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The Seddonvile Flood of 1929
My Story
DescriptionTHE FLOOD, SEDDONVILLE, July 4th, 1929 (James Quinn)
For a few days after the big ’quake, we kids had fun. School was closed; we were free to do as we pleased. We fooled around and made a general nuisance of ourselves. But adults, being what they are, soon had the school re-opened. Sure, we still had those aftershakes to excite us but even those became routine and boring.
Around this time a new fear was born. Away upstream in the gorge, the Mokihinui River was blocked by a series of slips brought down by the many shakes. The river was backing up behind the dam, forming an enormous lake and threatening the valley below. Seddonville was in its direct path.
What if the dam gave way suddenly and, even worse, if at night while we were all asleep? Some said it wouldn’t give way, but simply rise until it just spilled over the top. Others weren’t too sure and thought it would just suddenly give way. No one knew for certain, so we all lived in fear. We could not put articles back up on their shelves for fear the continuing quakes would knock ’em all down again. However, to leave them on the floor was to risk damage by flood. What to do?
The earthquake had knocked the top off our chimney but otherwise was sound where it passed through the attic and roof. With care we could still use the kitchen stove and the fireplace in the lounge (it was mid-winter). Our home too was on a rise and several feet higher than the general level of the rest of the village. We thought ourselves safe and, because we had a warm fire, many families spent the nights in our home sleeping on mattresses scattered on the floor of the living room. I know now what a harrowing time it was for Mum and Dad, scarcely over the terror of the earthquakes, the mines still closed and no money coming in, and now a new peril hovering over us to perhaps wash our village and us out to sea. We waited.
One afternoon, seventeen days after the quake, word came to the school that the river was in violent flood. We were sent home immediately. I met Dad near home. At first he did not believe it but we all went down to view the river where it passed through a narrow gorge again, just below the town. The river was a raging torrent, large trees and logs tumbling over each other and stacking up in the narrow gorge. Dad did not gaze for long. He urged us and everyone else to get home quick. A new dam was forming and the river was backing up into the village. Even as we ran home we could see the waters backing up into the lower paddocks and one farmer herding his flock to higher ground. It was now late afternoon. At home we began to prepare for an influx of folks for the night.
We could see the waters still rising and now menacing homes in the lower areas. Still the water level rose. People were now abandoning their homes and running to higher levels for safety. Now Dad realised even our home was not safe and ordered everyone to higher ground. He told Mum “Stop what you’re doing, get the kids and the baby, go down the railway line and get up into the coal bins!” He intended to follow us with Grandmother who, at 79, could not go so fast.
When we reached the bins, we could see the water now surging around our home and only just a few feet below the railway line, along which Dad was urging and struggling with Grandma.
We looked out over the village. Water had now reached most homes and was still rising. Dad, helped by a few men who had gone back to assist him, had finally reached the safety of the bins with Grandma, but not before covering the last few yards ankle-deep in water. There were several families huddle together up in the bins. It was very cold; we had little food, no blankets and just the clothes we wore. We watched in misery as the waters continued to rise and darkness began to enfold us. Way across the water only the top storey of the Empire Hotel could be seen, and we saw people were still inside.
Mrs Scott watched spellbound as the water rose about her home. “Its over me piano now!” she wailed, then “its up to me father’s picture!” she burst into loud sobs of anguish.
Dinny O’Brien – an aged bachelor – who lived alone in a two-roomed bach, watched his house rise from its piles, swirl around, then float away into the dusk. “There goes me home!” cried Dinny “God knows what my address will be now!” A brave attempt at humour to hide an aching heart.
Darkness now closed over the scene. We could see an occasional flash of light from the Empire Hotel to assure us that they were still safe and we answered their flashes – but we feared for them.
It was cold, bitterly cold. My brother Joe was only twelve months old. There were other babies too.
The men then decided we should tramp up the back trolley-way to another bush track, which would lead to the home of the Chester family, a home that would be well above the flood level. It was a difficult walk of maybe two miles, Some older men, who knew the way, led off and I remember Dad and Grandma brought up the rear and there were short stops to allow Grandma to recover. One of the men had managed to save a bottle of “Dew of the Heather” and now Grandma could and would have a “wee drappie!” As the bottle got lighter and lighter, Grandma got better and better!
A few hours later a tired, cold and bedraggled party struggled into the Chester home, where there were warm fires, tea and cocoa and a warm and friendly welcome. We waited out a long and dreary night; the ladies and babies in the home, we males outside by a huge bonfire. I finally drifted off to sleep on a pile of sacks beside the fire.
I woke up at daylight to find Mum, with other ladies, fussing about and dishing up some form of breakfast for all and sundry. She was waiting for Dad to return, for he and the other men had returned to their homes at first light to survey the damage. When he finally returned, he said a few words to Mum, instructed my sister Alma to look aster the baby and told us boys to go with them. We trudged off back to our home. Trudged is the word; six to eight inches of slush and sludge lay everywhere. The road was covered. I even saw some slush on some roofs.
Arriving home – what a mess! Slush! Inside, six or seven inches of slush from the front door to the back. Some four – maybe five feet of water had been through our house.
First thing I noticed was someone’s long-drop dunny propped against the kitchen wall!
When we had abandoned the house, Mum had been cooking the evening meal. The rising water first put out the stove fire, then floated the pots off the stove. As the water receded, so the pots settled down on the floor. The meat and vegetables were cold, but perfectly cooked and unharmed. We enjoyed them later.
The door into the bedroom off the kitchen was closed. Mum opened it and a cascade of muddy water rushed out over her feet, across the kitchen floor and spilled out the back door. She shrieked, ran screaming out the back door, laid on a log in the back yard and sobbed her heart out. Dad tried to console her. Her home was in ruins.
My brother Harry’s radio was saved. The battery set had floated up on its table and settled down again unharmed. For a while it was the only working set in the village and folks came from all around to hear news of the outside, and to learn what the outside world was being told about Seddonville. For a few days we were top of the news.
Our situation was serious: No mattresses or bedding, very few clothes, most food destroyed and hardly any drinking water. In the town the damage was considerable. First, a slush problem – it was everywhere and in everything. Almost every bit of upholstery, bedding and clothing was a ruined lump of pulp, fit only for the rubbish dump. Roads were dangerous with concealed holes under the slush.
Farm paddocks were useless seas of mud; all surviving cattle had to be moved to scarce higher ground or trucked out to other districts and the many carcasses collected and buried,
The town’s picture and recreation hall had lifted off its piles, floated a hundred yards or so down the road to strand on the old bakehouse ovens. The general store was a shambles with its stock of cans and bottles buried under a blanket of mud with their labels washed off, When the storekeeper washed away the mud, he sold the cans for a bob each. You took one home never knowing whether you would have green peas or pineapple chunks for dinner!
I remember the butcher arriving from Granity, his van stuffed with sausages; he had been up all night turning most of his stock into them. He called at each house “How many at your house Missus?” At the reply he measured off so many feet of sausages. “Here you are Missus. Fix me up later!”
So often when troubles brew, trust and help come from the most unexpected places. Years later he said he probably didn’t lose anything. If not repaid in money, he would often find a dozen eggs or some fresh home-grown vegetables on the seat of his van.
Soon the Public Works people arrived in trucks and buses, piled high with mattresses, blankets, clothes and food, donations from around the district. A distribution depot was set up in the old school and the massive, backbreaking clean-up job commenced.
It was months before the town returned to normal – if it ever really did.
***
Notes:
(1) Until 1931 when my Granddad John Quinn was appointed Blackball Mine Manager, the family finances and fortunes had been perilous since the earthquake had shut down the mine permanently. This was not to be the end of their troubles as the well-documented Miners’ Strike attests.
(2) James and Irmgard Quinn’s Kawerau home was badly-damaged in the Edgecumbe Earthquake 02 Mar 1987 – whilst they were absent in Australia where – I believe – they were staying at Jim’s brother Clarrie – in Sydney. This news forced a hurried return home. Irmgard Selina Quinn nee Jantke (b. Breslau - now Wroclaw Poland) was a German Iron Cross 2nd class recipient; she was a decoder for the Luftwaffe in the disastrous Stalingrad campaign and remained at her post - under fire. Their wedding was the first-ever in the new settlement of Kawerau.
(3) The Salvation Army was largely responsible for the distribution of relief. The items included blankets that – even today – form part of our caravan inventory, albeit a little threadbare. If only they could talk!
Grandma (née Elizabeth Graham – a native of Carronbridge, Scotland) died the following year (1930) in Seddonville. Effectively she was the local midwife who had assisted many Quinns and relatives into this world at places such as Seddonville and Denniston. Granddad (James Quinn Snr.) – an Irishman with a pronounced Ayrshire Scots accent – had died in 1927 aged 81.
(Maurice Quinn)
ContributorMaurice Allan QuinnDate of story eventsBetween 1st January 1929 and 31st December 1929Map[1]
For a few days after the big ’quake, we kids had fun. School was closed; we were free to do as we pleased. We fooled around and made a general nuisance of ourselves. But adults, being what they are, soon had the school re-opened. Sure, we still had those aftershakes to excite us but even those became routine and boring.
Around this time a new fear was born. Away upstream in the gorge, the Mokihinui River was blocked by a series of slips brought down by the many shakes. The river was backing up behind the dam, forming an enormous lake and threatening the valley below. Seddonville was in its direct path.
What if the dam gave way suddenly and, even worse, if at night while we were all asleep? Some said it wouldn’t give way, but simply rise until it just spilled over the top. Others weren’t too sure and thought it would just suddenly give way. No one knew for certain, so we all lived in fear. We could not put articles back up on their shelves for fear the continuing quakes would knock ’em all down again. However, to leave them on the floor was to risk damage by flood. What to do?
The earthquake had knocked the top off our chimney but otherwise was sound where it passed through the attic and roof. With care we could still use the kitchen stove and the fireplace in the lounge (it was mid-winter). Our home too was on a rise and several feet higher than the general level of the rest of the village. We thought ourselves safe and, because we had a warm fire, many families spent the nights in our home sleeping on mattresses scattered on the floor of the living room. I know now what a harrowing time it was for Mum and Dad, scarcely over the terror of the earthquakes, the mines still closed and no money coming in, and now a new peril hovering over us to perhaps wash our village and us out to sea. We waited.
One afternoon, seventeen days after the quake, word came to the school that the river was in violent flood. We were sent home immediately. I met Dad near home. At first he did not believe it but we all went down to view the river where it passed through a narrow gorge again, just below the town. The river was a raging torrent, large trees and logs tumbling over each other and stacking up in the narrow gorge. Dad did not gaze for long. He urged us and everyone else to get home quick. A new dam was forming and the river was backing up into the village. Even as we ran home we could see the waters backing up into the lower paddocks and one farmer herding his flock to higher ground. It was now late afternoon. At home we began to prepare for an influx of folks for the night.
We could see the waters still rising and now menacing homes in the lower areas. Still the water level rose. People were now abandoning their homes and running to higher levels for safety. Now Dad realised even our home was not safe and ordered everyone to higher ground. He told Mum “Stop what you’re doing, get the kids and the baby, go down the railway line and get up into the coal bins!” He intended to follow us with Grandmother who, at 79, could not go so fast.
When we reached the bins, we could see the water now surging around our home and only just a few feet below the railway line, along which Dad was urging and struggling with Grandma.
We looked out over the village. Water had now reached most homes and was still rising. Dad, helped by a few men who had gone back to assist him, had finally reached the safety of the bins with Grandma, but not before covering the last few yards ankle-deep in water. There were several families huddle together up in the bins. It was very cold; we had little food, no blankets and just the clothes we wore. We watched in misery as the waters continued to rise and darkness began to enfold us. Way across the water only the top storey of the Empire Hotel could be seen, and we saw people were still inside.
Mrs Scott watched spellbound as the water rose about her home. “Its over me piano now!” she wailed, then “its up to me father’s picture!” she burst into loud sobs of anguish.
Dinny O’Brien – an aged bachelor – who lived alone in a two-roomed bach, watched his house rise from its piles, swirl around, then float away into the dusk. “There goes me home!” cried Dinny “God knows what my address will be now!” A brave attempt at humour to hide an aching heart.
Darkness now closed over the scene. We could see an occasional flash of light from the Empire Hotel to assure us that they were still safe and we answered their flashes – but we feared for them.
It was cold, bitterly cold. My brother Joe was only twelve months old. There were other babies too.
The men then decided we should tramp up the back trolley-way to another bush track, which would lead to the home of the Chester family, a home that would be well above the flood level. It was a difficult walk of maybe two miles, Some older men, who knew the way, led off and I remember Dad and Grandma brought up the rear and there were short stops to allow Grandma to recover. One of the men had managed to save a bottle of “Dew of the Heather” and now Grandma could and would have a “wee drappie!” As the bottle got lighter and lighter, Grandma got better and better!
A few hours later a tired, cold and bedraggled party struggled into the Chester home, where there were warm fires, tea and cocoa and a warm and friendly welcome. We waited out a long and dreary night; the ladies and babies in the home, we males outside by a huge bonfire. I finally drifted off to sleep on a pile of sacks beside the fire.
I woke up at daylight to find Mum, with other ladies, fussing about and dishing up some form of breakfast for all and sundry. She was waiting for Dad to return, for he and the other men had returned to their homes at first light to survey the damage. When he finally returned, he said a few words to Mum, instructed my sister Alma to look aster the baby and told us boys to go with them. We trudged off back to our home. Trudged is the word; six to eight inches of slush and sludge lay everywhere. The road was covered. I even saw some slush on some roofs.
Arriving home – what a mess! Slush! Inside, six or seven inches of slush from the front door to the back. Some four – maybe five feet of water had been through our house.
First thing I noticed was someone’s long-drop dunny propped against the kitchen wall!
When we had abandoned the house, Mum had been cooking the evening meal. The rising water first put out the stove fire, then floated the pots off the stove. As the water receded, so the pots settled down on the floor. The meat and vegetables were cold, but perfectly cooked and unharmed. We enjoyed them later.
The door into the bedroom off the kitchen was closed. Mum opened it and a cascade of muddy water rushed out over her feet, across the kitchen floor and spilled out the back door. She shrieked, ran screaming out the back door, laid on a log in the back yard and sobbed her heart out. Dad tried to console her. Her home was in ruins.
My brother Harry’s radio was saved. The battery set had floated up on its table and settled down again unharmed. For a while it was the only working set in the village and folks came from all around to hear news of the outside, and to learn what the outside world was being told about Seddonville. For a few days we were top of the news.
Our situation was serious: No mattresses or bedding, very few clothes, most food destroyed and hardly any drinking water. In the town the damage was considerable. First, a slush problem – it was everywhere and in everything. Almost every bit of upholstery, bedding and clothing was a ruined lump of pulp, fit only for the rubbish dump. Roads were dangerous with concealed holes under the slush.
Farm paddocks were useless seas of mud; all surviving cattle had to be moved to scarce higher ground or trucked out to other districts and the many carcasses collected and buried,
The town’s picture and recreation hall had lifted off its piles, floated a hundred yards or so down the road to strand on the old bakehouse ovens. The general store was a shambles with its stock of cans and bottles buried under a blanket of mud with their labels washed off, When the storekeeper washed away the mud, he sold the cans for a bob each. You took one home never knowing whether you would have green peas or pineapple chunks for dinner!
I remember the butcher arriving from Granity, his van stuffed with sausages; he had been up all night turning most of his stock into them. He called at each house “How many at your house Missus?” At the reply he measured off so many feet of sausages. “Here you are Missus. Fix me up later!”
So often when troubles brew, trust and help come from the most unexpected places. Years later he said he probably didn’t lose anything. If not repaid in money, he would often find a dozen eggs or some fresh home-grown vegetables on the seat of his van.
Soon the Public Works people arrived in trucks and buses, piled high with mattresses, blankets, clothes and food, donations from around the district. A distribution depot was set up in the old school and the massive, backbreaking clean-up job commenced.
It was months before the town returned to normal – if it ever really did.
***
Notes:
(1) Until 1931 when my Granddad John Quinn was appointed Blackball Mine Manager, the family finances and fortunes had been perilous since the earthquake had shut down the mine permanently. This was not to be the end of their troubles as the well-documented Miners’ Strike attests.
(2) James and Irmgard Quinn’s Kawerau home was badly-damaged in the Edgecumbe Earthquake 02 Mar 1987 – whilst they were absent in Australia where – I believe – they were staying at Jim’s brother Clarrie – in Sydney. This news forced a hurried return home. Irmgard Selina Quinn nee Jantke (b. Breslau - now Wroclaw Poland) was a German Iron Cross 2nd class recipient; she was a decoder for the Luftwaffe in the disastrous Stalingrad campaign and remained at her post - under fire. Their wedding was the first-ever in the new settlement of Kawerau.
(3) The Salvation Army was largely responsible for the distribution of relief. The items included blankets that – even today – form part of our caravan inventory, albeit a little threadbare. If only they could talk!
Grandma (née Elizabeth Graham – a native of Carronbridge, Scotland) died the following year (1930) in Seddonville. Effectively she was the local midwife who had assisted many Quinns and relatives into this world at places such as Seddonville and Denniston. Granddad (James Quinn Snr.) – an Irishman with a pronounced Ayrshire Scots accent – had died in 1927 aged 81.
(Maurice Quinn)
ContributorMaurice Allan QuinnDate of story eventsBetween 1st January 1929 and 31st December 1929Map[1]
Relates to
Location (city or town)Seddonville
Category Information
Category Taghistory
West Coast New Zealand History (5th Nov 2016). The Seddonvile Flood of 1929. In Website West Coast New Zealand History. Retrieved 19th Apr 2026 04:24, from https://westcoast.recollect.co.nz/nodes/view/18143