by Max Howell
That night the Duke drove Mark to one of those few remaining villages, though the imprint of modernisation was already apparent, with cars and electricity clearly visible, and jeans rather than sarongs the order of the day.
As the evening went on the atmosphere became more Hawaiian, though Miller’s and other American beers were more in evidence than any native drink. But when the music started, and they all started singing their songs, the mood was transformed. There was dancing to the haunting Polynesian music, and as Mark watched the revellers silhouetted against the moon, saw the slow movement of the trees, and observed the heat rising from the food, covered with leaves, a pig being cooked in the ground, he felt he was in another age. He could at least imagine the glory of their previous existence.
When they eventually pulled out the pig and sweet potatoes and breadfruit, and passed pieces of food around by hand, Mark had that feeling once again as if he were in a time warp. He then recalled the Tahitians dancing in Quinn’s pub, immersing themselves in alcohol, vainly attempting to balance their heritage and modernity in a non-village atmosphere. The Hawaiians, at least in this one village, seemed to be preserving more of the vestiges of the past. What beautiful people, he thought, as he admired them by the light of the fire and the moon. Indeed, had advancing civilisation helped them? Then he looked over at the Duke, surely a descendant of some ancient king, a broad smile on his face, at perfect peace in this environment.
The next day the Lakemba moved out of Honolulu Harbour, with the Duke and a few of his friends on shore waving to him. Mark could smell the lei around his neck and felt sad as he drifted away from his new-found friend, Duke Kahanamoku. He could see why the Duke’s popularity had gone beyond his own country, and felt privileged to have met him. He tried to think if there were people in swimming like that at the present, and suddenly he thought of Murray Rose, who had some of that same dignity and grace. They both seemed to exude kindness and courtesy, and yet both would rank among swimming’s greatest competitors. Few people had that presence, and the Duke and Murray were two in his experience.
The last stretch was from Honolulu to San Francisco, and a certain excitement and yet apprehensiveness took over as their ship approached the port. When the approximate arrival was known he sent a cable to George Schroth, so that he could be met. San Francisco was another magical name: the Golden Gate Bridge, the earth-quake, the gold-rush period, Fisherman’s Wharf, William Randolf Hearst, the Bay area. Each had an association for him, that he had previously read about or heard about. He realised that a new chapter in his life was about to begin, and self-doubts started to crowd in on him again. But his spirits improved as he realised that there would be a letter awaiting him from Faith. He hoped she was all right, and then shuddered as he thought: could she be pregnant? If she were, what would he do? He would have to return, that is all there was about it. He loved her too much for anything else. Logic told him, however, that the odds were on his side, as it had only happened one night between them. All during the trip, he had kept up his ritual of saying he loved her each evening at 9 o’clock. It always made him feel good, and pleasant memories would come flooding back to him.
As the boat went under the Golden Gate Bridge, Mark experienced a rare thrill. It was a magnificent sight, and the bridge was bigger than he had imagined. The Schmeiser’s informed him that it was completed in 1937, and took four and one-half years to construct. They also said that it was approximately one mile long, and its twin cables, which he could see clearly, were more than three feet in diameter. The bridge was the main artery between San Francisco and what he learned was Marin County. It was painted red, and he felt it was welcoming him and wishing him luck. Traffic was moving across it and further on was the San Francisco Harbour, with Alcatraz clearly visible. The city reminded him of Sydney. The houses however were more white, and many were of wood and three levels, whereas Sydney’s were red brick and red tiles and generally of a single level. But there was a basic similarity between the cities and he was pleased that he was going there.
Mark had become very good friends with the Schmeisers on board the Lakemba, and Mr. Schmeiser pointed out the landmarks: “There’s ‘Coit Tower’ atop Telegraph Hill, and it was given by Lillie Hitchcock Coit, San Francisco’s first lady volunteer firefighter. It gives a wonderful view of the city – there is ‘Fisherman’s Wharf’, one of the most visited tourist areas in the world, the Bay area’s over there, Berkeley, Richmond and Oakland, there is the Fairmont and the Top of the Mark on top of Nob Hill,” he reflected. “You know, Mark, this was one of the great harbours of the world. Not just in the gold rush days, which made San Francisco’s reputation as a sprawling, brawling western city. The harbour was crowded with barques and schooners, sail was king then. There was our gold rush and the Alaskan one, and the name San Francisco conjured up thoughts of dancing girls and gawdy bars, the Barbary Coast, boxers like your Peter Jackson and James J. Corbett, the occasional shoot-out in the streets, gold dust on the ground and in the bars. They must have been great days. But to-day the harbour’s dead. The Matson Line still goes, but it is struggling financially. It runs from San Francisco to Honolulu, but its days are numbered because of the coming of the airlines. Anyone who was anyone used to take those Matson cruises. We took our honeymoon on it, as did so many others. San Francisco was one of the world’s great ports, but have a look, where are the cargo boats now unloading their products? The docks used to be packed, the place was a hive of activity. But now? The port’s dead! You can lay it all on the doorstop of a countryman of yours, Harry Bridges! Have you ever heard of him?
“Let me tell you, Mark, Harry Bridges single-handedly finished San Francisco as a major port. The boats now go into Portland and other centres. Bridges is an out- and -out communist, and he controlled the Seaman’s Union. The seamen however all swear by him. They should, those few who still work. Lewis was the same with the Miners’ Union. He wrecked that too. Another communist. They argued for conditions for workers which were unrealistic considering the economic state of the nation. Some of the rights they insisted on were absolutely ridiculous. You have to be realistic in business, and in the unions. Coal has to sell, and if wages go up too much ship-owners will find a cheaper outlet.
“Mind you, as I said, most of the seamen swear by Bridges. He mesmerizes them. He is a pretty forceful character. They tell me he has a cheque made out to him for a million dollars from the San Francisco ship-owners, and it is framed behind his desk. Underneath it there is a big sign -NOBODY BRIBES HARRY BRIDGES! Pretty impressive when some seaman walks in and sees that. But he has single-handedly ruined San Francisco’s shipping, and he is an out-and-out communist. Should be thrown out of America as an undesirable alien!”
“Why isn’t he, then, if he is that bad?” asked Mark.
“Damned if I know. Must have received citizenship somehow. They should revoke it. Maybe then San Francisco will become a great port again. The docks are deserted now. But forget about Bridges, San Fran is one of the great cities of the world. I never tire of it, it always generates excitement.”
“Well, I am looking forward to seeing it,” said Mark, searching the docks to see if he were met.
Then he saw him. George Schroth was standing there, waving, with what were obviously his children and wife standing beside him. He looked just like Mark remembered him, a big man with a kindly face. He was relieved to see him, and waved back. There were about six others with him, wearing navy blue wind-jackets with yellow sleeves. I wonder, thought Mark, if they are the other swimmers?
Mark had said good-bye to everyone on the ship, each person asking him to visit them. He was really impressed with the generosity of the Americans he had met. When they invited him, Mark felt they really meant it and all wished him well. Taffy, the steward, as he left, reminded him that the Wallabies would get done in at Cardiff. The Welsh, thought Mark, are unbelievable. They never give up! Rugby is not a game to them, but a religion.
When Mark stepped down the g
ang-plank he was surrounded and welcomed by George and his family; and he was right, the others were the swimmers. “Welcome to America, Mark,” beamed George. “The guys insisted on coming along. Felt you might be lost otherwise.” They patted Mark on the back and shook his hand. There was a bit of a sameness about them, the Cal jackets, as he was to learn they were, the crew cuts that somehow symbolised the American athlete, the lean bodies, the clean-cut faces. He immediately knew he was going to enjoy his association with them.
“Let me introduce the guys to you, Mark, though you will get sick of seeing their ugly faces. Here is Bruce Keppel, our individual medley specialist, Charles Holloway and Charles Harris are our breastrokers, Ron Volmer is our sprinter, Bill Floyd our backstroker, and Jack McNees and Bill Spore are our distance men, and this here’s our lone diver, Jim Lawson” They all shook hands, “and these are our managers, Rick Peck, Warren Robinson, Dick Van Vleck and Harry Fish.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Mark. “But managers? What are managers?”
“All our athletic teams at Berkeley have managers. They look after the team, Mark, the baggage and tickets when we travel, the swim-suits, the towels, all the ‘jock’ stuff. We could not get along without them.”
“Well,” laughed Mark, “it is about time they heard about that in Australia. I guess I have been my own manager.”
“You have done a pretty good job of it, then,” joked one of the swimmers. “We thought you would be wearing your gold medals. I would never take mine off if I ever won one. Did you bring them with you?”
“I did bring them, I can show you later,” said Mark. “They are in my cabin trunk. Talking about that, how will we get mine off the boat? It is immense.”
George intervened. “I told you we have managers. They brought a university truck, and they are well trained to take care of it. But you must go through customs first. Normally it takes a few hours to get your luggage cleared, but the university administration put in a few calls and there is someone here to-day to clear your luggage quickly. As I said, the boys will deliver it home.”
“I am not used to this treatment,” said Mark.
“It is only to-day, Mark. When we get you in the pool everyone is treated just the same,” replied George.
“That is the way I like it.”
In no time he was through the customs and immigration. George brought with him a letter admitting him to the University, and he was quickly provided with a student visa.
Mark clambered into a large station wagon with George and his family and they drove from the docks. “I’ll take you for a little run first,” he said. “We’re driving through ‘Fisherman’s Wharf’. There is DiMaggio’s. He and his brother Don were famous baseball players, though Joe is considered one of the game’s immortals. He married Marilyn Monroe, you may remember, so not all baseball players are dumb. But Joe is a great gentleman, and always had a considerable presence. He was the New York Yankees, and they have been the power- house since the days of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. See all the fishing vessels near the restaurants? The greatest fish and crab in America can be bought or eaten around here. Just nearby is ‘Ghiardelli Square’, where you can walk by the hour and windowshop, or eat in the restaurants. Our favourite place is here. It is named the ‘Captain’s Cabin’, where the waiters sing in turn, and we will occasionally spend almost a whole night there for the cost of a few drinks. ‘Fisherman’s Wharf’ is one of the great browsing areas of the world. It does not cost much to wander round arm-in-arm with your girl. The San Francisco Rowing Club is just over there, and it is where the real nut-cases do their annual winter or polar bear swim. I did not tell you before you came in case you changed your mind, but only the fool-hardy swim in San Francisco. The Alaskan current comes down the coast, and it is mighty cold. Even as far down as Pebble Beach a normal person will not swim. You have to drive to Los Angeles, to Huntington Beach and Long Beach, until swimming is even partially enjoyable, and even as far down as San Diego only New Zealanders and Canadians are foolish, or stupid enough, to swim all year round. Much further on here, however, is the St. Francis Yacht Club, and beyond, Fort Mason and Marino Boulevard.
“We have not much time to see anything else, but you can see ‘Coit Tower’ from here. We do not want to arrive home too long after the team, but it is that round building you can see now. Now there’s part of the fabulous San Francisco sky-line, ‘Telegraph Hill’, ‘Russian Hill’ and ‘Nob Hill’. You will have plenty of time to see it later on. I compare all this to Sydney, which is also one of the world’s greatest cities.
“Now we are moving onto the Bay Bridge.” Mark watched in awe, as the three-lane traffic moved onto the Bridge at speeds you could never attain in Sydney traffic. “This is one of the longest bridges of its kind in the world, whatever that means, and now you can start to see out towards the Bay area. We are prejudiced, but we think it is the finest living area in the world. In a short time we will be coming up to an intermediate island, ‘Treasure Island’, now a naval base, but an early World’s Exposition was held there. If you look out on the right you can now see Oakland. Jack London, who went to Australia and reported on the Tommy Burns- Jack Johnson heavyweight title fight, lived in Oakland for many years, and you can visit where he wrote Call of the Wild and many other books, now considered classics.
“On the left is Berkeley. Those are the Berkeley hills, and you can see the ‘Big C’ on the top of the hill. Our big game in football every year is against Stanford, and they come up here prior to the big game and try to paint the red of Stanford on our C. We never give up without a struggle, and we have our own ways of getting at their symbol, the axe. You can just make out the stadium now. It seats 84,000. It is situated right over the Andreas fault, so if there ever is a ‘quake’ it had better not be when a big game is on. Up there in the hills is where they split the atom during World War 11. The greatest brains in America were assembled there once Franklin Roosevelt made the decision to go ahead with the plan to shorten the war, even though it was old Harry Truman who had to make the decision to actually drop the bomb. You still cannot get near the place. The security is tight, as you might expect. We live up in the hills, just near the Berkeley Rose Gardens, which is just beautiful, thousands and thousands of roses. It was built as a work project for the unemployed during the depression, as was the ‘Hoover Dam’. They did a lot of good work then. In my opinion they should do similar projects now for the unemployed. Anyhow, Mark, you are now looking back at the Bay area. It may not be like Sydney to your mind, but we love it. It is one of the greatest areas in America in which to live.
“Now we are coming into University Avenue, which leads up to the campus. You can see the University straight ahead. See the gum trees, Mark? Make you feel homesick? There is an eucalyptus grove on the campus, and they have fires there at game time. We think our campus is beautiful, the buildings have a certain majesty and fit into the environment. And over there is ‘Harmon Gymnasium’, which is also the Physical Education Building. The swimming pool is right next to it there. You will know every single tile in it before you are through.
“There is Sather Gate, the entrance to the University. The money to build it was given by a wealthy alumni, Jane K. Sather. I heard once that when it was originally unveiled there were two male nudes in marble and underneath was the dedication - ERECTED BY JANE K. SATHER.”
“George,” interrupted his wife, “that is enough of that!”
George laughed easily. “It is a good story, but there are no nudes there now, so maybe it is simply a good story. There is Telegraph Avenue, and all the stores and restaurants are there. I never get tired of walking along it. It is where the action is, where you stop for a cup of coffee, buy your books, get your ‘Fybates’. Now we are facing the ‘Hearst Gymnasium’, it is the ‘Women’s Gymnasium’, and it was a donation by Phoebe Ann Hearst, William Randolph Hearst’s wife. He was a phenomenal character, one of America’s richest until he went belly-up. He would buy whole castles a
nd have them transported back to his fabulous estate at San Simeon, on the coast, brick by brick. You must visit there one day, you will not believe it. Anyhow the ‘Hearst Gymnasium’ is for the women. They have their own pool, and if you are a male, in order to get in there you have to run a gauntlet of sub-machine guns.”
“George”, injected his wife again, “you are exaggerating again. He is always doing that, Mark. Pay him no mind.” She had broken in twice to her husband’s conversation, but each time it was done gently, with a smile on her face. It was obvious that they understood each other well, and were very warm with one another. He felt instinctively he would fit in well with them.
“There is the ‘Rose Garden’. Our home sits just next to it, on Eunice Street. Now do me a favour, Mark, cover your eyes, and do not open them until I tell you.”
Mark did as he was told, and in a few minutes after rounding a corner the car came to a stop. “Not yet,” said his coach to Mark, “not till I tell you.”
He heard the door of the car open, and George and his children helped Mark get out. “Now!” said George, and as he opened his eyes a five-piece band broke out with what he was to learn later was the Californian fight song.
Our sturdy Golden Bear
Is watching from the skies,
Looks down upon our colors fair,
And guards us from his lair.
Our banner Gold and Blue,
The symbol on it too,
Means fight for California,
For California, through and through.
