That Summer at Boomerang

by Phil Jarratt

  He was pulled out of his revelry when Bill Hill sat down opposite him.

  ‘I do hope you’re familiar with the work of Mr Houdini, sir?’ Bill Hill said without preliminaries.

  ‘A little,’ said Francis. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Hill opened a leather diary and extracted the offending Herald page, ripped from the paper, the small article circled with a heavy pencil. ‘Because you have less than twenty-four hours to get us out of this mess.’

  ‘Sir, forgive me if I’m a little dense this morning, but I don’t not fully understand how this article could be offensive to you. Mr Kahanamoku has been asked to demonstrate his prowess on the surfboard, and indeed he spent much of this past weekend fashioning one for that purpose.’ Francis was growing in confidence as he spoke. Despite Duke’s endorsement of the fellow as ‘a good sport’, he sniffed the bully in Hill, a much larger man than he, but he was not about to be intimidated.

  Bill Hill, for his part, was not known within his own business circle to be an unpleasant man, but he was used to getting his own way, and it was widely known that he did not suffer fools gladly. Moreover, the Oxford Hotel was his domain. From the comfortable leather of the lounge bar, he had for years overseen the affairs of the Australian Swimming Union and the Australian Rugby Union. In this place, in front of these people, he was not about to let this small, bespectacled fellow from Hawaii get the better of him. Opening his diary again, he produced two more documents and arranged them on the table. One was a parchment sheet that Francis immediately recognised since he was one of the signatories to it. The other was a newspaper clipping.

  ‘Mr Evans, I can see that you are familiar with this contractual agreement between the NSW Swimming Association, the Australian Swimming Union and the Hui Nalu Club of Honolulu, authorising the payment of all expenses related to the Hawaiian tour of Australia, conditional upon your team abiding by the clauses therein.’ With his large hand, Hill pushed the document across the table. He then turned his attention to the newspaper article. ‘You also may have seen the various accounts in the Sydney press of your recent arrival and the program of events laid out ahead of you, but in case your memory does not serve you well, may I quote in brief from the Daily Telegraph of Wednesday last? “Kahanamoku’s first appearance in competition will be at the State championship swimming carnivals on January 2, 6 and 9.” We’ve made sure the press understand that Duke will not appear in the surf prior to the state championship on 2 January, it being his intention to devote the whole of his time to swimming, as he is here primarily for that purpose.’

  Francis was tempted to remind Hill that the posters advertising what are fast becoming known as the ‘Kahanamoku Carnivals’ featured Duke not swimming but surfing, using Mr Gurrey’s now famous surf-riding image. In Australia, as in most parts of the world, the magical appeal of Duke Kahanamoku was as much about his prowess in the surf as in the tank or pool. But Francis saw virtue in his silence, rather than in fanning Hill’s fire with a hot gust of reality.

  ‘Look,’ said Hill, appearing to change tack. ‘Let’s just put all the bullshit to one side and discuss this man to man, shall we? We have a lot of money at stake here, and this association can ill afford to lose it. Our investment is in Duke and we must do what is necessary to protect it. You’ve seen how many bloody seats they’re putting into the grandstands at the Domain, and by Christ, come the week after next we want to see a bum on every one of them. When we’ve had our full houses and we’ve got money back in the bank, Duke can ride his surfboard to his heart’s content. Good Lord, can you imagine what Huge Deal McIntosh would have done in 1908 if Jack Johnson had given free boxing exhibitions to all and sundry ahead of the world-title fight?’

  ‘Not quite the same, if I may say so, sir…’

  ‘The hell it ain’t! Look, we had Duke with us for a few days and everything was dandy, showed him around, took him on the harbour, let him settle in, got a few training swims under his belt. But since Saturday where the hell has he been? We both know damn well, sir. He’s out there at Freshwater and he’s on Healy’s agenda, not mine. Well, I can tell you right now, Mr Evans: this exhibition tomorrow goes ahead over my dead body. Now, you’d better make contact with your friends out at the beach and put a stop to it. Good day to you, sir.’

  Francis Evans was suddenly drained of energy, as though Hill had sucked the oxygen from the room. Francis had been the flak-catcher for Duke (and, for that matter, for George Cunha) since Cecil Healy had arranged for their flight from the Oxford Hotel early on Saturday, whisking them off to stay at the Boomerang Camp with McIntyre. But Hill was right. As team manager, Francis should have kept the team together in the city to fulfil their obligations. But Cecil Healy was a god of Australian swimming, and it had never occurred to Francis that Healy’s wishes might not be in accord with his fellow supremos of the swimming establishment.

  Moreover, who was he to tell the great champion from Hawaii, a man he had hardly known until the recent voyage, that he was not ‘allowed’ to go with his hosts to the beach to demonstrate the skills for which he had become justly famous? Generally, Duke did things to please, not as he pleased, but it would never have occurred to him that the act of the beach boy heading down to the beach to share the joy of surfing would be the cause of anything but pleasure.

  Cecil Healy was furious. For some time now he had been trying to contain his rage in the presence of the Hawaiians—particularly Duke, who knew him only from Stockholm, where he was the calm, cool voice of reason when things got heated poolside. But this was altogether too much. How many people did Bill Bloody Hill want to disappoint? Well, you could start with the readership of the Herald, then throw in the Telegraph for good measure, and another few hundred locals who might have seen that new village rag, the Manly Daily.

  And then of course there was the jungle telegraph, the seagull express. There was no telephone at Boomerang Camp, but all day long the phone had been ringing off the hook at Randell’s Camp City and at the Kiosk. Was the Duke at Freshwater yet? Did he have a surfboard? Might he like to borrow mine? (This from Fred Notting, a Manly boat-builder who had tried his hand at boards.) Would Duke care to refresh after the exhibition with a complimentary roast rabbit lunch at Davies’s Coffee Palace? Would it be permissible to have photographs taken with the dusky Hawaiian? Would he be offering lessons in the surf shooting arts and where might one sign up for same?

  Randell’s Camp City Store, 1913. Photo courtesy Warringah Library Local Studies.

  ‘It hasn’t bloody stopped,’ complained Amos Randell. ‘And now you expect my poor missus to spend the whole evening telling people it’s all off! With the greatest respect, Mr Healy, it’s just not right. I’ve a mind to call the telephone exchange myself and tell them to hold all calls until it’s over.’

  ‘Well, Mr Randell, it won’t be over because it won’t be happening,’ said Healy, who never ceased to be amazed at the speed with which Sydney had taken to the telephone. With an automatic exchange coming in the new year, there would soon be no need to ever actually meet with people at all, not when you could speak to them through a piece of Bakelite. ‘But I think you may have the right idea about refusing calls. People will come tomorrow anyway, so we may as well save our apologies for the masses.’

  ‘I don’t understand why people can’t watch me ride a few waves, Cec,’ said Duke, who had been sitting at a card table in the corner of the room, writing a letter home. ‘I sure don’t want to disappoint nobody.’ Francis Evans and Healy exchanged glances and the anger rose in Healy again. Where did one begin to describe the petty politics of amateur sporting associations? And yet, Healy well knew, they were the backbone of sport and of the greater community. The amateur was a gentleman and a patriot, whereas the professional was an opportunist. In his columns for The Referee these recent months, Healy had reported on the near-demise of Bill Hill’s Rugby Union as every man jack donned the khaki of the Australian I
mperial Force and sailed for the battlefields, while the sham professionals of the new rugby league shunned their country’s call and stayed at home for the guinea match fee.

  Tempering his anger, he answered Duke: ‘It’s not that simple, my friend. There’s a contract and Mr Hill is determined to enforce it. His concern, which I for one don’t share, is that having seen you in the surf, people will not pay to see you in the swimming baths, and this is revenue the association sorely needs. We’ll endeavour to make him see reason about this, but tomorrow’s exhibition cannot proceed.’

  ‘Well,’ said Duke, getting up from the card table and reaching for his belted bathers. ‘Let’s hope no-one sees me in the twilight now.’ He winked at Healy. ‘Got me a new surfboard and I better learn to ride it.’

  But Healy was determined to get a concession out of Bill Hill and after a lengthy conversation on Randell’s telephone at Camp City, he had a compromise. It was a poor one, to be sure, but getting Bill Hill to bend your way at all was quite an achievement. Tomorrow would be a disappointment to many, but at least some people would be seeing the surfboard superman in action before Christmas.

  Healy paused as he made his way up the sand hill to the Undercliff track. The moon was rising over the water and in its glow he could just see a distant figure beyond the line of breakers. As he watched, the silhouetted figure rose up as though on a pedestal, and moved at speed across the silver sea. Healy had seen board shooting before, of course—at Manly and on the newsreels, even made a half-hearted attempt himself on Charlie Paterson’s board—but nothing to match this. It was a moment for the ages. As Duke completed his ride, Healy raised his hand in salute, knowing his friend would not see it, but wanting to share in his triumph before continuing his walk back to camp.

  The following afternoon The Sun newspaper ran a prominent and rather pointed article by its sports editor, Bill Corbett, under the headline, ‘Kahanamoku Did Not Show’:

  The swimming authorities have heard that through the publication of a paragraph yesterday to the effect that Kahanamoku would give an exhibition in the surf at Freshwater, Manly, some 2000 or 3000 people who assembled there to watch the show were disappointed. The famous Hawaiian did not put in an appearance, and he was not expected to do so by those controlling his visit to this country.

  Corbett reiterated that Duke’s first public appearance would be at the Domain Baths on 2 January, concluding with ‘the announcement of any other arrangement with Kahanamoku as the central figure has not that body’s [the Swimming Association’s] authority’. Nevertheless, Corbett made sure, before he left the office on putting the second edition to bed, that his secretary had booked a taxi to get him to the Quay in time for the next day’s early Manly ferry.

  For the second time in a week, Isabel found herself hugging a tussocky dune, cheek to cheek with Claude West, as the two teenagers watched proceedings on the beach below. The low line of sand hills behind the newly extended surf club would scarcely conceal a human—not even one as slender as Isabel—but the scrub on the ridge line disguised them somewhat, and they both knew that no-one would be scanning the hills anyway, not when history was about to be made in the water.

  They were under strict instructions from Mr McIntyre. Yes, they may come to Boomerang and help with the service of lunch once the demonstration was completed. No, they may not, under any circumstances, come to the beach to watch the Duke shoot the surf. It was a private exhibition, only for the eyes of invited members of the press and swimming and surf lifesaving officials.

  This was disappointment heaped upon disappointment. Claude and Isabel had been among the first to arrive at the beach the previous morning, and they had waited in vain with a huge crowd that only began to disperse when Cecil Healy stood on the verandah of the surf club with a megaphone and made his brief, sad announcement. There would be no demonstration of surf shooting this day, they would not see the Duke.

  Today, Christmas Eve, there was no crowd, just a small contingent of men—not a woman among them—in dark suits, many of them carrying cameras and tripods. They had gathered on the flat sand in front of the surf club while a man addressed them. Isabel couldn’t hear what he said, but some of the men began to take off their shoes and roll up their trousers. It was a sign that it was about to start.

  Another man appeared on the verandah and within moments a cheer went up (this from the normally cynical press men!). Duke Paoa Kahanamoku descended the surf club stairs, the heavy board he had made just days ago hoisted upon his muscular shoulder as he moved sure-footedly through the group, shaking hands with his free left hand and smiling a greeting to those beyond his touch.

  The sea was a wind-whipped grey and large breakers crashed at jaunty angles upon the sand while scudding clouds blocked the sun from time to time. It was by no means an ideal day for surf shooting, but Duke seemed not to care or notice. As he moved towards the water’s edge he was obscured from view by a handful of men in bathing suits who took their cue from a thickset man holding a thin, short board of the type that the surfers in Manly referred to as a ‘Samoan’. Alongside the stout fellow was champion swimmer Harry Hay from the Manly club. As the procession entered the water, Don McIntyre, clad, as always, in cream suit and bow tie, skirted around them like a cattle dog, fussing and cursing and telling curious fishermen and beach strollers to be on their way.

  There being little chance of detection now, Claude and Isabel stood on the dune and watched as Duke pushed himself onto the board and paddled through the break while his company fell away. Even Harry Hay dropped off the pace as the Hawaiian sliced through the rough water to eventually sit, way beyond the breakers, astride his board, waiting for a roller. Soon enough a wave of consequence presented itself, pushing into the bay at an angle from the wind, with a clean green face pointing to the south corner. Duke needed no invitation. He stroked forcefully down the face of the wave, then slowly, deliberately, rose on one knee, sphinx-like, as he set course, then stood upright and proud atop the board, arms folded across his chest.

  Isabel and Claude were electrified, barely aware that they were now jumping up and down on the sand, squealing with excitement as the bronzed god streaked towards the shore, defying gravity.

  A mere few hours later, as they scrambled out of factories and offices to do last-minute Christmas shopping or made their way home on the electric tram, through the modern marvel of telephonic communication—in this case the phone at Randell’s Camp City—Sydneysiders were able to read in the late edition Sun Bill Corbett’s gobsmacked account, headed: ‘Wonderful Surf Riding—Kahanamoku on the Board—A Thrilling Spectacle.’

  One could hear in the imagination, the roars of applause with which thousands of Australians might have greeted Kahanamoku’s display at Freshwater this morning, had the fact that it was to take place been made public. As it was there were only a few pressmen, some members of the New South Wales Amateur Swimming Association, and the casual Freshwater bathers present.

  Unfortunately the water was not favourable. Kahanamoku would have preferred a long roll. He had to face a very short one. ‘I’ll do my best, anyhow,’ said he, and despite that the board was new to him, and he had never before essayed the task in Australian waters, our visitor gave an exhibition which won the admiration of spectators who thoroughly understood the skill of it. It was a thrilling spectacle at times. This finely built Hawaiian, with his powerful frame showing elastic muscles, as better and more enduring than those of a knotty nature, caught the breaker he wanted, and paddling along for a while rose to one knee first, then became gradually erect and reached the crest to shoot foreword [sic] with astonishing speed and marvellous balance considering the troubled condition of the motive power.

  While Duke posed for photographs on the sand and answered questions from Bill Corbett and the lesser lights of the Sydney press, Isabel and Claude were back at Boomerang helping to prepare for the luncheon reception. The ‘ladies on Sundays only’ r
ule having been waived, Isabel helped the two cooks from the Kiosk, old Mrs Pfoeffer and young Miss Spink, prepare food in the primitive camp kitchen, while Claude helped the Kanakas rake the garden and tie Christmas baubles to the trees. Oil drums were pushed upright and covered with expensive linen to serve as occasional tables, and the camp stretchers were brought out from the dorm to add to the sparse seating.

  Soon the guests began arriving, sauntering across the dunes and up the track. Isabel and Miss Spink moved amongst the early arrivals with tumblers of chilled homemade lemonade, a specialty of Mrs ‘Puff’, as she was known to the Freshie girls. Finally, the Hawaiians made their entry in a large group of men, led by Bill Hill and Bill Corbett. Behind them, chatting with Francis Evans, Harry Hay smiled and winked at Claude, who was standing to one side of the yard like a sentry, not at all sure what to do with himself. Isabel, on the other hand, had her work cut out for her, circulating now with a platter of sliced rabbit and ham. On a return trip she emerged from the kitchen with two platters, and passed one to Claude.

  ‘Come on, Claude, pull your weight.’

  Within minutes they found themselves cornered against the stairs, surrounded by hungry men. Isabel looked up and realised that Duke Kahanamoku had one hand on her platter and one on Claude’s.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said softly, mistaking the shock of her recognition for reproach. ‘I hope I’m not overdoing it, but it was hungry work out there today.’

  ‘Oh no, I, er …’ Isabel felt her face flush bright red.

  ‘My name’s Paoa,’ he said, transferring his food to one hand and extending the other. Isabel shuffled a hand to the centre of the platter, almost upturning it in the process, and reciprocated.