by Phil Jarratt
Giant jugs of beer and pitchers of wine were delivered to the tables as the feast began. Duke found the ‘Aloha’ soup a little watery, but the ‘Waikiki’ fish was more to his liking, even though it would have benefited from being steamed rather than fried, with a side of poi for good measure. But the beer sure was good! Urged on by his table-mates, Duke actually downed a beer, rather than sipping at one and leaving it, and was immediately poured another. He started to glow just a little.
Jim Taylor was up on his feet again, banging a fork against his wine glass for attention and proposing another toast, this time to ‘the visitors’. He rambled on for so long that Duke surprised himself by draining another glass, which was immediately refilled by an obliging neighbour. Finally, Taylor finished and Francis rose to respond for the Hawaiians. He spoke eloquently and, perhaps wisely, only briefly, then sat down to polite applause, considering the job done. But the committee men and the rowdies were having none of it. They wanted Duke, they bellowed in an approximation of unison. After much encouragement, Duke slowly rose from his seat and said: ‘Instead of a speech, which as you know I’m not so good at, I want to offer a song from Hawaii, but I’m going to need some help from my friends. Come on, Francis, George.’
Duke wended his way around the tables to the small stage and Francis and George followed. Duke took his ukulele from its case and borrowed a seat from the quartet. He cleared his throat, strummed a couple of chords and the background chatter faded away in the smoke-filled room. He said, ‘This is a song from my home, it’s one us beach boys sing on the beautiful shores of Waikiki. It’s a hula, so if you know how to dance the hula, please do. Boys, you help me out on the chorus.’ Then he began to sing:
Meleana’e, Meleana ho’i
Meleana ka wahine lomilomi ia
Only the front tables heard Duke’s invitation to participate, but the rest got the general idea when McIntosh jumped up from his seat and began cavorting in a mock hula. He tried to pull Cecil Healy to his feet to join him, but Healy clutched the table and resisted. Bill Hill and Snowy Baker were up and wiggling their hips on the other side of the table. Francis and George were splitting their sides with laughter as they sang along on the chorus, but their mirth had nothing to do with the hideous all-male hula. Duke had decided to honour the occasion with the kind of late-night song the beach boys used to serenade the sisters, the loose translation of which was:
Heed me Maryann, Maryann come
Woman, come and massage me …
And so it went, as Sydney’s sporting and business elite made happy fools of themselves on the polished wood floor of the Fresh Food and Ice Company Café.
Regaining some level of composure, Duke took a bow and accepted the wild applause of the men. Pressed for an encore, he elevated the tone of the evening with a beautiful rendition of Queen Lili’uokalani’s ‘Aloha Oe’ (Farewell to Thee). But still they demanded a speech. Overcome and experiencing a fit of the giggles, Duke made perhaps the worst speech of his young life, and there had already been plenty of bad ones. And his audience loved every word of it.
‘The visitors were not such accomplished speakers as swimmers,’ Cecil Healy reported, ‘though it is possible that Messrs. Kahanamoku and Cunha are gifted enough when they speak in the native tongue, for no-one present was able to interpret the compliments they gave voice to with wreaths of smiles.’
The Sydney Morning Herald representative reported Duke’s speech verbatim: ‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your little—I don’t know what you call it, but it’s all right. (Great laughter.)’
The boys at Boomerang, summer 1914–15: Mine hosts Don McIntyre (end left) and Roy Doyle in white, Cecil Healy next to McIntyre, Freddie Williams next to a hunched-up Duke by the upright. Photo courtesy Warringah Library Local Studies.
The showers may have held off in the city for the celebratory dinner, but they had played havoc with the final dress rehearsal for the Venetian Carnival at Manly, and Isabel was soaked to the skin as she waited with Claude for the final tram of the evening. Catching a glimpse of her bedraggled hair in the lights of a passing auto, he laughed. ‘Good lord, Issie, you look like something the cat dragged in.’
Isabel threw him that look, so he hurriedly attempted a save. ‘But you were wonderful today, you truly were. You’re a star of the show, everyone says so.’
‘Oh, stop it, Claude. You really are pathetic sometimes.’
Claude changed the subject. ‘They’re coming over tonight on the last ferry, staying at the Pier Hotel overnight and they’ll be at Freshie early for a shoot. Mr McIntyre told me.’
‘Yes, he told me, too,’ Isabel responded, although that wasn’t true.
‘The swimming is finished. Tomorrow it’s all surf shooting. Will you be on the beach early?’
‘Of course I will,’ she said curtly. ‘That’s the arrangement I’ve made. Duke wants me on the board with him.’ He had made no such arrangement.
The Brookvale tram clattered into the terminal and Isabel gathered her bag. Claude took her hand to help her board. ‘I meant it, Issie, you were really good today.’ His lips brushed her damp cheek as she climbed onto the tram. Their eyes met briefly once she had taken her seat, and Claude thought—hoped—that he could detect a faint smile of pleasure.
Chapter 17
Kahanamoku in the Surf
Isabel was up at first light and on the track down to the beach soon after. She was pleased to see that the weather had improved immeasurably, and the early sun soon broke through puffs of harmless white cloud. Today would be a very good day, she told herself. Even Father had played his part, excusing her from church on the grounds that this would be her last chance to watch the Hawaiian champion perform on the board. This was not a decision arrived at lightly, having been the focus of conversation at meal times over several nights.
‘For God’s sake, lass, you don’t even know if he’ll come back to Freshwater, let alone be riding his surfboard,’ said Father.
‘He’ll come back. He told me.’
Then, when Father had met the late tram on Saturday night, she had told him: ‘He’s coming tomorrow, for the last time.’
Willie Letham had sucked hard on his pipe as he drove up the hill to Foam Street. As Jeannie had said often enough, Isabel was almost grown. In a year she would be out of school. What could you do! ‘If you’ll not be in church you’d best be saying your prayers on the sand, then,’ he said. ‘Then say them again if he takes you out on the board.’
Isabel gave her father a shocked look. Willie stared straight ahead at the tussocks on the track.
The beach was deserted, save for a fisherman making his way down from Beach House, as Isabel walked quickly across Evans Street to the Ocean View track, and from there onto the sand hills. Then, as she marched towards the surf club she spied him in the distance, carrying his surfboard so easily on his shoulder. Because of the board, she could not see his face and he could not see her, and yet as she came within 50 yards, he called, ‘You’re up early, young lady.’
Duke planted his board in the soft sand and let his striped Turkish towel slip from his shoulder. His muscles glistened on his dark skin in the soft early light as he turned to face her. She extended her hand and he took it gently, leaning in to kiss her lightly on each cheek. She tried to conceal her shock, not entirely successfully, and then wondered what it was that had shocked her more: that she had been kissed by the famous Hawaiian, or that she had been kissed by a man three times now in twelve hours.
‘I hope I’m not forgetting my place, Isabel,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s what they do in Europe. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, it does, but it’s what you would do with your aunt or a small child, you know what I mean?’
He was as bad at this as Claude was, she thought. But she smiled at the big man, who suddenly seemed so vulnerable. There was an uncomfortably long silence before he said: ‘Would you sh
oot some surf with me this morning, Isabel? I think the breakers up there are friendly enough.’ He pointed to the northern end of the beach.
She nodded nervously. ‘I’ll change into my bathers.’
‘I’ll go shoot a couple and get my sea legs back while you do that.’
When Isabel emerged from the dressing sheds she stopped in her tracks as Duke, alone in a golden-green sea, swung the heavy board around like a tooth pick, dug his large hands into the water and propelled himself onto the face of a long comber, leaping to his feet in one fluid movement. As the breeze off the land sent a plume of spray off the top of the wave, Duke guided his board along the green wall of water, standing casually upright at its centre, his arms folded across his chest. When finally the wave came crashing down in front of him, Duke simply took a step backwards, redirected the board shoreward, then dropped to his knees and stood on his head, his legs perfectly perpendicular to the craft, until he came to a halt in the shallows.
Isabel was stunned by what she had witnessed—such a graceful, artful approach to an athletic pursuit—but Duke had not finished yet. As she approached the shore, he remained on the board in a perfect headstand. ‘Help!’ he cried. ‘I’m stuck.’ Isabel couldn’t resist. She marched up and pushed him off balance. Duke did a mock Hoot Gibson rodeo fall onto the wet sand and she plopped beside him, laughing.
‘Come along, girl,’ he said, getting to his feet and taking her hand. ‘Let’s shoot us a few.’ Isabel climbed onto the board and felt his arms on her waist as he pushed through the shallow water and into the channel. She shivered involuntarily as he dropped his body onto the back of the board, his chin resting lightly on her back, his breath like a warm breeze on her thin woollen swimsuit. ‘Easy does it,’ he whispered, as his big hands pushed the water behind them and the board sped into the oncoming swells.
The beach was getting crowded now as Isabel, Duke and George Cunha watched Claude negotiate a wave almost all the way to the beach, falling only in the shallows and spearing the board into the sand, prompting Duke to leap to his feet, clap his hands and call out in mock pidgin: ‘Wha’, you no like my board? You break him, I break you face, brudda!’
Duke and George thought this was hilarious. Claude seemed a little uncertain, but the laughter of the Hawaiians was contagious and soon all four were in hysterics. This was what Isabel loved about being in Duke’s company: she was constantly laughing about something. He was a joy to be with.
The wind had backed off and was almost still, the sun warm but not scorching, the clouds had disappeared, the waves continued to roll in. This was Sydney beach life at its best. ‘Man, I love this place,’ Duke enthused as he took the board from Claude and thrust it nose-first into the soft sand above the tide line. ‘I thought I was lucky living in Waikiki, but you kids have got it pretty damn nice here in good ole Freshie, excuse my French.’
Isabel wasn’t so sure about being referred to as a ‘kid’, but she loved the big Hawaiian’s raw enthusiasm. Although he could be shy and awkward in large groups, with people he liked he was warm and funny and friendly. He was, well, almost perfect, she thought, and even as she thought it, her skin tingled in the same way it did when she’d felt his breath on her spine.
Families were arriving at the beach with wicker picnic baskets and beach mats and umbrellas, and it was becoming quite clear that, although it was a beautiful day for swimming, they were not there for the surf bathing. They’d come to watch the Hawaiian superman walk upon the water. As if to underline this point, a man in a cream leisure suit, not unlike Mr McIntyre’s, left his family group and nervously approached Duke to request permission to take a photograph. Duke obliged with a smile, holding his board against the backdrop of the waves, and then he asked George to take another photograph with the admirer on one side of the board and Duke on the other. It was a close-run thing as to who had the bigger smile as the shutter clicked.
As he posed for the pictures, Duke took note of the growing crowd, and it became suddenly clear to him that he was the event. There had been no press notices or advertisements for a surfboard demonstration, but for several days the sports of Sydney had known that one was likely, weather permitting, and the rumour had spread through Manly like a raging bushfire. And now people were coming from far and near. It reminded Duke of his exhibitions in California and the crowds they had drawn, although the water was greener, the air warmer and the scenery better in Freshwater. So strange, he reflected. At home in Waikiki these days a man shooting a wave on a surfboard would barely rate a glance.
Sitting down in the sand again, Duke slapped Claude lightly on the back and said: ‘You did good today, Claude. We’re going to make a beach boy out of you, that’s for sure. You’re starting to read the wave, and that’s half the thing of shooting. You know what that wave is going to do, when it’s going to break, then you put your board on the green wall ahead of the break where you can go fast, and you stay there.’
Claude nodded intently as Duke twisted his upper body inside out to demonstrate the required positioning. Then Duke turned his attention to Isabel. ‘And as for you, young lady, well, you’re a natural. You got the style, you got the balance … hell, you got da big alas, too!’
George was suddenly convulsing with laughter, doubled up on the sand. Isabel looked baffled, particularly when Duke also started roaring with laughter.
‘I’ve got what? I’m sorry, Paoa, I don’t understand.’
‘No, I’m sorry, Isabel. I don’t know what I was thinking. It just kind of slipped out, but it’s good! I mean, it’s a good thing, a compliment.’
‘But what does it mean?’
George started laughing again. He murmured to Duke, ‘Boy, you better dig yourself out of this one in a hurry.’
‘Well, it means you’re not frightened to take off on a big wave. It means you have courage.’
‘I know what it means,’ Claude chimed in. ‘It means you’ve got big balls, am I right, Paoa?’
Without a word, Isabel gathered her things and stormed off towards the change sheds. ‘Isabel, wait …’ Duke trailed off, realising that a little time might need to pass before an apology was heeded, but as he watched her stomp up the beach he also realised that Don McIntyre was on the clubhouse verandah, waving him up. Alongside him were Cecil Healy, Harry Hay, Freddie Williams, Francis Evans and a couple of other men he didn’t recognise. The gang was all here, must be showtime again. Leaving Claude on the sand to ensure the surfboard didn’t become someone’s souvenir, Duke and George made their way up the beach to the clubhouse.
‘Today’s the day you make a board shooter out of an old body-shooter,’ boomed Freddie Williams, pumping Duke’s hand. ‘Wonderful dinner last night, Duke,’ he added. ‘Lucky we put the cork back in the bottle when we did, though, so to speak, or we would not perhaps be so bright-eyed this morning. I’m rarin’ to go, and so is Harry. Right you are, Harry?’
‘Whenever you’re ready, Duke,’ said Hay.
‘Sure, boys,’ said Duke, ‘but there are a lot of people on the beach now, and I’m guessing they’ll want to see a show, so let’s make a plan. How about this: I go out and shoot a few by myself, then you guys swim out, one at a time, and I’ll help you into a couple of shoots each …’ He paused as he watched Isabel in her street clothes, heading back down the beach towards Claude. ‘And then this is where I need your help, Mr Mac. Can you go ask Miss Letham if she would do me the honour of riding a wave with me?’
McIntyre nodded. ‘I’m sure Isabel will feel the honour is all hers.’
‘Well, women are funny sometimes, Don. She’s changed out of her bathers, so maybe if you go ask her while I’m in the water. Tell her it would mean a lot to me.’
As the large group of men headed down to the water there was sporadic applause and calls of, ‘Bravo, Duke.’ Claude had Duke’s board upright and ready for him, but before taking it he leaned down and whispered to Isabe
l: ‘I’m truly sorry. I meant no harm, but it was an unforgiveable remark.’ She briefly looked him in the eyes but her lips remained pursed and there was no flicker of a smile. He pulled the board up onto his shoulder and strode towards the surf.
Duke’s first shoot was a repeat of the performance Isabel had marvelled at earlier in the day, with the Hawaiian gliding along the face of the wave in perfect balance until it began to break ahead of him, at which point he dropped into a headstand to ride through the white water. This time, however, the tide being higher now, the wave started to re-form close to shore and he was back on his feet again, elegantly turning a full revolution on the deck of the board as it sped along the wave, pausing midway to ride backwards for a few moments, before completing the circle and stepping off into the shallows to tremendous applause. Duke bowed to his audience and paddled back out.
The second wave was not as cooperative and he fell part way along it, but he could do no wrong now, and his every move, including the spill, was applauded. Duke was having fun and the ‘few’ shoots to open the show soon turned into six or seven, but no-one was complaining, not even Freddie Williams, waiting anxiously on the beach to make his surfboarding debut. Finally Duke dismounted from his board at the end of a ride and waved to Freddie to join him. Williams was in the water in an instant, and after some elementary instructions on paddling technique, he began flapping seaward, Duke swimming alongside.
‘Okay, Fred,’ said Duke, ‘pull her up about here, and turn back to face the beach. Attaboy! You’re a natural. Now I’m going to help you get started by pushing from behind, but I want you to paddle hard, and when you feel the board sliding down the wave, push your weight back towards the tail, then use your arms to lift you to your feet. Here comes a wave. Let’s go!’
Duke pushed, Freddie flapped, and away he went down the face of the wave. A waterman all his life, he was quickly to his feet and, mimicking Duke, he folded his arms across his chest and tried to look casual. Duke could hear the applause from out behind the break. Mr Megaphone was shooting a wave! The crowd loved it. And as swiftly as he got to his feet, Freddie was off them, overbalancing and belly-flopping into the churning wave, the board continuing to shore without him.