That Summer at Boomerang

by Phil Jarratt

  On subsequent waves, Freddie’s falls were many, but none so dramatic as the first, and in between he managed a couple of good long shoots, even turning the board on a couple of occasions. Harry Hay, despite his comparative youth and the fact that he had previously attempted to shoot on the board at Freshwater on Christmas Eve, was not as successful as Fred, and wisely retired after having made it to his feet on his third ride. The two men then entertained the crowd with trick body-shooting techniques while Duke rode into shore.

  Duke walked casually up the beach to Isabel (back in her swimsuit, he noted happily) and held out his hand. ‘Will you do me the honour of shooting a wave with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She still wasn’t smiling, but she was taking his hand and heading towards the board. Duke said nothing as he lay behind her, paddling quickly out into the green water beyond the break, where they sat on the board in silence for what seemed to Isabel an eternity.

  Finally, as a wave loomed behind them and he quickly swung the board around, he said: ‘Feeling relaxed?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Well, you just try to relax now. You’re in good hands.’ He paddled them onto the wave, used his big back foot to set the direction of the board and then leaned forward to pull Isabel to her feet. Then, almost in the same movement, he lifted her onto his shoulders. She spread her arms, palms flayed like a ballerina.

  She shouted above the roar of the wave: ‘You drop me, Paoa, I’ll carang yo alasses!’

  Duke carries his board to the water, Freshwater, 10 January 1915. Photo courtesy Warringah Library Local Studies.

  The huge crowd on the beach was standing now, giving the biggest ovation of the day. They could not see that Duke’s strained expression of exertion and concentration had disappeared, and he was laughing his head off. The two surfers dismounted elegantly, waved in appreciation of the applause and paddled back out for another shoot.

  ‘George told you to say that, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘I bet he did. Do you know what it means?’

  ‘No.’

  Duke let her feel the weight of his chin on her behind and whispered, ‘I bet you do, young lady, I bet you do.’

  He wasn’t the only pressman on the beach, but no-one paid closer attention than Bill Corbett, who wrote:

  The Hawaiian spent the morning at Freshwater, where he had a favourable easterly roll, and what he did there in the way of board and surf shooting surprised every spectator. He, as he put it himself, ‘got it right’ several times, and consequently was, on each occasion, seen at his best. Messrs Fred Williams, our champion surf shooter, and H.M. Hay, the speedy Manly swimmer … were invited by Kahanamoku to ‘get aboard’ with him, and they speak of the experience as thrilling.

  ‘Now stand up!’ ordered the controller of the frail craft when the proper moment arrived, and then—‘Well, we’ve already ordered a board each,’ said the pair of enthusiasts yesterday, while talking of what occurred, ‘and we are going to master that game beyond any other.’

  Despite the fact that they involved more surfing, Duke was none too happy about the afternoon’s planned activities. Over a sandwich and lemonade lunch on the verandah at Boomerang, Don McIntyre explained that Charlie Paterson had arranged for the board shooters from the Seagulls and Manly clubs to join them at South Steyne for an exhibition and, according to the Creamy Pony driver, there was already a big crowd on the beach waiting. But two more rough-shaped surfboards had arrived from George Hudson’s joinery and Duke needed to get out the tool bag and finetune them before leaving for Queensland. Furthermore, it was Ladies’ Sunday at Boomerang and a party was likely to be in full swing in the camp by the time he got back, and there would be no chance of working on the boards.

  ‘There’ll be time in the morning,’ McIntyre said as firmly as he dared. ‘We can have some Kanakas on hand to help you.’ Duke gave him an odd look. ‘They’ve already put your surfboard on the Creamy Pony and we’re ready to go as soon as we’ve eaten. Can’t disappoint the public, Paoa.’

  The cracks had gathered at the Steyne and Duke was given what amounted to a guard of honour as he made his way down onto the beach, his board on his shoulder. He recognised a few faces in the crowd and stopped to share a joke with Tommy Adrian.

  ‘Can I introduce a mate?’ asked Adrian. ‘Paoa, this is Tommy Walker, he’s our best board shooter by a country mile.’

  ‘Call me Paoa,’ said Duke, shaking the hand of the tanned, muscular young man with a tooth or two missing and a ship’s anchor tattooed on his left shoulder. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Walker. I do believe I’ve met your brothers, George and Monty. They helped get us the right pine for this surfboard when I arrived.’

  ‘Oh, the Walker twins. Yes, good coves but not my brothers. Different family. Still, I’ve got a couple of brothers and they shoot the board, too. I work the boats most of the time, or the sugar mills up north, see, and just got back last night, so I haven’t seen you ride yet. Got me board right here, so I look forward to shooting a few with you.’

  ‘Well, let’s go do that, Tommy.’ Duke started off down the sand but did a sudden double-take as Walker picked up his board. ‘That’s your board? I know that board. I rode it a couple times at Canoe Surf, and in fact I was there when Dad Center built it down in front of the Outrigger Canoe Club, just after they built that place. How’d you get that board, Tommy?’

  ‘I was in Honolulu in 1909, bought it off a guy at the Seaside Hotel for two greenbacks.’

  ‘Hey, brudda, good price. You got one fine board there.’

  The two surfers wandered off down to the surf, deep in conversation about the relative merits of redwood and pine, bevelled and rounded rails.

  With the tide quite low now, and the sand banks at the Steyne not as well formed as Freshwater, the exhibition did not have the same impact as the morning session, although for the surfers there was drama aplenty, as every sport on the beach who could find a board to ride was out there jostling for a shoot with Duke, not to mention a dozen or more of Manly’s best body-shooters out to show their style.

  ‘Too many heads bobbing around,’ laughed Duke. ‘I can’t catch me one for fear of killing someone!’

  Tommy Walker nodded, put his fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle that could be heard back at the ferry wharf. ‘Come on you blokes,’ he yelled, paddling from one side of the group to the other. ‘Give the Duke a bit of room here.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Duke. ‘Plenty waves for everybody, let’s just take it in turns.’ But there was little of that. There were at least a dozen cameramen on the beach and everyone in the water wanted a picture riding a wave with Duke. In the end Duke sacrificed style for safety, riding straight in, sometimes in classic pose, sometimes on his head, a couple of novice shooters to either side, attempting to emulate his every move with varying degrees of success.

  ‘The breakers were favourable for the pastime, and the Honolulu champion made some magnificent returns to the shore standing on his big surfboard,’ wrote the reporter for The Sun. ‘He was, however, greatly impeded on this occasion by local surfers, who wished to give exhibitions of their own at the same time. Nevertheless, his performance was a revelation to the big crowd in the vicinity.’

  The Ladies’ Day tea party at Boomerang was in full swing when the surf shooters returned from Manly, certainly not as big a gathering as Christmas Eve, but substantial, with several of the local families coming along to bid farewell to the Hawaiians, there being some uncertainty as to whether they would return to Freshwater after their Queensland tour. Amos and Ruth Randell were there, she with a plate of fresh scones, he with a bottle of whisky for the back room, and some of the other local women had also contributed a plate. Even the Lethams were there to say goodbye to Duke, and Jeannie had brought a basket of tomatoes, zucchinis and lemons from her garden.

  Ce
ntral Station kiosk, c. 1916. Photo courtesy National Library of Australia.

  Although he kept distractedly eyeing off the two rough-shaped surfboards sitting on sawhorses between the house and the thunderbox, Duke was unfailingly charming as he did the rounds, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Eventually he came face to face with Isabel, who was in the kitchen refilling the silver service tray with Mrs Randell’s scones. She wore a light-green smock and her hair was pushed back with a pin. Having done nothing whatsoever to assist her appearance, she was the prettiest girl at the party anyway. He wanted to tell her that, but instead he mumbled more apologies about his crude turn of phrase at the beach.

  ‘I think we’re even on that score,’ she said. Duke thought there may have been the hint of a grin, but she kept it in check. ‘So will you be back?’

  ‘Of course we’ll be back. We’re only in Queensland for two weeks.’

  ‘But I mean back here in Freshie?’

  ‘Yes, Isabel. I haven’t finished with you just yet.’

  Surprise filled her face for a fleeting moment. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I want to see you as soon as I get back. There’s a carnival at a place called Dee Why …’

  ‘Yes, it’s just around a couple of headlands.’

  ‘They want me to do a surfboard exhibition and I want you to shoot the surf with me again. Will you?’

  She paused for long seconds. ‘Yes, I will … as long as you don’t drop me.’

  She smiled up at the big Hawaiian and he suddenly pulled her to him and hugged her tightly.

  ‘My word, lovey, people are starving out there!’ Mrs Randell swept into the kitchen, gathered up the tray of scones and swept out again. Isabel looked up at Duke and smiled. Had Mrs Randell even noticed?

  Chapter 18

  Queensland

  Having left Boomerang soon after dawn for the car, ferry and car again journey to Central Station, and having been up until well after midnight finish-shaping his two new surfboards by lamp light, Duke was exhausted by the time Tommy Adrian (still driving despite his newfound stardom) pulled the Tourer up at the Pitt Street entrance, underneath the partially constructed clock tower, just over an hour before the Sydney–Brisbane Mail was due to depart.

  ‘There you go, mates,’ said Adrian, looking at his watch. ‘Time’s on our side so why don’t I join you for a bite to eat?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Duke. Eating was always a good idea in Duke’s book. Besides, he’d have almost 24 hours to catch up on sleep before they arrived at their first Queensland stop. Two porters took away the bags while Tommy slipped a boy in a blue uniform a couple of shillings to keep an eye on the Tourer.

  Duke had seen plenty of rail stations in his years of crisscrossing America, but Sydney’s was right up there with the best of them. Although not as impressive as Grand Central Station in New York, nor as chic as Los Angeles’s Union Station, Sydney’s Central Station was nevertheless a striking structure, even though its recent additions, including the clock tower, had been put on hold to support the war effort. At the far end of the vast concourse was an ornate soda fountain and kiosk with several eating-in tables at the rear. As Tommy led the Hawaiians to the one remaining empty table, an attractive girl with long brown hair beamed at them from the corner table.

  Mina Wylie sat alone, sipping a soda, her overnight bag and a handbag at her feet. Duke had been expecting to see her at the Sydney carnivals. Now he found himself torn between two emotions—happiness at seeing her, and embarrassment that his teammates might misinterpret this. Swallowing hard, he skirted the table and greeted her in the same way he had left her more than two years earlier, with a light kiss to both cheeks.

  ‘You look wonderful, Mina.’

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself, Paoa. I’ve been reading all about your exploits.’

  ‘I thought I’d see you at the carnivals.’

  ‘Mrs McIntosh has had us working. Fanny and I were out west at Bathurst and Orange all of last week and tonight we’re swimming in Wollongong, the branch championships.’

  ‘We’ve been in Sydney for three weeks.’

  ‘Well, silly, you should have telephoned me. I could have caught the tram into the city for tea.’

  Having no answer for that, Duke invited her to join their table. ‘I can’t, Paoa. My train leaves in just a few minutes. Fanny’s probably already waiting for me on the platform.’

  ‘Can I see you when I come back from Queensland?’

  ‘Of course. Pick up the telephone and use it. You do know how to use one, don’t you? Wylies Baths, Coogee four-one-one.’ She was off across the concourse, a flurry of skirts and laughter.

  Francis handed Duke a slip of paper as he sat down.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Coogee four-one-one. I wrote it down for you.’

  ‘Struth, that Mina’s a good sort,’ said Tommy Adrian, winking at George. Duke ordered a steak, well done, and a glass of milk.

  The Sydney–Brisbane Mail rattled through the afternoon into the evening and on through the night. Duke slept soundly, spread out on a hard leather bench, missing the snack trolley’s journey through the carriage on a couple of occasions. When he finally woke it was light again and they were passing through flat and featureless sheep country.

  ‘Big place, Australia,’ Duke said to Francis. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Last stop was a place called Wallangarra.’ He checked his fob watch. ‘Thirty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘Wallan what?’

  ‘I don’t think we Hawaiians can complain about Australian place names, Paoa,’ Francis responded with a grin. ‘Only a couple of hours to go.’

  ‘Good. I could eat the leather off this seat.’

  ‘You won’t have to go to that length.’ Francis handed him half a corned-beef sandwich.

  It was almost midday when the mail train ground to a halt at a strip of platform in the middle of an endless paddock. A solitary bench bore the name ‘Hendon’ on a battered nameplate. Two men were waiting on the platform, rangy figures in Sunday-best suits and felt hats, and beyond them two automobiles were parked in the black dirt. No-one else got off at Hendon. The shorter of the two tall men held out his hand.

  ‘Welcome to the Darling Downs, gentlemen. Jim Dean’s me name. I’m the mayor of Allora. This is Harry from the Railway Hotel. He’ll chuck your bags in the back of the ute.’

  This was precisely what Harry did. ‘Careful, feller,’ Duke called out. ‘I got my ukulele in there.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is,’ said Harry, spitting onto the black dirt.

  ‘It’s like a little guitar,’ said Duke, opening his bag to check that the instrument had survived. He took it from its case and played a couple of chords. ‘See, Harry, baby guitar.’ He laughed and the taciturn man from the Railway Hotel relaxed a little.

  Mayor Dean opened the rear door of the other vehicle, a Packard, and motioned for the guests to climb in.

  ‘How far we got to go, Mr Mayor?’ Duke asked.

  ‘Six miles into town, about half an hour.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ride with Harry, if you don’t mind. I reckon I can play him just about every song I know in half an hour.’

  Duke put down his instrument as they finally left the black soil plains behind and countered civilisation in front of them in the form of a grid of three or four streets. ‘Why do they call it the Railway Hotel, Harry?’

  ‘Because the railway is right next to it.’

  ‘This looks like a nice town,’ Duke told Harry as he helped him up the stairs of the hotel with the bags.

  ‘Quiet place most of the time,’ said Harry. ‘But she’ll do me.’

  After a ‘counter lunch’ of ‘bangers and mash’ and a brief nap, Harry took Duke on a tour of the timber mill further up Herbert Street on the edge of town. Duke loved the smell and the f
eel of the freshly milled timber and he spent more than half an hour handling and caressing planks of red cedar.

  ‘Beautiful wood,’ he told Harry. ‘Make an excellent surfboard. Maybe if we come back this way I’ll get a couple of planks to take back to Sydney.’

  When they were back in the utility truck, Duke asked Harry, ‘How long before the reception?’

  ‘Just under an hour.’

  ‘Plenty of time. Would you mind taking me to have a look at your tank?’

  ‘Our what?’

  ‘Your tank. You know, where we’ll be swimming tomorrow.’

  Harry started laughing. ‘Oh, our tank! Sure, sure, no problems. I’ll show you the tank.’

  They drove a couple of blocks back in the direction of the hotel, then Harry turned left and followed the road a short way to a cluster of willow trees at the edge of town. He got out and led Duke around behind the trees to a quiet stretch of muddy creek, about ten yards across to a steep bank on the other side, above which four tents had been pitched. ‘Here we are,’ said Harry. ‘Our tank, otherwise known as Dalrymple Creek. Lucky we had some Christmas rain, mate, or you’d be mud-running the hundred yards down to the bend.’

  Duke seemed unperturbed. ‘I learned to swim on a mud flat. Walk it at low tide, swim it at high tide. And a couple years back I swam in the Seine River in Paris, France, and that was a lot muddier than this. Or at least I hope that brown gunk was mud!’ Harry grinned through jagged teeth. ‘Okay, Harry, close your eyes or prepare to be shocked.’