Meet Derrick

A fierce gust picked up and Derrick, from inside, felt the car jerk sidewards.
‘The wind’s coming off the ocean, supposed to be a pretty heavy storm tonight,’ he reassures Sasha’s nervous glance.
Leaning across the wheel of the car he feels the chill from outside pass through the windscreen, wiping the fog off the glass with his sleaves, he watches the road in front, outside its wet, the clouds have covered the moon and all that he can see is the glimmer of water across the road. He relaxes back into his chair and squeezes the throttle a little harder. Earlier that evening he’d had been out surfing, it was a wild ride that still had him pumped. He had only ever seen it break on the outer reef like it had been today, a wild rough swell, closing down at different areas before making it all the way to shore. His old man used to tell him stories of surfing it six foot clean, back in the day that is; he was always a bit sceptical but he still lived the old boys stories daily like it was a gospel reading from some old scriptures. During the hot sticky summer days he dreamed as the teacher drew strange diagrams across the blackboard and talked about x this and y that. Outside through the large beige framed windows, Derrick would watch the tall tree on the far side of the grassy field. He watched the leaves of the highest branches as they danced and sung songs to the wind. He watched the direction of the breeze until he could see the ocean forming in front of him. He would be delighted when the wind blew west; it was like a magnet for his mind that drew him away from his work. First he dreamt of the glassy green sea, smothered by the tender off shore breeze and set alight by the glorious sun. He would look out across the ocean like he were sitting in the white of the beach and see the ocean surging behind the dark figure which was the outer reef. He’d watch as peak after peak of perfect swell grew from the deep blue sea and rose up and broke with a thundering growl. He dreamt until he could see himself paddling in, a quick paddle he would think, then a heavy drop as the thick green lip would curl over. He’d play out the drop in his head over and over again until he thought he had it perfected, he’d crouch and grab the inside rail – no, he’d stay standing and hold his hands above his head and feel the roof of the cave which surrounded him. He fantasised for hours on end, up until the very end where the wave would close out across the sandy shore. He thought about just holding in until it engulfed him like his dreams or bursting out the back like a pro in all the videos. He practised this on the weekends, asking the guys if they had seen how high he launched, and when they said no he’d just try again.

The way the old boy would talk about it, he made it sound like the reef had fired every second day, but like all old boys, Derrick figured, they had forget the hundreds of sessions surfed where they waited in between. He had never seen if go off the way he had imagined it, the way his old man described it. You forget over time, all those other days until all you remember is that wave, that moment, that very off chance and that very time you had the best surf of your life. Like it had played in Derricks head, it played in his old mans mind on those same long summer days until he believed that every wave he had ever surfed was very much that same day.

Even if it had been rough as guts, he couldn’t wait to tell Samuel he had surfed Shark Ally. Beat that bitter break, charged the choppy lines and floated around those heavy close outs the both had feared.
‘Derrick,’ Sasha shrieked, ‘slow down, you almost hit that curb.
He eased off the throttle and smiled at Sasha.
‘You scared?’
‘No, I just don’t want to die tonight.’
‘Like we would crash anyway,’ Derrick replied.
‘Well I don’t want it to be tonight if we do.’
‘Don’t worry we won’t crash, anyway, Sam’s is just around the corner, we’re almost there.’


..............
So it's been ages again, sorry about that anyone who reads this. After I got home I ended up leaving again for a trip to Darwin then a trip to Cairns in the sunny state of Queensland on the east coast. Finally I came home again for some work. Been working on a few peices but not finishing any of them. This was a quick throw down to see where I had been going with my writing. Sorry if it sounds like a tacky chapter from a teenages novel, it was the characterisation I was more interested in.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 5

The twenty five horsepower Yamaha sounded off like a cat trapped in a dumpster full of water. Whoring away it compelled the dingy forward through the translucent waters and fortress of mangroves. The dingy or tinny for the uninformed is a small boat hull about 14 feet long, folded from Aluminium - it is supposedly as good as indestructible. That is, indestructible in the hands and hearts of timid owners. This craft however, belongs to the oyster farm, an entity of sort’s, not a loving, caring, meticulous owner as above. Different rules will apply.

‘..And like all “company” vehicles certain protocol, procedure, call it what you like, is to be followed’, Dick, the boss explains as he handles the tiller. For this sort of business he had demanded a full demonstration would be required.

Work must have been taking a back seat today, I thought as he suddenly interrupted the monotonous schedule.
‘Have you driven a dingy before’, he inquired on a slow hot afternoon.
‘No’ I concluded, well, apart from that intrepid flog down the river last week when he was off on R&R. That I’ll keep to myself though, I had to choke the bastard every time I wanted it to stop, couldn’t even find the kill switch.
‘Well grab some beers from the fridge then’, he instructed with his authoritative coarseness and started on about the motor. ‘It’s a real temperamental prick’, he informs me. ‘It’ll cut out just as you come ‘round a tight bend. Cause all kinds of grief - you got those beers yet then?’

Before long he was well showing me all right, as we careered off into the thick mangrove brush, the dingy tipping heavily as the hull connected sidewards with the oyster encrusted banks - wiping off twenty five horsepower of inertia in one smashing instance. I exploded into a prolific rage of curses. Fearing for my life, I stare into him wondering what type of cut snake he was. He laughed.
‘You see what I mean’, he finally starts as he studies my pale disfigurement which is now scrolled across the bow. I nod agreeing and pull a branch from my torn shirt.

You see the rivers, or more appropriately drains, in which we are devouring with great vigour, are rather a branch of small streams that weave haphazardly through the endless salt plains of the north. Most of which are only accessible during high tides, not much larger than a dingy in width they are lined by lush mangrove confines.
‘The aim’, Dick explains, is to drive as fast through it as you can with out achieving the inevitable, which is losing control! As I would learn, this little activity of his was a favourite for passing away some of the tiresome desert tedium. I was sceptical!

‘We got a shuck’r around here’, he instructs and I go-to nervously searching for the small metal blade amongst the leaves which are now scattered across the wooden floor. ‘And pass us a beer’.
He then leans over the gunnels and tears a branch from the shallows.
‘Goes with the beer’, I am informed as I look across in wonderment. The branch he’s holding, I now see is covered with good sized oysters. I find the blade jammed against the ribs and Dick snatches it from me. Skilfully he prises the pointy end of the shellfish. It’s a short fight, brute against small oyster. Once open he gives me a good lookin inside, offering it up for first try. Maybe he’d figured I hadn’t eaten oysters before. I think he rather enjoyed scaring the shit out of this city boy, no doubt he was doing a fine job of it but in this case he was a week late.

The branchial chambers are swollen. I think about telling him this, but it’s too late to start pretending, I was still shaking from the collision… and anyway I only know this as Colby had instructed me earlier that week. ‘It’s like the ball sac’, he had explained, ‘they are best eaten when they are ripe like this, gives it that creamy flavour’.
Reaching across the deck I took up Dick’s offer.

I had to agree, they tasted delicious.

.................................................................................................................
I'm back.....

Where in the hell..

Is Juice?

Well let me try answer that for you. I am currently residing amongst an endless series of shanty cupboards and shady looking gypsies.. I'm somewhere in Cambodia. Peace fellow people. I will write again when I get a decent keyboard..

Thailand - Phuket

What a filthy little hole this is... What the hell am I doing here?

Darwin Markets

Vouge hippies, pig hunters, Supre specials, tourist, smiling kids, locals just to name a few, all set up above the grassy bank facing west with rugs and chairs and table and other homely comforts. All gawk at the colour which erupts the evening sky. Perfect silhouettes of palm trees are imprinted in photos to be sent home. Bright shades of oranges and pinks and blues, cut by a seamless horizon reflected from the sea. Sail boats assimilate the powerful surging light. Noise, the beats, boom-boom-boom, bounce from somewhere unseen, everywhere, chattering, laughing, booming, tapping, sizzling, droning.

Beverages, ‘Don’t forget the beverages, ice if you have some.’ Nobody wants to drink warm beer, though this is the tropics and we are desperate. Kimberley cool. And the sun drops behind an invisible horizon, further and further and gone. At last a flash of great light explodes into the atmosphere, and more colours are splashed across the canvas. The mobs, people, crabs and dogs, all turning away from it, retreating and the sad darkness that is night are left to devour all.

The mobs moving, a sea of sweat, sticky heat, shirts catch on eachother as we shuffle and brush and side step. Freaks in wheel chairs, slobber with canes bashing caps and bounce over toes. Little people dash, trip, trick, all sorts of jolly fun. Hold your wallets as the flavours permiate the sticky mess, all types of exotic fodder tantalises the frenzy into overdrive. People bully past with bowls of spicy squids and roasted shanks. Mouth waters, more slobber, swigging beer. Big blue bins, cram, jam, pack, consume!

Small decorative stalls with gentle coloured lights glow beneath the peppermints. Worldly goods for sale today, all expensively cheap and the organizers empty the bins a third time. ‘You take credit?’ a lady asks? Beep, beep, beep, spending. All sorts of trinkets line the stalls from pretty shawls with small hand sawn sequins to jewels of magnificent conglomeration. Tapping sticks and black murmurs. ‘Dollar for a brother?’ and the crowd keeps pushing.

Frankincense drifts though the air and we gulp another beer. Boom, clash, bang another band appeals. The crowd now plump with stuffing’s of gravy and suckling pig, shuffle and trip and push. Barging, hypnotized, a wall of ashen beneath propped collars and the work men busy themselves with the bins again.

Three fairies dance though the perspiring, slobbering mobs, twirling and twisting (elegant?) with wild arms and the harmonica reverberates across there flushed features, greasy, tanned, lovely hips, delicious lips. Moving, and swinging. Hula hops, great big hula hops and now these lovely hips, all sensual, moving smooth and rhythmic.

I love the way
The sun shines for everyone,
I love the feeling
Of the warmth flowing through my blood,
Well the sun
It recharges me,
Makes me feel happy,
Then it takes me
On a little journey…

Gulp, consume, bins, moving, sweating, laughing, the festivities continue and a quiver of chatter breaks out, ‘did you see that?’ Then pointing, lots of pointing and the fairies pay no attention, they smile and dance, mesmerized, big sauce pan eye’s and the music stops and they dash off as dainty as they arrived. The crowd disperses with urgency, trip, push slob… More to consume, more to consume!

The beach is now deserted, just a few hardcore freaks. Flames zapping through the air and the police at the other end bash some useless drunken black folk. Bam-bam-boom and the hardcore freaks start with a procession of bongo drumming and the fire twirlers dance and a Japanese guy, all bushy hair, blows at the droning didge. Gulp, gulp, gulp, moon grinning and we sit with the weirdo’s until dawn, drinking and singing – total carry on.

Coolibah: Two Women, A Man And A Boat.

He gets up from under his piss reeking hollow beneath the coolibah. Reaching his hand out, he moves towards me, stumbling, gurgling, hocking… Briefly I think he might just pass out before he reaches me, but with all the awkwardness of a drunken stupor he manages to intersect my path of travel.

‘Excuse me mister,’ he begins and lunges forward in an instant of awareness, trying to shake my hand. But I’ve learnt that this is a ploy in which he uses to iron glove your hand, letting go only when you have become too exhausted with his stench and hand over the coin.

‘Do you have two dollar for me brother?’ he adds seeing his window closing when I ignore his plea to hold hands and do his dance.

‘Yeah mate,’ I reply digging my wallet out, I pass over two bucks.

‘Excuse me mister, but you haven’t got some more do ya,’ he continues after he secures the first coin in his stiff grip.

‘No,’ I say, but I see him pointing to the five dollars stick out of my wallet.

‘Well what the fuck am I supposed to buy with two dollars,’ his tone becomes aggressive. CPI index must be a big concern around here!

‘Fuck off,’ I stop him here, I’m rude and I don’t give a shit. I already know every possible situation, none of which will be a thank you.

‘Arh fuck you cunt, you stole my country, fuck off!’ he begins to shout, but I carry on walking to work. He follows for a few steps with his fists clenched, then tires and turns away.

The Drive Of A Nation

Words inspired by the film 'Bombora'

We had been driving for days, weeks or even years. Nobody it seemed minded much. We were unanimous content in the feeling of our serenity. Tiresome obligations chewed up by the plied firestones of many miles , left to die on a long stretch of road. Separate us, separating them. It is true that the road will calm all anxieties.

We had gone, unplanned, spurred by our restless dreams, the idea we could live, not by rule, not by reason, but exactly the way we were destined. Free to be Gods children amongst his gardens, baring the fruits of a free man, a smile, good health, and a mind empty to the worries of the world. I watched Casey sleeping. Curled up across the bench seat, her body bounced as the car dived across the pitted road and her hair danced in the gentle breeze. Bleached by the sun, it was no longer than shoulder length. She often wore it down, it suited her. Well I thought it suited her, she was indifferent. I always thought it was an interesting contrast against her tanned complexion and vivid hazel eyes. The road abruptly turned to a dry red dust and the car sunk into the soft earth, momentarily slowing before finding the firm ground beneath. I turned my attention back to Casey. She stirred a little adjusting a crocheted blanked across her legs. She wore a low cut white bikini beneath a delicate cheese cloth dress. As if she had sensed I was watching, she gently laid her hand on my legs, giving it a brief stroke, and then, as slow and as gentle as she had touched me she tucked her hand back behind her head.

The long grasses pushed up against the car as we passed through on the two skinny tracks, my eye’s watched the grass in the middle fold under the heavy front bumper, but my mind drifted along to the music, Pink Floyd’s meddle. It was Todd’s new album. We’d played it continually on his request, I looked up at him apparently aware of my own thoughts, his eyes were closed but his lips followed the smooth lyric’s showing he was awake. The afternoon sun baked the scene a hazy golden brown and the warm wind which drifted though the window carried with it the smell of the arid dry earth. At first the heat had been too much, oppressing almost, it dried my lips and burnt my face. Now though it was much cooler, I smiled as it blew the hair into my face. Home, I started to think, I’m not sure why. Was it the road and its vast openness that conjures up the past to dwell, giving time to the most insignificant details of my consciousness. It wasn’t Melbourne, no it was England. It was never this hot back home. Actually it seemed unfair calling it home. It was now so distant I’d hardly have thought of England as anything other than a place where my Dad was from. Like a past which I’d had no part in. Do I really remember it being cold, or had I just been told that it was cold? If there was a home this was it, this moment, this place, it had become my home. Nomadic days, all spent with friends sunning ourselves on the various pearly white beaches we had found. We living in a large tarp and torn blankets. The thin steering wheel jumped though a loose grip. The wagon juddered for a moment then realigned itself with the track. We had been trying to hold fifty miles an hour but some patches were deep and the motor tired quick. Macca was keeping his distance, if not because of the way the car would suddenly slow but because of the dust which exploded behind us like the scenes from Nam.

Stupid fucking thing that was! Pointless, dishonest political bullshit and they had wanted me to take part. ‘You’re fucking kidding me right,’ I jeered as Dad passed me the letter stamped with the federal insignia. I’d be out that door before I’d even had a chance to open it, there was no chance, no, not me. Dad watched as I secured the board too the roof, his hands in his pockets, a steady expression. He passed a few bob through the window as I went to leave. ‘Stay safe son,’ his words lingered, I tried to smile, but instead got caught on a look which confirmed the stiff terms. He knew I wasn’t coming back any time soon and I’d watch him disappear in the rear view with an unsettled look on his face. This was final, ‘good bye dad,’ I mumbled.

The letter, now aware of it was still resting on the dashboard unopened where I had left it. Suddenly the car bedded in, we had hit a particularly soft patch, I dropped the lever on the column, and the car jerked. I’d thought we were good and proper fucked when the car was within an inch of its life. Thankfully the rev’s started to pick up and we were pulled out to safety. We had already been bogged earlier that day when we stopped for lunch. The girls, Casey, Heather, Lucy and Amber had made a small shelter in the bent and twisted braches of a lonely Eucalyptus. The tree lay almost flat, pushed as if by an unseen wind stirred up by the ocean. It was around midday when we pulled off and the wheels sunk beneath us. We hustled with the heavy girth of the wagon as the girls spread pickles on lovely fresh bread. It was a wholesome meal and after we sat in the field smoking dope, admiring the vast nothingness of a continent shivering in the tender breeze, with it, carried the faint sweetness of the ocean too which we longed.