In 2006 David Paton, good friend, mentor, example, and inspiration died after experiencing an aggressive cancer. I flew to New Zealand to attend his funeral. On the flight back I started writing some notes that were intended to capture something of what David meant to me. Taking a deep breath I thought I would share them more widely here on this blog. They are less coherent than I would like but they tell a story of what a difference one life, honestly lived, can make to those around them. These notes are offered up in 15 chapters which I (intended to post out over the next few weeks). They have dragged out a bit. And in order that you can put a face to a name, here he is, on the Stewart Island ferry, catching some “zeds”. Or “zees” depending on what part of the world you hail from.
Waihola (small town of 100 souls – on a long weekend) is synonymous with a lot of David stories and images. There were very few times that I ever saw him angry. Once was at Waihola. Through the Waihola property flowed a creek which sported some shallow gravel bed sections which we loved damming up with the gravel and with timber and any other materials we could lay our hands on. Like beavers we
would create and delight in the large ponds that would appear. We did this year in and year out with no one complaining. To our surprise one afternoon we were interrupted by David bellowing at us about the dams causing erosion problems, to dismantle the dam and to go and find something useful to do. We were so startled we did as we were told but wondered even then how still water would create erosion.
The other time I saw him agitated was at Pukerau. We deserved it this time however. It was the practise of David to stand on a chair in the middle of the hall at meal time to make announcements, give instructions, declare winners and losers and otherwise administer the camp. More than one hundred boys in one hall made for a lot of noise. David never raised his voice. He would stand on that chair until you could hear a pin drop and then he would quietly speak to the whole assembly. It is a technique I have usefully and successfully copied for myself at numerous camps and gatherings since. On this occasion he strode into the hall and leapt onto the chair and started bellowing, clearly in a rage. We had no idea what was going on but it was so unusual we were silent in an instant. Two groups of boys had completely dismantled a hay stack
on a neighbour’s property while fighting each other. One group had climbed onto the top of the stack and played “defender” while the other group tried to dislodge them. Those on top hurled bales into the team below who were trying to pull the stack out from beneath them. When the haystack was a small hillock of straw and the fight battled to a close, rather than rebuild the stack the boys had simply run off into the evening in order to make the dinner bell. The
neighbouring farmer was livid. So too David. I was one in the group who had been on top of the haystack. We were directed to leave the meal table, to get our torches and to proceed into the darkness and go back up the hill to mend the haystack. We did just that but every time I caught a glimpse of it for the rest of the week it seemed a sorry shadow of its former self – saggy and lopsided. I still am unable to smell hay or pick up a bale without being taken back to that incident.
