by Nick Cummins
As much as I love the thrill of the chase – hence why I don’t bat an eye at being knocked back by a woman, it lets me enjoy that thrill all over again – I decided against it and let common sense prevail. Largely on account of the fact that it’s very common for people to carry concealed guns in these parts – either holstered on the ankle or the hip. And it would have been extremely difficult to play that weekend with half me guts missing.
While I might have pulled the pin, the spy’s troubles were only just beginning. Our security guard took off after him like he’d just spotted Elvis and spent the next couple of hours scouring the bush in hot pursuit. But to no avail.
That night I asked the security guard what he’d have done if old mate pulled a gun on him. The bloke turns to me and says: ‘I’m a walking f*&king weapon station!’ With the rugby gods as my witness, he wasn’t joking. I was never great at maths, but I think I counted four guns, ammo and two knives.
Assured my life was in safe hands, I polished off my meal – and his – and headed to my room to catch some Zs in the fart sack. I’d just dutch-ovened myself for a third time when the phone rang: ‘Honey Badger, I’m going to kill you,’ says a deep South African voice. At first I thought it may have been a former scorned lover so I kept my response to a polite ‘mmmm’. Then came: ‘Then, I’m going to eat you.’ I quickly discovered that not only was it for sure a male voice, ruling out the earlier scenario, but it was no joke. Remembering there are more guns than people in these parts, and with the game coming up in a few days, I didn’t want to stir things up. But he kept ringing. As many as eight times a night for three nights in a row, and his message remained largely the same – that his team was going to beat us and that he was personally going to kill and eat me. Didn’t he know how tough this battered body would be?
Anyhow, the game finally came around and we got smoked like tofu at a vegan pride parade. They knew everything we were doing, they were in the spots where we were gonna be well before us and shut down our every move – line-outs, scrums, everything. It was like they knew our plans . . .
I think they put 40–50 points on us, and turns out the bloke on the phone was half right – they did beat us, but I’ve yet to be eaten.
Termite problem? I’ll fix it.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
OUT OF PLACE:
A pickpocket at a nudist camp
BAKED BEANS:
Fart fodder
AN INTERESTING DRUG TEST
(Or easy 90 millilitre)
It was 2008 at the Western Force and the most dreaded time of the year for any athlete – pre-season. In the guts of summer and with temps in the early 40s, a two-and-a-half-hour on-field training session is enough to leave you as dry as a dead dingo’s donger.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse comes the cry from one of the boys – ‘The ball-starers are here!’ And as we leave the field come three blokes and a woman in matching uniforms.
Now, being fairly new to the game, I was unfamiliar with the term ‘ball-starer’, which I had only heard a week earlier when in the showers. Team-mates would refer to good old Sam Wykes as a ‘ball-starer’, largely because Sam would be the first in the showers and the last to leave and say such things as ‘I got ya’ – some sort of sick comparison in appendage sizes and insinuating he had some sort of advantage. Truth was, he’d just stay in the showers long enough until he finally got ‘a win’.
Anyhow, with Wykesy nowhere in sight, I had no idea why the ‘ball-starer’ call was being thrown around. But as the team left the field, Ryan Cross, Drew Mitchell and myself were randomly selected for drug testing by the four perfectly matching enforcers of the anti-doping authority.
Now, I’ve got no issue with keeping the game clean. But after that sort of session, you’re pretty dry from your mouth on down. Morale was pretty low, us thinking we could be in for a long haul. So we chugged back as much water as possible to speed things up but after 90 minutes there was still nothing. Then boom! I had an idea. I turned to the boys: ‘What if I drop a Richard the Third, ’cause ya gotta have a snake’s hiss immediately after impact. It’s science.’ The lads just laughed at me but I wasn’t about to be deterred. So I alerted the tester, who happened to be the woman, that ‘I’m ready to have a crack’.
She warned that if my sample didn’t meet the 90 ml requirement I’d have to start the whole process all over again. So I put her doubts to bed, or enhanced them depending on which way you look at it, with a quick proverb: ‘Fortune favours the brave.’ And with that, I pressed forward to the throne.
She follows suit, somewhat confused by my unsheathed seating position on the bogger. ‘I’m sorry, mate, but there’s something I gotta do.’ Her eyes squinted and her forehead crinkled, an immediate sign that she understood just what my intentions were.
You see, the rules state that the urine must be seen leaving the body, meaning the sample takers have to get a full view of your setup. From where this lady was standing, the view would have been dreadful – a close-up of a waterfall with a mud slide in the background. It was a flurry of activity and none of it pretty. And after a few seconds that must have felt like hours, success! I hit 95 ml and emptied the tank – and I worked for every drop. A proud achievement in the face of adversity. And, well, the face of a poor inspector who is still having therapy.
She didn’t seem to share my excitement as we exited the crime scene. As we came outside the boys took one look at her and said, ‘Poor thing.’ To which I replied, ‘Could have been worse though. The roles could have been reversed.’
That’s the day I fully understood the term ‘ball-starer’.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
HAS THE ARSE HANGING OUT OF HIS STRIDES:
Broke
HAIR LIKE A BUSH PIG’S ARSE
Messy
SOME FISHY BUSINESS UP NORTH
The coast of WA has always been a magical place for me. Like the old man’s shed, there’s something almost ancient about the joint. You know, vibe-wise. The beaches and the desert landscape seem to go on forever.
There’s a lot of history along the West Oz shores, some inspiring and some exceptionally tragic. Like the book by Peter FitzSimons, which I read all by myself, about the shipwreck of the Batavia – some of the buggers got really carried away and were later hung by the rescuers. Just when they thought being shipwrecked was the worst thing to happen to them that week . . .
Anyhow, my memories of the joint aren’t as savage. In fact, quite the opposite. Because, whenever you’ve got a fishing rod in one hand and an ice cold stubbie in the other, there’s no such thing as a bad time. Especially at a little place called Quobba Station.
Quobba Station is located on the bottom tip of Ningaloo Reef Marine Park, covers about 80 clicks of coastline, and the fishing, snorkelling and surfing are top-notch. Add a brewery and a 24/7 butcher and the place would be heaven on earth. Come to think of it, I might look into that.
The accommodation is pretty flash, too. The humpies, shacks, huts and luxury eco tents on the Red Bluff cliffs are deadset better than my apartment. Which admittedly, isn’t difficult. I’ve been told I have the housekeeping skills of a mongrel goat. Despite that reputation, the owners, Tim and Sarah Meecham, were only too happy to welcome me and my ragtag bunch of mates.
I’d planned this tour to coincide with a bye weekend in the rugby, so after our game against the Bulls I ripped straight home and prepared for a 4am leave.
Better yet, the lads at Sweden’s finest automaker had lent me some wheels and we scored a heap of rods and lures. Finally, I could lose a handful of lures and not have to shell out a month’s wages to get back in the water.
Now, believe it or not, my company included my brother Luke, good mate Blair and the old man – can’t seem to shake the bloke. Suffice to say, I was pretty pumped. The fish didn’t stand a chance and we knew it.
At around 4.30am we took our starting positions – the old boy as co-pilot and the troops in the
back. The car was chock a block and the boys in the back weren’t just struggling for leg space but air, too. It was like a dutch oven in a sardine tin. But I had plenty of room, so all was cool.
We had an 11-hour drive ahead of us and you have to be pretty careful driving before dawn along the desert road – roos, wallabies and various other creatures with a death-wish come charging out at the last minute to test out the bull bar. I can only assume it’s peer pressure from their mates. Why the hell would you play chicken with a car?
After a few stops for refreshments and grub, we finally made it to Quobba and prepared ourselves for battle the next day.
Now, fishing up there is not your standard issue. You need to climb down a steep rocky slope to get to the rock platform of your choice. It’s a bit of a mission but once you’re there it’s happy days. And within seconds, yours truly was on! First cast, too!
It was a big Spanish mackerel and by the way it was fighting, I could only assume it was on whatever Lance Armstrong flushed down the dunny before the USADA kicked in his door.
It pulled about 300 metres of line and when it slowed after its first run I thought I had him and took the foot off the gas. Then, suddenly, he roared back towards the shore and it was one helluva job keeping the line tight. Was he coming for me? I’d never had a fish come at me before, so I was baffled. Until Blair screamed the one word no fisherman, or life-loving human for that matter, wants to hear: ‘Shark!’
He’d spotted a four-metre bronze whaler on the hunt and by the looks of him, it was no surprise he was encouraging some extra speed out of the mackerel. In our direction, no less.
I’m sure the shark felt he had a greater need for the fish than I did.
I did my best to save that mackerel from the jaws of the apex predator – in an effort to feed myself, of course – but 20 metres from the platform it was all over. My one-metre mackerel became a head and a few gizzards. It was the ocean equivalent of being face-palmed by Sonny Bill Williams.
But that was just the start of it. Every bloody cast some big bastard with a fin and a lot of teeth made those fish swim faster and then had them for lunch. We must have hooked up on at least 20 occasions but every time they were snaked by a Noah. It was my high school dance all over again, the big dogs coming in to swoop away the prize I’d worked so hard to get.
Finally, I decided to fight fire with fire. I saw this monster, my nemesis, lurking near the rock shelf. No doubt he was hoping one of us would fall in. And I’d considered giving the old man a shove as a distraction to give me a shot at reeling in a mackerel untouched.
Alas, I baited up the hook with a small reef fish carcass, threw a good cast and bang! It was on – with a four-metre bronze whaler with a set of teeth only a dentist could love.
I was quick to find out that these things can go! Most fish when caught thrash around a fair bit. But these big buggers are not in the least concerned. Just moving their head in one direction can snap your line. But I wasn’t about to fall for that old trick.
So I fought the thing for about an hour and manoeuvred it close to the ledge and thought to myself, ‘Is the old man off limits after all? Yeah, nah, then we couldn’t have a designated driver.’
I was as nervous as a rugby league player during a TAFE exam as I made my way towards the big beast. It didn’t help that our host, Tim, had told us only recently he’d had to retrieve the body of a Japanese tourist and when he found the body about a kilometre off-shore, it was waist-deep in the mouth of a tiger shark. So with that story fresh in my mind, I had a good look at the shark; we shared a moment. Then we reached a non-verbal agreement – I would set him free and he wouldn’t eat me. Fair deal.
And at the end of day one we had a few reef fish to show for our troubles and a lot less tackle to carry back up the cliff. Not a bad day.
Day two was like Groundhog Day – same problems, only we were getting more annoyed. While Luke, Blair and I fought to the death, and lost, with every cast, the old bloke found himself a spot and pulled in the reef fish.
‘Well, boys. Who’s the winner?’ he asked as he displayed the contents of the esky. Suffice to say, he was about as popular as the shark.
Later that evening we sat around, swapped a few stories, filleted our catch and had a couple of beers and a good laugh at my expense. We mightn’t have got that many fish, but we got plenty of stories and that’s what fishing’s really about – says the bloke who came up empty-handed.
HOUSEBOAT HELL
(Or the sinking of the good ship Cloud 9)
Like any pub, the Sandy Straits region at the back of Fraser Island is up there with one of the most exceptional parts of the world.
Fraser Island is named after Eliza Fraser, who took an enforced holiday after she was shipwrecked near the joint, hooked up with a couple of natives and had a dingo as a watchdog. We’ll call that a Nick-a-pedia entry . . .
Anyhow, a few years back, me and my brothers had been pestering the old man about going on a houseboat tour around the area when he finally gave in.
We set sail at Carlo Point at Rainbow Beach, and with rods, reels, tackle and bait in hand, we oozed confidence. Why not? Between us and the old man’s mates, we knew boats. And we knew fish. What we didn’t know was how little fish we’d actually catch. It quickly became evident that the food committee had failed miserably in its job, the flawed thinking being that we’d catch heaps of fish. But we’ll get to that later. Because on the other hand, the booze committee had excelled – we’d have ourselves one helluva trip yet.
So, as we roared up the straits the rules were being laid down – everyone has a turn at driving and no weird behaviour after dark. I felt like I’d be targeted.
I took along a fox fur hat that I had got for my birthday and it was decided the hat had to be worn when driving. So when it was your turn you simply said, ‘Where’s the fox hat?’ You might have noticed by now that we Cummins’ have an unusual affinity for obscure hats. I don’t why.
And taking the piss is genetic. Even my granddad, Billy, wasn’t safe on this trip. We set the tone early on.
Burning along the water and me at the wheel, we came to an area where three beacons were fairly close together. Now, old Billy was on the top deck trolling a lure with his beach rod, which was long enough to bridge the gap back to the mainland. But with the beacons nearing, I couldn’t resist a bit of Formula One in-and-out of the beacons. Suffice to say, old Billy didn’t take kindly to that and began screaming from the top deck: ‘I’m snagged, you bastards. Stop the boat!’
I love the bloke but to me those cries meant only one thing – go faster. Which made Billy only get angrier. He started making the kind of threats that he would not be capable of carrying out and would also require a taxidermist, no matter the outcome. He was filthy.
With the throttle all but flat-out, Dad came racing up to me and I braced for a serve. But like any good father, he just offered encouragement. So I pushed her into top speed. We must have been doing at least six knots!
A beer or two in the sun later, Billy was fast asleep and we came to our resting spot and anchored up for the day.
Steve and Scotty took the tinny to check on the crab pots – which was interesting, because I didn’t remember putting any out. While the boys were away, Des O’Reilly (former Roosters legend) suggested some skiing behind the houseboat.
Great idea, but we didn’t have any skis. No problem. The boys duct-taped two esky lids to my feet and I was carefully lowered out the side. Now, these lids were approximately the same size as my feet and therefore this was my chance to make history!
With the old man at the helm and the order given, we were full steam ahead. I rose out of the water like a dog in a bathtub and it was tricky. You had to angle slightly because of the squarish front of the esky lids and just like that, I did it! The crowd roared their approval, both of them, as I burned across the water like a floatplane about to take off. This was living!
But trouble lay ahead and I quickly discove
red not to take a ripple for granted because it only takes a little one to throw you. So head over biscuit I went. And let me tell you, trying to get your melon to the surface with two lids on your feet is hard going. I felt like a dog riding a tennis ball.
Steve and the boys in the tinny soon arrived to pick me up, remove the duct tape and pat me on the back. Dad was stoked – the next Olympic sport!
Now, we were starving due to a mistake with provisions and the fact we’d snapped the line of the only bloke willing to throw in a line – Billy. The old fella had brought enough sausages to service The Biggest Loser house twice over, but not much else. We’d caught bugger-all fish and were about two hours from a scurvy outbreak. Sausages it was.
From there on in, it was a tame trip by our standards. So the decision was made to beach the boat. Technically, that was not the right thing to do and strictly prohibited. But hell, I was just a passenger and what could possibly go wrong? John O’Shea, Dad’s only mate with brains, sensed an impending calamity and paddled to shore on Dad’s surf ski. He brought it ‘in case of disaster’. It was needed.
The houseboat slid smoothly onto the Fraser Island sand followed by high fives and old blokes telling each other how good they were. It was a sad sight.
But we were cooking with gas, and we were having a helluva time playing cricket and enjoying a few refreshments. Then, crunch! It sounded like false teeth biting down on a Jatz cracker – not good.
Turns out, we’d beached the boat on a submerged pier and the tide was receding. Now was the time to panic! Frantically, we tried to push the houseboat off the post, but to no avail. And worse was yet to come as the weight of the boat pushed the large timber post up into the hull – God help us!