That Summer at Boomerang

by Phil Jarratt

  The interview concluded with a laugh, and as the men took the staircase back down to the change rooms Healy noted that all was in readiness for the evening carnival, with some swimmers already arriving, their kit packed neatly in Gladstone bags.

  ‘Hey, brudda, you drive me back to the hotel?’ Duke called out to the short, thin-faced young man wearing a neat grey suit.

  ‘Not tonight, Paoa, bit busy, mate.’

  Duke shook Tommy Adrian’s hand and slapped him on the back. ‘You swim hard tonight, my friend. You know you’re a champion, so believe in yourself.’

  Tommy beamed at the Hawaiian and hurried into the change rooms.

  Although the crowd was much smaller than for Saturday’s opening carnival, as darkness descended on the harbour and a sunny day gave way to a warm, still night, there were no empty seats at the Domain Baths, and a rowdy crowd of men at the terrace bar needed to be called to order twice by Fred Williams before the competitors in the 220-yards brace relay could take their marks.

  Highlights of the early part of the program included George Cunha beating Albert Barry’s Australian record over the 110 yards but missing the final thanks to an over-zealous handicapper, and a hilarious ‘Keystone Cops’ performance by East Sydney club swimmers Northcote and Moxon, whose antics in and out of the pool had the audience in stitches. But it was the final event on the program that people had come to see, even though the anticipated showdown over 440 yards between Duke Kahanamoku and Billy Longworth could not eventuate, the sickly Longworth having been laid low yet again.

  Instead the interest lay with an anticipated David-and-Goliath struggle between Duke and Tommy Adrian, Australia’s best performer over the mile and half mile, with Adrian swimming under his best distances and Duke swimming over his, despite improved performances at middle distance since Stockholm. For this reason, the bookmakers ranked it as a true contest, with the best odds offered about Adrian being five to one, and some of the bagmen having him at threes.

  If asked, Tommy Adrian would probably have put himself in double figures, but no-one was asking as he sat nervously in the change room, sucking on a sleeve of his robe, awaiting the call. Only the late entry of Duke, inside ten minutes of start time, disturbed his reverie. ‘Come on, kid,’ Duke shouted, shadow sparring around him. ‘Look lively, it’s showtime!’ Adrian forced an awkward grin. He knew he could be as good as Longworth—maybe he already was—but the hopes of Manly weighed heavily upon him, and it seemed the entire population of the village was at the Domain tonight. Why, even Cecil Healy had popped in to the change room to wish him well. He folded his arms to stop them from shaking and waited.

  The deafening applause was intoxicating as Duke led the swimmers out to the start, but while for Duke it was like champagne, for Adrian the taste was anything but sweet. ‘Duke, Duke, Duke,’ the chant began, but it was soon drowned out by the Villagers. ‘Tommy, Tommy!’ Tommy could see his grandfather, the village’s most popular publican, leading the chanters, beating his rolled newspaper against the tin advertising hoardings.

  ‘Get ready,’ cried the starter, and Duke plopped into the pool. This was something that Cecil Healy had noted after his first Domain appearance, and would have raised with his friend at their interview had Corbett not been in attendance. What was it about? Some kind of affectation, perhaps, or was it designed to unnerve his opponents? Quickly back on the apron, Duke shook off the water, smiled as though nothing had happened and took his mark.

  Teenager Charlie Thomas, from the Sydney club, led them down the first lap and took the turn ahead of Duke, with Adrian plodding like a miler well back. At the third turn, Duke, swimming smoothly and effortlessly, hauled Thomas in and took the lead. But as the final lap began, the chant of the villagers became one almighty din as Adrian appeared at Duke’s shoulder and went straight past the great man, leading him by a yard with 50 to go. Duke made a second charge and the two men sprinted for the wall. The atmosphere in the huge grandstand was electric. Cecil Healy found himself out of his chair and jumping up and down to gain a clear view of the finish. Five yards out it was possibly Duke in front by a hair, but the Manly lad surged again and touched a foot in front of the champion.

  The roar of the crowd could be heard all the way back to Manly. The Hawaiian had been beaten. The villagers invaded the apron and carried their young hero into the gallery.

  It took only a matter of hours for the critics to start tearing apart Duke’s performance. He was lazy, he had not trained adequately, he had underestimated his opponents. While Cecil Healy was equally quick to defend his friend against these charges, he also had his own long-held theory as to why Duke had been beaten:

  Some of those disappointed with the Duke’s performance attempted to excuse his defeat on the score of his being untrained. Such a claim does an injustice to the Manly lad. It filches from him much of the rewards of his victory. It also amounts to an indictment against the Duke and his manager. He had ample time at his disposal to get thoroughly attuned. He certainly did not prepare himself according to orthodox rules. But he was fully aware of his responsibilities and the obligation he was under to the Association to produce his very best form. We have, therefore, only to take it for granted that the method he pursued was the one he had found by past experience gave him the most satisfactory results …

  No, in my opinion the Duke’s downfall is to be accounted for in another way. I attribute both his and Cunha’s inability to keep going speedily for any length of time to the exhausting nature of their kick. I believe the continuous movement is most effective over a sprint course. But, although it gives a gliding motion, which is very taking to the eye, there is, as a matter of fact, nothing restful about it, and I am convinced it is unsuited for medium or long distances.

  The sky was grey and light rain was falling as Duke bounded down King Street, late for lunch at the Oxford Hotel with his teammates. A long walk around the harbour foreshore had been interrupted on at least a dozen occasions by wellwishers and autograph hunters, and even now, in front of the hotel, two young boys held Duke up in the rain with a request to sign a swimming manual.

  ‘You guys learning to swim?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘Well, let me give you a little tip,’ said Duke, handing back the signed book. He sat down on the wet step, stretched out his long legs and enormous feet and started moving them like pistons. ‘See this? That’s a normal kick. Now see this, that’s a Kahanamoku kick. Twice as fast and twice as powerful. Can’t be beat over the hundred, beyond that depends who you ask. It’s mine but you can use it, as long as you remember me when you become champions.’ He stood up, brushed himself down and gave them both a quick hug before disappearing inside the Oxford, leaving two wide-eyed junior swimmers in a mystified trance.

  Francis Evans and George Cunha were already eating when Duke entered the first-floor dining room. ‘Sorry, guys, lost track of time. What kind of fuel do you recommend for the 220, Georgie?’

  ‘Steak and lots of it,’ said George, cutting a piece of medium-rare sirloin off the bone.

  ‘I’ll have what my friend is having, thank you, miss,’ Duke told the waitress.

  Francis peered over his thick spectacles, business-like again. ‘Longworth is definitely not swimming, I’m afraid. On times for the others, it’s you and George and then daylight, so Georgie’s going to have to take you out hard, Paoa, if we’re going to post a time worth reading about.’

  Duke found it difficult to conceal his annoyance. ‘What is it with Billy? Is he really sick or doesn’t he want to meet me?’

  ‘On the contrary, according to Bill Hill he wants nothing more in the world. He was bitterly disappointed about the quarter mile and he’s inconsolable about this because he’s actually improved his condition since Wednesday, but his doctors won’t hear of it.’

  Duke nodded gravely, then tried to shake off the mood with s
ome banter. ‘Well, brudda George, you’d better get another plate of steak into you if you’re going to lead me out.’

  The Hawaiians were not the only ones to have expressed disappointment at the quality of the field for the 220-yards championships, the event that was to conclude their part in the three-carnival Domain series. In fact the entire Sydney swimming fraternity was buzzing about it, with Gordon Page, of the Randwick-Coogee club, now the fastest of the Australians left in the race, considered no chance at all. Some had even been calling for Cecil Healy to make a late entry to keep the Hawaiians honest, but Healy had been quick to reject this as a possibility. No, the Hawaiians would have to simply finish one and two in the fastest time they could manage, ending their Sydney campaign in fine style.

  Duke managed a twenty-minute nap to settle his lunch before changing into his suit, packing his swimming bag and meeting Francis and George in the lobby for the ride to the Domain. The rain had eased a little and once again there was a good crowd at the turnstiles and already occupying the grandstands as the Hawaiians made their way to the change rooms. After the national anthems Duke and George slipped out into the competitor seating to watch Dick Provan, of the Sydney club, dive superbly from the high tower to easily win the state title, then, as the rowdy antics of the musical lifebuoys began, they headed back inside to change for the 220.

  In stark contrast to his earlier appearances at the Domain, there was no roar from the large crowd as Duke and the other swimmers made their appearance for the feature race of the carnival. There was polite applause as they headed for the starting blocks, but Duke sensed immediately that the Australians thought this was a sham, a no-contest. And he feared they might be right, but no performance in his swimming career to this point had ever been less than 100 per cent effort, and he had no intention of compromising himself today. He punched George lightly on the arm as he passed him. ‘We’re going out hard, brudda.’ George nodded.

  The five finalists took their marks—Kahanamoku, Page, Cunha, Thomas and Boardman, with Longworth’s block vacant. ‘Get set.’ No plopping into the water today for the Hawaiians. The gun fired and Duke streaked out to an early lead, and as he approached the first turn he appeared to have the race well in hand. Boardman was in pursuit but well back, and George and the other Australians were way back in a pack. But with 50 yards to go, Duke suddenly seemed to lose all rhythm. Watching from the grandstand through field glasses, Cecil Healy shook his head in disbelief.

  Meanwhile, Boardman dropped right off while George and Gordon Page made a break towards the leader, but George suddenly found himself swimming a diagonal line across the pool, cutting into the unmarked lanes of the other swimmers. By the time he corrected, it was Page taking on Duke for the finish. Now the crowd started roaring, but the board was too close, and a fading Duke still had the benefit of a couple of yards, finishing the winner in the slow time of 2 minutes, 32 2⁄5 seconds.

  Duke had won the race, but that did not stop the critics baying for blood, and this time it was Bill Corbett leading the pack:

  As evidence of how poor a swimmer, comparatively, Kahanamoku is beyond 110 yards, at which he holds the world record, the following reference may be interesting. One of the official time-keepers, Mr T. C. Roberts, specially clocked the Hawaiian’s first half of the 220 yards swim last Saturday afternoon as 1 min. 8 2⁄5 sec, which is not at all fast. The second lap occupied the difference between that and 2 min. 32 2⁄5 sec. It seems hardly possible for a first class swimmer’s power to peter out to such an extent, but it did.

  The criticism may not have been water off a duck’s back, but Duke did his best to laugh it off. ‘Tell them to cable me some poi,’ he told some Hawaiian friends who had been visiting Sydney and asked if he had any messages for his family. ‘That’s what I need most of all.’

  Despite conjecture about Duke’s slow time in coming home in the 220-yards event, the committee men of the NSW Swimming Association had plenty to smile about as they prepared a preliminary assessment of the final Domain carnival in the small office next to the megaphone commentary position. Although the inclement weather had undoubtedly had an impact on final-day crowds, this, the poorest attendance of the three ‘Kahanamoku carnivals’, was still far and away the biggest attendance for a swimming event in New South Wales outside of those starring Duke. The gross gate for the three carnivals appeared to be in the order of a thousand pounds, against expenses of roughly 750 pounds, secretary Scott reported to Bill Hill, Cecil Healy and Association president Jim Taylor, and contributions of 25 pounds for each carnival they were to hold were still due from the Queensland, Victorian and New Zealand associations, each of whom were now anticipating good results from their own Kahanamoku events.

  ‘It’s a far cry from a month ago,’ said Hill, ‘when the Melbourne push thought we were mad. Now they want Duke to extend the tour and stay there a week or more. Well, bugger that, I say. They’re lucky to have him at all at this late stage. It’s a wonderful result all around, gentlemen, and perhaps a small glass of good cheer would be appropriate.’

  As Hill fumbled in his desk for a bottle of whisky, Freddie Williams pushed through the door with tumblers liberated from the terrace bar. ‘Did I hear a drink mentioned, Billy?’

  Another rain squall swept across the harbour as the first of a good many toasts was drunk. ‘To the Duke,’ cried Hill. ‘To the Duke,’ the men responded. Down the hatch.

  This having been the last official swimming engagement for the Hawaiians in Sydney, the Association had arranged a thankyou dinner to be held at the NSW Fresh Food and Ice Company’s newly renovated cafe, overlooking the Darling Harbour rail yards. While Francis Evans was rather surprised at the choice of venue, thinking that the Hotel Australia would be more appropriate, for the business community of Sydney, the men who greased the wheels of amateur sport, there could have been no more appropriate venue for such a celebration than the quaintly named ‘shop window’ dining room of one of Australia’s most dynamic and futuristic companies.

  Established in 1861, the Sydney Ice Company was the first freezing works in the world, utilising massive cold rooms to hold fresh meat and dairy products for domestic distribution and foreign export. In 1875 it was taken over by Thomas Sutcliffe Mort, expanded and renamed. Under Mort, the company developed new refrigeration plants at Darling Harbour, as well as slaughterhouses and chilling works in the Blue Mountains, milk and meat depots along the South Coast and Southern Highlands, and the first refrigerated railway vans to get more produce to market. Mort was long dead by the time the cafe opened, but by the 1900s it was regarded as the best place in Australia to sample the fresh produce of the land.

  For this special dinner, the Ice Company’s executive chef had designed a menu in honour of the Hawaiian guests:

  ‘Aloha’ Soup—Consomne Royale

  ‘Waikiki’ Fish—Fried Fillet of Whiting Orley

  ‘Hui Nalu’ Entrees—Lamb Cutlets Printianere

  ‘Righto’ Poultry—Roast Chicken, Bacon and Bread Sauce, Green Peas, Roast and Boiled Potatoes

  ‘Hawaiian’ Sweets—Diplomatic Pudding

  Savoury—Croutes au Fromage

  Manly surfer and swimmer Geoff Wyld’s souvenired dinner menu from the Ice Co Café. From the Snow McAlister Collection, Surfing Australia.

  Tommy Adrian and Cecil Healy explained the importance of the Ice Company (although perhaps not the derivation of the well-known Hawaiian dish, ‘Righto Poultry’) as they walked with the team along King Street to the dinner. ‘Can we go see their cold rooms?’ asked Duke, tapping a rhythm on his ukulele case.

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged, but perhaps another time. I think tonight is going to be slightly frantic,’ said Healy.

  Healy was right. Although the cafe’s main room was spacious enough for most occasions, tonight it was packed from the doorway to the small stage at the rear, on which a string quartet was going through the motio
ns, largely unheard under the thunderous din of excited conversation. Long tables were set with white linen and miniature Australian and Hawaiian flags, and behind the band, full-sized flags were draped across each other. Fighting his way through a sea of backslappers and a chorus of hoorays, Duke found himself hauled into a large circle of men that included virtually every big shot he had met since arriving. Overwhelmed by the smell of booze, the sting of cigar smoke in his eyes and the incessant praise, he was relieved when Jim Taylor called for order and invited the assembled multitude to find their seats.

  As the seething mass of humanity redistributed around the room in search of seat placements, Duke couldn’t help but notice that apart from the serving staff, there was not a woman in the house.

  Duke found himself placed at one end of a central table, surrounded by the committee of the Swimming Association, leading press men including Bill Corbett, swell sports like McIntosh, Snowy Baker, Don McIntyre and Charles Paterson, politicians like NSW Premier Bill Holman and that foppish Scotsman who wanted surfing lessons, Munro-Ferguson, the governor-general. He looked over his shoulder and traded knowing glances with Francis and George, similarly surrounded at the next table. He didn’t need to say a word. They knew that look meant, ‘Showtime, boys.’

  Before anyone could sit down, Jim Taylor at the megaphone called for the national anthems, and the excitable bunch, led by the band, launched into a lusty ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ (the words may have been wrong but the spirit was there), followed by a rousing ‘God Save the King’, in which Duke’s strong, clear baritone could be heard around the room. The anthems, a columnist writing as ‘The Cynic’ noted in The Referee, were delivered ‘with as much fervour as though the Empire and the USA were allies battling together on the fields of France and Belgium’.