by Malcolm Knox
The Keiths never reported her missing either.
I guess the seventies were different.
All of this threw me off the rails for a long time. Who was I? Who was my mother? Nothing like I’d been brought up to think. And who was my father? Who? I had a lot of problems adjusting. But I believe the world has a purpose. It sends you messages. It had been trying to send me a message for a long time, through my fascination with Dennis Keith. And then, I received another message. I don’t believe in coincidence. There’s always a reason.
I got a letter, care of a magazine I write for. The editor handed it to me like it was a telegram from the Queen. It was from the famous Mo Keith. My God, I couldn’t believe it. My hands were shaking. Terror, anger, excitement, and a lot more—there’s a fine line, and at that moment there was no line at all. This formidable force, this woman who’d been picking up the pieces of her family for thirty-plus years. One son gone to jail and the other gone to ruin—what a life. I’d had a lot of sympathy for her. I used to.
My hands still shake when I remember sitting at my desk to open her letter. Her tone was quite formal and distant. Like she was an informant writing to a journalist. She seemed to need us to play these roles, her and me. The essence of it was, she wanted to offer me a world exclusive. She wrote that nobody knew the truth about what had happened with the Keith brothers all those years ago. She said that what was said and printed was all lies. She was prepared to tell me the true story, if I came to Coolangatta and met with her. And with Dennis. I would be allowed to write the story if, after hearing it, I still wanted to.
Mrs Keith’s letter made no specific reference to why she’d singled me out, after so many years when they slammed the door on journalists. But I wasn’t naïve enough to think it was because she’d read my fantastic articles. She saw my name. No coincidences.
For weeks, I didn’t reply. I knew how much it would hurt my grandparents if I even considered going to meet the Keiths. Nobody can imagine how devastated my grandparents still are. Thirty-odd years, it never fades. It casts a shadow on every day. They’d moved me from the Gold Coast, tried to raise me away from that shadow, and kept the truth from me. Because there was no trial, and DK had disappeared into obscurity, not a lot had been written about the death of Lisa. The community—the surf community, the Gold Coast—looked after its own, and closed ranks around DK and his mother. He was obviously in a bad way, and they let him be. The world might have known about Lisa’s death, and who went to jail for it, but the world forgot too. When I was growing up it just wasn’t news anymore. Honest, I’d never heard about it. I led a carefully sheltered life, I guess.
But there’s no shelter really. We’d lived in a sad house. Now I knew why.
That’s it. I got to tell Mo. Me and her got to take steps to protect our boy.
Father A didn’t have no car. Mrs Father didn’t believe in them. The end of the earth will come and you got to know how to get yourself A to B without modern technology. So she said. So he said too. They agreed on everything that pair.
So: the Hound of Grey. The smackie’s chauffeur. You and Father A in your trench coats keep yous warm. You left Dave with his new best mates down in Far South New South. The bus smelling of puke and nylon, hot chips and chocky milk. Skywalker snug in newspaper and blankets in the hold downstairs. So secret yous didn’t even want the bus driver to see it.
North north north north north north north north.
March 1980:
And got out at Central Station in Sydney late night went looking for some hamburger for yourself Father stayed at the bus stop eating scroggin.
And scored some of Rod’s old mate from someone you used to know in one of them squats on Regent Street.
Not for use: for insurance.
North north north north north north north north.
And got out at Nambucca Heads middle of the next day went looking for some hamburger for yourself while Father stayed at the bus stop eating scroggin.
And scored some weed from a good tough man you used to know over the oyster leases.
Not for insurance: for immediate use.
North north north north north north north north.
And got out at Lismore late that day went looking for some hamburger for yourself while Father stayed at the bus stop eating scroggin.
And scored some goey from a good tough man you used to know over the marshes.
Some for immediate use and enough for insurance.
You missed bus reconnects. You slept in bus stations huddled round the Skywalker. You read books. The Magic Mountain. Catch-22. Father never said a word, just shared your weed to stop you overdoing it. A saint, he called himself.
You never said a word.
Raining for a week on the Gold Coast before the Straight Talk Tyres. There was warm-up events. Father A had caused a stir by entering DK on the start list, as a sponsor’s invite from Holy Smoke Surfboards.
Course they wanted you. You was the greatest surfer in the world. How could they not? You DK was all they talked about and then you freaked everyone out by not being there, by them thinking you were being there, by your ghost being there.
After all these years . . .
All their talk like a drumbeat: DK, DK, DK, DK . . .
March 1980.
They didn’t believe.
While you were still down south. South south south south.
It kept raining, spinning verge of a cyclone.
East east east east. Swell rolling in from the Coral Sea and the cyclone. Rain always a good sign.
Rained for a week right through them warm-up events.
They talked about you and talked about you. Talked your ghost into solid lifesize. All the Hawaiians was there, all the Americans, some South Africans, Brazilians, Mexicans, more Hawaiians.
All the Australians: Mark Richards, Ian Cairns, Peter Drouyn, Paul Neilsen, Cheyne Horan, Wayne Lynch, Mark Warren, Michael Peterson, Peter Townend, Wayne Bartholomew. Lot of blokes come out of retirement, or hibernation, that kind of thing, for the twenty grand.
Yeah and the two Coolie locals who been world champions.
FJ. The Blond Bombshell—
Tink. Billy Bloodnut Kinky Tinky—
Yeah.
Straight Talk Tyres started on time, you wouldn’t of been in it. You missed that many buses with Father Aplin and the Skywalker you might as well been going in the ’81 event. But it rained so hard they put it off. Official explanation was they couldn’t erect the grandstands and TV towers at Snapper in the rain.
Competitors all said they were waiting for you. Couldn’t put on the world’s richest event, the first one-on-one conness, without DK
after all these years
couldn’t wouldn’t shouldn’t.
It pelt down for a week. You were late by a week. The draw was in The Patch, club where she used to sing.
You weren’t there.
Rod wasn’t there.
She wasn’t there.
The draw they said was all Vegas glitz and showgirls and bikini girls and promo girls. America America welcome to the Gold Coast. It was 1980, yeah.
The new era of surfing.
One on one.
Made for you said Father A.
Made for you said everyone who was waiting.
You drew a Hawaiian in the first round, Derek Ho.
You was in the same half of the draw as FJ. You couldn’t meet him in the final. Have to beat him first.
Tink was in the other half. You have to beat him in the final. You wanted to take your time with him, do him slow.
Not that you knew that. You were wired up in Murwillumbah running round the streets with Father A thinking you’d left the Skywalker at a bloke’s place, or the place of a bloke before that.
You left it in th
e bus station, in a locker room.
Meanwhile, biggest surfing event in history the start of the new era the revolution
starting without you.
The rain stopped.
They’d had enough of waiting.
First morning you were drawn with Derek Ho at nine fifteen am. Thursday March 20, 1980.
You rocked up at Anga with Father A and the Skywalker.
Mo nearly falling off her velvet lounge suite.
Too tough to cry.
Tough old possum.
Just come up and gave you a punch under the chin and:
Make sure you win it eh.
All she said.
Done a lot of talking with Father, catching up on church gossip and whatnot and
and you sat there watching her how big she was how huge and you just wanted to get inside her house dress and hide there, hide, watching her as she fussed round the kitchen
and made you this massive bowl of muesli.
Cloudy and cold that morning and by the time you got down the beach they said it was like a vision come down off Point Danger.
Easter fricken Monday.
With Father A, spiritual counsellor. And Skywalker. Still in newspaper and blankets and masking tape.
In your trench coats.
Down the beach, through the crowds, fifteen thousand they said, twenty thousand they said, thirty thousand they said . . .
Hell . . .
Father A on his knees taking the wraps off the Skywalker.
You in your trench coat and aviators:
The living dead come down from the graveyard.
(Still no Lisa.)
Walked up to Tink and flashed him, opened up the trench coat with all its pockets stuffed.
He said you looked like the full pharmaceutical factory in there. Insurance.
And half a cold piece of battered fish sticking out of one pocket.
•
Derek Ho was waiting in the water.
Father A busted out the Skywalker. Only give it the full spray job after you tested it out.
Stars, dark purple galaxy, swirling nebula. In the centre, a gold cross: a Jesus cross with little bits of shine coming off it. Beautiful.
God is in the galaxies.
God in the Skywalker.
Father A sit you down in the dunny block give you a pep talk.
Dennis, the place where the ocean meets the earth is the point of greatest untapped energy on the planet.
Dennis, go tap it.
Dennis, you will be aware of every ripple, every bump, every pulse of energy no matter how big or how small in that ocean.
Dennis, the greatest surfers can actually make a wave change its shape so that it will form itself around your next move.
Dennis, the greatest surfers can keep the lip of a wave holding up. Keep the barrel going.
Dennis, the greatest surfers can bend nature to their will.
Dennis. You know the line-up spot. Sit there. Wait. Wait for your wave. It will come. You will make it come. You will paddle in, three decisive strokes, and you will enter the tunnel that sucks up every drop of water from beneath it and throws it down again with a thunderous roar aiming to bury you, plant you in the ocean floor, destroy you, but it will not, you will destroy it, you will be totally calm and have all the time in the world and you will never forget this moment.
Dennis—you got any of that smoke left?
Somewhere you began to nod off. I had Father A figured now. He was lying.
He never given up God.
But Dennis—
Dennis?
Dennis, wake up!
Dennis? You know, Hawaii . . . Pipe . . .
Dennis?
Mate, listen. It’s no shame that you were scared of the waves in Hawaii. They scare anyone.
Dennis?
It’s no shame.
I wasn’t saying nothing.
But Father A, he was wrong, right? Somewhere deep down, or not even that deep, I knew he was wrong. God may be in the waves, surfing may be the highest religion in the world, the waves may be the be-all and end-all, but he was wrong you know, because a girl got done in, and all because they love and hate each other and they’re brother and mother and son and they love DK, they do all that cos they love DK too much and he loves the waves too much and it’s all too much and it’s not worth it, Father, it’s not worth it, it’s none of it’s worth it and but—
You start with a no-paddle take-off on a seven-footer and get creamed. The Skywalker lucky to be in one piece.
Ho got a couple and you got mad.
You paddled behind the black granite lava rock. Ho too scared to follow.
Thought you’d get creamed again.
You paddled into a big one, took the drop. Made the bottom turn behind the black granite. Spat out in the bay. Wrote poetry with that Skywalker.
Crowd going bananas. Fifteen thousand at daybreak, up to thirty thousand since the coconut wireless put it out that DK
from the water you could see it: the Roman Amphitheatre. Camera towers, towers for music speakers, the Marlboro scoreboard, the grandstands, the dots of faces and behind them the new unit blocks, Coolangatta gone skywards, the eighties, Den, this is the eighties, this is the end of the world. Above it a loudspeaker going on and on with this one pair of words:
Unfinished business—
. . . yeah . . .
Derek Ho shook your hand. You disappear. Nobody could find you.
You couldn’t find yourself.
Second round you beat Mark Warren, one of the Bronzed Aussies. Third round you beat another Hawaiian, kid called Something Something-Ha.
Hawaii, meet Queensland . . .
•
Unfinished business.
Man on man.
New era.
One on one.
Made in Queensland.
Made for DK.
That was it for the Thursday. You gone home and Mo done chops. You decided to go vego like Father A. You and Father went in your room. Mo said nothing. Mo loved Father. She never been this proud since your confirmation. Nothing like a priest to look after her little boy.
In your room you done your own acupuncture. Burnt it in yourself. Needles in your arm ease the pain.
Did some reading. Old Testy.
Took the edge off.
Friday there was only one heat before the onshores blew in. You and Cheyne Horan. Before it you were laying cable in the dunnies. He saw you come out the cubicle and his jaw drop and what he saw was murder. He ran like roadrunner. Thought you was gunna kill him.
In the heat he hardly took a wave. By the end he could of scored a perfect ten and he still wouldn’t of won. They called that a ‘combo’. DK did the first combo ever, on Cheyne Horan.
Saturday blown out. You come home and Mo done lentils. She looked so sad you asked her to go buy some chops.
You and Father A went in your room. Mo said nothing. Mo loved Father A. Nothing like a priest to look after her little boy.
In your room you done your own acupuncture. Burnt it into yourself. Needles eased the pain.
Blown-out Saturday:
Father A went off to see some people.
Hell.
No Rod.
No Lisa.
When Father A wasn’t there you and Mo didn’t speak. You got a good look at her now.
Mo rattling round Anga, ten years older than when you last seen her two years ago.
You and Mo couldn’t talk no more. You looked at her and saw this hard woman did hard things when she had to.
Anything for you, she would.
You couldn’t talk to her.
Not a word.
No-wave Saturday:
Hell.
No surf no comp just you in your room.
Turned on your radio but it didn’t work.
Smoked weed but it didn’t work.
Snorted rails of whiz but it didn’t work, or worked too well.
Tried acupuncture but it didn’t work:
Hell.
You had an insurance policy against Hell.
Rod wasn’t here no more.
Rod’s mate was but.
Father A woke you Sunday morning. Your works lying all over the bedroom. Skywalker on its nose out in the hallway, one fin busted. Dunno how that
Father A spinning out:
Dennis, it’s eight foot and offshore and you have a semifinal coming up and Dennis, and Dennis, oh what’ve you done to the Skywalker, my Skywalker, our beautiful Skywalker . . .
But he was a good one Father A, a good tough hard-core man and he saw the state you were in, he took you in his arms and Mo come in and saw you and thought it was the passion of Christ . . .
It’s only a busted fin, Mrs Keith, Father A breathed heavy, talk himself down from the ledge. It’s not the end of the world.
Yeah just think if he’d of snapped off the nose.
You and Father A went down the rat cellar and glassed the fin in again.
•
He walked you down Snapper. Late for your semi.
The semi:
In their quarter-final Frank Johnson had beat Mark Richards.
Your semi against blondie:
Thirty thousand, forty thousand.
Cameras, TV towers, grandstands.
The Marlboro scoreboard.
Easter Sunday on the Goldie.
Eight foot and offshore.
Nononononono.
You give Father A the Skywalker and had to go to the dunny for a poo.
Your works and your gear, tucked down your boardies . . .
As the hooter blew for your semi they found you on the nod in your cubicle.
Had to kick the door down—
Dennis Dennis Dennis . . .
Father A with you in his arms.
Dennis, we couldn’t find you . . .
He found you.
You and FJ out there in eight-foot Snapper. All-time. You lost you got one grand. You won, but lost in the final, you got three grand. You won this and the final, you won twenty grand. Lot of coin. Lot of coin.
