That Summer at Boomerang

by Phil Jarratt

  When Duke’s plate was clean, Francis Evans leaned across the table and whispered: ‘Busy day ahead, Paoa, and I don’t see much lunching on the agenda, so you might want to go again.’ Francis and young George Cunha were laughing, but Duke already had the bell in his hand, ringing for service. After he had ordered another steak, he grinned at his teammates, a little embarrassed. He said: ‘Don’t want no belly rumbling at the welcome party, do we?’

  After breakfast the Hawaiians took a corner table in the stateroom, and Francis unclipped his leather briefcase and handed around typed copies of the schedule. He had been over this a dozen times, but young men with water in their ears, it never hurt to keep things fresh in their minds. Duke winked at George, just nineteen and the baby brother of his friend, Lawrence Cunha, who had finished second to him at Alakea Slip back in 1911 when the whole thing had started. George stifled a grin. Francis was only doing his job.

  Francis was a year younger than Duke, and would not have been managing the two-man touring team had Bill Rawlins not been appointed to the Hawaii legislature. Some people were intimidated by Big Bill Rawlins, but Duke was not one of them.

  Outside of his mother and father, Big Bill Rawlins was the single most important person in Duke’s life. But Mr Rawlins wasn’t here, and Francis Evans was. But Francis was an okay guy, and since their half-day sightseeing outing in Samoa, their only port of call, Duke had begun to warm to the fellow in the bottle-thick spectacles.

  From the bridge of the Ventura, Sydney Harbour was a postcard picture this early summer noon, a north-easterly breeze flecking the blue water with white caps like a pointillist painting, the working vessels of the city plying back and forth loaded with supplies, the low-slung ferries belching puffs of smoke from their twin funnels. They passed by a larger ferry, heading to the bay just inside the headlands, and Duke noticed perhaps a hundred children in bright beach clothes and sailor suits, lining the railing to wave at them. He waved back. Life had been a bit like that since Stockholm.

  As the Ventura was guided by two tugs into its berth on the western side of the quay, Duke noticed around a small headland to the east the ships of the Australian Navy, two destroyers among them, and along the portside he saw men in blue and khaki uniforms—an unmistakable sign that Australia was a country at war.

  Soon after the ship docked and passengers began to make their way down the main gangplank, the three Hawaiians were ushered by the ship’s officers back into the main stateroom, where a group of men in morning suits awaited them. Duke immediately recognised Mr W.W. Hill and stepped forward to greet him with a warm handshake. Duke had met Bill Hill’s brother, Bert, who had been manager of the Australians in Stockholm in 1912, and just last summer Bill had visited Duke in Honolulu to talk about an Australian tour. Duke said, ‘Mr Hill, long time, huh? Good to see you.’

  ‘And you too, Duke. Welcome to Sydney. We’re so very glad you’ve finally made it. We thought you could meet the official delegation and take care of the landing formalities here in comfort before meeting the gentlemen of the press down on the dock.’

  George Cunha, Francis Evans and Duke Kahanamoku, Sydney, December 1914. Photo courtesy Snow McAlister Collection, Surfing Australia.

  As if on cue, waiters brought in tea and sandwiches, and Mr Hill introduced the rest of the reception committee: James Taylor, E.S. Marks, C.D. Jones, and W.W. Scott, all of them luminaries in Sydney sporting and civic circles. One of them—and Duke could never remember which, when he told this story later—bowed deeply and said, ‘Welcome, your royal highness,’ at which moment George almost convulsed while trying to stifle a laugh. Duke caught the teenager’s eye with that authoritative look of his, and George quickly controlled himself.

  Duke had been meeting and greeting like this for years now. He knew his stuff. He saw the double-takes and sideways glances as much as he saw the genuine thrill at meeting a world champion, and he handled them all the same, with a broad smile and the noble bearing that some seemed to think was his birthright. For their part, Mr Hill’s delegation and the immigration officers showed only a trace of surprise at the composition of the team from Hawaii—two smallish Anglo-looking men, one of them just a lad, and a six-foot one-inch, 183-pound full-blooded Hawaiian in a tailored suit, high-collared dress shirt and silk tie, just recently described by an over-wrought San Francisco reporter as ‘the most magnificent human male that God ever put on Earth’. Duke could laugh at that kind of nonsense, but he well knew that he had a presence, that when he looked you in the eye with that gentle yet powerful face of his, all slanting cheekbones, dark eyes and wide, full-lipped mouth, he commanded attention, and always got it.

  When the tea was drunk, the paperwork concluded and the niceties all done, Mr Hill ushered the Hawaiian team along the ship’s corridor and onto the deck where a secondary gangplank had been set, and a section of the dock roped off for the press. Francis Evans led the team down onto Australian soil (or, in this case a hardwood wharf), but the cameras and the jostling men waving pens and notepads were not here for him.

  ‘Duke! Duke! Duke!’ The cries for his attention were overwhelming. ‘How do you like Australia?’ shouted a man in a felt hat, waving a notepad and pencil in front of him. Before Duke could think of a witty answer the questioners were drowned out by the crowd further down the dock beyond the ropes.

  ‘Three cheers for the Duke,’ shouted one man, and the chant went up: ‘Hip-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hooray!’ Oh, Lordie! Duke had seen it all before, but adulation never ceased to embarrass him. The big smile was set in place and he just kept beaming it out there, filling Sydney’s steamy grey-blue docklands with its radiance.

  Three vehicles were waiting at the end of the dock. Into a pickup truck, that looked for all the world to Duke like the Honolulu Police Department van that his father used to drive sometimes, went all the luggage, bound straight for the Oxford Hotel in King Street. Into two fine convertible Tourers went the Hawaiians and their hosts—Duke and Bill Hill riding together—bound for the Domain Municipal Swimming Baths for official photographs, not to mention a scoop for the late edition of the Sydney Sun.

  ‘You ride up front, Duke,’ said Mr Hill, ‘for the view.’ Duke clambered in and found himself in possession of the steering wheel. ‘Oh, my,’ he said, embarrassed. He got out and trotted around to the other door. ‘Sorry,’ Duke said as the driver climbed in next to him.

  ‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ the driver said. ‘But do you mind me asking, are automobiles different where you’re from?’

  Duke looked the driver up and down. Unfortunately the automobile was not his strong suit in conversation, but he tried. ‘Well, where I’m from there aren’t so many, but I’ve driven a truck or two, just back and forth while loading, working down on the docks, and I’ve seen a whole lot more when I’ve travelled back east, and as far as I can tell, this here vehicle is built back to front, brudda. And I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, but you seem to be driving on the wrong side of the road.’

  Laughing, Duke held out his big hand over the transmission column as the auto trundled up Macquarie Street. ‘Name’s Duke, but friends call me Paoa. It kinda rhymes with slower, which I’m not.’ (This was a line Duke used often to break the ice, even though the pronunciation of his middle name was a little more complex than that.)

  The driver shook his hand briefly before gripping the wheel with both hands again. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Paoa. I’m Tommy Adrian. I think we may meet in the pool in a few weeks.’

  Tommy Adrian, considered the new Cec Healy at Manly, pulled the big Tourer into a gravel parking area in the shade of an enormous fig tree, and the men alighted as the second vehicle pulled up alongside. Duke could now see across on the far side of the little bay below the cluster of navy ships he had glimpsed from the Ventura, but between them and him was a vast wood and concrete construction abutting the harbour with a gleaming new entra
nce archway, leading into a two-tiered grandstand that stretched forever along the finger of land, and below it was the most impressive swimming baths Duke had ever seen. One hundred metres long and 30 wide, the enclosure and grandstand, capable of holding almost 2000 spectators, had been built in 1908 on the site of one of the colony’s first harbour swimming holes, and since the announcement of the Kahanamoku tour, they had been given a makeover and had additional seating put in place, but Bill Hill knew already that people would still be turned away.

  The Hawaiians were given a guided tour of the baths, Duke marvelling at the height of the diving tower (54 feet), the scale of the grandstand looming above the water, and, dissecting the small bay, a giant wooden finger wharf with cargo ships unloading either side of it. Having worked as a stevedore on the Honolulu docks, Duke knew a little of working wharves, and this was a beauty.

  ‘Come along, Duke.’ Mr Hill took him by the shoulder and gently ushered the Hawaiians towards the men’s changing rooms to strip down for photos. ‘Plenty of time to marvel at our harbour later, but I’m sure you’ll be anxious to freshen up at the hotel as soon as we can get this business out of the way.’

  The Australian swimmer, Harry Hay, who had been employed by the NSW Amateur Swimming Association as a ‘trouble-shooter’ for the Sydney carnivals, led the way into the changing room, followed by the Hawaiians and, behind them, much to Duke’s amusement, the rest of the delegation, including the photographer. Francis Evans had a leather sports bag containing swimsuits for Duke and George Cunha, Harry Hay offered towels from a stack at the end of a bench, and the delegation stood and waited. Modesty was not something rated highly among the Waikiki beach boys, but this seemed just a little odd. Duke shrugged slightly and began stripping. George followed his senior’s lead. Francis cleared his throat. The photographer readied his camera and the delegation looked on in silence. Yes, he was wholly human, ‘not half man, half fish’, as some press men had suggested. Yes, he was in fact a fine figure of a man. Duke just kept his head down and grinned to himself while he tried to draw a line between amusement and embarrassment.

  Safely into his woollen one-piece, Duke said: ‘Okay, Mr Hill. Showtime.’

  Duke and George shared a room on the third floor at the Oxford Hotel. Francis had a room to himself down the corridor, being the manager. Duke may have been one of the most famous athletes in the world, but he was an athlete. In any case, sharing was not an issue for Duke, who had shared a room and often a bed with his brothers his entire childhood. There was no time to reflect on the arrangements anyway, since they were already late (as a result of he and George taking a quick acclimatising dip at the Domain Baths) for the first official engagement of the tour, a welcoming reception at the Hotel Australia.

  After quickly bathing in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, Duke carefully unpacked a neatly folded white cotton shirt, topped it with a stiff collar, pulled it over his broad frame and knotted his tie before climbing back into his best suit and tying his boot laces. He brushed his thick hair carefully, dabbed a little oil on his temples and ran his fingers back through it to seal the look.

  Although the Hawaiians had only a few blocks to travel, Tommy Adrian awaited them in the Tourer at the entrance to the Oxford, and drove them sedately down George Street, then along Martin Place to the corner of Castlereagh. The Australia was a splendid Victorian-age construction of seven floors, and even now, more than twenty years since its opening, it exuded an air of superiority over the surrounding buildings, even the stately Commonwealth Bank building on its Martin Place flank. Indeed, on a prominent wall inside the immense lobby at the Castlereagh Street main entrance was a framed page from The Great Independent Hotels of the World (1905 edition) proclaiming The Hotel Australia as the only hotel in the country worthy of inclusion within its prestigious pages.

  In Europe, and even in America, such accolades would have been welcomed but taken lightly. In Australia in the early years of Federation, they meant everything. The Australia (known variously as Hotel Australia and Australia Hotel, but commonly just ‘The Australia’ as if it were a country unto itself) was a statement. It said: ‘Take me seriously’. From the moment it opened in July 1891, The Australia was a social icon, a place to be seen, offering a bewildering number of entertainments and luxuries. It had cost 220,000 pounds to build and could accommodate up to 300 guests at a time. The Sydney Morning Herald gushed that the new hotel was ‘not only blotting out the reproach, but offering a challenge to the globe-trotting to tell us where he has found anything superior’.

  Duke with American boxer Eddie McGroarty, who had come to Australia to fight Les Darcy, December 1914. Photo from the Letham Collection, Warringah Library Local Studies.

  Colonnades of iron and granite flanked the Castlereagh Street entrance, with balconies on every floor. A pair of ornamental iron gates opened onto the vestibule, featuring polished granite columns and a floor of mosaic tiles, followed by what the Sydney Morning Herald described as a ‘magnificent chamber 72 ft long and 35 ft wide covered in at the first floor with ornamental wrought iron and glass roof’. No expense was spared on its interior fittings: all woodwork was of the finest quality colonial cedar, the ceilings were made of ornamental zinc work, while the central court featured a floor of marble tiles.

  On its opening night, not content with a rollcall of local dignitaries, The Australia’s owners contracted a performance from French stage superstar Sarah Bernhardt, whose arrival was accompanied by the cacophony of a bewildering assortment of exotic beasts and birds.

  No such fanfare awaited the Hawaiians as they climbed the stairs of The Australia, and Francis Evans was acutely aware that the spartan but comfortable Oxford, the second office and recreational headquarters of Sydney’s rugby and swimming bureaucrats, was no match for the luxury of the best digs in town.

  The reception room off the main vestibule was packed with men in dark, heavy suits, despite the humidity of the late afternoon. Cigar smoke swirled above the crowd and disappeared into the chandeliers. Waitresses in white smocks and black leggings moved expertly through the throngs with silver trays of wine and beer. Sydney had rarely seen such a collection of movers and shakers of the interconnected worlds of sport, business and politics, and in the thick of it, guiding the Hawaiians through the room, was Bill Hill, Jim Taylor of the NSW Swimming Association at his side.

  Duke was midway through being introduced to the Governor-General of Australia, Sir Ronald Munro-Ferguson (a keen but not overly proficient surf shooter since his arrival from the Old Country earlier in the year) when he spied a familiar face, a slightly crooked grin beaming at him beneath a shock of reddish hair.

  Duke took a few steps forward then held out his arms and warmly embraced Cecil Healy. ‘You packed some pounds on, eh, brudda Cec! Bet that slowed you down some, huh?’ The two men laughed and slapped each other’s backs. Cecil later wrote of the reunion:

  All my glowing impressions of the Duke (as a man) were re-established … He is a splendid dispositioned fellow, and I cannot conceive the thought of anyone taking other than an instant liking for him. I make bold to predict that he will have ingratiated himself into the affections of a large number of Australians before departing on his homeward voyage. I could not detect any alteration in his appearance. He says he feels well, and his looks do not belie him.

  Bill Hill tugged at Healy’s coat and pulled the men apart. A bell rang in the distance. It was time for the toasts to be drunk. Duke declined a beer and asked the waitress for a glass of water. It was showtime again.

  Healy reported:

  … The chairman’s announcement of the Duke’s name was responsible for a great burst of cheering, which continued after he had risen to his feet. Kahanamoku did not portray signs of self-consciousness. He faced his audience calmly, and spoke deliberately. He said he had been looking forward to visiting Australia for the last two or three seasons, and felt sure he was in for
a good time. Cunha also made a few observations. None of the party, as a matter of fact, revealed a penchant for public speaking.

  After the formalities had concluded, Healy and Duke again fell into conversation:

  I exclaimed, ‘Oh! Did you bring your surf board with you?’ to which he replied, ‘Why no, we were told the use of boards was not permitted in Australia.’ Evidently noticing the look of keen disappointment on my face, he quickly added, ‘But I can easily make one here.’ This information, I am sure, both swimmers and surfers will be delighted to be acquainted with …

  Chapter 11

  Isabel

  Isabel, Freshwater, 1914. Photo from the Letham Collection, Warringah Library Local Studies.

  The clouds were beginning to break up as the electric tram clattered over the wooden bridge across Curl Curl Lagoon and wound its way across the paddocks and down Pittwater Road to the Steyne.

  Isabel sat alone behind two rowdy boys who had already been warned by the conductor, and would soon face a long walk to town if they didn’t mind their manners. She peered out of the open window at the scudding grey clouds being pushed up the coast by the strong southerly wind. How contrary the weather had been! Just a week ago, she and Claude had been surf shooting through the afternoon at Freshwater as the temperature passed 100, prompting Mr McIntyre to remove his jacket and loosen his tie. Then midweek, the heavens had opened with torrential downpours causing minor flooding and the run-off from the creek turning Freshwater’s bay a murky brown. Even now Isabel could see that Manly’s wild surf was still the colour of vegetable soup, and littered with rubbish and who knew what else flushed out of the lagoon.

  Isabel was brought sharply back into the present by a loud thud in front of her. Wrestling with his companion, the smaller of two boys in front of Isabel was catapulted across the aisle and onto the ample lap of an older woman, who took to him with the handle of her umbrella. The conductor pulled the overhead cord and made a beeline for the offenders, gripping both by an arm and marching them off the tram at the Carlton Street stop. The small, bespectacled, white-haired boy looked truly contrite, as though he might burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m just new here.’