When Mick rose early and saw the surf was small, he noticed some northward-moving lumps out near the horizon, a kilometre offshore. The red and orange swirling reflections of the sunrise on the surface of the water was evidence of a new south swell passing by Shelly Beach.
“Come on, boys, it’s flat, but there’s a bit of south swell further out. Let’s head up to Catho.”
Mick packed his gear quickly as the others got up and saw what he meant about the swell. They would have to trust him as far as Catherine Hill Bay was concerned. Still, Phil was happy to get an early start and packed up the tent. They looked east as they travelled north along the highway, seeing splashes of water on the northern headlands of the beaches they passed. Drew had just the song for the occasion. I Hear Motion by The Models.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Mick couldn’t believe Drew’s apt choice of music.
“What?” asked Phil.
“These songs he’s remembering. He’s having us on.”
“Naa, I told you, music’s the last thing they forget.”
“They? Who are they?” Mick pretended to be shocked.
“Them.” Phil playfully nodded toward Drew in the back.
“You’re terrible, Murial,” Mick reproached Phil.
“It’s true, people with Dementia remember music.”
“Ya recon?” Mick looked at Drew suspiciously.
While Mick sang along, Drew flashed back to their first trip away together.
I wanna see you
I wanna see you twist it around
Yeah, you wanna change
You should be movin’ it around
You can take it when you want it
You can waste it when you’ve got it
You can stop your baby cryin’
And baby’s dream is comin’, comin’ true
Yes it is
Now let it out, shout to the night
And so it goes, I hear motion, motion
Just count it out, shout in your sleep
You say the word, I hear motion
“Let’s grab a coffee from the cafe up here,” Phil suggested, pulling over and parking.
“I’ll get them; What’ll you have, Phil?”
“A weak soy latte.”
“You’re fucking joking.” Mick couldn’t believe his ears.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Hahaha, you’re a soy-boy! I knew it.”
“Caffeine upsets my stomach.”
“Oh, poor pesh. What about a cuppuccino, Drew?” Mick mispronounced cappuccino, and Drew nodded.
“My God, it’s alive!” Mick joked and Drew shook his head dismissively.
“One sugar?” Mick asked, and Drew nodded.
Ten minutes later Mick climbed back into the front passenger seat and handed his friends their coffees. As they drove off, Drew played another song. This time, it was Wide Open Road by The Triffids.
“Suppose I’m just gonna have to go with the flow,” Mick acknowledged, deciding to stop questioning Drew’s ability to select such appropriate songs.
“You missed your calling though, eh? Ya coulda been ‘DJ/DC’. The AC/DC of Aussie D.J’s” he added, unmercifully.
As usual, Mick sang loudly. He also dramatically mimicked the playing of the musical instruments with one hand: the drums, the keyboard and then the guitar, which was quite an achievement, as he was also intermittently sipping his coffee.
Two, three, four
Well, the drums rolled off in my forehead
The guns went off in my chest
Remember carrying the baby just for you
Crying in the wilderness
I lost track of my friends, I lost my kin
I cut them off as limbs
I drove out over the flatland
Hunting down you and him
The sky was big and empty
My chest filled to explode
I yelled my insides out at the sun
At the wide open road
It’s a wide open road
It’s a wide open road.
They drove the A49 coast road north, through The Entrance, and caught glimpses of some good surf out of the driver’s side windows when they passed through Norah Head. Mick craned his neck to see the surf while Drew continued to look ahead. The swell was breaking at about three to four feet in the centre of the beaches they passed, and the wind was a light sou wester. The sky was a broad, light blue canvas unmarked by clouds. They passed through Lake Munmorah and arrived at the little village of Catherine Hill Bay.
“I love this little old town,” Mick enthused.
“I know, it’s so classic, all the old miners’ shacks.” Phil looked left and right at the many unusually shaped dwellings.
“It’s heritage listed, you know.”
“Yeah, I remember you told us that the first time we were here.”
“Gawd, I better get some new trivia for the rest of the trip.”
As they drove along Flowers Drive, they saw the old Jetty on the southern corner of the beach. Good waves were breaking at the beach’s northern end, but the surf was already crowded.
“Poor man’s North Narrabeen,” Mick muttered.
“Must be a bloody recession,” Phil surmised.
“Turn around, Phil. Let’s surf Ghosties.”
“I’ve never surfed there. Is it easy to get to?”
“Yeah, stop worrying.”
“Will it be any good, though?”
“Mate, it might not be as good as that, but we’ll have it to ourselves.”
Phil made a U-turn, and Mick directed him back through the village, onto an old road, past Moonee Beach and Little Beach, and into Ghostie’s car park. Mick was right again; the waves weren’t quite as good as Catherine Hill Bay, but only three other surfers were out.
“I can’t even describe how stoked I am to be out of the city. I’ve been cooped up in my little flat for too long,” Mick revealed.
“Are you coming for a surf, Drew?” Phil asked, and Drew shook his head, gesturing, ‘No’.
“Come on, D.C., it’ll be just like the old days,” Mick tried.
“Don’t push him, Mick. You go out and have a quick one, and we’ll watch you.”
Mick didn’t need to be told twice. He whipped his board off the car’s roof, tore his clothes off, and changed into his boardshorts. Another song came on. It was the perfect choice: Get Out of the House by Boom Crash Opera.
Tonight I tried to climb the walls
But tonight I’m on the town
I used to hang from off the ceiling
But tonight I’m getting down, I’m getting down
My longing’s got much longer than before
I had to walk right out the door
The streets are wet and shiny in the rain
Get out of the house!
Mick surfed fast and loose and tore the meagre surf into little pieces. Phil grudgingly admitted to himself that Mick was a much better surfer than him or Drew. He saw it as evidence of Mick’s unwillingness to grow up and take on life’s responsibilities. Perhaps they would have been able to surf as well as Mick, had they not “done the right thing.” Then again, Mick had always been a much better surfer than them; even on that first trip away. He was gifted in that department. In a charitable moment, Phil wondered whether this was why Mick had dedicated his whole life to surfing. Because it was the only thing that he was ever really good at. More likely it was because he was selfish. Evidence of which was that Mick stayed out in the surf so long that Phil had to wave for him to come in.
“Not to boast, but I think I won that heat.” Mick pretended to humbly accept the recognition of an imaginary adoring crowd.
“You’re a dead-set fuckin’ lunatic, Mick,” Phil said impatiently.
“Is that envy you’re experiencing, Phil? It’s quite understandable. I mean, who can blame you?”
“Mate, anyone who surfs that well in his late 50s has definitely neglected other parts of his life.”
“I don’t think ‘neglected’ is the word you’re looking for, Phil. I think you mean ‘completely ignored’.”
“A misspent youth?”
“Youth? Haha. Life!”
“Do you mind if we get some breakfast now?” Phil asked.
“Mate. Take a look at me, I’m wasting away, I’m dead set Lee Marvin.”
“We’ll get a feed in Swansea, then drive up to Treachery and set up for the night.”
“Sounds like a plan, eh, Drew?” Mick made eye contact with Drew, who nodded.
Mick got changed as Phil, ever cautious, tied Mick’s board back onto the roof rack. They drove north, through a burned-out forest of blackened skeletons of gum trees, casuarinas and melaleuca paperbarks. The once white sandy ground was pitch black. It was like a dystopian sculpture garden on a distant planet in a science fiction movie. They passed by where a few old houses had once been. All that remained were the red-brick chimney gravestones of the hundred-year-old homes. It was a spooky reminder of the bushfires that had raised to the ground a small village nearby last summer. Autumn felt far less threatening.
Phil pulled into a service station with a few long trucks parked alongside it next to a gravel pit. He filled the car with petrol, re-parked, and they had breakfast inside the old-fashioned service station café which had lots of photos of big rigs on the walls.
“Can I get some money for petrol, Mick?” Phil asked.
“Jenny said she was paying for everything, including food and petrol,” Mick responded.
“Mate, you’re kidding.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You’re such a user. A bloody freeloader. Always on the take.”
“Mate, I wouldn’t have come if I thought it would cost me.”
“Nice.”
“How much did she give you?”
“She gave me eight hundred for the whole trip. I didn’t want to take it, but she insisted.”
“Twisted your arm, eh?”
“Mate, it’s my car, I’m doing all the driving and shopping and cooking and setting up the frickin’ tent and pulling it down every day.”
“That’s the arrangement you made, Phil, not me.”
After a silent breakfast, Mick bought a carton of Victoria Bitter beer and a bag of ice. He emptied both into his Esky. He hid the brown paper bagged bottle of El Toro Tequila from the others. During the next leg of the drive, after they passed through Newcastle, Mick asked Phil if they could go through the old town of Karuah.
“They do a six-oyster pie at the pie shop there,” Mick told the others as if it were underground information few people knew.
“I can’t believe you could eat again so soon,” Phil commented.
“Be rude not to,” Mick replied quite seriously.
“You must have a lightning-fast metabolism.”
“That’s not all that’s lightning-fast about me. I mean, you’ve seen me surfing.”
“Anything else you do quickly?”
“There’s one other thing I’m very proud of,” Mick smirked, jokingly.
“What’s that?”
“I can have sex so fast it’s over before I pick up my Tinder date.”
“Not to boast, eh?” Phil imitated him.
“There really should be awards for it, eh? Fuck the four-minute mile, what about the four second minge massacre?” Mick crossed his arms proudly.
“I figured you as more of a porn guy.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I like to share myself around. I mean, it’s only fair.”
“That must be nice for you. The companionship, I mean.”
“Surprisingly inexpensive.”
“What about for the ladies? You must cost them a fortune.”
“They get their money’s worth. A woman would need a six-figure salary to afford my whole seven-inches, year-round I mean.”
“I can believe it.”
“Women adore me, Phil. They find me fascinating,” Mick admitted smugly.
“Like visiting a zoo.”
“Aiieee!”
“You sound like you were just impaled,” Phil laughed.
“I was! Impaled by a gay Impala.” Mick turned around to see Drew joining in on the laughter.
Mick bought an oyster pie while the others explored the old township’s shops. Phil commented to Drew on how hard it must have been for the many small businesses when the new highway opened, and the shops, restaurants, and motels “fell off the map.” Drew replied succinctly: “Mm.”
Back in the car, Drew played another song. Once again, the track’s mood perfectly suited the atmosphere. It was Sounds of Then by GANGgajang. Drew flashed back to their 1984 trip up the coast and remembered his friends as they were back then – the same in many ways but so much younger.
I think I hear the sounds of then
And people talking
The scenes recalled, by minute movement
And the songs they fall, from the backing tape
That certain texture, that certain smell.
To lie in sweat, on familiar sheets
In brick veneer on financed beds
In a room, of silent hardiflex
That certain texture, that certain smell
Brings home the heavy days
Brings home the night time swell.
Out on the patio we’d sit
And the humidity we’d breathe
We’d watch the lightning crack over cane fields
Laugh and think, this is Australia.
The song triggered Phil’s envy of Mick’s reckless, devil may care attitude to life. While Mick had been surfing up and down the coast and overseas, he had been sweating his arse off humping dirt and planting millions of seedlings. Perhaps there was something to Mick’s philosophy of life. Ironically, Mick was thinking along similar lines; that Phil had done well for himself. Mick felt a tinge of jealousy at everything Phil had achieved, especially having a loving family and owning his own nice car and house. Neither articulated these thoughts nor complimented the other. These were admissions they were unlikely to ever voice. Eventually, and silently, both men justified their life choices to themselves, each coming to the same conclusion; they had done the right thing. This train of thought led to them both thinking defensively and aggressively.
Mick asked Phil if he would take the old road through Bulahdelah. “You’ve got to see the old wrecker’s yard.”
“You sure ask a lot of others, Mick, don’t you?”
“Oh, that old chestnut. Something eating away at you, Phil?”
“It’s just that you take so much for granted.”
“Why are you pissed off, Phil? Maybe we should talk it through,” Mick mocked him.
“How about the fact that I’ve worked every day of my fucking life, and a large percentage of my taxes have gone to supporting dole bludgers like you, who milk the system. How would you feel?”
“There it is! Out in the open. At last! Phil’s fucked up feelings.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Mate, that’s your fault not mine. You chose your path, not me.”
“That doesn’t make it right. Drew and I have sacrificed so much of our lives to do the right thing, while you’re like a parasite on society.”
“Yeah, well look at where all that sacrifice got you two. Bitter and twisted. Ha! What a great couple of new nicknames. Bitter and Twisted. Comedy gold.”
“Drew has provided well for his family.”
“Yeah, well I think he should have followed his heart, and become a DJ, but you had to convince him to have a ‘proper job’,” Mick made quotation marks in the air.
Begrudgingly, Phil followed Mick’s directions and drove to the massive lot of wrecked cars in the old country town. They went in through the shop on the street, and Mick asked the old man behind the counter if it was okay if they looked around. Mick pointed out the pin board of colour photos of car crashes people had died in that the yard owner had attended with his tow truck. In pen on each of the images of the badly smashed vehicles was scrawled the date of the accident and number of deaths in each car – 7/4/77 – Fatal x two, 9/12/82 – Fatal x one, 14/6/94 – Fatal x three. There were dozens of them. Outside, the rows of crashed and sometimes bloodied cars stood like a vast monumental maze, dedicated to far more dangerous times.
Back in the car, Phil followed the main road up the steep, narrow, windy old highway, over the mountain range, and back down onto the M1. They turned off to the right, drove along The Lakes Way by Myall Lakes, through Bungwhal and Charlotte Bay, and turned right again into Boomerang Drive. They continued through the tranquil coastal village of Seal Rocks and arrived at the camping ground at the end of the road, Treachery Beach.
Not much had changed on this stretch of coast. The only real difference was that there were many more million-dollar holiday houses than there had been in the ‘80s. Phil set up the tent and gear while Mick guided Drew over the ever-changing sand dune to check the surf. The conditions were perfect; a three to four-foot south swell was breaking cleanly on an A-frame left and right-hander in the northern corner of the beach. They returned to the campsite and Mick told Phil the good news.
“Mate, it’s perfect for Drew’s first surf.”
While Mick helped Drew find his board shorts and waxed his board, Phil secured Drew’s new leg-rope. Despite failing memory and very little speech, Drew seemed to be able to select the best song for the moment, time after time. They listened to Surfing with a Spoon by Midnight Oil. The opening guitar riff was like the sound of the surf they were about to have.
Working in the city from 9 to 5
Traffic on the highway gonna blow my mind
Surfing with a spoon all the rest of the time
Oh yeah, all the rest of the time.
Their moods settled during that surf. The tension between Phil and Mick eased and they all caught lots of great waves, laughed, and joked around like they were still in their teens. Drew kept flashing back to the old days and felt as good as he had in a long time. These selective memories appeared like Super 8 home movies, flashbacks flickering on the interior walls of his brain, projected from somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. After surfing for a few hours, they struggled, exhausted, over the dune back to their campsite, which had been taken over by wildlife. Crows squawked aggressively while Magpies cheekily pecked at plastic bags of garbage overflowing in a bin. Reptiles, including a Goanna and Frill Necked Lizards, crawled back into the scrub, deserting the temptation of the sunbaked greasy sand and bones from last night’s meal in the BBQ area.
They washed off with fresh water under the outside shower at the amenities block and sat together on a picnic table in the afternoon sun. Mick wandered off and returned with three cold stubbies of V.B. The boys charged their drinks, and Mick and Phil tried not to talk about old times.
“Everything we need is right here, right now,” Mick shared philosophically.
“Freedom,” Phil nodded his head.
“This camping life, like tramps in the olden days, trekking about and enjoying every moment like it’s our last,” Mick concluded.
“You know, Mick, I’m envious of how many times you must have surfed your way up and down this coast,” Phil admitted.
“Yeah, I must have travelled this highway a hundred times. But you know what?”
“What?”
“While I was doing that, over and over again, ad infinitum, you were building something I now wish I had.” An admission like this was rare from Mick.
Drew’s phone rang and he mumbled something to his wife the others couldn’t hear. “It’s so good when they get along, but they fight all the time too.” Later, after a few more beers and dinner around the fire, Mick’s eyes lit up as he pulled out the bottle of tequila. It was like he was unsheathing a Samurai sword. He set three shot glasses on the table and poured three nips of the clear alcohol. Phil shook his head in disbelief at what they were doing. Mick laughed at how perfect the song was that Drew selected for the occasion: The Nips are Getting Bigger by Mental as Anything.
Started out, just drinkin’ beer
I didn’t know why or what I was doin’ there
Just a couple more, make me feel a little better
Believe me when I tell you, it was nothin’ to do with the letter
Ran right out of beer, took a look into the larder
No bones, nothin’, I’d better go and get something harder
Back in a flash, I started on a dash of Jamaica Rum
Me and Pat Malone, drinking on our own
Whoa-oh, the nips are gettin’ bigger
Whoa-yeah, the nips are gettin’ bigger
Whoa-oh, the nips are gettin’ bigger
Yeah. mm, they’re gettin’ bigger.
Later that night Phil made sure Drew had gone to the toilet before guiding him to bed, while Mick sat up alone, pondering his life.
Chapter Four of Highway One – The Mix Tape Reunion, will be available next week:
For $25, including postage. Just DM me on Facebook or email me at [email protected]
