by Cook, R
Taking another deep breath, I said, ‘I’ve had a bit of trouble with the gyro and I’ve parked it up in the top corner of the paddock.’
‘Parked it?’ queried Dad.
‘Yeah, I’ve parked it,’ I replied.
‘OK, I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said.
As there were a lot of people already at the station for the birthday party, Dad brought with him my Grandad Savage and my father-in-law Graeme Canning. They drove over to where I was and took me back to the crash site. I was still probably in shock, so I might not have been prepared for their reactions. After a nervous hug and with one hand still resting on my shoulder, Dad started going crook at me, Sarah’s father had tears in his eyes and Grandad began asking why I would want to even fly a three-wheeled hunk of aluminium like this. It was then I started to retell the story for them. The cattle were moving along well towards the yards, but a lone steer decided to dribble out from the rest of the mob. So, as I had done countless times before, I flew down to push him back, but I made the mistake of flying into a shallow valley with a tail wind. Ordinarily the gyro would rocket out of such a pass and soar into the sky, but at such a low height, just a couple of metres above the ground, I hit a severe down-draught which forced me to slam into the ground. As I was explaining the circumstances of my undoing, we stepped out the point of impact from the ant bed to where the machine mickey-flipped through the air and came to a rest. The distance was fifty metres, and it was obvious that various parts had taken flight in all directions, including the horizontal tail stabiliser, which we found another fifty metres away. The engine brackets had punched a hole through the bottom of the fuel tank, which is effectively the seat. On closer examination, when we removed the bracket, it was only a millimetre away from piercing through the top side of the seat and into my leg. It’s still a wonder that I was not seriously injured in this accident. I have spoken to people since who have flown gyrocopters their whole lives and cannot believe I came out unscathed. Many to whom I show photos truly believe I jumped out with a parachute and watched the machine hit the deck and explode, so severe was the impact.
After everyone had had a chance to look over the site, Dad was the one to bring us back to focus.
‘What do you want to do now?’ he asked.
‘Let’s finish the muster,’ I said, hoping to find a distraction.
‘Well, when we hit the yards you had better go and tell Sarah what has happened here,’ he cautioned.
Once the cattle were yarded and the boys had started to draft, I rode a motorbike home to speak to Sarah, who was in our house on her own.
‘So you crashed it?’ she said incredulously.
‘Yeah, I really crashed it,’ I replied a little sheepishly.
‘But it’s still standing up?’ she asked, offering me a way out.
‘No, it’s really crashed,’ I said.
As the gyro couldn’t be insured, Sarah was quick to point out that we couldn’t afford to spend all this money, crash it into the ground and expect to get anywhere in life. So needless to say, the crash put a bit of a dampener on the joint birthday party, but it certainly gave me a new lease on life. I was quite happy to sink a few rums that night on behalf of my siblings’ milestone.
I did end up selling the crashed engine to a mate who was keen to upgrade from a Subaru engine to a Rotax; after an oil and carburettor change, I’ve been told, it has never missed a beat. The challenge was then to find another gyro so that I could get back in the air. I had fallen in love with flying and I wasn’t about to let that love go. It took Sarah and me some time to find the right machine and the resources to buy it. Unfortunately, the next time I fell out of the sky, I wouldn’t be so lucky.
2
DINKI DI
My teachers always told my parents that if I spent as much energy doing my class work as I did being the class clown, I would have done much better scholastically. They were probably right, but I had other things on my mind growing up. Like most adolescent boys, attempting to win over the hearts of the girls at school took up much of my time. But well before I even knew what girls were, another love interest was beginning to blossom, my love for animals and horses in particular.
We lived on a couple of small blocks of land outside Clermont in central Queensland, one called Rosewood Park and the other, where the family home was, Langstone Lane. It was a nice house, from what I remember, with large, open glass doorways and a concrete extension, built by Dad and his brothers, which became our dining room. In what could have been a parody of the television series The Secret Valley, there was always a menagerie of animals around the house. Mum would often be chasing goats, chooks, ducks and horses out of her garden. At that stage, for me and my three older sisters Tiani, Lilly and Sonia and younger brother Brad (Cam and Loretta came later), there was always something to keep us entertained after school. In fact, if we weren’t at school we would be at home riding our horses. Playing ‘hide-and-seek’ and ‘tag’ in the forage sorghum on the block was always a highlight. With so many kids in the family, we had to live on a tight budget, so there were never any Nike or Reebok shoes for us. Jelly, ice cream and soft drinks also never made an appearance, and we were lucky to get cordial on our birthdays. However, although we had to settle for the cheapest joggers from Kmart and ordinary foods, none of us ever went without. In many ways we were much more fortunate than other kids at the time. We each had our own horse and saddle, a paddock to get lost in and plenty of room to ride our bikes.
My mother, Letty, was the most kind-hearted, passionate, loving mother any child could ask for. From daylight to dark, every day, she would work solely for her kids. She would literally keep the home fires burning while my father, Bill, was away working. Dad also had his family in his heart, but in many ways he was Mum’s opposite. We saw him as a grumpy old bugger. He would spend his weeks on a fence line, knocking in posts and running out wires, managing his own contract business. Getting home on Friday nights, he’d say ‘G’day’ to the family and the next morning he was out spending the weekend working on the home block; Dad did not stop working. He was also very strict. If he told us to cut out our bullshit and we didn’t, ‘Look out!’ Out came the strap, a kick up the arse, or a clip under the ear. It was a decent reminder of who was in charge and I never saw Dad as being mean to us. We understood there was a line in the sand and he would give us plenty of warning not to cross that line. If one of us did push it, that kid must have been a simple thinker because we knew what was coming. ‘Simple thinker’ – that probably describes me best as there were not many weeks that went by where I didn’t get a kick up the backside. I was probably the worst behaved kid, and for some reason I liked to push the boundaries. Dad would tell me not to do something, but I would do it anyway just to see what would happen. It always ended in tears. Mum, on the other hand, was the soft-hearted one. Often we played up while travelling in the car together and when ultimately the strap made an appearance, Mum would cry to us, ‘Why can’t you kids learn?’ While I may have judged my father harshly as a youngster, appreciation for what my parents did for us grew stronger the older I got. I don’t remember those days as being hard for Mum and Dad, but they undoubtedly were. In fact, they were probably stressed out of their brains. Poor old Dad was working himself into an early grave and would have been pulling his hair out if fencing contracts weren’t rolling in and Mum was juggling seven snotty-nosed kids at home. I do often wonder how my parents’ relationship survived those hard times. I don’t ever remember Mum and Dad having a day off. Every weekend was spent working or running us children to Pony Club or some other sporting event. They were selfless parents. Everything they did was for their kids to have a decent life.
Playboy, our Shetland pony, was a hand-me-down pet that went through the family, but my first horse was Dinki Di, a blue mare; gentle most of the time, with a tendency to get a little too enthusiastic. Before novelty events she loved to buck, and she threw me head-over-heels countless times, however it neve
r seemed to deter me from getting back on. I was often the highlight of the day at Pony Club, which was very much a part of life in the Cook family. Most Sundays we would take part in various competitions, in which horse and rider would compete against the clock to complete courses laid out with flags, barrels and jumps. In the early days, the three oldest kids, Tiani, Lilly and Sonia, would ride their horses the ten kilometres into Clermont, leading two other horses for me and younger brother Brad. This was the norm until one day I got it into my head that I was old enough to ride myself. I confronted Mum.
‘If I don’t ride Dinki Di to Pony Club today, then I’m never going to Pony Club again,’ I declared.
‘I can’t send you on that horse because I’ll be the one in trouble if it bucks,’ replied Mum.
‘Well,’ I said in a huff, ‘I’m never going to Pony Club again.’
Fortunately, my idle threat worked and off I rode smiling from ear to ear as I was led by Tiani all the way into town. Mum was right to be concerned, though. Dinki Di was a handy mare, and I could win the events if I could just stay on her back, but staying in the saddle was no easy feat. Every time I was heading towards the finish line to hopefully take a prize, she would drop her nut and sling me straight over her head.
‘How can you be so cruel to the boy?’ onlookers would ask Mum, as she encouraged me to get back on.
It got to the point where Dad would have to ride Dinki Di out into the scrub and canter some energy out before I got on. If he could get some sweat running from her before we started to compete, I’d be right to go, but if she came back with some oats still in her, then there was no doubt I’d hit the deck during the competition. Despite the regular face-plants, I was never seriously injured and still managed to win a good share of the ribbons and trophies on offer. Rob Cook and Dinki Di became a well-known comedy duo in the Clermont district. After a year or so of putting up with Dinki Di’s antics, I was allowed to upgrade to a more trustworthy partner, True Blue.
We didn’t always have to ride our horses to local eventing. As the kids got older and we became more serious about our riding, Dad bought a little Toyota Dyna dual-cab truck, complete with a horse crate on the back and dog box on the roof. Each weekend we would load up seven horses – including Playboy, who would walk around under the bellies of the big horses – and drive off to Pony Club or to help my uncles muster on their properties. I remember having a great time riding up in the dog box when the truck was full of kids. As was obvious with Playboy, whose mane and tail would drag along the ground, we didn’t have expensive horses, but we didn’t need well-bred mounts for us to get the most out of them. From every ride or fall, my parents had something to teach us, both being riding instructors. My eldest sister, Tiani, was nothing short of being a horse whisperer herself. She had a beautiful Appaloosa called Caprice, and went on to make it into the State Equestrian Championships and win many showjumping titles.
Our keen interest in horses and adventure followed us to Miles, in the western Darling Downs region, when the Cook family left Clermont in December 1989. By then eight years old, having completed Year 3 at St Joseph’s Primary School, I was enrolled in the Miles State Primary School. My two youngest siblings, Cameron and Loretta, had joined the family to complete the tribe of seven kids. Dad had bought Rakaia, a 1300-hectare cattle property just outside of Miles. It was a rundown, under-developed block with no house to speak of. The property could run about 150 breeder cattle and had a good stand of ironbark timber, which Dad was able to use as posts in his fencing. The only dwelling on the place was an old, gutted cottage with walls missing and holes in the floor. With no flushing toilet we had to use the thunderbox out the back. That part didn’t worry us too much – as kids we were just happy to relieve ourselves, it didn’t matter where. But it gave us the opportunity to scare each other and visitors by opening up the back chute and tapping the unsuspecting toilet-goer with a big stick that resembled a snake. There was also no power at the house and we would run a little Honda generator flat-out to keep up with our electricity needs. Dad rigged up a long string from the on/off switch up to a tree, along the roof and into his bedroom. He would yell, ‘Are all you kids in bed?’, before pulling the string to turn the motor off.
Rakaia was presumably named by the previous owner after the cold flowing waters of the Rakaia River in the South Island of New Zealand. The irony was not lost on my parents as we walked into five years of drought. They had put a lot of thought into the decision before buying that property and knew the hard work that it required, but no amount of hard work can make up for having no rain. To Dad’s dismay, he had to return to Clermont to pick up more fencing contracts to make ends meet. I remember on many occasions hopping off the school bus at our turn-off to find Mum was running late to pick us up. In her defence, she was trying to feed the cattle during those drought years by bulldozing silver myrtle trees so the animals had something to eat.
We were used to Dad being away much of the time, and life at Miles continued as it was in Clermont. During the school holidays we would go and help Dad with mustering or out on the fence line. He and Mum also found the time to take us to the equestrian events around the district. When I was ten, my three older sisters and I were selected to represent our zone in showjumping. It was the first time four members of one family were chosen to represent at one event. So, as we had done many times before, the little truck was loaded up and off we went to Beaudesert in south-east Queensland. Miles also brought more opportunities, particularly for us boys, to get involved in sport. My physical education teacher was also the rugby league coach. A nice bloke, he took me under his wing, ensuring I made it to weekly games and coaching me to make representative sides as a second rower. This also spilled into other sports like touch football, soccer, athletics and boxing. I wasn’t a big kid, but I wasn’t small either and in my early teens I learnt to stick up for myself and my family. When Dad found out I had taken up boxing, he was going to make sure I took it seriously. He saw the benefits of discipline, focus and fitness that could be gained. I’d train in Miles every week and Dad would make me jog home, saying, ‘If you’re going to do something, you’re going to do it right.’
By the end of my short career, I’d had plenty of training bouts but only three official fights, winning one, losing one and drawing one. I never had any real exposure to become good at it. While boxing did help me to develop my right hook, unfortunately I was never one to leave the fighting inside the ring. I was constantly finding myself in schoolyard scraps. There were many situations where I could have walked away from a fight, but I would always much rather smack someone on the chin instead. I’d prefer to take a shot at the other kid than have a verbal disagreement with him. I was nearly always in the winner’s circle, although I copped my share of lumpy jaws and swollen cheeks.
It didn’t take me long to fit in at Miles State High School. I found my spot in the playground on a sloping hill near B Block. It was here the sporty types hung out, close enough to the girls but far enough away from the ‘homies’, smokers and the Year 12s who sat near the lockers and toilets. The hill was our area, no one else was allowed to sit there and of course we were cheeky to anyone who walked past, including teachers. One teacher would take exception to the way I’d always be pulling the piss and trying to make other kids laugh, using her wood-bound diary to belt me hard across my head. But showing off was a way for me to attract girls, and no crack on the head was going to deter me. Sonia and I were quite close in age, which became very handy for me in meeting the girls in the older grades. School soon became a game of chasing skirt, and rejections just made the challenge all the more exciting. It go to the point where I was building quite a reputation, in the innocent boyfriend/girlfriend sense. If they were female and popular I dated them. At the time I thought I was cool by going out with all of Sonia’s friends, but looking back now, it was pretty bizarre really. Age was of no relevance to me. If an older girl got caught up with my age, I would often let them know that age is
only important when referring to dead fish and good wine. This was always a winning remark. Strangely enough, there was one beautiful girl in the year below me at Miles who I didn’t date while I was in school but who would become the very person to hold me down in the future.
Hard lessons were common occurrences during my teenage years, like perhaps with most teens, except I was slower to learn. I was a typical run-out Year 8 kid, lucky to have my sister Lilly in Year 12 at the same time, who was also the very popular school captain. She was the girl all the other girls envied. After school one day, at the popular Green Frog Deli, some older girls and boys were giving her a rough character assessment behind her back. Holding such a revered position as school captain, she was to these kids a ‘stuck-up bitch’. Not wanting my own popularity to take a hit, I sat idly listening and let the students have their whinge. If I kept my mouth shut, I got to stay popular with the older students, the girls in particular. But in true school gossip fashion, word quickly got around about the group ‘bitching’ about Lilly, and worse still, I had been party to the conversation and failed to take issue with the name-calling. Of course Lilly found out and was heartbroken. I had never seen my sister so beaten down, more about my actions – that I’d said nothing and did nothing – than the actual comments themselves. As a thirteen-year-old, seeing my sister so upset because of something I could have prevented was a major learning curve. So from then on the gloves were off. If someone said anything derogatory about my family or friends, no matter how old, they copped it from me. If a Year 12 student became cheeky, I had no qualms running in and giving them a touch-up. I was no pushover, the other kids began to learn, and I was able to help my friends as well. One day after serving my time in detention for swearing, I walked past the locker rooms and was certain I could hear someone mumbling. Walking closer, the muffled noises sounded a lot like one of my best mates, Wayne Hills.