The following day, Phil and Drew woke up and checked the surf. A clean little north swell was running, and they returned to the camping ground to wake up Mick. Mick had the mother of all hangovers and, after trying to eat some Weetbix, vomited violently behind their tent.
“You alright over there?” Phil taunted Mick.
“You love it when I’m suffering, don’t you Phil?”
“I must admit to a perverse kind of pleasure when things don’t work out for you.”
“Like when I run out of money?”
“Did you spend all your money last night?”
“Yeah. I won seven hundred on a pokey but put it all back in, and then some.”
“So you’re broke?”
“Yep.”
“Now we have to carry you?”
“Food and petrol all paid for, Phil. Jenny gave it to you. My money goes in again in two days, anyway.”
“Where are we going to surf?” Drew interrupted them.
“Let’s head into Angourie and check Back Beach,” Mick suggested.
They drove the coast road past Main Beach and Pippies and saw quite a few surfers in the water. They travelled through the African-safari-like topical bushland along the long, straight road to Angourie. Rather than continuing into the little hamlet, Phil took a right turn at Lakes Boulevard and then a left onto the muddy road out into the Yuraygir National Park. A Kangaroo escorted them to Back Beach, the morning sun lighting her up with a golden glow as she bounced alongside the vehicle.
To the north of the timber platform lookout at Back Beach the isthmus of Angourie Point was bathed in a sea of silver reflections. A small pack of local surfers shared the bowly north swell, decimating every wave. They looked south and saw lovely little blue waves breaking down at Mara Creek, in the middle of the long white beach. The only living creatures to the south were the kangaroos hopping on the sand toward Red River and the Osprey diving for mullet in the channel off Back Point. Back at the car Mick asked Drew for a song to get them pumped. It was Better by The Screaming Jets, and it echoed in their minds for the full duration of the fantastic surf they had together.
Still didn’t know what happened
When you knocked upon my door
The things you had, the life you lived
All the dream’s you had before
Your eyes were facin’ your heart and soul
You know they said it all
What happened on that day back then
The moment hurt us all
Now you can see the reason why not everyone’s the same
And you don’t have to please them, or try hard to save your name
They said you’d never get anywhere
Well they don’t care and it’s just not fair
That you know, and I know better
They said you’d never get anywhere
Well they don’t care and it’s just not fair
That you know, and I know better
Yes, I do.
Despite being hungover, Mick blew his friends away with an extraordinary display of aggressive and, at times, downright violent surfing. To see a man in his late fifties doing 360-degree turns and popping aerials after destroying waves, and himself the previous night, perfectly displayed Mick’s personality type. Phil didn’t know the medical term for the condition from which Mick was suffering, but he knew he had it worse than anyone else he’d ever seen. Mick’s last wave was a middle-aged masterclass in surfing. Drew’s last wave was the best he’d had in years, inspired by Mick’s star turn, he showed off by linking up a few carving turns and a 360 attempt in the shore dump.
Upon returning to their campsite at Yamba, they discovered it was time to vacate. As a team they packed everything away and headed back along the Clarence River toward Maclean, turning off and crossing the old Harwood Bridge. Off to the right was the new bridge which towered above them majestically. Beyond it was the old sugar mill, a bulging, muscular, grey industrial complex, billowing steam from the tall, thin smokestack. The sweet smell of liquid sugar, squeezed from stacks of cane, floated on the north-east breeze. Mick loved the rusty, grey, steel box-frame that encased the old Harwood bridge.
“I met an old cane farmer, Johnny Y, who worked on this bridge back in the ‘60s,” Mick told the others.
“No way?” Phil commented, eyes raised.
“He told me he was the town-drunk and his wife took him to AA, and it saved his life.”
“In God’s hands, eh?”
“Yep. He stayed in AA and helped save the lives of thousands of other alcoholics over the next 50 years.”
“What a great story.”
“He told me something I’ll never forget.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve gotta give it away to keep it.”
“So did you get to give it away or keep it?”
“Neither.”
They cruised along the new motorway, through a long bending corridor of bright green two-metre-high sugar cane, the seeded tips of which swayed in the wind. They passed the Iluka turn-off, and into the forests of Bundjalung National Park. Mick rolled a joint and smoked it on his own, as no one else wanted any. Stoned, he became animated and started praising Drew for his last wave. Phil hadn’t seen it but asked Drew to play a song in honour of himself.
“What song would you play if someone made a segment for you in a surfing movie?” Drew didn’t have to think long to play D.C. by Died Pretty.
“Of course! Died Pretty!” Phil remembered the song.
“And some just died,” Mick ribbed Drew, who smiled back. Mick sang the lyrics to the song like he was serenading Drew, playing an imaginary piano to the keyboard-driven song.
D.C. your smile has left its mark upon my world, and
Even your barbs were like cut diamonds that you hurled, our
Disgust and drunkenness came much to their surprise, as
We roared and danced and sang with amber-clouded eyes, now
D.C. you gave me happiness and hobnob days and I will
Cherish them forever and when I get the blues and greys
D.C. you raised some backs up by the things you said, and
You stood your ground while weaker ones just turned and fled, but
When it came time to count your foes amongst your friends, well
There was respect and so much love that never ends, ‘cos
D.C. you gave them happiness and hobnob days and they will
Cherish them forever and when they get the blues and greys.
“Let’s pull into New Italy. The Wogs still make the best coffee,” Mick proclaimed unselfconsciously.
“Mate, are you serious?” Phil pulled him up.
“What? It’s a compliment.”
“Just don’t call them Wogs, okay?”
“Quick heads up, Phil. Order a weak soy latte, and they may wanna go Greek on you.”
“You’ve just forgotten the last time someone gave you a clip over the ear,” Phil chastised him.
“Do you take it up the clacker, Phil? Up the old Lower Clarence? Oh, that’s right, five days a week, nine to five on all fours. Yummy up the bummy.”
“You idiot,” Phil terminated the conversation.
They ordered takeaway coffees and wandered through the museum dedicated to the Italian immigrants who had carved a livelihood out of, and built a community in, the rugged surrounding bushland. One wall was adorned by an enormous family-tree-like mural: the other a sprawling exhibition of old photographs. There was also an interesting collection of tools, transport, teapots, and old telephones.
After finishing their coffees, Mick bought a pie to take away, and they continued along the M1 and turned off at Ballina. As they passed the Big Prawn Mick told them another story.
“I banged this chick up against the big prawn late one night in ‘94. After the Surf League Teams’ Challenge. You wouldn’t believe it, she gave me crabs.”
“Good on her!” Phil laughed.
“No word of a lie.”
“That’s too funny,” Phil admitted.
“You wanna know what’s even funnier? Giving Browneye MacPherson the greenlight and letting him chock her in the back of my Panel Van.”
“So, he got crabs too?”
“The full seafood platter. How sweet it is.”
“You’re an evil prick, Mick,” Phil acknowledged.
“Thanks for noticing, Phil. I sometimes wonder why I bother.”
They continued on, past Flat Rock, Boulders Beach and Lennox Head, which was crowded with surfers, and on to Byron Bay. They pulled into Suffolk Park caravan park just in time to set up their tent before it darkened. Drew was still on a high from his great surf, even though he couldn’t quite remember why he felt so good. He even conversed with Jenny when she rang, telling her everything was going well.
“Yeah, we’re having lots of fun. Mick and Phil fight all the time, but they laugh a lot together too. I just wish they’d just get along all the time.”
“That’s all you ever hoped for.”
Mick helped Phil prepare dinner while Drew played another song to celebrate the moment. This time, it was You Need a Friend by the Sunnyboys. Watching his friends working together, Drew remembered when they first visited the caravan park forty years earlier.
Teenage is what I’ve gone
You need a friend to get it done
All you want is a fine time
Not things to make you run
Run away
Oh Whao-oh-oh-oh
Teenager I am
My youth is fading away
Misconception a challenge
To get my way
To get my way
Oh Whoa-oh-oh-oh
And I-I-I-I cannot help
And I-I-I-I cannot share
And I-I-I-I cannot follow
Turn the people round
Turn the people round.
