‘It looks like a bomb has GONE OFF’
When Lillani, 24, bought her dad Geoff tickets to a volcanic island for his birthday, it was supposed to be a trip of a lifetime. But it turned into a deadly rescue mission
With our yellow hard hats glinting in the sunshine, my dad Geoff and I posed in front of the crater with our arms around each other and smiled for the camera. “Hope you’re enjoying your present?” I said to Dad. “I’m loving every minute, thank you for bringing me here,” he beamed.
For Dad’s 50th birthday, I’d bought us tickets to New Zealand’s volcanic White Island for a trip of a lifetime. He had last visited the natural wonder 24 years ago and I thought it would be a lovely day out. My mum Lyn was supposed to join us, but had hurt her back and insisted we didn’t miss out. As we toured the island that day in December 2019, our guide handed us gas masks, which she said we could wear if we had trouble breathing. We were also given sweets to suck because sulphur dioxide and other gases turned acidic when mixed with saliva.
‘People ran into the sea’
My fascination with volcanos had first been sparked as a girl when I’d gone on a school trip to Iceland. Then, three years ago, Mum, Dad and I had moved to the other side of the world from the UK, and now I found myself studying volcanoes for my geography degree. So, it was a dream come true to peer into the belly of an active one.
Bubbling over with enthusiasm, I peppered the guide with lots of questions about the island’s geology. Spotting some monitoring equipment, I asked, “What happens if the volcano erupts?”
“Strap on your mask and take shelter,” she replied, advising us to run to a nearby shipping container, which was full of supplies. She said they had noted some changes in the crater’s lake overnight – such as the colour changing to white from bluegreen, which indicated volcanic activity – but no one seemed too worried. Besides, the New Zealand travel industry thrived on adventure with a hint of danger.
Aside from our two guides, we were the only New Zealanders in our group, with other tourists from Asia, America and Europe. After 90 minutes, we climbed into the dinghy, which took us to the main boat. Over lunch, Dad and I admired the landscape for the last time and snapped some final photos. Feeling seasick for a moment, I turned my back to the island and focused on the horizon. Suddenly, Dad nudged me firmly on the shoulder. Turning around,
I gasped as huge plumes of ash and steam rose into the sky.
In awe, I grabbed my phone from Dad’s bag, realising we were watching a volcano erupting in front of our eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said to Dad. “It looks like a bomb has gone off.”
The whole island was swathed in a carpet of ash. The explosion had been so quiet, we hadn’t heard it over the whirr of the boat’s engines. But as the thick, grey clouds started rolling over the cliffs, excitement turned to fear.
There was a helicopter on the island that had been knocked off
the pad, the propellers all twisted and broken from the blast. “If it could do that to metal, what could it do to human skin?” I thought.
“Get inside!” the crew yelled, as they turned around and sped towards the island. Piercing screams shattered the silence as we saw people running into the sea. “Does anyone have medical training?” someone asked. “We know first aid,” Dad and I volunteered.
They told us to go back up on deck while a dinghy ferried survivors aboard. I honestly just thought we would be washing people’s eyes and cleaning up ash, so when I first saw the state of people’s injuries, I froze. Burns from the scalding water covered every inch of people’s skin, some of which was melting off. They looked like ghosts with their faces covered in grey paste, blinded by the ash. And they kept bringing more people on board – until there were 23.
Passengers gave Dad and I bottles of water, and I rinsed out people’s mouths, cleaned their eyes, cut away clothes and poured as much water on the burns as I could, but it only seemed to make them worse. “Here, take these,” people said, stripping off their clothes and passing them to us, so we could use them to make cold compresses.
All over the deck were what looked like scattered grey rubber gloves – but to my horror, it hit
‘We were meant to be there’
me that they were layers of skin that had peeled off people’s bodies. It was like a scene from hell. As Dad and I tended to the rescued tourists, we talked to them about their holidays, trying to distract them and keep them awake.
I even started singing and then stopped for a moment, embarrassed because I wasn’t much of a singer. Someone grabbed my leg. “Please keep going,” they urged, so I did. I was in fight mode, trying to keep these people alive. While some of them could speak, others could only scream in pain. A few couldn’t speak English, while others were unconscious. Every single one of them was petrified.
The captain of the boat was going at full pelt, trying to make the 75-minute trip back to shore as quickly as possible. Halfway there, we were met by the coastguard and two paramedics jumped on board. They gave some of the people pain medication, but others were so badly burnt, they couldn’t find their veins.
Many of the survivors were frantically asking about their loved ones. An elderly couple from Australia had become separated, with the wife unable to move, so I found her husband and led him by the hand back to her. He sat down and held her in his arms.
Finally, we reached the mainland and were met by police, firemen, ambulances, coast guards and helicopters. Everyone was waiting. Dad and I were shellshocked, but we just felt lucky to be alive.
After being interviewed by police, we were offered medical treatment, but we just wanted to get home. I called Mum, who had already heard about the eruption on the news and had been desperate to know how we were. I said we were OK and she burst into tears of relief.
In the car, the adrenaline still pumping, Dad and I went through a hundred different scenarios. Five minutes earlier, it could have been us. Ten minutes later, the boat might have been too far away to turn around. “We were meant to be there,” I said, consumed by thoughts of wondering if I could have done more.
In the days after the tragedy, the family members of those people Dad and I had tried to help reached out. We went to visit them in hospital and felt overwhelmed with happiness to see many making a good recovery.
“We’re so grateful,” their relatives said. But we just did what anyone would have done. However, not everyone made it. Of the 47 tourists on the island that day, 22 tragically lost their lives.
I’ve since qualified as a primary school teacher and I teach the youngsters about volcanoes. I always thought how lucky I’d be to see a volcano erupt, but what I witnessed that day is something no one would ever wish to see. It was nature at its most dangerous.