At early light on Christmas-day, I put off from shore in one of those squalls for which Port Nicholson, the harbour of Wellington, is famed. A boat which started from the ship at the same time as mine from the land was upset, but in such shallow water that the passengers were saved, though they lost a portion of their baggage. As we flew towards the mail steamer, the Kaikoura, the harbour was one vast sheet of foam, and columns of spray were being whirled in the air, and borne away far inland on the gale. We had placed at the helm a post-office clerk, who said that he could steer, but, as we reached the steamer's side, instead of luffing-up, he suddenly put the helm hard a-weather, and we shot astern of her, running violently before the wind, although our treblereefed sail was by this time altogether down. A rope was thrown us from a coal-hulk, and, catching it, we were soon on board, and spent our Christmas walking up and down her deck on the slippery black dust, and watching the effects of the gale. After some hours, the wind moderated, and I reached the Kaikoura just before she sailed. While we were steaming out of the harbour through the boil of waters that marks the position of the submarine crater, I found that there was but one other passenger for Australia to share with me the services of ten officers and ninety men, and the accommodations of a ship of 1,500 tons.