THE EARLY YEARS

Photo: WannaSurf

I woke early with board shorts on, hopped out of bed and rushed through the house. I knew I needed to get out before the dragon awoke, snarling commands: “Time to clean the windows”. It was always time to clean the windows. I made my way through the front door swift and silent so as to not awake her, and off down the street. Hurriedly I stepped my way along the smooth concrete kerb, often losing balance and having to catch myself on the abrasive bitumen road. It felt sharp as the stones dug into my fleshy foot, the worst when a stone stuck to my foot only to push up further again as I stood on the flat form. I hopped, bounded, all excitement, carefully placing each step. The air was warm against my back from the driving summer easterly. It rushed off the scarp, coming from out desert way, around Boddington I assumed, and then down across the coastal plain with certain urgency all the way to where I stood. The beach.

I cornered the last bend and came to the groyne car park. Nezza, a tall wiry fellow with thick-lensed glasses, and Brenton, a handsome fellow full of aspiration, were already there waiting with enthusiasm. They leaned up against the timber rail fence at the top of the dune, boards in hand. “Dewsey,” they called in eager accord as they caught sight of me. I was thin-framed, tanned and dressed in nothing other than a pair of tired boardies. I beamed a big joyous smile. The sun had just come over the land and now shone brightly against our bare bodies as we stared out on the pearlescent white shores. The ocean was crystal clear, low summer tide. A school of blowfish swarmed productively around the rocks, then out to sea and back again like a strong battalion marching efficient, precise, methodical, patrolling the shallows for any unsuspecting victim and the chance to feed this momentous festivity, sometimes this meant a nick from our little toe! A small wave occasionally heaved up from the depths, building speed until it came crashing down around the shallow bank just out off the groyne’s end and peeling left all the way to the shore, where, in a last attempt, it threw everything it had and broke simultaneously across the wide expanse of beach. The sound echoed up the dunes to where we watched, and then the morning silence took up its peacefulness. The waves weren’t of particular size, and we grumbled amongst ourselves. “When will this flat spell break,” Nezza argued with frustration. He loved his body boarding more than anything else. He was a tall unnatural fellow, goofy and uncoordinated until he stepped off those huge long stalks and lay flat on his skinny belly, where he transformed into a purposeful kid with a hungering passion. He yearned for good surf. Cutting across a wave with determination he would feel natural against all the confusion of youth and his bickering peers. “Shove it king,” we would shout jokingly, cheerfully. He replied with a huge flash of stark white teeth, while masterfully manoeuvring the board as to shower us down with a thin layer of cool salty spray.

We took to the beach where the white sand had already heated up for another hot day in the tremendous summer sun. “I can’t wait for tonight,” Brenton stated, girls and parties obviously on his young pubescent mind. I could sense the vibe and questioned, “Is there anything on tonight?” “Haven’t you heard?”, he resounded, astonished and dumbfounded, “There’s a massive party down at Tobes beach tonight.” He spoke with pure animation, the way he spoke about all things. I wondered if he sold honkynuts to bushies in his spare time. “You hold them like this, and blow.” The son of two predominant hard-working real estate salesmen from town, well one at least. His dad he reckons was just in it for the beer and golf, which he consumed fervently. It was his favourite joke, and he looked up to his failing dad with gratitude and admiration. The same as we all looked up to our Pa, unconditionally. It was hard not getting caught up in his crazy zealous nature. “Sweet. I’m up for that,” I replied.

We talked towards the water, our skin feeling dry against the hot air. The water lapped around our feet, it was the dead of summer and the water offered pleasant relief. Nezza was the first in, taking long ugly sweeps with his gangly arms. His head down, he paddled towards the breakers. Brenton and I watched on, laughing at this ridiculous activity. It wasn’t much deeper than our thighs, so we walked out, slowly accustoming to the cool water. This was all ruined as Nezza loomed up in front, playing his favourite trick. Brenton dunked avoiding the spray, still wet but pride intact. Meanwhile, not concentrating, I dripped, so I jumped in and hurried out towards the back. We caught a few waves, returning as soon as we could to get another. Paddle, jump, bound - it wasn’t the best surf but we would make up for that by catching as many as we possibly could. Between sets we planned our party preparation. Most importantly who could get the grog, and then who had money for it. We investigated all our resources, which could we trust. It was always a difficult task and it would take all day before our humble ten dollars would be spent.

As the day rolled on, we periodically rested up on the beach until it became too warm and we would return again to the cold revitalising surf. Others came and joined us during the day - Josh and his younger brother Brock. The Central Gang, Brad, Mileny, Macca, Wayne, Turner. The phantom, Damon who lived in a huge house overlooking the beach but rarely hung out with the rest of us... Then there were the chicks. Katie and her saucy friend Megan from up the street, Sarah with her mystical dark permed hair and soft voice. Kirsty, the younger, glamorous one we tore shorts over. The car park girls who sat around with Hedges smoking cones. And of course the constant blow of fresh talent. We told them all, we’ll see you down there, we confirmed. They all split sometime during the day, talking feverishly amongst each other. “Who can buy us drink, what money?” It was always the same old tired question, but it did little to curve this intense flurry of excitable adolescences all planning to get stone drunk, and maybe even laid.

The day was getting harshly warm, our hair crusted in dried sea salt, skin crispy. This was about the time Diesel Dyson came down, squinting in the bright light. It was always 1.00pm on the dot, never a minute earlier. He sheepishly skated the hundred-odd metres to the car park, looked at the now diminished surf, shrugged, yawned and began to aimlessly skate up and down the carpark waiting for us to catch sight of him and venture to where he was. “Let’s go for a swim in the pool,” he suggested. “Sure thing,” we agreed as we made our way to his beach shack. It was a refreshing feeling to get out of the sun, and into the cold depths of the fresh water swimming pool. Dyson standing near the kitchen window, wet and invigorated argued with his mum, “Can you get us some food mum,” Cheryl, a beautifully warm lady, resisted momentarily, then gave in to her boy’s commands. Dyson was the middle child, with an older sister who lived with an old biker, and a younger, intense brother who persistently looked up to him. And he hated it. Cheryl did her best for the boys, always understanding, tying to make the most of what appeared to be a terrible situation. I hadn’t seen Dyson’s dad in years, and neither had he, I gathered. Dyson, by default, had become the man of the house.

After we stuffed ourselves we decided we’d go for a skate down town. First we needed to change and collect some gear. I grabbed Nezza, I knew mum loved Nezza because of his mum, a strict old lady with a shriek voice. I knew if I was going to try dodging a bullet I needed a shield, a cover. He was the perfect contender. I had studied her movements over the years, watching carefully as she brought hell and breathed fire on my older siblings. She was a scaly menopausal lady ready to lash any disobedient kid. I treated it as a mind game of precise timing and cunning trickery. I walked in quietly hoping she would be somewhere else in the house, buying me time. “Where have you been,” she barked loudly before noticing Nezza was in tow. “Down the beach,” I smiled, “You remember Nezza”. “Hello Nezza.” I loved it when she used their street name. “How’s your mother.” That was the signal, and I slipped off to my room. Hastily I slipped from my wet shorts, kicking them under the bed as I grabbed at my baggy jeans which lay on the floor beside my junk-covered work desk. A shirt lay at the other end of the room. The scented condom was hidden in my school bag, which lay in the bottom of my cupboard all covered in clothes. Two unmatched holey socks were in the drawer, and one shoe was under the bed while the other was on top. I grabbed the skateboard from beside the door, wallet, phone, keys - check. I walked out, and before mum had a chance to fit in another word I signalled Nezza and shot off through the door. I could hear her scream behind me “Were do you think you’re going.” We were half way down the street, already gone.

We regrouped at Brenton’s joint, a ghastly bunch we were. Our baggy jeans hung low around our hips, wild hair, and shoes that had been patched with “Shoe Goo” from where the coarse grip of the board had worn holes effortlessly. This all doubled as our Sunday best, and no doubt would be tonight’s stunning attire. Maybe a quick squirt of Lynx Africa under the arm would finish it off. Speedily we took off down the road terrorizing anyone, especially old ladies on gophers. Just the sight of us unruly bunch taunted them with horror. The south west sea breeze blew through our muddled hair. It felt cool on this summer afternoon. I thought about many things, yet the same thing. It was always the about the girls. Their cute friendly smiles and soft joyous young bodies, just to make them once. Smell her fruity impulse spray which danced playfully around her neck, press my lips against hers. Would she pull away, or would she be inclined? I’m sure the others thought the same.

We skated around the park, then off around the local theatre. We had decided to get Nezza to buy us booze - it worked every now and then. He would take off his thick-brimmed spectacles, and march off blindly into the bottle-o. We were sure he’d get busted. His goofy, fumbling façade gave up his act before he even entered the store. We mucked around at the bottom end of the carpark on a small loading bay. Sure to stay out of sight. In a short while he came back beaming that glorious smile, in his arms a couple of bottles of cheap booze tucked out of sight. We carefully packed it away in Brenton’s backpack. The sun by this stage was hanging lazily in the sky. With an upheaval of excitement, we traced our steps back home high spirited. We had the beverages and the night was young.