A grand adventure cut short

Michele A’Court

Zac was 16 when he left his family in England to see the world. America for a few years, then to Australia where he met a woman in a bar, and married her. Mary and Zac had two children and eventually moved to New Zealand. A couple of years later, Zac drowned in somewhat mysterious circumstances during a fishing trip off the West Coast. Mysterious in the sense that the person who failed to save him from the ocean returned to shore, and married Mary.

Zac was my great-great-grandfather and – apart from that last bit – this is not an unusual story. I imagine there were some anxious tears when he left England in 1849, but also firm handshakes and warm wishes for his grand adventure. My grandfather proudly told the story of this young man who was his grandfather, praising Zac’s curiosity and courage in travelling the world alone to explore foreign places.

There is another story about my great-greatgrandmother, Florence. Details are sketchy but it seems she was born on a ship between England and Australia, and that she arrived in New Zealand, unaccompanied by family, in 1872 with a dance troupe, aged just 13. Exactly what ‘‘dance troupe’’ means is open to speculation, but you can’t help admire the gumption of a kid who takes a punt on a new country when she’s barely in her teens.

Different times, sure, but you’d be hard-pressed to describe the West Coast during the 19th century Gold Rush as ‘‘safer’’ than our world now, in terms of personal security. Lord knows how Florence survived – or what she had to survive – but I am delighted that the only court records relating to Florence note that she was caught stealing a rosebush from the Hokitika Cemetery when she was 15, charges dismissed.

When he was in his 20s, my brother cycled solo across parts of the United States and Mexico. Preinternet, our family kept in touch with aerograms and collect phone calls. No one thought this was an outrageous thing for a young man to do in the 1980s. I doubt anyone would think it was inappropriate now, either. It’s an adventure I would have liked to have had (though maybe not on a bike) but, despite being a descendant of Zac and Florence and inheriting their passion for discovering new places, I’ve only rarely found the courage to travel overseas alone.

So I have nothing but admiration and respect for Grace Millane. For her bravery and independence, for being an adventurer, for being all the finer things we celebrate our family heroes for. She is the woman I would like to have been at 21. She is the kind of young woman I adore.

The bad choices – all of them – were made by

her killer.

Jeremy Elwood

The outpouring of anger, grief and disbelief last week over the death of Grace Millane has formed the basis of a national conversation that is well overdue. However, in amongst the few facts, the speculation and the inevitable fabrications, we run the risk of clouding what this story is really about.

The list of things it isn’t about is short, but telling.

This story is not about whether women, or indeed anyone, should travel alone. Of course they should, if they choose to. It isn’t about whether travelling alone is safe. In the vast majority of cases, and in the vast majority of places, it is – and if things do go wrong, it isn’t the fault of the traveller.

This is not about whether all men or not all men (I refuse to include the hashtag) are the problem. It isn’t all men, but it’s too many of us, enough that we should all feel ashamed.

It isn’t about whether New Zealand is a safe country. It is, and it isn’t. Again, for the bulk of us, and those visiting us, life here is the same as it usually is anywhere else: safe, predictable and uneventful. But given our horrific rates of child abuse, domestic violence and familial homicide, it is naive to pretend that we are some idyllic paradise where no harm befalls us unless we somehow invite it.

I can’t help but realise that most of the writing on this tragedy has come from people – including myself – who are white, middle class and comfortable. Is that why Grace has touched such a nerve? Because she looks like us, and was doing the kind of thing we have either done ourselves, or wish we had? I’m thankful that the nationwide vigils held earlier in the week at least attempted to acknowledge the far-too-many other women who die here far too regularly, but hardly disturb the headlines.

This case has immediately joined the sad roll call of victims including Sven Urban Hoglin and Heidi Paakkonen, Olivia Hope and Ben Smart and too many more, as a stain on our society that will prove impossible to wash out. Young people making the most of lives that were ultimately ended by a stranger. It’s our national nightmare, because there is no easy out; no way we can point to poverty, surroundings or poor life choices as an excuse for what happened. Any attempt to do so is just a deflection from what this story actually is about – the inexcusable, tragic killing of a young woman who did nothing wrong, and deserved better.

Perhaps the one hopeful thing to take away is that we still have the capacity to be shocked by that.