by Malcolm Knox
A fury, every wave.
. . . yeah . . .
. . . and let nothing go to waste . . .
Let nothing go to some kook gunna waste the wave, pull out of it, fall off his board, or trim it.
Wartime measures.
You had to enforce discipline in wartime. Or else there was no civilisation, right?
Rod was the real sheriff. Once yous both chased this kook all three of yous in your wetsuits on foot across the state border into New South. That kook couldn’t surf but could run all right that’s for sure. All three of yous in wetsuits. Basil on your heels barking his head off showing his teeth. Basil wouldn’t bite a flea, but Rod goes:
Dennis, put the muzzle back on Fang!
Through the town, across the causeway, over The Other Side.
Last you saw of the kook he was still running in his wetsuit into New South Wales.
He’d dropped in on Rod.
Rod was the first kid you knew who was able to whistle properly, tongue between the teeth, loud and no-nonsense, when he was on a wave, Oi, get out of the way. Like a man.
You couldn’t whistle.
Tried but couldn’t manage the sound, not loud enough, not commanding enough.
So you had this scream. This yelp. Like Sam if you trod on his tail by mistake.
Used the scream on waves, the sound from deep inside that someone was in there, someone coming, so get out of the fricken way—
Your calling card: the scream.
Rod and the boys from The Pit give it a name: The Scream in Blue.
Tink and FJ were getting good. Had to be good to paddle away from you when they saw you coming. Had to be good to make a wave if you were in the water. Unless they just wanted to sit back off the shoulder and wait for you to pick off the best in each set. Unless they wanted the dregs and the mush.
They didn’t. Tink and FJ were good, real fast in the water, they saw sets coming, they knew the line-ups, where to sit, where not to, where to feint and bait and switch, where to look like they were going to be while going somewhere else, yeah, they were good but
but you were better . . .
One day Tink dropped in on you. You were deep, not quite behind the granite but deep in against the point. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t see you.
He didn’t hear the Scream in Blue.
You come across the wave so fast he never heard, never saw you. He thought he was on this perfect little peeler all to himself, deep enough, steep take-off, nor’-east swell, and out of nowhere comes DK, long wet hair flying and flicking, the nose of your board like a torpedo . . .
Too late to pull out, Tink dropped in.
Took your legs out.
Both of yous caught inside smashed by next three waves.
Tink got his board back and paddled out.
Yours got hammered to pieces on the granite.
No more boards.
You swum out.
Best swimmer at Rainbow. Won all the medals. Could of.
You swum out and found Tink.
You got hold of his board.
You took his fin in your right hand and his rail in your left.
Never snatch the rails, except this once.
Wartime measures.
You snapped off his fin.
You sunk your teeth into the rail and put a big chomp in the glass and spit it out.
You flicked what was left of the board back at Tink.
Your best mate sort of but he dropped in on you.
You hated to see waste.
Wartime measures.
Everyone was freaked out. You were meant to be the quiet Keith. Rod was the psycho, Rod policed the waves, Dennis was the one who quietly went about tearing up the surf. The beam of light. But now word spread: DK might be just as psycho as RK. Still waters run deep and all that.
You saw it more simple. Busting off fins was policing the waves. Without fins, they had to go in. That was all you wanted: make them go away.
At school Tink and FJ were friendly as all get out now. Thought you were a mad bastard now. Whole school, talking about you. Loving you. Admiring you. That mad bastard.
They meant it.
The first of the awe.
The first you heard yourself spoken of in that hushed way . . .
Respect.
Legend.
Them days when you got everything that moved and they got nothing.
It meant as much to you that they got nothing.
Once they had that awed hush in their voice you had to keep it there. Couldn’t let it slip couldn’t give an inch.
You said nothing.
You knew who you were, didn’t need to prick your finger to know your blood ran red.
But surf:
A war out there.
Loved surfing:
It give you someone to hate.
It wasn’t he didn’t like people; he just didn’t want them in his way.
But you weren’t as plain mean as Rod. Better to keep them guessing, be nice once in a while. Also bring Rod into line.
Once he picked on some kid for no reason at all, kid just sitting out on the shoulder like a gummy bear, too scared to get in anyone’s way. Rod caught a wave and ploughed over the kid’s head then chewed him out for being in the way. When Rod come back out the back Dennis give him a rabbit-punch between the eyes.
Ya do that for?
Show you what it feels when you get sconed by a drongo.
The hell, Den?
Takes one to know one.
Rod looking at you like he didn’t know you anymore, like What’s Den doing?
You got to keep him on his toes.
Made your point.
Another time in front of the whole of Coolie you went out and rescued this bloke and his bird in a canoe. They launched from Greenmount and got took up the sweep past Snapper and were on the way to the Solomons. You seen the bloke’s face as he floats past you. Rod and all the boys were cacking themselves. The swell was ten foot and lifeguards couldn’t get out.
Then the bloke in the canoe panicked. He jumped out and tried to swim back in. He was on his way to bodysurf a sucky ten-foot mongrel straight into the granite jump-off rock.
You forgot about the waves and paddled, your bucket hands motoring. You risk getting smashed on the rocks yourself. Crowds on the point to watch you get smeared.
You got him on your board and tandemed him halfway into the sand then pushed him in on a wave.
Crowds were shouting, pointing. The bird drifting away into the distance in the canoe. All alone.
You swum out to the line-up, through six monster waves, push Rod off his board, then paddle it out to the canoe. About a k. Then you got to her, the bird’s bawling her eyes out and so you get in the canoe with her. Dumped Rod’s board. Good riddance. Easy come easy go eh.
You paddled the canoe like you been doing it all your life. You went past Rod who’s bobbing about trying to bodysurf in, waiting for a wave that wouldn’t chuck him up against the rocks like them sticky jelly figures you chuck at walls and come down in cartwheels.
Need any help bro?
You didn’t hear if he had anything to say.
You paddled the bird in, brought her down the face of this solid eight-foot right-hander into Greenmount, biggest wave anyone ever seen a canoe ride on the Gold Coast. Crowds cheering on the point. Bird screaming in terror in your ear.
Nearly deafened you she did. Hope she never set foot in that water again.
You got in shore, dumped her with her bloke then ran to the Rainbow clubhouse to nick a board and get back out there.
You crossed paths with Rod on your way out.
You stopped and clapped your for
ehead.
Bugger, Rodney, you said.
What? He was shirty about his board.
Forgot to pinch their wallets.
Good Dennis Keith story that one. Have to tell the BFO.
And so now here she is, back, refinanced. Bang another five hundred for Mo’s sandwiches, and she’s going for walks with you asking about the early days. An investigator, reckons she can crack the cold case.
The cold case still hot in your house.
Dead bird dug up out of Gold Coast sand and fibreglass.
She don’t say nothing about running away when you invited her for a sleepover.
How you know she knows.
This time round she done some research: interviewed old-timers, some of the ones who were there at the start, talked to them about you:
Chook Draper.
Gary Trounson.
Mr Paterson.
Peter Drouyn.
Kinky Tinky.
FJ.
A bunch of the other retired grommets: the Petersons, Townend, Rabbit.
‘Bet your ears have been burning eh!’ she goes, all too proud of herself.
Now she reckons she knows what she’s asking me. All the school stories, the shaping, the schooling, the churching, the parties, this and that, the other, and reckons just cos she’s talked about you with them jokers she knows more than she started out with.
Fat chance.
She’s talked to family members and schoolmates and elderly grommets and even tracked down the original Bob, the milk bar owner who gave me my first pine-lime Splice.
Reckons she’s a real hotshot bi fricken ographer now.
And everything she asks I push up my aviators (they’re still there) and I go,
‘Well yeah . . . but no!’
And she laughs at that. She laughs like we’re
yeah like we’re in on the joke together.
She’s moved into a motel reckons she’s got me nailed.
‘How much they pay ya for this feature, then?’
She shrugs her round meaty shoulders. She’s got a face like a plate: flat, round, featureless. Honest face.
‘Just expenses,’ she says.
Lying face.
‘We’re a bit strapped,’ I say. ‘At home.’ I push up my aviators. Still there.
She changes the subject.
‘Tell me about Keith Surfboards.’
Keith Surfboards/fibreglass dust/hot mix/cold case—
Lying face. I know her.
‘Girl,’ I go after a long long wait while I’m pulling meself together. ‘Suitcase! Shitface!’
‘Eh?’ She’s looking at me like I’ve finally cracked up. But she’s wrong. I’ve finally come together. ‘Are you all right, Dennis?’
‘Girl,’ I go with a sly groover’s grin and me eyes on the horizon, push up the aviators, ‘you’re trafficking in shadows now.’
Too many surfers worshipped their boards. To you they were tools not the crown jewels. You saw surfers cry when they got a ding. Deadset cry.
Nat Young had this board he called ‘Sam’ and after he won loads of comps on it he spoke about ‘Sam’ like his best friend.
You drug yours in the sand, pinged them round the place, used them up till they were busted, then next please. No looking back. No love affairs with hunks of wood and foam and glass.
Nat’s Sam got swiped anyway, shot through on him. That’s friends for ya.
This was the sixties, pre leashes. Him and Rod lost Tink’s board, they lost FJ’s board, then they ripped off Tink’s and FJ’s new boards and lost them too, and suddenly there weren’t enough to go round, Mr and Mrs Tinkler and Mrs and Mr Johnson turned off the taps.
When the kids run out of boards they hid in The Pit and scoot out to grab a stick washed in on a foamball. Then scoot back into the agave trees and hide it in the surf club and when the blow-in wanders about looking for his board the kids go, Mate, saw your wipe-out, and innocent as the day is long, and the blow-in never guess where his stick gone.
Never got caught. Never get caught. Tink and FJ join in, good boys turned bad by the need for fresh sticks.
There was other ways. Brisos come down to surf weekends then leave their sticks in the lockers, and we knew the locker combos so Monday to Friday it was like a free lending library, dozens of sticks, the catalogue all in your head. You ding one you put it back in its locker. The Briso come back and ask questions, you blame Rod, or Rod blame FJ, or FJ blame Tink, or Tink blame you. Chinese fricken whispers nobody ever get to the bottom of it.
Yeah, you go, I told Tink not to ride it, bugger didn’t listen . . .
Briso looked at you funny: strips of malice wrapped round wishbones, stinky look in your eye, manky hair to your bare shoulders. Standing there hands on hips. Something told the Briso he had to shrug off his bad luck and get on with his life somewhere else.
Still other ways . . .
The granite points were a wrecking yard for sticks, owners would give up on them. What was he gunna do? We scavenged and scrounged and picked up the pieces, little eddy inside the rocks where the smashed boards floated into, and you could swim in there and take them to Gary Trounson or Dave Chock or Ted Gills or Chook Draper any them ding-fixers, and you even borrow the glassing gear and the sanding gear and the shaping gear and fix them up yourself.
Salvage op.
Rod started to bring them home. He built a board trolley with two wheels he ripped off an old pram and a fruit crate two sides cut off, tied together with a bike inner tube and lined with carpet. He strapped it on the back seat of his pushie and heaved it behind, stuffed with pieces of boards he scrounged from the rocks. Had to get off his bike and walk it up the hill the last bit but he was determined, Rod, and he get them home and start jigsawing together a brand new stick. This was sort of how Keith Surfboards might of been born.
You rebirth them like stolen cars: strip the glass, sand them back, redesign them as a Keith surfboard.
Rod made up a logo:
Modelled on Basil’s amazing ball sack.
Rod thought it was a cack. You thought it was a bit off but let him get away with it. Had to keep the operation happy.
Before long yous were selling rebirthed Keith surfboards to groms round Coolie. With the proceeds yous bought more resin, more hardener, more promoter.
Father A might of heard about what you were doing, the legality side of it, and thought he ought to help you do it legit. He line you up some work with Chook Draper from Drape’s Shapes.
Chook was the biggest shaper in the Coolie area, brought in his big balsa blanks from down Sydney crafted nice glass loggers for the butchers, the plumbers, the newsagents, the teachers, the cops, the priests.
Chook ankle-deep in balsa shavings smacked a face mask on you and went, Move an inch and I’ll sand yer dick off.
You stood like a statue while he talks you through what he’s doing:
Drawing the pattern.
Sanding the blank.
Letting you rub your hand down the deck. Balsa felt like fur.
Cutting and gluing the stringer.
Mixing the resin and hardener.
Sanding and shaping.
Sanding and shaping.
Feel the wave in yer hands.
Chook’s voice muffled under his mask, glass splinters flew everywhere, Chook talking you through it, everything he knew, and he only did it cos he wanted someone to talk to and he knew Father A and your Mo and he felt sorry for you and thought you was a bit of a drongo and not really listening . . .
But Chook was wrong.
Pure natural genius.
You went home and grab Rod and the pair of you gone on a logger hunt. Now you really knew what to do with them.
&n
bsp; Nicked two old planks from Gary Trounson’s shop. Found some more abandoned in the surf club. Dinged up loggers round the rocks. Loggers abandoned in garages.
Under their houses.
In their rat cellars.
Soil infiltrated with fibreglass.
Didn’t matter. Yous couldn’t afford to buy blanks yourself.
•
Chook had more sanders, more knives, more resin and promoter and hardener than he needed. You swiped some of that and Rod nicked some hydrogen peroxide from the hardware to bleach the blanks.
Rod dug the challenge, rebirthing stolen ones. You were uncomfortable with all that, preferred to be legit if you could of.
Rod found a couple of sawhorses from a building site and you set them up under Shagrila, in your rat cellar.
Cellar swimming with glass dust.
Two dangerous kids, no more dancing for you, DK.
Then one night you come home and find this stick Roddy’s redecorated.
He’s rewrote the writing on it.
You storm upstairs with it, stand it in front of him. He’s on a beanbag, picking his latest knee scab.
‘What’s this then?’
‘What’s what Den?’
You nod at what he done. Not that you’re a stickler, but this is—
‘Didn’t you get no education?’ you go.
Rod’s cacking himself silly.
‘Read it again Den. Read it closer.’
I read it again and I read it closer.
‘Yeah,’ I went. ‘Right.’
‘We’re the only ones with education,’ Rod goes.
And so yeah, this is how Keith Surfboards got turned into Keiths Surf Boards.
And everyone who ever saw our boards, every last one, in the whole wide world, Perth to Hawaii, everyone always thought we’d spelt it wrong.
You done your reading, your late-night study. Surfer. Surfing.
Your Nat posters, your Midget posters. They didn’t even need second names, Nat and Midget. Miki, David, Da Bull. You had no idea who they were but you knew them by their first names. All you needed to power you on. The words: Nat. Midget. Bull. Miki.