That Summer at Boomerang

by Phil Jarratt

  The big Hawaiian suddenly stripped naked, negotiated the muddy bank with sure feet and dived into the deeper water. ‘Holy toledo!’ he shouted back to Harry. ‘Isn’t Queensland supposed to be a warm climate? I haven’t felt water this cold since Stockholm.’

  Wednesday dawned dark and gloomy with long rolls of thick cumulous cloud out on the plains, but Duke was up early with energy to burn, so he put on his boots and walked out to the end of Darling Street, then walked a long arc through the bush, heading back into town near the Dalrymple Creek course, where even at this early hour there was a hive of activity on the bank, readying for the annual New Year Swimming Carnival, this year pushed back two weeks especially for the honoured guests.

  He headed back into town, joining Herbert Street again at the Club Hotel and continuing past the offices of the Allora Guardian. The shopkeepers were out and about, sweeping or hosing down the pavement and preparing to open their doors.

  Past Holmes Bros Butchery Duke was drawn into the Allora Bakery by the irresistible aroma of freshly baked loaves. He recognised the chubby, smiling shopkeeper as one of the guests who had amused him at last night’s reception.

  ‘Sure smells good, Mr Tickle.’ Chuffed that Duke had remembered his name, George Tickle refused to take his money for a steaming loaf of crusty white bread, but there was a price. Tickle asked him to wait while he rustled around in a tiny office out the back and returned with a Kodak Box Brownie camera.

  ‘Can I take a photograph of you enjoying my bread? For the Guardian, you see.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ Duke ripped a crusty corner off the loaf and chewed on it while Tickle took his photo. ‘You need me to say something cute to go with the picture, right? How about this: Tickle’s bread tickles your tummy.’ Tickle roared with laughter, then searched the back room again for a pen so he could write this down.

  Despite the threatening weather, most of the population of Allora was down at Dalrymple Creek for the carnival, along with quite a few from surrounding towns and properties who had risked a muddy drive home across the black soil plains. While the Hawaiians were quite clearly the major attraction, Duke soon realised that the New Year carnival had its own traditions and its own heroes, and that there would have been a big crowd on the banks today in any event. But the biggest roar of the afternoon so far came when George, operating off a fifteen-second handicap, came storming home to edge out two locals in the 100-yards sprint. When Duke did the same, coming home to win the 440-yards race off a minute handicap, the cheers could be heard back at the Railway Hotel.

  Brisbane Dry Dock Baths, c. 1910. Photo courtesy Queensland State Library.

  But the most entertaining event of the afternoon, at least as far as the Hawaiians were concerned, was the duck hunt, in which hapless ducks were released on the water and had to evade the clutching hands of swimmers as they swam downriver.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before,’ said Duke, shaking his head.

  The Hawaiians took the mail on to Brisbane on Thursday afternoon, arriving late evening. Friday morning brought with it another town hall, another reception. Brisbane’s Mayor Jenkinson kept it brief and the boys were soon off in search of some lunch.

  Although designated a city shortly after Australia’s Federation, Brisbane was in fact still a country town spread out around the bends of its river. While it boasted some splendid Victorian architecture, there was often a paddock or a market garden between its significant buildings. In the vicinity of Parliament House and the Botanical Gardens, however, there was a sense that Brisbane was becoming a real city, albeit at its own relaxed pace. And just as he had enjoyed his brief stay in Allora, Duke found himself warming to Brisbane as the three men dawdled up Creek Street to their hotel, the Gresham, on the corner of Adelaide Street.

  ‘Oy, Duke!’ Loud as ever in a three-piece blue suit as he marched across the Gresham dining room, Hugh McIntosh pulled up a chair at the Hawaiians’ table.

  ‘Fancy seeing you chaps here,’ said McIntosh, looking around for a waiter.

  ‘Actually just leaving,’ said Francis. ‘More’s the pity, love to stay and chat but we have to inspect the venue for the carnival tomorrow.’ As if on cue, Bill Kuder, secretary of the Queensland Swimming Association, appeared at the doors. ‘In fact here’s our man now.’

  ‘Damn shame. My chaps don’t appear to be here yet, would have enjoyed a chin wag. I’m here for a site inspection of my own, as it happens. Remodelling the Tivoli. It’ll be the only bloody theatre in Brisbane worth the ticket, I can tell you. Got a roof garden and all. You must come and have a look.’

  Duke removed his napkin and stood to leave. ‘That would be a great pleasure indeed, Mr McIntosh, but I really don’t think we’ll have the time, will we Francis?’

  ‘Balls. Of course you will.’ McIntosh slipped Francis a calling card. ‘Just telephone the theatre later. It’s the construction office but I’ll be around the place somewhere. I can show you around and then we can have a drink at the Queensland Club. Just have to have my girl check on their Kanaka policy. Shouldn’t be a problem. Enjoy your afternoon.’

  As the Hawaiians moved towards the door, McIntosh called after them, ‘Duke, don’t forget my show offer. There’s still time.’

  Kuder, a timid man with a moustache that completely hid his mouth from view, guided them to the river’s edge where a ferryman was waiting to take them across to the industrial southside. It seemed an unlikely place to be holding a carnival, but then Honolulu’s Alakea Slip was not exactly picturesque, either. They pulled into a concrete pier and tied up. Kuder led the way up a footpath until they were looking into a vast canyon, partly filled with brown river water. Kuder said: ‘Gentlemen, this is the South Brisbane Dry Dock, built 40 years ago, home to championship carnivals for many years now, and a marvel of modern engineering it is. Until yesterday it was in the service of our shipping industry, but by tomorrow it will be transformed into the finest swimming tank in Queensland, with excellent temporary facilities in place for spectators, who will come in their thousands.’

  Duke sauntered over to Kuder and said, ‘That is very interesting, sir, and having worked on the waterfront at home I can tell you I appreciate just what a fine piece of work these docks are, but can I ask you one thing? Will the water be warm?’

  Kuder nodded. ‘This is Queensland in summer, Duke. It’ll be warm.’

  ‘Good. Someone forgot to tell that to the creek up at Allora.’

  The first Brisbane carnival at the Dry Dock attracted a big, cheerful Saturday-afternoon crowd of several thousand who massed into the cramped seating while the Railway Band played patriotic songs. There was a delayed start owing to the fact that someone had forgotten about changing rooms, and a couple of tents had to be found and erected, but the good-humoured people seemed not to mind.

  When the swimming finally began the Hawaiians were greeted with a standing ovation, but once in the water they found that the handicapper had shown them no favours. Duke failed to touch the board first in the 100 yards, having given away twelve seconds’ handicap to the local lad, Pierce, but he had given the big crowd something to cheer about as he stormed home in the late stages, failing by less than a yard and clocking just outside his own world record. Then Duke and George easily won the brace relay. The feeling that he had begun to lose form in Sydney was well and truly behind him now, as he, George and Francis, well rested and well lunched, set off for the wharf on a sparkling Sunday afternoon to join some 70 swimmers and officials for a river cruise on board the motor launch, Beryl.

  While drinks were served on board, the boat chugged down river, affording the visitors some wonderful views of the city, then turned around near Bulimba and passed back through the city before negotiating the tighter upriver bends and finally tying up at a small wharf just past the new university at St Lucia. The afternoon was warm and many of the guests plunged into the river, but Duke and Ge
orge joined another group kicking a football around on an overgrown paddock behind the wharf.

  ‘Man, I can’t tell you the last time I played some ball,’ Duke told one of his young opponents. ‘Sure feels good.’ The Hawaiians kicked and threw in a loose approximation of gridiron, which Duke had briefly played at McKinley, while the Brisbane boys were rugby-trained. But somehow it evolved into a passable game of touch footie until a clap of thunder and a cloudburst sent them scurrying for the hessian canopy of the aft deck, where sandwiches and beer were served as the Beryl puttered back to town. Duke made himself comfortable on a stack of rope with his ukulele and sang a few of the old songs. By the time they reached their destination in the twilight, the river echoed with the sound of 70 enthusiastic, tuneless voices.

  While not attracting the crowds of the first carnival, the mid-week evening meet at the Dry Dock was well attended, with more than a thousand people disappointed to learn that Duke would swim only in the 110 yards handicap, having pulled out of the 50-yards sprint and the brace relay, citing illness. (In fact, he had confided in Francis, he had a bad dose of the runs, perhaps the result of eating suspect fish he had bought from a fishmonger at the docks at lunchtime. ‘But you can’t tell these people they’ve poisoned me! You’ll think of something, Francis.’)

  The 110 handicap, the last race on the program, found Duke feeling improved but wishing the handicapper hadn’t burdened him again with twelve seconds. When he got his chance he went out hard and narrowed the gap on the local—Springfield—before the turn, then came home with all the power he could muster. But it was not quite enough. Once again, Duke could beat the swimmers but he could not beat the handicapper.

  Duke’s failure to compete in all events for which he was listed also drew the wrath of Brisbane hotelier Jim Cavill, a member of one of Australia’s leading swimming families, who wrote to the Brisbane Courier:

  A body of friends and myself travelled seventeen miles to get to see the great swimmer Duke Kahanamoku, but it was a very disappointed and disgusted party that left the Dock, for, with the exception of one race, the great swimmer was conspicuous by his absence, the programme being full of local turns … I believe I am expressing the opinion of all present when I say that on such an occasion as this, we pay to see the visitors, and it was nothing short of an imposition on the Queensland public to boom a man in the way the Duke was boomed, and then, after paying the money, to foist upon them local talent. It is time the promoters of these events awoke to the fact that the Brisbane public will not always be led like sheep to the slaughter, and compel visiting athletes to fulfil their schedule arrangements or return their money.

  The third and final Brisbane carnival had to be shifted to the tiny South Brisbane Baths at the last minute when the Brisbane Shipping Authority revealed it had a ship that must be worked on without delay, meaning for the Swimming Association, fewer spectators could be accommodated and in consequence a smaller box office. For the swimmers it meant more turns in the shorter course baths.

  Duke was untroubled when he heard this from Francis as he sat in the Gresham lobby, sipping a cup of tea and writing a letter home. ‘As long as there’s water in the tank and people in the bleachers, I’m a happy guy, Francis. Georgie, he’s not so happy this morning. Bad stomach pains. I asked the hotel manager to call a doctor.’

  Francis looked concerned. ‘I was just at the Café Majestic with Dr Hopkins from the Association. I’ll get him to look in on George, too. We really need to be more careful about dietary matters, especially in the far parts where we’re heading. God knows what ends up on a plate in Mount Morgan. I hear it’s like the Wild West.’

  ‘I don’t think George is going to be swimming this afternoon,’ said Duke. ‘Not the way he looked just half an hour ago. Maybe when you talk to the doc you’d better let Mr Kuder know we might have a withdrawal.’

  ‘That’ll be popular. Apparently there were some angry patrons on Wednesday when you pulled out of the 50. They pay their shilling, they want to see the champions, I guess.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine, Francis, but they don’t want to see me puke bad fish from one end of the tank to the other, and they don’t want to see Georgie do that, either. Don’t worry, old sport, I’ll give them their shilling’s worth today, and some.’

  George remained in bed with a bucket by his side, but Duke was as good as his word on a showery afternoon with about 800 patrons squeezed into a tiny uncovered stand and applauding everything from the sporadic bursts of sunshine, to the musical interludes of the Railway Band, to the glimpses of Duke running to and from the makeshift change rooms. Giving away nine seconds instead of twelve in the 100 yards, he produced a stunning burst of speed to touch just ahead of the Valley Club’s Loewe in the Queensland record time of 54 4⁄5 seconds.

  To compensate for George’s absence, Duke put on an exhibition of the various swimming strokes, explaining the contrasting American and Australian styles in between streaking up and down the tank. For the crowd this was almost as much a highlight as the record swim, and as people filed out onto the street at the conclusion of the program, Francis Evans was confident there would be no more irate letters to the editor of the Brisbane Courier.

  Sunday dawned hot and humid, and no-one was looking forward to the long train journey to Maryborough, least of all George, still laid low by his stomach ailment. But George slept for hours, while Francis alternatively read a book or tried to update his journal, and Duke strummed his ukulele and drifted into dreamland as they passed through mostly unremarkable timber country.

  ‘Sure would love a glimpse of the ocean,’ Duke said.

  ‘Out of luck, Paoa. We don’t go near it, not today.’ But the rail line did finally draw alongside a substantial river with the deep-cut banks of a waterway that had seen a torrent from time to time, and indeed, its gurgling brown waters showed the signs on this day of recent rains upstream. As they followed it along, the rough country gave way to the small acreages of crop farmers, and finally to the town buildings of Maryborough, fine timber and stone constructions that signified a prosperous community, or at least one that had been in a former time.

  The deputy mayor and members of the swimming club committee awaited the arrival of the Hawaiians in a station that was rather grand for a country town, featuring a high roof with a skylight, and they were whisked away after due formalities in a fine auto the short distance to the Post Office Hotel in the middle of town. A small afternoon tea reception, catered by the ladies’ auxiliary of the swimming club, took up the rest of the afternoon, and while it might have been said there was not a lot to do in Maryborough on a Sunday evening, the Hawaiians were glad of the opportunity to rest.

  The City Baths, a short-course enclosure on the Mary River a short stroll from the hotel, was a picturesque if slightly murky spot for a swim, but as the venue for the biggest sporting event in Maryborough’s history, it proved hopelessly inadequate. ‘There are five thousand people in Maryborough, and all of them are here tonight,’ one official lamented to Francis, as he struggled to keep order while turning hundreds of people away.

  On a clear and starry night in Maryborough, everyone who could be jammed onto the bleachers was there to see Duke in action, and the excitement was palpable, but in the lead-up there was much hilarity as the ‘Umbrella and Cigar Race’ was run.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Duke asked Francis as a group of swimmers assembled at the starting blocks holding umbrellas aloft and sucking on cigars. ‘This is as weird as the duck thing.’

  ‘It’s a tradition,’ said Francis. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what it is.’

  Umbrellas up, cigars lit, six swimmers jumped into the pool on the starter’s orders and began kicking themselves towards the other end of the baths. When one competitor’s cigar was extinguished by a splash, he dropped out of the race. Although neither betting nor drinking were allowed at City Baths, a spectator who seemed to have a lot to
lose, and was somewhat challenged for balance, lurched forward as the race concluded, falling face first into the water as the apparent long shot kicked awkwardly over the line. The crowd roared.

  The Rockhampton carnival, held over two nights, was much the same, handicap races held over a short course in a muddy river, interspersed with band music and bizarre novelty events. But a motor excursion on the second day delighted Duke. He was reunited at last with the Pacific Ocean at Emu Park, a long stretch of beach on Keppel Bay. Although there was a lifesaving club in a corner of the bay by some mangroves, there was no surf to speak of, but Duke waded out through the low-tide shallows to demonstrate to a group of locals the techniques of the body-shoot. When finally the muddy sand fell away to the depths, Duke dived deep into the opaque blue-green water, which was just a fraction cooler than the damp air. He twisted and corkscrewed his body and surfaced laughing with joy at being home in the Pacific again, the palm-fringed beach and mountains beyond not so very different from home.

  The last stop on the Queensland tour was reached with considerable effort on the part of the steam train that puffed up the Razorback Range almost a thousand feet above the coast on the last morning of January. When finally they reached the escarpment, Duke noticed that the temperature seemed more pleasant than the dry heat of Rockhampton, with its faint aroma of a well-fertilised corral seemingly ever-present. But the relief was only temporary. The town of Mount Morgan, straggling up and down over several hills, was hot and still.

  At the railway station the Hawaiians were met by two officers of the swimming club, who apologised for the inability of the mayor to attend. ‘He’s working an extra shift in the pits,’ one man explained. ‘But he’ll be along for the carnival later.’

  Creamy Pony Transport for Duke’s board, January 1915. Photo courtesy Warringah Library Local Studies.

  They were driven the short distance to the Queensland National Hotel, an elegant timber building in the middle of town. A clerk in shirt cuffs and braces checked them in with a smile, advising helpfully, ‘We have full service rooms on the first level, gentlemen.’ He handed keys to Francis and George. ‘And our rooms for Kanakas and Murris are at the rear of this level.’ He handed a key to Duke, who returned his smile and held the man’s gaze for long seconds.