by Malcolm Knox
World champion DK.
The greatest DK in the world.
And still the only world trophy you got was the plastic one from Kirra Boardriders. Nobody from outside the Gold Coast turned up to interview you or give you your fricken crown or whatever it was—
Till you went through your old mail:
Letter from that World Surfing Federation
yeah but nah
some technicality over Sunset
sent months ago
Xerox copy of the rules saying
nah
entry in all events as a condition of
you couldn’t
We know how much adverse publicity this is likely to attract but
nah they fucken
We would appreciate if you
they fucken
null and void
they
as a consequence the championship is declared vacant
they—nah
by way of compensation and goodwill we offer you entry and top seeding into the next
they
we do hope you understand the nature
The nature? The fricken nature?
You had to burn that one so Mo’d never
they must of wanted to kill her.
No other reason for doing that.
Kill your old Mo. After everything she done. They done this.
That’s it.
The End.
Mo’s back from the not hospital but not really.
‘Mo?’
At the melamine table. Fat feet in the air. Can’t get any diagonals working in this place.
Mo’s eyes look up. Her red rims like hammocks. Her eyes not comfortable enough to lie back in them and relax.
Push the aviators up me nose. They’re still there.
‘Yeah love?’
I nod at the other room. Even though I’m nodding at the doorway we know what I’m nodding at:
Yellow black and white.
Standing in its corner. Making new diagonals.
‘What is it love?’
‘I want to go again in the morning.’
I nod at the—
Through the doorway—
I want Mo happy with this but she is not happy. She looks sadder. The eyes sadder than the rest of her. Sadder and sadder. Every breath a sigh. She walks round sighing. Like it’s all catching up with her. Like I’m catching up with her.
Her hands open and close on themselves, but weak.
‘I’m glad you give it to me,’ I go.
After all them things I give her when I had the coin, after all them things she give me when I didn’t, after all the things she give, all the things we give, all the things she give and give and give and give and give, I never said I’m glad before. But I want to now because it’s too late
before it’s too late.
Mo just shakes her head.
‘Den love.’
Sigh. Her bloodshot nose whistling.
I push the aviators up and look away from her. Don’t want her happiness now. I’ve said what I have to.
‘Den love. I didn’t get it for ya.’
Seventy-five, the year they said the devil come to Snapper. Junk dealers rocked up and stood on Greenmount Hill, give a whistle, surfers in.
They come like trained puppies they come.
Be perfect mornings, four foot and offshore, and the waves empty. Instead the boys lined up outside some fibro shack at Point Danger.
Junk dealers in trench coats.
You didn’t mind. You surfed on smack while everyone else zoned out on couches. Anyone watched you surf junked-up, they figured this stuff had to be good for the surfing. Then they go off and shoot up and zone out.
You get a lot of waves to yourself that year.
Roddy’s good mate eliminated the competition.
Final victory.
Yeah nah, you didn’t behave your best. Nineteen seventy-five. You was free surfing three-foot D-Bah and Tink tried to fade you. You took him out with a rugby tackle, leap from your board got him round the ankles. Under the water you tried to throttle him. Saw him turn green before you let him go.
First time you seen him since he fished you up the steep sand at Pipe.
Your surfing was blitzing but you were empty of every drop but anger and hunger. On smack you won the Queensland title on eight-foot Burleigh. FJ was back for that one, back from his break, blondie in the heat before yours. He’d went even more corporate if that was possible and had his own shops up and down the Goldie. Riding a shocking pink FJ stick, piece of crap, and paddling for the last wave of his heat. Well you were in the next heat after him so you paddled in the wave. FJ screamed, Get off, DK, it’s still my heat! First words exchanged between the pair of you since ’74. You drop straight down the face, cut him off, sent him smash on the rocks, brand-spanking-new stick and all.
Your stick got washed in too so you swum over and grabbed FJ’s.
He yelled out:
Gimme me stick back, ya dickhead!
You blanked him.
You didn’t get penalised cos you weren’t technically surfing a heat yet. But FJ was out of the comp.
Welcome back son. Welcome to surfing the same water as the champion of the world—
well come on nah—
you nodded up to the three thousand mugs on the point and said to FJ:
They come to see me, not you eh.
You surfed your heat on FJ’s board while he had to swim against the rip to get back to shore. He got a point-blank view of you winning.
Winning yeah.
You was able to mess with their heads even more. You done your disappearing acts before a heat, but this time, before the final, when the swell had jacked up to cyclone strength and everyone getting a bit nervy (cept you), you paddled out half an hour before the final and freaked out all them cos that was the one place they hadn’t expected to see you. As it turned out they got hammered by a set at the beginning of the final, all them washed in at points up the coast, and you DK was the only one left in the water. You only had to catch one leftover wave to win the title but instead you put on a big show in the close-out sets, barrel after barrel. For the fans. Going where they couldn’t see you.
You won again at Bells, smashed the South African wonder kid Shaun Tomson in the final. Being champ you were attracting television cameras like flies to dog poo so you weren’t too keen to show your face.
Rod’s car broke down before the preso so you couldn’t make it. They put on a second preso at the pub the next night and you made your longest speech of your life, you acknowledged all the other surfers you beat except for that little show pony FJ. It was a class act and brang the house down. Then you disappeared again—off with Rod to meet a blind date.
•
But something wasn’t working right.
Wasn’t working right.
Wasn’t working.
With you.
No Lisa?
Rod: Forget her. Gone. Buried.
Something else.
Didn’t help you were doing smack every day, chain-smoking joints like ciggies, a little acid or goey on special occasions. When you go down to Sydney for the Surfabout at North Narra it was Disneyland: smack on tap. You had no idea how good the gear could be and how cheap. You spent your $2500 from winning Bells and really needed the $3500 from winning Surfabout, so you went out, greatest surfer in the world, DK himself, all the mind games and the freakouts—
And bombed. Fell off your board. Dug a rail. Nosedived. Got clobbered trying a barrel.
You shut your eyes under the water and saw:
Hawaii.
Posters on your bedroom wall.<
br />
Barry Kalahu.
Pipe.
Then you were in a third-round repechage heat with FJ and you almost faded him but pulled out, you didn’t need an interference, put you out of the event . . .
FJ was hassling and hassling and zigging and zagging between his zigs and his zags. Your legacy. They all copied you. Including the mind games. It was savage you was hassling each other so bad neither of you was getting a wave.
Then:
Eh DK, ya hear that on the beach?
FJ. You blanked him.
Nah seriously, ya hear that?
Your hearing was never that good during a heat. All you could hear was the megaphone announcer saying, Keith Keith Johnson Johnson Keith Keith . . .
Deadset, FJ said. They’re saying we been DQ’d for a double intoe. Bastards!
No way.
•
You listened hard. You were bombed out of your gourd. But he was right. They were saying Keith and Johnson have both been disqualified from the heat. Far out, if that was right you was out of Surfabout.
FJ started paddling in got his last wave on his belly.
You followed.
When you come on the beach here’s FJ and a bunch of his new Bronzed Aussie mates shitting their pants laughing so hard at you. Pointing.
Turned out you hadn’t been DQ’d at all. FJ been pulling your leg rope.
But you was out of the Surfabout.
FJ had enough points from earlier rounds to stay in it.
But you, out.
Of the conness.
No money left.
Out of it.
Walked off without lifting your head.
Left your stick on the beach.
Been pulling your leg rope.
Just then Tink walked past, on the way to his heat. He looked sad at you. Pity. You couldn’t take that.
Eh Dennis, Tink said. What goes round comes round, eh?
The worst thing was he wasn’t having a go at you. He was sad for you.
You needed to get back to Rod and Rod’s mate eh.
Eliminated.
Nice one.
No money. Have to call Mo get her to send some down.
You met Rod in the van in the car park.
We gotta call Mo, you said.
What’ll we do before the money arrives?
Dunno, you said. Surf?
You weren’t planning to surf. You were planning to score. This was Sydney—
Disneyland.
You told Rod you purposely lost your heat cos the tax dept was going to audit you if you won.
That’s right Dennis, deadset, Rod said.
Sitting in the van—
Crossing the bridge at Narrabeen Lagoon—
Cops.
Pulled over, searched:
Champion of the world.
Luckiest day of your life cos you hadn’t scored yet, hadn’t got any coin.
Nothing in the car but a few stems and seeds.
Cops didn’t book yous.
Wanted an autograph:
Champion of the world.
Australian titles were in South Oz that year.
Late ’75:
South Oz:
Sharkland.
You weren’t behaving your best—
Since Hawaii.
You and Rod got lost on the road and front late for your first heat. As usual. Stoned out of your bonce. As usual.
But they wouldn’t let you in.
The national titles, with you as defending champ.
Champion of the world.
And they wouldn’t let you in.
Be buggered.
You and Rod got in the van drove straight back out. Got lost again, in the desert.
Old days yous’d of cacked your brains out.
These days nothing much was funny. Yous got down to business, the works, the van, you and Rod.
A nap on the roadside.
Heading north again.
Queensland.
The edge:
Gone.
Something caught up with you.
Something from behind.
You didn’t see it.
You felt it, you heard it.
Didn’t see it.
Like another guy had took off even deeper on the wave and for the first time you been shocked, hadn’t seen him coming . . .
. . . yeah . . .
You DK was champion of the world and started losing events in Australia. Unprecedented.
As they reminded you.
Tink was winning.
FJ was winning.
You giving the most interviews you’d ever given. Mile a minute.
You told the reporters you was bored with winning.
You told the reporters the scoring system hadn’t caught up with you yet.
You told the reporters you hadn’t reached your peak yet.
You told the reporters they’d lose interest in the sport if you won everything, so you were losing on purpose to get them into it again.
You told the reporters you felt sorry for your fellow pros and wanted to give them a turn.
You told the reporters there was conspiracies against you.
You told the reporters you was turning away from the backstabbing on that world tour, the politics and that.
You told the reporters you was sick of the other reporters.
You told the reporters you was gunna retire at twenty-six and put yourself through college. Business degree. That sort of thing.
You told the reporters you was only properly respected in Hawaii.
In Hawaii.
They didn’t ask you about Barry Kalahu.
They didn’t ask you about Pipeline.
They didn’t ask cos they all knew.
They let you go on about how you were bored with winning and if you didn’t want to win you didn’t want to surf.
That kind of thing.
(Still no Lisa.)
You decided to stay in Coolie that next season, sit out the ’75–76 world tour. Sponsors couldn’t believe it. Organisers couldn’t believe it. Nobody couldn’t believe it. But you had enough of comp surfing. Let them wait for you. What Lisa would of said: let them catch up to you.
And Hawaii hadn’t invited you.
Kept that to yourself and it didn’t get out:
To the reporters.
But Hawaii hadn’t invited you.
You had a call from Fred Hemmings, organiser of the big Hawaiian events.
Sorry, Dennis, there’s no place for you this year.
But I’m world fricken champion!
Sorry, Dennis, there’s no place for you this year.
You can’t leave out the world fricken champion!
Sorry, Dennis. You’re not world champion in Hawaii.
Hawaii.
You took down them posters off your bedroom wall.
But you was spending a lot more time in there.
With Rod and his mate.
With Rod’s mate
yeah but
Rod was out a lot, with Sydney blokes. Sydney blokes brought it up. Queensland police had weeded the town, Gold Coast was a weed-free zone, and so but now all yous had to have fun on was the old Harry Hammerhead, and why wouldn’t yous. Why wouldn’t yous. The odd bloke clocked out with an OD, but you were careful. Mixed your own mix. Pure.
Pure natural genius.
You and Rod, that year yous were closer than you ever been. On the same flight path, same common interests in life. You woke up in the morning, you knew what you were gunna do that day and the best thing wa
s, Rod was doing it too. Yous had a purpose. Brothers with business to do. Mo sort of shrugged and left yous to your own devices. Something changed in her since Hawaii too. She was nicer to Rod for a start, and a bit harder on you. Her and Rod, you’d often come in the kitchen and find them talking quietly together over a cup of tea, Rod stoned out of his bone, Mo not caring. Mo give you a growl, tell you to get back out surfing. There was peace in Sanga eh. Only now it’d lost another letter. On the front of the house, now: anga.
Rod when he was stoned once give his theory on it all. Like drugs had been the best thing for us. Me problem me whole life, he said in this big open-heart moment, was that I had this chip on me shoulder cos you was always Mo’s favourite, y’always got the preferential treatment, and it shitted me royal cos she was my mum but she put you first. So I was like better than you, had to tell meself that, I was better than you and you’d get yer comeuppance soon. And but so now, since we’re on the gear eh, it’s like, nah, I’m not better than you and you’re not better than me, nothin makes no difference, we’re just two junkie cunts and that’s all there is to it and we’re just as bad as each other. Makes me feel good eh.
And made me feel good too, long as I kept me ears shut to what he wasn’t telling me. The bit they left out.
Seventy-five, seventy-six. There was funerals, busts, blues, barneys and cops. Friends there one day gone the next. Some doing harry, some not. Cops watching you. Cops. Cops cops cops. Been watching you all your life.
Not all them wanting an autograph now.
No invitation from Hawaii.
Hawaii.
Barry Kalahu.
Pipe.
Smack.
The world tour on again, and FJ, Peter Townend, Mark Warren, Kanga Cairns leading the Bronzed Aussies:
Media.
Stunts.
Coaching clinics.
TV.
Gold jumpsuits.
Coin. Loads more coin.
Sponsors.
The world tour.
Moved on without you.
•
The world tour somewhere, and you in Coolie:
And the waves were empty.