Cockatoo Island dockyard auction - 23 years ago.

One of 6,000 lots sold at the Cockatoo Island Dockland auction in 1991

Twenty-three years ago, Cockatoo Island Dockland (a Sydney Harbour island and a decommissioned shipyard) went under the hammer.
 In October 1991, amid speculation that the island would be an ideal site for a casino, all ship building machinery and plant was sold to the highest bidders.  There were 6,000 lots for sale, and it took five days.
At that time, the island was not usually open to the public, so it was a chance for people to peek at the recent past before it was dismantled. 
Most of the machines dated from the 1930s and had been used for ship building and repairs, peaking in World War II, when 3,600 men had been employed on the island.  For about 50 years, Cockatoo Island had been one of Australia's biggest shipyards.
That era being over, the island was decommissioned (Navy-speak for 'time to go') by the Australian Defence department, and it was moving right along.
Those who came to the auction did not necessarily come to bid, but to admire and perhaps caress those magnificent machines of the past.   
Who could resist the muscular splendour of a 5-tonne overhead crane, or the well-oiled delight of an Australian iron-and-steel four-metre gap bed lathe (3,000 between centres, 500 swing, four jaw chuck and steady's), or the simple handiness of the Yale triple-gear 5-tonne chain blocks?  It was machine-lover's heaven. 
One lathe was said to be the biggest in the Southern Hemisphere. It was 12.2 metres long, weighed in at 150 tonnes and was the star of the auction. The Sydney Morning Herald reported that it sold for $15,000, but the estimated cost to dismantle, carry by barge off the island and reassemble in its new workshop was $300,000.

A little something for the men's shed

A man from Dubbo, having read about the auction in the newspaper, had dropped everything and hurried to Sydney for a chance to farewell this lathe. He was last seen climbing over it, tenderly stroking its oiled surfaces and saying: 'They don't make 'em like they used to.'
The auction was a mobile shopping spree. Most items were nailed down or were bigger than a grain silo, so the auction crowd had to trail from building to building.
The auctioneer was rarely seen, but always heard. For five days, he could be tracked by the microphoned rapid auctioneer-babble echoing across the island from various vantage points: the destroyer wharf, propeller shop or up a ladder on the roof of building 117.

Whether or not these machines were in working order was, as the Terms of Sale side-stepped, a ‘matter of opinion’. Who’s opinion?  Nevertheless the Terms of Sale bluntly stated: ‘No warranties are given whatsoever. Caveat Emptor.’
Buyers who were looking for a bargain may have been disappointed.  These machines were undoubtedly old, some rusted, but their elegant art deco designs transcended their real value.  Furthermore, they had provenance:  they built the ships that took our boys to war. Perhaps this was why, in the opinion of some bidders, they were selling for more than they were worth.

Money for old rope

Pickles Auctions estimated that the gross proceeds of sale possibly exceeded $1.5 million.
Sentiment did not enter into the cost of haulage. Enough to say that everyone loves an island, especially specialists in machinery removals, craneage, fork lifts and barge owners.
According to the ‘Information to buyers’ section of the catalogue: ‘Getting purchases off the island is a breeze. An approximate cost for a truck to go to and from the island is $150.’
Trouble was: many items were much bigger than trucks.

Barge for hire: truckin' it to the Cockatoo Island Dockland auction.

About 600 people a day attended the auction, most of whom denied they were buying for themselves. They had a friend who needed a Cincinnati No 2 U milling machine or a Churchill spindle grinder.
Reading the nostalgic mood of the crowd, scrap metal merchants kept a low profile.
People with cameras did not bother to bid. They took photos of the recent past imposed on the more distant past: a convict-built prison as background to 1930s machinery being fork-lifted down the road.
They took photos of the dry docks, one of which was built by the convicts. It was apricot sandstone descending in steps and stairs in a hull shaped excavation deep below sea level.
A dam wall may have stood between you and the sea, but it was still an act of bravado to climb into the depths of the dry dock.  This was where drainage trenches were filled with water and where fish were stranded after the sea had been pumped out.
As the story goes, when the dockyard was fully operational, and seawater had been pumped out of the dry dock, a worker grabbed one of these stranded fish by the tail. The foreman glared down from the rim of the dry dock and bellowed: ‘Fire that man!’
At that time, about 4,000 people worked on the island. The last ship was built in 1984. The last submarine was refitted in 1991.
In the amenities block, 900 Brownbilt steel clothes lockers went up for sale. They stood rusted and empty, some with their doors swinging open, waiting for their owners to return.


NOTE:  The casino was never built, possibly because parking was a problem.