HMS Sorrowful in 1862 included one that bore no moko, had hair like kelp, amphibian features and was described as 'indubitably the head of that rarest of creatures, the New Zealand mermaid . . .'

from C H Kettle: Myths and Legends of the Southern Ocean (1997)

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Some accounts emphasise the visionary nature of the experience, comparing it to a vivid, waking dream. Others recall the 'voice' of the mermaid, a kind of melodious, seductive vibration that has been compared variously to a lullaby, the humming of telegraph wires, wind chimes, the whistling of dolphins, and a distant choir of female voices 'carrying the memory of things long forgotten or never consciously known'. Most agree that the experience is accompanied by a mysterious sense of being 'unlocked' or 'lifted'. As poet Isobel Fortune has written, 'she cannot be imagined and can only be imagined/ haunting us like the voice of the sea/ proffering the key that unlocks/ our voices/ourselves . . .

from Glenys Berson (ed): These Islands: an anthology of prose and poetry inspired by the New Zealand coastline (1995)

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page 253

Yesterday Mr Williams visited in the afternoon, riding all the way from Parakia on his horse, Sheba. Our mother invited him to dine with us, and he accepted with alacrity, regaling us throughout the meal with the most astonishing stories of this new land. Mr Williams claims to have gone much among the local Maoris, and he recounted such tales—of spirits, enchanted weapons, carvings that speak and ancestors who return to members of their tribe in the form of whales and dolphins—that left us open-mouthed with wonder.

The most remarkable tale, which he solemnly swore to be true, concerns the strange, serpent-like creature which is sometimes glimpsed rising from the ocean, and which pakehas (the word, Mr Williams explained, by which the natives designate Europeans) call a 'mermaid'.

Mr Williams explained that it is considered fortunate indeed to glimpse such a creature. This is because the New Zealanders believe that anyone who sees a mermaid will be blessed with the gift of a unique poetic or artistic inspiration.

On hearing this my sisters and I all demanded of Mr Williams whether he had ever been granted such a vision.

He replied that he had not, but that the possibility was never far from his thoughts, whenever he happened to be walking on the seashore or scrambling over rocks. 'For it is well-known' he told us, 'that mermaids favour the wilder portions of the coast, and are not deterred by heavy seas or storms'.

After Mr Williams had ridden away again on Sheba, we discussed the tales he had told us.

Our mother gave her opinion that it might be best if Mr Williams never saw a mermaid for, on the basis of his stories, he already possessed a sufficient quantity of the gift of poetic imagination, and who knew what he might do or say if he acquired more.

from Flora Dobson: The New Zealanders at home: Diary of a colonial childhood (1916)

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page 254

It wasn't until I was about to publish my second book that I felt comfortable telling people I'd seen a mermaid. By that time my first book of poems, A Harp at Spirit's Bay, had been published and received a positive response and I was feeling more confident about my second.

I first mentioned the experience in an interview on the TV arts programme, The Book Show. Since then, whenever I do a public reading, people always ask me about the mermaid sighting. They want to know what the mermaid looked like, and what effect it had on me.

The closest I can get to describing it is to say that something inside me changed forever. Looking back I can see that I had always suffered from a sense of 'inner fright'. At the core of my being was a sense that I was unworthy, that I wouldn't stand up to scrutiny. I guess I acquired it in some dark alleyway of the Presbyterian conscience.

Anyway, after I saw the mermaid, that inner flight fled. In its place there seemed to be something that was smooth, powerful and indigo—like a column of water moving under constant pressure. The poems in A Harp at Spirit's Bay came from that place.

It happened on a very windy day, one of the roughest days of the year. The state highway had to be closed for a few hours at high tide, because the sea was lobbing bits of driftwood at the cars.

I was the only person walking on the beach that afternoon. I was there because I was walking my dog. She's a Staffordshire terrier cross, a very energetic dog and I'd been sick so she hadn't had a walk for days.

Anyway, there we both were in this incredible wind, with the sea crashing all around us. I must have been crazy. The mermaid began as a sort of agitation in the water that spread to everything. It affected the light as well.

There is something about the experience that opens a channel right into the centre of yourself. I can't describe it in any other way. It's as if something that was vague and imaginary suddenly becomes real. But you can't describe it in words. That's the catch. You can talk about it, but not describe it.

'An Interview with Kay Walsh', NZ Listener, 21 November 2001

page 255

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. . . It was late afternoon and the sun had disappeared behind cloud. In its shadow sky and sea were the colour of flint, with occasional flashes of silver where the light caught the waves.

Harvey Stretch had followed a flock of white-breasted terns towards the kahawai's feeding grounds, and was baiting his line when a movement in the shallows drew his eyes towards the shore.

The mermaid was resting within the bay formed by two arms of rock. She seemed to rise and fall gently with each exhalation of the tide. Her tail, which was at once muscular and lithe, reminded Stretch irresistibly of the drawings of sea snakes in the books he'd perused as a child.

The mermaid was not looking at Harvey Stretch. Her attention was focused on the man with dark straight hair who was sitting on the beach close to the shore. He returned the mermaid's gaze with such intensity that to Stretch it felt as if the two were joined by an invisible current. Above the constant pulsing of the sea he seemed to feel rather than to hear a humming vibration, like a distant wind passing through the hollow spaces of macrocarpas.

When the mermaid sank beneath the water and vanished, Harvey Stretch watched the dark-haired man pass his hand across his forehead. To Stretch he seemed like a man released from a trance but not yet aware of his surroundings. From his vantage point in the bobbing dinghy, Stretch observed him knot the ends of his handkerchief and start walking in the direction of Windy Bay. A few minutes later Harvey Stretch pulled up his line and began to row in the same direction.

from Frank Cloud: Night Fishing (Wellington: Entry Press, 2008)

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