Memoirs – Ruth Haar

Our story with the Kims began in the 1980s, when we first met Mr. Jin Kim, then serving as Chief Officer aboard a ship docked at the Port of Tauranga. His wife, San, was living nearby in a flat at Mt Maunganui.

Some time later, the Kims moved to Australia, where they became involved in ministry to seafarers. Eventually, Jin felt a strong call to return to his homeland of South Korea to pursue theological training—likely within the Presbyterian tradition. After completing his studies, the couple returned to New Zealand and stayed with us at our home in Papamoa Beach.

One day, as we sat around the kitchen table, Fred asked Jin, “What are your plans for the future?”

Jin replied without hesitation, “I’m going to start a Seafarers Mission.”

Fred was impressed. “Where?” he asked.

“Here, at Mt Maunganui,” Jin said. “What can you suggest—about how, where, and who can help?”

Those words remain vivid in my memory, as if I heard them only yesterday. Fred immediately said, “I know just the man to take you to.” And off they went to meet Rev. Ray Coster at the Mt Maunganui Presbyterian Church. Ray supported the idea and agreed to a six-month trial period. From there, Fred and Jin visited the port area in search of a suitable building for the Mission. They were eventually led to the Northern Roller Mills building, which had an unoccupied section—perfect for their purposes.

It served us well for some time, until the Harbour Board reclaimed the space. We later relocated to a building on Hull Road, which remains in use today.

As I reflect on those early days—so many years later—it’s still clear how meaningful it was to be part of establishing the Seafarers Mission. For years, we had driven from our home in Te Puke to visit ships at the Port of Mt Maunganui. Then, in 1990, we helped lay the foundations of something more permanent.

At that time, our group was known as the Galilee Mission, operating under the umbrella of the Mt Maunganui Presbyterian Church. The excitement of starting something new was palpable. We gathered pots, pans, and crockery from garage sales—whatever was needed to get us up and running.

The Mission opened daily from 2 p.m. to 9 p.m. It quickly became known among ship crews as a place of welcome. They could enjoy a game of pool or table tennis—free of charge. A small shop offered essentials, with a popular item being Cadbury’s chocolate.

Phone communication was difficult and expensive in those early days. Telecom phone cards cost a small fortune—$3.80 per minute to the Philippines, and even more to Russia, China, and India. We volunteers were always uncomfortable selling them, but at the time, there was no alternative.

Our first home at the back of the Northern Roller Mills building served us well. Eventually, the front office area was vacated, allowing us to remove the dividing wall and use the entire space. It was a fantastic upgrade.

Soon, donated clothing came pouring in—from our own wardrobes, friends, and supporters. Bill Bayly built clothes racks, and our op-shop quickly took shape. Plastic bags stuffed with clothes regularly made their way back onboard ships, where they were welcomed with gratitude.

We also set up a simple chapel: rows of chairs, an organ in the corner, and a lectern. Sunday afternoon services were often led by the late Rev. Herb Khutze, using our well-worn red Redemption hymn books. Our old piano—still in use today—came from Mt Maunganui Presbyterian Church.

Sundays became a joyful time. A roast would go in the oven, delicious smells drifting through the building. Family would gather, with the little ones playing ping pong and the “Big Mamas”—Anne Kenny and I—often joining in. We sometimes surprised the seafarers with our sneaky backhands!

A book room was created, filled with donated books and magazines, all free to take. Christian literature—available in over 30 languages—was sourced from the Scripture Gift Mission, which generously supplied tracts at no cost. Our men took these materials onboard during ship visits, carefully selecting content to match each crew’s nationality. In the early years, we were not allowed on Russian or Chinese ships, but we found ways to get literature to their crews.

One moment I’ll never forget involved a ship’s captain—not a Christian himself—who asked for a church service for his Filipino crew before they set sail. He recognized the comfort and peace it brought them. We went up the gangway, hymn books and a piano accordion in hand, to hold the service. It was always a privilege to be welcomed aboard in such moments.

For some of us, playing shopkeeper was a new experience. We had to brush up on our basic maths—2 + 2 still equals 4, but we had to make sure our brains remembered that! As senior citizens, we called ourselves the “Wrinkly Club,” but despite our varied backgrounds, we became a united team—friends and colleagues with a shared purpose.

Over the years, we’ve had the privilege of serving in this unique mission field. We’ve been trusted to bank pay packets for crew members, ensuring their families back home had financial support. We’ve listened to countless stories—some joyful, some heartbreaking. I remember one engineer who returned home after a year at sea, only to find his teenage sons distant and uninterested. “I can’t wait to get back to the ship,” he told us. “I don’t belong at home.”

Then there was the Chief Engineer who came in one night just as we were closing. He had received word that his brother had died. We stayed with him for hours, simply listening. That’s what so many of these seafarers have needed—and still need today: someone who cares, who listens, and who will pray for their safety and their families.

Our family has many cherished—and often humorous—memories from those years of ministry. Here are just a few that still make us smile:

The Great Tidy-Up Drill
There was always a mad scramble when Dad arrived home from the office—often bringing seafarers with him from the port. He’d delay coming upstairs just long enough to give us a warning, allowing us precious seconds to clear the lounge of unfolded laundry and clutter. Wet washing was hurled into the nearest bedroom, surfaces wiped down, and we’d form a cheerful “reception committee” at the front door. This was pre-cell phone era, so we relied entirely on instinct—and speed! The guests were usually invited to admire the camellias in the garden while we completed our dash. The Haar girls sure learned how to move fast!

The Apricot Jam Incident
One lunch guest—a ship crew member—caused quiet amusement when he picked up an entire bowl of apricot jam beside his plate and polished it off in one go. We later realised he’d assumed it was his personal serving, similar to side dishes served on ships. We didn’t say a word—but we certainly laughed about it later!

The Slurping Surprise
At another meal, an Asian crew member picked up his soup bowl in one hand and his chopsticks in the other, and began to slurp loudly—perfectly acceptable in his culture, but a bit of a cultural shock to our Kiwi ears! That moment marked one of many important lessons we learned about respecting and embracing different customs.

Unexpected Houseguests
The shipping agents quickly learned they could rely on the volunteers at the Galilee Mission. One day, we were asked to care for a Russian crew member who had been discharged from Tauranga Hospital after heart trouble. He had a flight booked, but couldn’t leave for another few days. “Could we look after him?” they asked. Of course, we said yes. We knew only two Russian words—hello and goodbye—but we did have a tiny English-Russian dictionary, no bigger than 2½ by 1½ inches! When I showed Anatole his room, patted the bed, and pointed to him, he must have decided I was ‘Big Mama – She Who Must Be Obeyed.’ When I returned to call him for dinner, this big, 50-year-old man was tucked up in bed like an obedient child. We still laugh about that!

The Sleeping Filipinos
Another time, three Filipino crew members had a long wait before their ship would be tying up at the wharf. They were exhausted after a long flight, so we brought them to the Mission for a rest. Thankfully, we had a small divan bed in one of the side rooms, along with a couple of couches. Soon, soft snores filled the air—quite a surprise to other visitors wandering into the building that afternoon. But peace was what they needed most.

A Stranger in Need
Once, a Russian seafarer jumped ship, trying to seek asylum in New Zealand. Harold and Anne took him in—for three months. They drove him to Immigration appointments in Hamilton, navigated the complex process, and gave him a home. He, too, was called Anatole. We never knew what stories were coming next, but we always knew we had to respond with compassion.

Each of these stories reminds us of what the Mission was truly about: hospitality, kindness, and the willingness to open our homes and hearts to strangers. We were blessed by their presence just as much as, we hope, they were by ours.