We said a prayer. We shed a tear. Last night hearts ached.
It will be the same today. Tomorrow . Next week. Next month ...
We will pray for 29 men who went to work and did not come home. Mates – sons, fathers, uncles, grandads – Coasters who lay together inside that foreboding chamber in the Paparoas. Pike River mine.
Men who we had not kissed, cuddled, argued or laughed with for almost a week.
Men who fate shut the door on when they merely went to work to earn a living.
They traipsed in on Friday not knowing there would be no Saturday, no Sunday, no Monday.
Now, because of the cruel hand dealt on a Wednesday, there will be no tomorrow.
One mine explosion – most likely unsurvivable. But we clung to hope. Double up – two explosions – a greater power holds the ace hand.
Twice within a week, nature's response has been devastating. Toxic gases, concussion, life-sapping forces, probably flame – certainly extreme temperatures were visited on the workforce of Pike River. At first, certainly in the first few days, for many right up until yesterday, there was hope that at least some would survive. That they would emerge to mourn with us the fate that had befallen workmates.
Then, yesterday afternoon, six days on, no time to wonder any more. Another explosion. Maybe bigger than the first. That was the end.
So we prayed, we cried for 29 men, most we didn't know. Some we had not seen for too long. No chance of righting that now.
For families who have gone through another kind of hell over the past week. Who have clung to each other and that innate trait we all need now – hope.
Families who were caught up in the web of some macabre pantomime – twice a day gathering to learn more about coalmining than they need to, who learnt nothing really from officialdom and who each day saw the sun sink lower. These are heartbroken people. And they are angry. Some may not even be sure who they are angry with, but they have just experienced disaster management by committee. No-one deserves that.
When the sun shone five days in a row on the Coast this week it was casting light on a slice of New Zealand which has suffered too many days like this: Brunner, Strongman, Cave Creek. Too many.
Stoic. Strong. Fighters. Friendly. That's what they say about Coasters. They don't know the half of it. But now they need all this and more.
We prayed for a man New Zealand has only known for a few days – Peter Whittall, a cuddly bear who has spent most of his life below ground. A man who has quietly led men and managed mines. A big man with a broken heart. Peter hired most of them, inspired all of them it seems. How did he cope with the weight of the past week on his shoulders? He stood in front of those families – and note that he stood alone – and heavy of heart told them that all those dreams that the impossible might happen, were gone.
