The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life

by Jarratt, John

  After the water finally escaped down the road on the other side of the school, we went up and peered through the windows. About 2 inches of water covered the floor of the entrance way. Just across from the entrance way were the toilets and the headmaster’s office. The toilets were fine; it was the headmaster’s carpeted office that gave us away. It was completely soaked, including some cardboard file boxes and paperwork stacked on the floor. Outside, the erosion to the pathway led even the worst detective to the cause of the problem.

  Overall, it turned out not too badly. Our parents were left out of it and we only got two cuts of the cane each. Better than the six we got for the rock catastrophe.

  When the snow melted we turned our attention to hockey. Just above ‘our dam’ the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Authority had attempted to flatten out a playing area. It was about half the width and length of a regular hockey field, but we made do. After a while it all got a bit boring, so I suggested ‘no-rules hockey’ (although there were a couple – hockey 1, 2, 3 and out).

  We were swinging the hockey sticks well over our shoulders, like we were going for six in cricket, and if the other bloke was getting the better of you, just knock him arse over head. We were swinging, whacking, punching, pushing, clashing. Sometimes five or six of us around the ball all trying to hit it at once. As you can imagine, it didn’t end well. After a couple of weeks of bruising and cutting each other, one boy copped a hockey stick, full force, right across the forehead. It split his head from one side to the other. The amount of claret spurting out of his head was staggering.

  About fifteen of us got six of the best. We couldn’t care less, we were worried about our mate. I can’t remember his name. Stocky guy, dark features. If you ever run into a bloke like that in his sixties with a bloody big scar on his forehead, ask him if he’s from Island Bend.

  Mucking about

  On the weekends, we’d go up to the shop first up. You could buy most weekly household needs from the shop. Had to; the nearest big shopping centre was Cooma, an hour’s drive away.

  It was the easiest shop to steal from if you had a good team of schoolboys on the job. We’d knock off a heap of lollies and chocolates and a packet of smokes and head for the Snowy River. Never got caught.

  We had a beautiful swimming hole. It looked like something from a Hollywood set. Rapids above the swimming hole squeezed into a waterfall about 3 foot high. We’d fly down the rapids getting bruised by the rocks underneath, go over the waterfall and drop into the swimming hole at a rate of knots. To one side was a rock about 6 foot high with a flat top. You could dive off it, but you had to dive well out or you’d hit another rock just under the water and kill yourself. We came up with a better solution. We stole a wooden ladder from around the Island Bend Dam site. We took it to the swimming hole and placed it on top of the rock. We then found two humungous rocks. Six of us got around each one and somehow rolled them into place on the land end of the ladder to hold it down. Ta-da, a diving board, and it worked beautifully. Can’t tell you the fun we had. It was everything a boy is. I’ve been back to the Snowy River as an adult in summer. I waded in to my knees, and it was so cold my ankles immediately began to ache like you wouldn’t believe. How the hell I swam in it all day as a kid is beyond me.

  Our other main summer activity was trout fishing. I loved it then, but went off it as an adult. The best place to fish was where the river went from gentle rapids into an expanse of calm water. There was an island in the middle of the rapids, bordering on the calm expanse of the river. It was basically a massive rock with a couple of hardy shrubs growing out of it. This was where we fished.

  It was a beautiful day. I was sitting back with my brother, Robert Hawkes and my cousin Steven, who was visiting from Wollongong. Mum packed us a lunch, plus we had stolen chips, chocolates and smokes, and all’s right with the world. We’d pulled in a couple of fish using march flies, bloody big flies that sting you. There were hundreds of the bloody things; we’d all just sit in the yard after breakfast and catch a jarful. A skill I still have.

  We’d caught a couple of rainbow trout and we were sitting back sucking on a Craven A when we suddenly noticed the river getting noisy. We stood up and looked around and within thirty seconds the river was roaring and rising alarmingly. We quickly gathered our bags and fishing gear and tried to get to shore. I went first and in no time I was struggling to stop my legs from being washed downstream. I stepped back to the island and threw my gear on the rock. I attempted to cross again with my arms free. Already it had got worse and my bony little legs weren’t strong enough to cross. I struggled back to the rock and told the boys that we’d have to wait it out and hope someone came to help us.

  The rock was normally about 4 foot above the water. It was now about 2 foot and rising. The large expanse of water just downstream from us went from calm to boiling. The river was instantly in flood. Why? Guthega Dam had opened the floodgates to turn the massive turbines that make hydro-electricity. Millions of gallons of water were exiting the power plant and feeding the river.

  We were now all huddled on top of the rock, hoping it wouldn’t go under. It was late afternoon and we were scared stiff of being stuck out on the rock at night.

  It was possible to drive down to where we were, and luckily my dad put two and two together and came to our rescue. He knew they were going to start the hydro plant but he’d forgotten about it. When it was getting late and we hadn’t showed up, it clicked.

  He came to the riverbank, took one look at us on the rock and knew things could get fatal. He yelled out that he was going back up to town to get more help and equipment, and that he was going to ring Guthega and get them to turn the turbines off. It cost the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Authority thousands in lost electricity to have the plant turned off.

  However, it would take many hours for the river to go down and at that moment it was still rising.

  From then on I was fine. My old man was invincible; he’d get us off the rock. About half an hour later Dad was back with two Land Rovers, ropes and more manpower. The next trick was to throw a rope to us from the shore. He had to throw it about 30 feet. He tied a short length of heavy galvanised pipe to the end of the rope and started throwing it at us. It wasn’t easy: most of the early throws were falling short, a couple missed the mark, and finally, Dad did his nana.

  ‘Fuckin’ useless mongrel shit piece a fuckin’ rope!’

  Throw. It hit the rock, the pipe nearly hit me in the head, but we managed to grab it. Dad got me to tie the rope around the top of the rock. ‘Use a bowline, don’t want the bloody thing to come undone.’ Not a problem, I was a Scout and Dad was Skipper, the Scoutmaster of the First Kosciuszko, the highest-altitude scout group in Australia. (More about that later.)

  Dad tied a short rope around his waist and onto the main rope for safety, and went into the rapids going arm over arm on the rope. The rapids were tearing at him, pushing him downstream. The rope became a tight V, and sometimes the water went over his head. He ploughed on like a man possessed. He got to the island and got us to tie a safety rope to the main rope and took us across one at a time. He crossed the rapids eight times to get the four of us to safety. Other blokes offered to give him a spell, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  I was the last to cross. I used both hands on the rope, Dad used one, and his other arm was around my waist. The strength of the man was amazing. I can still feel that arm; it was like being held by a boa constrictor. The force of the raging river was beyond belief: I don’t think I’ve been that frightened since, and I don’t frighten easily. By the time I crossed it was dark, which didn’t help. Thank Christ for Dadzilla. He was thirty-seven at the time.

  Scouts and Rugby League

  All his life Dad was outdoorsy. As a kid he loved scouting, Rugby League and hitting people, and was much the same when he grew up. When we lived at Wongawilli he played first grade for Dapto and was the skipper for First Dapto Scout Group.

  Island Bend had a Leagu
e team. Dad played in the second row. ‘Always played blindside, break from the scrum and stiff-arm the halfback coming around the blindside. Ref could never see it, no videos in those days, mate. Grab a handful of dirt, pack in the scrum, throw the dirt in the opposing hooker’s eyes, win the scrum!’

  Two memories of the old man playing for Island Bend.

  Island Bend versus North Cooma. Brian and I come up with a phrase which we delivered in unison at the top of our voices: ‘Get stuffed, North Cooma!’ This is a polite way of saying ‘Get fucked’, however, it’s 1964 and we were still getting backhanders for saying ‘bugger’. This was outrageous for kids to scream out in those days. The whole crowd froze and looked directly at us.

  ‘Go to your room and wait for me.’

  Dad came in and didn’t belt us straightaway. ‘Do you know what “get stuffed” means?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means get f-ed.’

  ‘So you do know what it means?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We then got a hiding.

  Island Bend versus Jindabyne at Jindabyne. Around about September 1964; Dad’s last game of League. He was thirty-eight. Dad got crash-tackled by this big front-row forward. He got up gingerly with ‘a shirtfull of broken ribs’. He managed to pack into the scrum. Suddenly the scrum broke up and revealed Dad savagely kicking the big front-rower repeatedly in the shins. Dad had his arm around his ribs, and the front-rower thumped Dad in the face. This was what Dad wanted, so he kept kicking, the other bloke kept hitting, and they both got sent off. Dad knew he’d have to go off, so he took the front-rower with him. As they were walking off, the front-rower was yelling at Dad, wanting to fight him in the dressing sheds. Dad hit him with this beautiful line: ‘Somebody put a carrot in this donkey’s mouth.’

  Dad loved fixing things and doing things with his hands; he was always hungry to learn things. From cabinet-making to building an entire house, plumbing, welding, stripping motors and putting them together again, concreting, bricklaying. He trained as an electrician. If he couldn’t find the right bolt he’d get the thread dies out and make one. He could do just about anything, the bastard.

  He loved Scouting, hiking, camping out, reading compasses, setting up the tents, ropes. He could do any knot, splice, you name it. Island Bend had Cubs, Scouts and Brownies. Dad was the ‘skipper’ of 1st Kosciuszko and Mum was Brown Owl for the Brownies. I joined the Scouts and Brian joined the Cubs. Dad treated me the same as the rest of the Scouts, nicely. Why couldn’t he do that at home? So, I loved the Scouts.

  We went to two jamborees (a great national gathering of Scout troops). In 1963 it was at Mount Canobolas near Orange, New South Wales. I can’t remember the jamboree at all, but I remember going to and from it. Dad scored an SMA flatbed truck with a canvas canopy. The Scout troop and all our camping gear went in the back and Dad and his mate went in the cab up front. That would never happen with today’s safety codes. We stopped off at Bathurst and I saw my first car race at Mount Panorama. It was a sports-car race. An E-type Jag won it easily. Watching it go down Conrod Straight doing about 150 miles per hour was exhilarating. It’s an indelible memory.

  It was about a five-hour trip home. If we needed to piss we’d have to do it through a crack in the canvas. Everyone seemed to manage the task well. Not me. It was tough enough getting my puny boy dick through the crack. I was busting so the flow was substantial, and then the truck hit a bump. My dick slipped back inside and was spraying the canvas and splashing back onto equipment and boys. I was frantically trying to get it back to the crack, which made things worse. I was a very sad, isolated Scout that day.

  The Dandenong Jamboree was in 1964. I remember this one. A sea of canvas tents filled the beautiful parkland created in a valley in the Dandenong Ranges. There was lots of fun to be had with flying foxes, activities, hiking and competitions. At night all the Scouts, hundreds of them, would gather in an amphitheatre with a bonfire in the middle. We’d all sing songs in rounds, like:

  Fire’s burning, fire’s burning

  Draw nearer, draw nearer.

  In the gloaming, in the gloaming (whatever that meant)

  Come sing and be merry.

  Pretty wussy now, but I loved it at the time.

  Mark Jones could hypnotise people, especially Graeme Wright. We were all going by train in to Melbourne, and then down to St Kilda on the tram to Luna Park. Graeme was very popular and he was too tired to come with us because he’d been partying too hard. Mark hypnotised him to have lots of energy until he got back to the park. Suddenly Graeme was pumped and off we all went. When we got to Luna Park we did the Luna Park fun stuff, of course, but that’s not what I remember. I was twelve years old, and I’d recently started masturbating this hairless little todger of mine until it was swollen on one side. I was walking with my mates at Luna Park when this hot teenage girl walked up to me, reached down and gently squeezed my balls. It was the greatest sensation of my very short life thus far. I stood there ecstatic, frozen and gobsmacked. She walked on and I came out of my stupor.

  ‘She just grabbed me by the balls, she just grabbed me by the balls.’

  Timmy Thompson (our Fonz at the time) said, ‘I know, mate, she wants you. Go after her.’

  I took off like a shot, but for the life of me I couldn’t find her, thank Christ. Because I know now she was just taking the micky. If I’d found her, she’d have demoralised me for sure.

  I could hardly wait to get back to camp and have a wank to a true fantasy. The minute we walked back into the park, the strangest thing happened. Graeme Wright suddenly ran out of energy and slumped onto the ground, and we had to carry him to his tent. Mark Jones had the power.

  Scouts on skis

  Dad could stand up on skis and he’d mastered the snowplough. We were kids, so we could ski like champions in no time.

  One day the old man took the Scouts on a ski excursion. We were skiing the chair at Perisher. Dad managed to ski up and down, taking the safer slopes. Sometimes we’d have to wait for him for ten minutes at the bottom, no worries. The weather at Perisher can change almost instantly. A very dark snow cloud had come across. Dad was first in line and we were all behind him. He jumped on the chair and off he went. We were next, but the ‘towy’ wouldn’t let kids go up because there was a blizzard at the top.

  It took the old man two hours to get down. He got lost a couple of times and he fell over so much that he looked like the abominable snowman. ‘I couldn’t bloody see most of the bloody time.’ Ya gotta laugh!

  The sensational sensation of skiing

  Did Dad buy us shiny new skis? Nah! He bought second-hand wooden skis from a ski-hire joint. He sanded them back, painted them all blue, put a black strip down the middle using electrical tape embalmed by painting the whole thing with two-part epoxy resin. He turned them over, sanded the underside back to the wood, added three coats of epoxy resin and new runners. He reconditioned second-hand bindings, screwed them into place, fitted our second-hand ski boots to them. He handed them to us along with a bar of wax and Bob’s your sister’s aunt!

  We starting skiing at Smiggin Holes, a stone’s throw from Perisher. Nothing too steep or dangerous, a great place to learn. Brian and I managed to get up the T-bar after four hours on the beginners slope. We fell off at the top and got tangled up, but managed to slide to safety. We skied down very gingerly, falling over every 3 feet, and then I twisted my ankle badly, mainly because of my antiquated ski bindings and boots. They were pre-self-release. Thanks, Dad. I couldn’t ski for three weeks, by which time my brothers could ski rings around me. By the end of the season, we could ski as good as anybody. We were in the kids’ slalom races. Barry was five and he was a natural. By the end of the season, he was winning races in his age group.

  My brothers and I love skiing. It’s a lifetime love affair for us. When you have a great run down an exceptional slope on fresh snow, it’s the closest thing to flying without wings. You can be
turning like a dancer at 50 miles per hour with the wind blowing with tremendous force up under your arms and past your face. No motor, no horse helping you go at a phenomenal speed, just you and your ability to make it happen.

  We did some crazy shit. There was a rock about 20 feet high. As kids, it wasn’t unusual for ten or so of us to ski off that rock one after the other, and we flew through the air like shot cannons. A few of us would crash, but somehow the next kid coming down would manage not to crash on top of you. I looked at that rock when I was twenty and I didn’t have the guts to go over it.

  My two brothers and I would play follow the leader. The leader changed with every run. When you were leader you’d try to find something scary to ski around or over. On one particular run I was third man, Brian was lead. There were two big rocks about 20 feet long with a gap between them that the T-bar tow went through. Brian turned into this gap and there were two people on the T-bar about to come into it. Brian and Barry got through safely and I came into the gap at the top end just as the T-bar was about to come into the bottom end. It was like a train crash was about to happen. I was about to hit them, so I threw myself to the left as soon as I cleared the rock. My skis came last and clipped one of the skiers on the T-bar. My skis came off (I had a release pair now) and the skiers fell off the T-bar. I had one hell of a crash: I went into a snow gum and I thought I’d broken my shoulder. I collected my skis, and got called for everything by the skiers. I skied down to my brothers, who were waiting and laughing. I unclipped my skis and went over and belted Brian. We got banned from skiing for the rest of the day.

  Barry was the best skier, then came Brian, then me. Barry was skiing in the under-eight ski comp. They ran the age events in the morning and the open in the afternoon. The final race event for the year was held at Smiggins. It was a big day. The winners would be read out at a gala event at the hotel that night. Brian and I went up with Dad earlier in the day, and Mum followed with Barry. It was a bit icy and Mum slid off the road into about six feet of snow and it took a while to get her out. By the time they got to gin, Barry had missed his race and he was inconsolable. Dad tried to calm him down and suggested he ski in the open. Anyone could ski in the open; you didn’t have to be an adult.