by Nick Cummins
The brains trust called for an emergency meeting and demanded four things: clean the boat, remove the empties, ring the houseboat company and plead ignorance, and then, pray.
The old bloke stepped up to the plate and radioed the houseboat company. The convo went a little something like this:
Dad – ‘Mate, this is Cloud 9, we have a small problem. A crack in the boat.’
Company – ‘No problem, just use a towel with pressure and the pump will handle it.’
Dad – ‘Mate, it’s more of a hole . . .’
Company – ‘No probs. Use the timber square and prop to seal it and the pump will sort it.’
Dad – ‘Mate, the hole is too big for the timber square . . .’
Company – (voice now heightened) ‘How big is it!?’
Dad – ‘About a metre square I’d say.’
Company – ‘What the bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! We can’t fix that!’
Dad – ‘Not with that attitude.’
Help on its way, Dad addressed his shipwrecked crew, in a similar fashion to what the captain of the Costa Concordia would have done – ‘Gentlemen, we are in deep shit!’
The Coast Guard and various other boats arrived in the next few hours as the tide slowly but surely made its way in. A large group of people worked feverishly to keep the boat afloat while we watched from the shore in admiration.
Finally, with several pumps working frantically, we began our return journey to Carlo Point. And no skiing this time.
The trip back was hairier than the old man’s back, too. The wind and rain were up and it made life pretty difficult. It was all hands to the pumps and buckets as we arrived at our mooring just before midnight.
The owner came on board and, suffice to say, was filthy.
He looked like he’d just consumed a fish milkshake and didn’t want to say much. We tied up to a mooring buoy and he then left us with these fateful words – ‘Keep the pumps going.’
‘No worries,’ we said, our eyes refusing to meet his.
Problem was, said pumps were hand operated. And though we tried desperately to stay awake and do the right thing, it wasn’t going to happen. I woke up with that strange feeling of water lapping at my feet. During the night we had gone down stern first.
I woke up the troops, who were snoring away and in various stages of decomposition. People moved frantically and without purpose, like you’d see in a disaster movie.
Dad called for calm. He always seemed to have a solution. And he was the one who’d got us into this mess. ‘Right, boys. Let’s start the BBQ and finish the tucker!’ So many sausages.
First of all, we had to reposition the BBQ as it was on the bow and at a strange angle. The fridge was still above water, and the old fellas consumed its contents.
Everything was fine again – a good feed, a few beers and the sun coming up. Then the owner arrived. You could see the death in his eyes as he sped towards the now-submarine in his small tinny. His eyes were like dinner plates and he was dirty. He would have rammed a bus-load of orphans in the mood he was in.
We quickly packed up and were removed from our watery prison as the big wheels discussed the situation in the manager’s office and Dad motioned us to pack the car for a hasty retreat. Following a quick whip-around, we gathered enough for the insurance excess and fled like criminals in the night. Everyone makes mistakes. To err is human.
Along the highway at the back of Noosa on the road home, an old bloke was parked on the side of the road and his trailer had a flat tyre. Dad and I jumped out and offered our assistance. But as we’re taking a look, the bloke calls, ‘Snake!’ Sure enough, we looked down to see a large snake on the ground. The old fella said it looked like a tiger, but I was quick to correct him – ‘No, it’s definitely a snake.’ The old bloke just looked at us as we drove off into the distance.
I’m a big advocate of responsible drinking and therefore not drinking like a fish. But it seems even fish aren’t immune to the lure of an ice-cold beer . . .
Four men. One fish. The Kimberley knows how to show a bloke a good time. But four fish would’ve been better.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
WHEN YOU’RE TOO BUSY:
‘As busy as a one-eyed cat watching two rat holes’ or ‘A one-legged man in a bum-kicking competition’ or ‘As busy as a one-armed bricklayer in Baghdad’ or ‘Flat-out like a lizard drinking’ or ‘As busy as a blue-arsed fly’
HONKERS GOES BONKERS
(Hong Kong Sevens, 2007)
At the ripe old age of 18 I’d had a few games for Randwick first grade and was steadily finding my feet. As you might remember, I didn’t play much rugby growing up so this Sevens stuff was newer to me than laundry day.
Glen Ella was the Aussie Sevens coach at the time and he offered me a chance to trial. With all-new kit and a guaranteed feed three times a day if I made the tour, my arm didn’t need any twisting.
But my first day training was more of an eye opener than a Mike Tyson uppercut. I’ve never trained so hard in my whole life – beep tests, followed by heavy contact training sessions. It went on and on.
There were times when I felt like pulling the plug. But like a leech to a human testicle, I stuck at it and found myself on the plane to Hong Kong. You beauty! No more laundry.
Now, I’d done a few trips in Australia but this overseas thing was out there. What the hell was a passport?
But I’d heard the stories of the Ellas, Campese and other greats who’d had the honour of being booed by 40,000 half-charged mad bastards. Now, it was my turn. I couldn’t wait.
We trained hard every day. I’ve often thought since then that Glen and Carl, our trainer, wouldn’t look out of place as Game of Thrones taskmasters in the galleys of ships bound for Westeros, flogging the hell out of those poor bastards rowing and then water-skiing behind, demanding to go faster.
But all that hard work was rewarded – with a bounty of food fit for a king.
Remembering as a young bloke living out of home that I survived on two-minute noodles and uncooked rice, the tour was a relative Aladdin’s Cave of delights. Suffice to say, I hooked in hard and fast, to the point where Glen would make me sit next to the manager, who checked my consumption.
Competition-wise, we’d won a couple of games on the first day and weren’t going too badly. Our sweeper, Tim Atkinson, was excellent. I always rated him as a very good player and unlucky not to go further.
Anyhow, come Sunday we’d made it through to the quarter-finals. And while we didn’t finish in the medals, we had a go and had reason to be pretty happy with our efforts. We left the field in a jovial enough mood and one bloke asked for an autograph. I was happy to oblige. Then he pulled out a pen and paper and asked me what I would like him to write . . . Smart bastard.
It was a pretty funny scene all around. Come to think of it, there was more action off the field than on it.
If you’ve been to the Hong Kong Sevens you couldn’t help but remember the southern stand. It’s dress-up heaven, and every year there are the usual assortment of nuns, superheroes, gladiators and various villains.
One bloke in a Batman suit was in an argument with a bloke in a Superman suit – Marvel v DC. Finally, Batman threatened to jam kryptonite up Superman’s arse. It was a weird scene. Bloody glorious really.
On the final day, two giant penguins leapt the fence and ran onto the field. These weren’t your standard penguins, these were big buggers. The coppers and security guards tried to arrest them, but the penguins worked together swatting away Hong Kong’s finest. After all, penguins mate for life and nothing comes between them.
Finally, two coppers jumped on the back of one and gradually dragged the big unit down onto the deck. It wasn’t long before the second monster was dragged to his knees.
Just when all seemed cool, a large nude man leapt the fence like a drug-crazed gazelle and decided to cross the oval.
The crowd were right behind this rooster and cheered madly as he ducked and
swerved his way through security. He had skills and was really looking the goods.
He made the other side of the field and leapt the fence, where his mate had clothes for him at the top of the stairs. But it wasn’t over. Halfway up the stairs he stopped to moon the crowd and that’s when the coppers struck. In one awful movement they had suitcased him into the police van to join the penguins. Those boys were in for a big night.
That was Hong Kong nine years ago. Pretty soon, I’d be battling it out in the 2016 Hong Kong Sevens. This would be an entirely new challenge.
Hong Kong party crashers
I was away from home, doing it on my own, and life couldn’t be better. I felt like an adult.
Then, back at the hotel after the first day of play, I heard a knock at the door. And in they came, my brother Nathan, the old boy and his usual entourage of old shaggers – Russ and Chris. They were quick to chew my ear off.
They had arrived Friday night and after finding their hotel decided to get sorted in their room, before moving into the lobby bar to refresh themselves.
Now, Dad’s mate Chris was a diabetic and had to take it easy. But he didn’t. Approximately halfway through the conversation he went wheels-up. On account of a number of knee reconstructions, which limited his ability to bend his legs, Chris’ legs were deadset stiff in the air like a roast chicken as the poor bastard passed out. The old fella raced to the bar fridge and poured a can of cola into him. After a few minutes, Chris was back. And Dr Mark Cummins was 1–0.
They lifted Chris up into the cot and he said he’d be fine.
After assurances he was okay, the boys rocked down to the lobby and it wasn’t long before Dad’s mate Russ was as full as the last bus and proceeded to pass out on the lounge. Most people didn’t mind because it ended his gibbering, but the snoring was unbearable – like a bull elephant on heat. So Nathan grabbed a wheelchair and the boys loaded Russ in and roared towards the lift.
The other people in the lift were rightly concerned about this unconscious man in the wheelchair. They believed he was ill until between floors seven and eight he ripped one off that would bring tears to your eyes. It was an ungodly sound followed by mass hysteria, as these unsuspecting victims struggled for breath.
Mercifully, the doors opened on level nine and the gasping victims staggered out off into the night. Russ was wheeled into the room and placed carefully on top of Chris, who was resting comfortably after his recent collapse.
It was about 3am when it happened – the entire floor woken by the blood-curdling screams of Russ and Chris, who had woken up on top of one another and were entangled like two crabs in a net.
Now, let that be a lesson to you, kids. Don’t drink.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
BARE AS A BAT’S ARSE:
1. Smooth
2. Nothing there
SHORT ARSE:
Small bastard
A NORWEGIAN FISHING FIASCO
Fishing in Norway is something different and, of course, fishing with the old boy has a habit of ending up poorly. Which begs the question: Why did my brother Nathan invite me and the old man on the below trip? Was it ever a good idea?
We were over in Stavanger to watch Nathan play in the grand final and we had enough time to wet a line. A mate of Nathan’s had access to his old man’s boat – a flash setup worth around $200,000 Aussie. So Nathan grabbed his Pommie mates, Clive and Adam, and away we went.
Like so many times before, there we were at the boat ramp with all the gear and no idea. Regardless, we roared through the fiords with gay abandon, laughing and gagging with the wind blowing through our hair. Life was good. Our GPS wasn’t 100 per cent but our skipper, Alex, had it covered. The fishing itself wasn’t much to speak of. By the time we made it out, we were running a bit behind time, so fishing was limited. But we made sure by the amount of bait we lost that the fish would not be hungry for some time.
It was on the way back when disaster struck. We were at full throttle, parting the wind chop at Mach 2. Then all of a sudden, whack! We’d either hit something or something has come dislodged, but either way, we were missing a heap of necessary boat parts.
There was nothing to do but panic. The old man and Clive assessed the damage while Nathan and I flagged down a passing boat. There were warm greetings, from us anyway, as our rescuers tied a line to our stricken craft and towed us to a small island.
We beached our wounded transport and began formulating a plan. Adam, the captain of a good time, broke out the beer and chips. It was his way of helping. And after everyone put their two bobs’ worth in, the Coast Guard were contacted. Dad’s had them on speed dial since 1992. Captain Alex was pretty shattered. He was the one who’d decided on the short cut and, as everyone knows, that’s the longest distance between two points.
Dad put his arm around Alex in an attempt to console him. It seemed to make him feel better, so after a while I asked Alex what Dad had said, to which Alex replied: ‘He said it could have been worse, that it could’ve happened to his boat.’ Always ready to give a hand, Dad.
Well, that didn’t really help much, but the Coast Guard arrived and proceeded to rig for towing and/or salvage. We climbed into our stricken vessel and were towed into Stavanger harbour on the Ship of Shame at a rate of about 10 knots. I think this was done to show everyone what a pack of losers we were.
After about half an hour, our wounded vessel was tied up in a repair dock minus a motor and a heap of other parts that were usually handy. Now, the Coast Guard boys were a pretty good bunch, and they offered us a spin around the harbour. And man, could that boat go!
A few figure-eights and high-speed turns later, we pulled up at the Beverly Hills Fun Pub on Stavanger harbour, had a few beers and got our stories straight before we went home.
Another successful boating experience.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
WHEN SOMEONE’S TIRED:
‘He’s that buggered he couldn’t pull a sailor off his sister’
A BIT OF REFLECTION
Life is short – even more so if you’re the size of a scrum-half. And you have to make the most of it, because you only get one shot. Any more clichés, you ask? You better believe it. They exist for a reason!
In my humble opinion, we need to enjoy our time on this planet and help others do the same. It all comes down to how we think.
Over the years, I’ve learned that we need to forgive others who have caused us pain, whether real or imagined. If we don’t forgive, the only people who suffer will be us. Bitterness can eat away at you and cause all manner of problems, both physical and emotional. But when you let go of hate you are more open to all good things that life has to offer.
I’ve met many great people, both big and small wheels, all breeds and religions. You can see joy in the eyes of the truly happy. Money isn’t everything. But too much or not enough can cause a lot of grief.
I met a bloke once who was worth a few bucks and he told me he’d rather be rich and unhappy than poor and unhappy. Well, he may have a point, but I think he’s missed the main one.
Only we can make ourselves happy. A lot of people tend to look or expect someone to provide happiness. That may work for a while, but it won’t work forever. Happiness is a conscious decision from within and it doesn’t matter when you make that decision, as a teenager or in your 80s. It’s a bit like giving up something in your diet; as soon as you do, you’ll see the health benefits.
While I’ve only had my feet on this planet for 28 years, I’ve had a good look around. I’ve seen joy in the faces of the poorest bastards on earth and I’ve seen misery on those with it all. My oldest sister, Bernadette, lives in Bangkok with her husband, Phil, and her three kids. She does some volunteer work at the local orphanage and these poor buggers have got nothing. I mean nothing. Yet these kids are always smiling. They value the little things – food in their tummies and a hug. Their life is tough but if they feel loved they are off to a good start.
One day th
ey were all given colouring pencils, and mate, it was Christmas. People who’ve suffered seem to radiate a certain joy – an innate peaceful knowledge and understanding that a lot of us won’t realise. Things that bother most people won’t bother the hard doers.
I’m a big believer in karma. The more good you do the more you receive. I think we are all born a bit selfish. Get what you can, it’s all about me, that sort of thing.
At some stage, we all have to grow out of that and give a little. Bernadette and Phil have a great setup in Bangkok and they have a Burmese maid, Farr, who just loves the kids.
When Berns realised Farr’s birthday was coming up, she knocked up a birthday cake and the kids made a tiara for her. As she blew out the candles, she burst into tears and hugged everyone for ages. She had never had a birthday cake. These acts of kindness benefit everyone.
My family has been on both ends of the spectrum, having given and received much. How lucky are we!?
One story that Dad tells relates to his time in the St Vincent de Paul Society in Port Macquarie. He and his mates, Mick Kelly and Mick O’Brien, were delivering food parcels on Christmas Eve. The red Mitsubishi van was as full as a doctor’s wallet as they roared around town dishing out the goodies. Finally, it was getting close to beer time with one parcel left. Mick O’Brien lobbed in with the box of goodies and the family returned it just as quick. The buggers didn’t want it! So Dad took command of the situation. And he had to pick up fish and chips on the way home, so this had to be quick.
He grabbed the box and knocked on the door. This lovely woman opened the door and again refused the offer. Then she burst into tears saying her husband had only just lost his job yesterday and she couldn’t believe how quickly St Vincent de Paul knew of her situation. She took the parcel and thanked the boys.
Mick, Mick and Dad felt relieved that their work was done and headed for home as Mick K checked the list over. ‘Know why she was reluctant to take the gear? It was supposed to go next door!’ Too late now, the boys were on their way home. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.