That Summer at Boomerang

by Phil Jarratt

  ‘Count me out, boys,’ said Duke. ‘And this time I mean it.’ In his room alone he wrote a letter to Isabel, then took it down to the night porter to ensure it did not miss the morning post.

  Melbourne presented another perfect summer’s day for the first carnival and by early afternoon the stands at the St Kilda Baths and the additional bleachers brought in for the occasion were all full, as was the tent bar behind the stand. Horace Bennett, the rotund captain of the Melbourne Swimming Club, could do little to hide his glee as the people kept rolling in. Taking over the megaphone during the early races, he exhorted the womenfolk to plunge into the baths to gain a better view, whether they could swim or not, since this reckless act might afford them the pleasure of being rescued by the famous and handsome members of the Manly Life Saving Club.

  The famous and handsome members, however, preparing to demonstrate their rescue techniques, were somewhat worse for wear. ‘I wish that bloke would shut up,’ moaned Geoff Wyld. Tommy Adrian then suffered a shock loss off scratch to the unknown Victorian, Morris, in the 440 yards. The Manly crew could not quite believe that the only man to have vanquished Duke off scratch the whole tour had now suffered the same fate to an unknown. ‘There may have been something in them sheep’s trotters last night,’ suggested Wyld.

  Duke, George and Harry Hay were all starters in the 100-yards championship of Victoria, even though the local rules stipulated that only a Victorian could take the title. Duke romped home in the fairly slow time of 56 seconds, ahead of George with Harry Hay third, but in the 100-metres handicap, he had to contend with a turn of speed from Hay, forcing him to fight back over the last strokes to dead-heat with the Manly swimmer, outside his own world record for the distance by just two-fifths of a second.

  The excitement had Horace Bennett babbling into the megaphone, and he was still babbling that evening as he addressed the Melbourne Club dinner in honour of the Hawaiian guests at Wickliffe House, redeeming himself only slightly when he revealed a passable baritone in closing the evening with song.

  After such a brilliant afternoon at St Kilda, the second Melbourne carnival, held at the City Baths in Swanston Street on Monday night, was a disappointment, with poor attendance and a somewhat lacklustre program. The Hawaiians were in bed as early as they could politely manage, and in the morning they were back on the train for the long journey to their final carnival in Australia, in the middle of nowhere at a railhead town called Goulburn.

  Clattering towards Goulburn on Tuesday afternoon, Francis Evans looked for the first time at the heat lists for the next night’s carnival. ‘I can’t believe what I’m reading,’ he said to Duke and George. ‘Billy Longworth’s tracked you down. He’s listed for the hundred handicap and you’re giving him three seconds, Paoa. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think it’ll be a close race,’ Duke responded deadpan, provoking a laugh from Francis. There was not much else to laugh about concerning the Goulburn stop. Earlier in the tour they had enjoyed the country-town carnivals, meeting honest folk and giving young swimmers the thrill of a lifetime, but it had gone on too long without a proper break.

  The town was pleasant enough, set on a stone plateau in the middle of sheep country, and the locals were, as usual, welcoming to a fault. Their beds at the Coolavin Hotel were adequate although, in Duke’s case, a tad too short.

  A good crowd filled the Victoria Park Baths and there was plenty of excitement in the air. Arriving at the change rooms, Duke and George found Billy Longworth deep in conversation with a young man in a bowler hat, introduced as the sports editor of the Goulburn Evening Penny Post. Longworth was somewhat distant with them, and soon moved away with the reporter to continue the interview elsewhere. When Francis arrived with the updated heat sheets, they found that once again Duke and Longworth would not be meeting head to head, despite previous listings for both in the 100 yards and the brace relay, and that instead Longworth would give an exhibition over 450 yards.

  ‘That’s a lot of turns in a 33-yard tank,’ said Duke, shaking his head. ‘Francis, what the hell do you think is going on here? Does he want to race me or not?’ Evans shrugged. ‘Scratch me from the seventy-five. I’m going out hard just once for the hundred. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘The racing was excellent,’ opined the sports editor of the Goulburn Evening Penny Post,

  and the local swimmers showed up well even against the lustre of the stars, who, it must be admitted, hid their light with greater modesty than was pleasing to those who had come specially to see them. When, at 8.30, Mr. Percy Portus was compelled to announce that the special attempt to establish a new record for the baths would not be made, that the Duke would not swim in the 75 yards, and that Cunha would only swim in the final of that race, cries of indignation arose, and some dissatisfied ones asked for their money back. When Tom Daniel beat Cunha in the 75, the local hero was cheered to the echo, and though his start was a big one it was felt that as the champion was as fresh as paint the Goulburn man fully deserved the applause so freely bestowed.

  Goulburn seemed to have an attitude. Even Duke’s breaking of the baths record for the 100 yards did not win them back, while Billy Longworth was cheered for every stroke of his long swim. The Penny Post reported:

  The audience enjoyed watching the visitors, but when they realised that the time these champions were on view was covered by five minutes they considered that the club had had a dear twenty sovereigns’ worth. Longworth’s long-distance swim of 450 yards was a very popular item, and the Australian received a greater ovation than did the over-sea visitors …

  Duke pretended to wipe the sweat from his brow as they settled into the carriage for the trip to Sydney. ‘Phew,’ he said. ‘Just ahead of the lynch mob.’

  Thursday afternoon’s official Sydney farewell to the Hawaiians, at the Sports Club in Hunter Street, was a rather staid affair, much smaller than any of the receptions that had preceded it. It didn’t help when the speeches and toasts had to be rushed through due to Duke arriving half an hour late, having been busily trying to arrange a final overnight stay at Boomerang.

  Bill Hill looked daggers at him when he slipped into the club, accompanied by an apologetic Don McIntyre, but association president Jim Taylor seemed more forgiving, waving, smiling and calling the room to order immediately to begin the presentation of certificates, trophies, souvenirs and photographic albums. When the Hawaiians were called on to respond to the accolades heaped on them by Taylor and successive speakers, Francis pulled out a sheet of paper and dutifully thanked a long list of people.

  When his turn came Duke simply said: ‘I had a great time and I don’t want to leave. I did some work on the surfboard, but not enough, and for that reason alone I would want to come back. But there are a whole bunch of other reasons I’d come back for, and they’re all about the people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made. I will come back, and I will never forget what a fine time I’ve had here.’

  The applause filled the room.

  It took more than three hours for Duke and McIntyre to get from the Sports Club to Boomerang, and it was quite late in the evening when they arrived, but Claude West was waiting for them on the verandah in the warm, still night. ‘I heard you were coming when Mr Mac ordered a pickup from the ferry. I … I hoped we might get one last surf in, Paoa.’

  Duke put down his small Gladstone bag, laughed and embraced Claude. ‘Why do you think I came, brudda? The boat doesn’t leave until the afternoon, we got just enough time to shoot a few.’

  ‘Good. I brought the board from Manly Life Savers over on the Creamy Pony, so we have a board each.’

  ‘Perfect. We surf at dawn.’

  The air was perfectly still as Duke picked his way down the Undercliff track in the pre-dawn. It felt good to have the heavy board on his shoulder, the sand between his toes. Claude was already up, dressed in his bathers, rolling up his swag on the verandah of the
club. ‘Looks like there are a few nice shoots in the corner, Paoa,’ he said.

  Duke laughed. ‘Not bad, little brudda, you can see in the dark like me.’

  They carried their boards to the water’s edge and launched into the cool ocean. The sun still had a journey ahead of it, but the grey dawn was just starting to make the lines of breaking waves visible. ‘Surfing in the dark is easy,’ said Duke. ‘Paddle in where it’s white and point the board to where it’s black, can’t miss.’ Claude followed the sound of the big man’s laughter as they paddled into the break.

  The soft morning light was beginning to harden as Duke and Claude finally left the surf. Although it was a weekday, people were beginning to make their way down the tracks to the beach; fishermen with their rods and baskets, heading out along the rocks past Lewers’s tunnel, some guests from Beach House doing callisthenics on the sand at the northern end, a couple of small boys searching for pipis along the firm sand before school. There was not a cloud in the sky and barely a breath of wind. It was going to be a warm one in Freshie today, and Duke was suddenly filled with regret that he wouldn’t be here to enjoy it, and who knew when he would return.

  Isabel took the train from Stanmore to Central Station, then a tram to Circular Quay where she waited, as arranged, at the western end of the dock. Although she had come directly from school, she had time—she had made the time—to quickly change out of her uniform and into the Japanese kimono that she and Mother had chosen at Farmer’s for her Christmas gift. Well, she had chosen, and Jeannie had commented, ‘Don’t you think it’s a wee bit old for you?’ The kimono, embroidered with beautiful flowers and butterflies, gently framed her figure. She felt good in it, she felt like a woman.

  Soon enough Mr McIntyre, resplendent in cream linen suit and swirling a cane, came fussing down Pitt Street and onto the Quay. ‘Come along, child,’ he said, pushing her in the direction of the steamer wharf. ‘My goodness, girl, we’re going to a farewell, not a fancy-dress ball.’ He should talk, Isabel thought, but just smiled sweetly.

  At the wharf they were shown up the gangplank and onto the visitor’s deck of the Moeraki, a smallish but comfortable Tasman steamer. Bill Hill, Jim Taylor and Ernie Marks were at the centre of a group of men toasting the Hawaiians with champagne. Standing half a head above the group, Duke smiled at Isabel and widened the circle to include her and McIntyre. Conspicuously, Isabel was the only girl who had come to say a final farewell, but she didn’t feel ill at ease in the slightest. He had invited her—how could she not come?

  The letter had arrived at Apsley early in the week. Duke had told her all about the Melbourne trip and the exploits of the crazy Manly boys, but he didn’t write anything personal, especially not what she hoped he’d write. He had ended with: ‘I will try to get to Freshie again but you will be in school, so please come to say goodbye at the wharf on Friday. Mac will see you home. Aloha nui and regards to your family and the gang at Freshie, Paoa.’

  So here she was, and here he was, and they stood at opposite sides of the circle while the toasts continued. Finally, when the visitors’ bell was rung and families and friends began to file down the gangplank, Duke managed to pull her away from the group. He drew her near. ‘I’m going to miss you, young lady.’ Isabel nodded, her eyes a little misty. ‘I told Claude this morning, the board at Boomerang is for both of you to use. He’ll look after it, but you can use it whenever you want.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Grateful as she was, she didn’t want to spend these last moments talking about surfboards. ‘I’ll miss you, too, Paoa.’

  ‘Come to Hawaii, I’m easy to find.’

  ‘When I finish school, perhaps I will.’

  He hugged her tight for long seconds and kissed her on both cheeks. An impatient McIntyre passed Isabel down the line to bid farewell to George and Francis, and they were off down the gangplank.

  ‘Isabel!’ Duke called from the deck. She turned. ‘You look beautiful.’ She smiled at him. Mr Mac had her by the arm, marching her along the wharf. When she looked back again Duke had gone.

  Part 3: Fall

  Turn of the century hongi. Photo courtesy Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand.

  Chapter 21

  Honolulu Maori

  Prior to departing Sydney on the Moeraki, Francis Evans had written to H.S. Williams of the New Zealand Amateur Swimming Association, spelling out the ground rules for the month-long tour:

  Exhibition swims are preferred, with a few handicaps now and then, say, in the larger cities where the jumps are not too close and the stops longer. In the matter of handicapping may I ask that consideration be taken of the fact that they are travelling all the while and this, coupled with the further act of entertaining, all tends, if anything, to keep one out of good condition, and I would therefore ask that the handicapping be not too stiff. I would ask also that Duke and Cunha appear once only in each carnival, such as is being done throughout the present tour.

  Well, more or less. Francis had seen how raggedy things could get when his swimmers were exhausted. He did not want a repeat of Goulburn.

  Now, as the steamer neared Wellington Harbour after a fairly torrid crossing of the Tasman, he was glad he had sent a warning (although there was no guarantee it would be heeded) since four days at sea had not really been enough to reinvigorate his champions. There had been no deck quoits for Duke, no lazing on deck with a notepad on his lap, writing letters home. There had been quite a bit of lying on bunks, listening to the slapping of the swell and doing your best to hold down your last meal.

  Ironically, windy Wellington turned on a calm, clear morning for their arrival, with H.S. ‘Harry’ Williams at the wharf to greet them, along with a couple of local officials. Williams, a tall, thin, upright man of middle age, dressed in a business suit and pork-pie hat, led them to two vehicles that would transport them straight to their first engagement in New Zealand, an exhibition swim at Wellington College Baths, with the school’s best swimmers joining them for a few laps.

  Williams handed out copies of a typed itinerary that filled several foolscap pages. ‘You did get my letter, Mr Williams?’ asked Francis.

  ‘I did, sir, and I forwarded it to the press so that the word would be out and no-one will load you up too much. Can’t have that, can we, eh? Now, after the swimming, the college principal has invited us to join senior staff for a luncheon reception, after which a short motor tour of the city, getting us back to the dock in time to take the overnight ferry, Wahine, across Cook Strait to Lyttelton on the South Island.’ Stopping to draw breath, Williams suddenly realised that he had not introduced the driver. ‘Oh, excuse me, Alec. Gentlemen, may I introduce our driver, Alec Ross, a very well-known sportsman and automobile dealer of the district who has made his Tourer and the luggage truck available to us for the duration of our stay today, and when we return for a longer stay next week.’

  In complete contrast to Williams, Ross was short, stout and red-faced, a relaxed fellow with a broad, toothy smile. He looked like a man who enjoyed a drink and a laugh. As he shook Duke’s hand, Ross said: ‘Will you be wanting to shoot some of our surf while you’re here, Duke?’

  ‘It’s Paoa please, Alec, and yes, I would dearly love to do that.’

  ‘But you don’t have a surfboard with you?’

  ‘No, but if there’s a sawmill and just a little time, I can make one.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I have one, a very good one, so I’m told. Brother-in-law captains a merchant steamer, brought it back from Honolulu. None of us can really ride the damn thing, although Billy claims to have stood up on it once or twice. No-one around to witness, of course.’ Ross winked at Duke. ‘Anyway, I have a beach house out at Lyall Bay where the board is kept, we can motor past after lunch and if you like it, borrow it.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Alec.’

  ‘If you could get me to my feet on the blesse
d thing just once while someone points a Box Brownie, that would be sufficient. That would shut up old Captain Billy Blowhard.’ Roaring with laughter, Ross stepped behind the wheel of his gleaming Ford Model T, signalled to Ben, the driver of the luggage van, and took off.

  Alec Ross’s holiday home was a comfortable bungalow looking directly over the pretty but deserted bay, at one end of which small waves were breaking over a sandbar. Ross unlocked the doors of the boatshed at the side of the house, revealing all kinds of boat parts and a small skiff in reasonable shape sitting on a primitive wagon-wheel trailer. Above all of this, suspended by loops of anchor rope bolted to the roof, was a fine-looking redwood surfboard. The two men took it down and Duke circled it several times before picking it up by the tail and examining its contours and markings.

  ‘I don’t know this board, but I know its brother, if you know what I mean,’ he told Ross. ‘See these initials burnt into the wood—WKC? That’s William ‘Knute’ Cottrell, and he’s a friend of mine. But I think he must have built this one while I was away in Europe, and copied its shape from a George Freeth board from California, because it’s very much like a board George made for me to ride back east in Atlantic City. This is a fine surfboard, Mr Ross, and I would be honoured to ride it.’

  ‘But not today,’ blustered Williams. ‘We must not miss the ferry.’

  ‘Take it with you to the South Island. Let’s get it in the truck,’ Ross said.

  Over Harry Williams’s mild protests, the board was loaded and the convoy headed back to port.

  Wherever they travelled, Harry Williams had all the newspapers delivered to their hotel and made a point of going through every page in search of coverage that he carefully snipped and filed in a leather folder. Duke looked over his shoulder one morning and saw the following in Christchurch’s Canterbury Times:

  Duke Kahanamoku, accompanied by the officials of the Canterbury Centre arrived at New Brighton shortly before noon of February 24 and gave an exhibition of surfing. There was a great gathering of people, the pier and beach being lined with spectators, and the champion got a great reception. The swell was flat, the board too light. Kahanamoku could not stand on it, but gave a fine exhibition of steering it through the breakers. The school children gave him three cheers.