Dancing with Dolphins.

Paradise.....I've been there.

Hardly a day goes by without some dire happening that casts doubts about the existence of a supreme, all powerful deity. Ones beliefs become uncertain and at times are discarded as mere fantasy when nature and mankind create and cause horrific catastrophes all too often. During December 1962 however, I happened to be in the right place at the right time and experienced a physical and spiritual presence that moved me to tears. Paula kissed me, Ron didn’t.......thank God for small mercies.

DANCING WITH DOLPHINS

DECEMBER 1962

Paula and I were enjoying the surf and each other's company near what is known as the Hole in the Wall at North Avalon. It was a beautiful warm summer's day with a well shaped 4 to 5 foot surf gently rolling in. Even the water temperature was warmer than normal for this time of the year. Ahh! Wonderful weather, warm water, good surf and the company of an extremely pretty blonde headed female companion, could life get any better?
I was about to find out, yes it could.

Polly and my good self were joined by Denise Ware's dad Ron and after a few waves, a pod of around 8 to 10 bottle nose dolphins was seen approaching from the south. Polly caught a wave to the beach as she had heard that dolphins may attract a Noah’s ark. She was joined by the three young school waggers who had been surfing with us as well. I pleaded with Polly to remain out the back with Ron and I, but she was honest enough to admit she would be too nervous surrounded by Dolphins. She insisted she would return once the pod had left. Ron was wearing a peaked cap with a ping pong ball sewn on its top, so it would float. He placed it on his Malibu and asked me to look after them while he chased after the dolphins. He was delighted to have these beautiful creatures join us for a playful frolic.

I remained seated astride my board while he was attempting to hitch a ride on the back of a dolphin. Two cheeky dolphins surfaced off my port bow and were giving me the once over, while I was attempting to start up an intelligent conversation with them. Three times one of them moved forward and deliberately tipped my board over, sending me in for a swim. These two mischief makers were laughing at me every time I fell off the board. After the third dunking I spun the board around to face the beach and was amazed when the dunking dolphin lined up alongside the boards right hand side and leaned hard up against my leg. The other fish must have had an itchy nose, because he or she started rubbing it against my left knee. I leaned forward and began to gently rub my hand under the chin of the dolphin on my right and it did exactly what a cat does when having it's chin tickled. It stretched its head forward and seemed to be loving every second of the attention I was  giving it. I began to openly cry. The situation remained unchanged for at least the next minute or so, then I heard Ron, who was treading water and watching all this unfold say, “Pogo, you must be blessed.” With genuine tears of emotion trickling down my cheeks, I could do no more than agree with him. Here was a wild creature of the sea leaning on me and allowing me to hug and gently stroke its body and tickle its chin, while another used my leg as a scratching post. I actually prayed and pleaded out loud, “If I die now, please let Heaven be this moment for all eternity.” 

Even today I can still recall sensing a Divine presence during that unforgettable encounter. After a further short frolic, the pod returned to the southern end of the beach and spent the rest of the day feeding and wave riding. 

My cheeks were kept warm by the tears that kept flowing, even after Polly rejoined us. She had been a witness to what had taken place and noticing my emotional state, she paddled over and parked right alongside me. She surprised me by using language normally regarded by her to be ‘not very nice.’  She smiled at me, then gently placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered, "You lucky bastard Pogo," then leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek. All I was able to do was fall off my malibu. My God I loved Paula during moments such as this. I heard Ron comment, "Wow! You really are a lucky bastard Pogo."

If my shaky memory is correct, this was the last surfing session I had with my beautiful blonde headed surfer girl. Within the following 2 months or so she dropped off the radar, went on a holiday in Canada and started attending University and Was never seen or heard from ever again.
Throughout the many years that followed I have lost count of the number of times I have shed tears because of my stupidity failing to keep in touch.

Kevin Costner may think himself lucky to have danced with wolves, but he was not as lucky as me that Thursday morning in December 1962 when at North Avalon I was indeed truly blessed to have been given the opportunity to swim and play with wild dolphins and then be kissed by an extremely pretty, blonde young lady and thankfully, not by Ron.



Return to NOTHING LASTS FOREVER


                                                           VALE   Ron Ware                                                                   
I have only just found out that my surfing companion in this tale passed away in Byron Bay during July 2011  aged 86. He died peacefully in Hospital surrounded by family members.
Ron was indeed a Master Mariner whose links with the sea spanned his whole life. He served in the Air Force, Merchant Navy and the Royal Australian Navy and was a Great, Great, Great, Great Grandson of the Bounty's Captain William Bligh. He had a fondness for all things surf and ocean related. Considering the above story, it was interesting to note when he carried out an investigation relating to a shark attack at Evans Head in 1989, he concluded that dolphins went to the aid of the surfer and were attempting to drive off the shark.                                                 
I would not know where to begin to list his lifelong achievements, there are literally so many. My belated condolences to Denise and Stuart, along with all the other family members.

Rest in Peace Captain Ron.

Nice girl, Quiet night.

Guilty until proven innocent.

When it came to dealings with the gentler sex, any lies told were generally believed to be factual.

If one told the truth, no one believed you. I was guilty of stretching the truth on the odd occasion and received many knowing looks, but in this instance, to protect the reputation of an extremely nice young lady, I told it exactly as it happened........Not one mongrel believed me.

What has steam engines to do with all this? In reality, not much, in fact nothing, but as you read on it will make sense.

NICE GIRL, QUIET NIGHT

I could not think of a more appropriate title for what follows. I’m certain Alan Eagles would agree along with that ageing poet Schooners. Accurate bodily features and certain logistics will remain cryptic and at times hidden to protect the pure at heart and the dickheads in the white FJ Holden. No problems with withholding names, as I haven’t the foggiest what her’s was.

Was she a goddess, or was she an angel? An angel is a heavenly creature, radiantly beautiful beyond description. A goddess is merely an angel with bigger boobs. I suppose that means she was a goddess. She was a blonde, then again she may have been a brunette or redhead, regardless her hair was long and designer curly, similar to Sarah Brightman in ‘Phantom.’ She made her first appearance at the club during QY’s one Sunday evening. She had been invited by one of the local girls and seemed to have blended in nicely. After making several enquiries I ascertained she had a fairly well known reputation. Not as a Paris Hilton type, but completely the opposite, she was an extremely ultra conservative young lady with very high morals. Although content to be dated from time to time, she would never allow her partner to even get to first base. Arriving home after a night out, it was common for a male date to be given a quick goodnight peck on the cheek outside the front gate and then to be left standing alone on the pavement while she disappeared through the front door. 

She obviously was interested in one particular subject and she began to rabbit on almost ad-nauseum about it. I won’t mention the subject as it may be a giveaway as to her identity. Oh stop with the bullshit Trev, in actual fact there is no way I can recall what the rotten subject was anyway, so let's just imagine for the sake of this tale that it was steam engines. Coincidently, I happened to be more than just mildly interested in steam engines myself and when she made an incorrect statement, I had the audacity to correct that statement. “How did you know that?” she asked. I told her of my interest in the subject and threw in a few extras to convince her that I was genuine. She left her seat opposite and walked around the table and sat next to me and for the following sixty minutes the pros and cons of steam engines were given quite a bash. She asked me would I be interested in looking at the many magazines and newspaper clippings etc. that she had at home and when I answered most certainly, she was keen for the two of us to head off home to her place immediately. I happened to be in charge of QY’s that evening and told her I couldn’t just up and leave so she suggested we leave it until the following Saturday evening.

The Gods were certainly against me. I pointed out that there was a theme night on in the clubhouse and it was my responsibility as Social Secretary to be there. In only a half serious way I asked her would she consider being my partner for the evening and nearly choked when she told me she would love too. I was told we could return to her place after the function for a nightcap and coffee and then browse through her mags and clippings. 

Throughout the following Saturday, word had spread who my partner was and certain members began warning me that I would definitely not get to within cooee of first base with her. I kept on insisting that I would be spending the bulk, if not all of the night and morning inside her house. The theme night was a Roman gathering and the thought of what my surprise partner would be wearing had my adrenalin pumping, she did not disappoint me .... ( Pic at start is pretty close ). During the function, one of the guys, who I think may have been the phantom beer jug pisser, milkman Kemp, started a book. Bets were placed, considerable amounts of money changed hands, the most popular bet being that Pogo would not even make it through the front gate, let alone reach the front porch. There were times during the evening when I imagined my angel goddess smelt a rat, but nothing was said and we literally danced the night away. Around 11:30 pm the two of us bid everyone good evening and set out to walk home. Our attire attracted the attention of the odd smart arse passer by and we copped a few ' Hail Caesars' during the stroll up Avalon Parade. My response was the traditional ancient Roman reply, "Up Yours!" To make sure everything was above board, seeing how there was money riding on the outcome, some of the guys piled into a white FJ Holden and decided to follow us home to her house. 

She was oblivious to what was happening whereas I wasn’t and I can only assume my conscience began to get the better of me. Arriving at her front gate I put it to her that maybe it would be better if I did not enter the house with her. I told her I did not want to give her an undeserved reputation. She stated that there was not going to be any nonsense and was puzzled by my attitude. I then pointed out that we were being followed and when she casually glanced over my shoulder she remarked, “ I take it you mean that white Holden?” I answered in the affirmative and could not in my wildest dreams have imagined what happened next. “Lets give them something to talk about,” she said and commenced to kiss me full on the lips. Not only do goddesses have big boobs, they also have tongues as big as camels as I was discovering out there on the pavement. We entered through the front gate and stopped on the front porch where another passionate smooch was forthcoming. She opened the front door and entered the house her arms still around my neck. I had no choice but to follow.

Once inside we each had two glasses of Port and in the course of the three and a half hours that followed several cups of strong coffee. Shortly after all the mags and clippings began being perused, all the living room lights were turned off leaving a coffee table lamp on so as to look at all the pretty pictures.

 
Every so often we would take a peek out of the window to see if the white car was still there…… it was. Around 3:15 am it was time for me to depart. We both had a marvellous time, the night had been all I imagined it was going to be, with the fun and games before entering an added bonus. There was more yet to come. As I went to let myself out she told me to wait and had a quick peek through the window. Noticing the FJ still parked opposite she disappeared for several minutes and returned in a semi see through pink baby doll nighty set.

We stopped on the porch in full view of the car’s occupants and commenced to passionately kiss one another.

 
It may have been a sham, but there was one thing that was genuine, the dreaded PP had reared its ugly head and there I was with what must have resembled a large oversize knob of salami in my pocket. The mob in the car must have seen it, I’ve often wondered whether she did. She walked me to the front gate and once again planted another juicy wet one complete with camels tongue full on the lips. She waited until I was roughly 25 metres down the street before waving goodbye and disappearing.

I arrived at the club and crawled into my sleeping bag, I was buggered. Thank God I did not die that evening, they never would have got the coffin lid to shut. 

The next day the bookie made a fortune. Not one of the punters backed yours truly. Never at anytime did I depart from Gods own truth. I insisted over and over again that all we did was look at magazine and newspaper cuttings. No one believed me. 

Several weeks later people who I simply did not know were still hailing me as a local legend and many a time a complete stranger would front me in the La Fiesta or on the street and shake my hand saying, “Good on ya Poge,” when in reality it was merely a case of what Farls and Eagles would refer to as ‘Nice girl, Quiet night.”

(# 3) Nelson St. Blues.(Part 3)

Street Cricket.

The Chunder Wagon.

Harold Park Paceway.

The dog kennel.

The School Ball.

The Prowling grounds.

( From Onya Bike Part 2)

A more accurate title would have been Nelson St. Black and Golds, as it was sacrilegious to barrack for anyone other than the mighty Tigers.

Summer and winter the nation's national sport made an appearance on the streets of Annandale along with a combination of handball and tennis made possible by the brick wall of the Beale piano company.

Young Maureen’s dad was a keen cricket follower up until..........well, read on you’ll see.

Cricket

At 3:30pm. school would be over for the day and all the kids would gather together in the street for the daily cricket match that generally got underway around 4:30pm. It was quite common for up to 18 players to be in attendance. Two sides would be picked and the rules were spelt out. The wicket was the telegraph pole below the chalk line drawn horizontally approximately 70 centimetres from the poles bottom. Any ball hit past the Russells’ front gate was four runs, as was a ball hit beyond the O’Briens’ on the opposite side. Over any ones front fence was six and out. Everyone got a bowl which back then was an eight ball over. Maximum number of runs per person was 30 then compulsory retirement was enforced. The match was to last until almost complete darkness or unless more than 4 mums called their offspring for dinner. The ball was actually a tennis ball despite many protests aimed at having a fair dinkum six stitcher as the game ball. As stated previously, there simply was not a traffic problem back in those good old days. A car would pass by at a rate around 7 or 8 vehicles per hour. Occasionally the local police car would drive past and we would be given a friendly wave and a warm greeting by the wallopers within. Many of the neighbours would come outside and watch the match from their front yards offering tips and encouragement to both batsmen and bowlers.

Every now and then a dispute would arise and someone would do a huge dummy spit and storm off home, but the following arvo they would be part of the team again, bearing no hard feelings. The matches were always trouble free until it was decided to use a real leather cricket ball one evening. The two vehicles that ended up with whopping great dents in their doors were not the problem, but when the ball smashed through the O’Briens’ front bedroom window and came to a sudden stop slamming into Mr O’Brien’s gonads whilst he was having an afternoon nap, that’s when it became nasty. If Maureen’s dad was able to run he would have shed the blood of many a cricketer. As it was he couldn’t even walk and one hour later his eyes were still watery. The cricket matches were postponed for two weeks or so but continued with the tennis ball as the preferred choice of missile.

Tennis

About one hundred metres down the street towards Parramatta Rd. there was a large flat red brick wall that was part of the Beale piano company’s factory. A full size tennis net was painted on the wall and the footpath and street were laid out to represent a tennis court. Many an afternoon and on weekends I would be down there smashing the ball up against the wall for hours on end. It was quite common for singles and doubles matches to be arranged as this was a very popular spot. Back then there was no such thing as a tie breaker and advantage sets were the order of the day. I can recall one advantage set ending at 42-40. After a hard days play one was always guaranteed a good night’s sleep later on that evening. When I was a member of the Glebe Police Boys Club, I made it through to the singles final and won the doubles championship, partnered by my good mate at the time, Bill Bowery, who went on to play Davis Cup for Oz. I feel I should point out that I beat Bill in the singles semi final to reach the final. Because of this I was a very difficult opponent and won many more games than I lost and I earned the respect of the majority of players.

" God I'm crook. "

Every fine Sunday morning at least two dozen of the Annandale mob would travel by tram to our favourite beach, Bronte. We would always camp on the grass alongside the dressing sheds, listening to our new fangled transistor radios, having several dips in the surf and getting sun burnt to buggery, before boarding the tram for home at around 6pm. It was a hard life, but even all those years ago, someone had to do it. When the American Fleet sailed in for a visit we would be on board bludging their long and strong plain cigarettes off the crew members. I remember smoking 4 Camel fags in the city and leaving a multi coloured trail of chunder from Park St. to Pyrmont Bridge Road. Thank God for the old toast rack trams that enabled one to perk without leaving ones seat, but the conductor was forced to quickly move upwind on his narrow tread board on more than one occasion. It would not be a pleasant feeling for any conductor fumbling for change in his leather bag wrist deep in technicolour yawn as the tram attempted to break the land speed record between Glebe and Annandale.

Petty Cash

Every now and then we used to enter the Harold Park Raceway through loose fence palings the morning after a Friday evening race meeting. We would pick up thousands of discarded tickets and stubs off the ground and when our sugar bag was almost full we would return to some ones home and spend the rest of the day looking for live tickets that could be cashed in at the Totalisator the following meeting. You would be surprised how many punters discard perfectly good tickets. Admittedly there would be a few weeks when we would bomb out financially, but on other occasions we would get one of our older mates to cash in for us and he would be given his percentage. There were more than several occasions when we were able to cash in more than 25 quid i.e. 50 dollars. Today, that sum would be roughly the equivalent of a fortnights salary. Back then it would be split 4 or 5 ways. No parents were aware of our little caper.

The pursuit of happiness

Some weekends would be spent wandering through the local swimming pools eying off the females of the opposite sex. As we were all beginning to go through puberty, whatever that was, the pursuit of the gentle sex became extremely popular. One or two of the guys would approach a small pod of bikini clad sweeties and something along the lines of, “Hi! Do you come here often?” would be spoken, or maybe something really original like, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” It took quite a while for the thickheads to realise this was going down like a lead balloon and a more original approach was required. Jim, whose vocabulary almost matched that of Jeff Fenech, must have read his first book without pictures with word balloons, for he swaggered up to a coconut oil saturated gathering of scantily clad darlings and spoke the following beautifully constructed sentence, “Forgive me for intruding girls, but my good friends and I were completely overcome with breathlessness and almost struck dumb whilst noticing your physical beauty and would deem it a great privilege if you would permit us to join your friendly little group.”

“What did he say?” asked Jeff.

“I haven’t got a clue,” replied Owen scratching his head.

I simply stared into space completely gob smacked and unable to speak. It was almost like a Shakespeare lesson at school, we were all highly impressed.

The girls obviously had never heard anything like it and were visibly moved by this magnificent piece of oratory. All of the young ladies faces lit up with smiles and the tall long haired blonde, who we assumed was the leader of the shapely pack, rolled over onto her back, sat upright and in an extremely ladylike way answered Jim’s almost poetic question when she exclaimed, “Fuck off dickhead,” and gave us the two fickle fingered salute. Owen looked her in the eye and said, “Sorry to have upset you sir,” then we wandered off to locate another flock of birds to harass.

A fair memory

During the last three years of high school we were forced to become the partners of the equivalent female class in the girls school nearby. The first two years I drew the same partner, it was Mama Cass. The third year I got lucky with the absolutely gorgeous blonde, long haired Sandra, what a darling. The first time I saw her in the girls playground it was love at first site. She aroused feelings in me I never knew existed and at times was responsible for the more common physical affliction experienced by those beginning that frustrating journey through puberty, whatever that is. I scrubbed up pretty well that evening of the ball and Sandra took my breath away. Outwardly she appeared to like me and was very impressed when I was one of the few blokes who presented a corsage to their partner. Her mother was extremely impressed with my gallantry. Little did they know it was all my mother’s idea despite me poo pooing the whole thing. I guess Mum knows best, in this case she certainly did. We danced the night away and at the southern entrance to the school hall there was a foyer out of sight of the dance floor. Sandra and I would peel off into this area for a quick snog every now and then and would reappear in the Pride of Erin or such, one lap behind the others.

Most of my classmates were more than surprised after the ball when Sandra would always call out to me when walking to the shops at lunchtime. The two of us became very close and an intimate relationship developed quite rapidly. We never dated or even hung out together, but our relationship for quite some time was indeed a serious one as we would quite often swap our used chewing gum.

When school finished several weeks later, she disappeared from my life and I never saw her again.

A fortnight after school had ended several of my former classmates and I returned to complete our unfinished woodworking projects. No longer bound by school rules and regulations in regard to dress and hairstyles etc. we certainly had transformed our physical appearance somewhat. I was sporting a flat top with longish hair brushed back either side to form a ducktail at the rear. My unfinished project was a tea trolley that was to be my mother’s Xmas present. It required a further visit to the school workshop before it was finally completed. All it needed was a set of castor wheels to be screwed onto the four legs and it would be ready to be used. Another good reason for re attending school was to try to catch sight of my gorgeous Sandra who lived nearby, somewhere up Mullens St. Alas, no such luck, she was destined to remain merely a fond memory. For some strange reason my mum did not appear to be too impressed with my masterpiece, so two or three extra sheets of plywood were sawn and fitted and the tea trolley was miraculously transformed into a dog kennel put to good use by Paddy and almost a year later by the legendary folk hero, Tojo.

More on life as it used to be at Bits and Pieces.
Use link.......... Bits and Pieces

Cracker night.

                                                                                        OOPS !

If ever there was a speedy and efficient way to completely and utterly trash a town or city, this was it.

Prior to sunset, order and serenity reigned supreme. By 9:30pm. the whole of Sydney resembled New York 911........... Everybody absolutely loved it.

Going on all the hype that one hears and sees, it appears the main reason for bringing about the end of our system of things is the pollution of our atmosphere. Car exhausts, coal burning and carbon emissions from God only knows where are slowly but surely destroying our environment and may even make mankind extinct at some time in the future. Although not meaning to cast aspersions on any of the so called experts opinions, there have been questions constantly present concerning many of the volcanic eruptions that appear to expel more rubbish into the upper atmosphere in one day than many nations would expel in a whole year. If that is indeed the case, then Sydney alone was more than capable of matching that kind of pollution once every year.
  

Thank Heavens we no longer have Cracker Night that used to be celebrated on the 24^th May and was responsible for not only creating a 1950’s London type fog all over Sydney, but usually caused many limbs to be blown off, loss of sight, 3^rd degree burns and the loss of the occasional suburban office building or factory that disappeared in a massive blazing inferno.  Friends and neighbours would spend up to 4 weeks or more erecting huge bonfires that would be lit early in the evening and were unable to contain themselves whilst watching the flames  consume not only their marvelous construction, but in some cases a considerable portion of their street and suburb, it was absolutely fantastic, we could hardly wait for it to arrive. Approximately one month before the anticipated event, local shops and the rapidly expanding supermarkets would have on display an indescribable amount of explosive products capable of levelling a large modern city with skyscrapers to resemble a billiard table top. So many limbs and other body parts were either burnt or blown off and there were many people blinded by accident, mostly through stupidity. The authorities eventually were forced to act and Cracker night became only a distant memory. Thank God Sydney still puts on the worlds greatest fireworks display every New Years Eve, when the Coathanger is blown to pieces over and over again. Top stuff.

There were the colourful, bright and pretty Roman candles, crackerjacks and the triangular shaped Mt Vesuvius. These all had warnings that stated, ‘Light touch paper and stand clear,’ but many could not resist waving these all over the place to form colourful patterns in the air. What also would quite often form were blisters from the burns inflicted on those smart arse idiots. There were the little Tom Thumbs that came in packs of at least 50 and would be thrown between the legs of some unfortunate passerby to see how high they could jump. The next size up was a two inch long bunger about as thick as a pencil. Although not recommended these could be held in the hand and occasionaly one would have a mild burn inflicted by allowing it to explode between ones pinkies. The daddy of them all was the penny bunger. This was roughly the size of the average cigar and was responsible for many letter boxes being blown to smithereens.
 

The thrill seekers who allowed these to explode whilst still holding them quite often would end up with at least one less finger to pick their nose with. A double bunger, as they were called, shoved into a 12 inch length of steam pipe blocked at one end, followed by a marble as a projectile could literally kill at 25 metres. The marble was capable of travelling over 150 metres on the fly in under 3 seconds and when a round ball bearing was used it could leave a round hole in the body of a motor vehicle from 15 metres.

One of many other perennial favourites were the spinners, also known as Catherine Wheels. These were nailed to a wooden wall or to a pole hammered into the soil. The fuse would be lit and round and round they would spin, just like a fan with coloured, sparkling flames forming a huge circle to captivate one and all.

Every now and then a spinner would fly off the pole or wall and would take off down the driveway, then out into the street, where hopefully no traffic was driving past. Occasionaly a runaway spinner would enter the garden shed where the lawn mower and its fuel was stored resulting in a massive explosion and fire, requiring the local fire brigade's presence to extinguish the shed, the side or back fence and half of next door's trees and shrubs.

Runaway Catherine Wheel.

During those early days of yore, many an Aussie outdoor dunny would disappear in a puff of smoke preceded by an extremely loud "Kaboom." God it was fun.

Just as darkness fell every street in Sydney would be transformed into a blaze of blinding light as every household was determined to outdo the other. 

As far as the eye could see sky rockets sped towards the heavens to explode in a multi coloured burst and the burnt out capsule still attached to its metre long stick would fall to earth and hopefully not impale some unlucky pyromaniac or a member of his or her family.

By 10 pm it was literally impossible to see the people or their houses on the opposite side of the road for the smoke billowing around. I kid you not, it was similar to those street scenes in New York after the Trade Centre was brought down. 

The clean up begins.

It generally took 48 hours for the smoke and dust to disperse and the following day Sydney’s streets resembled London during the blitz. As the serious injuries were beginning to rapidly increase year after year, there were calls to ban Cracker night. I cannot recall when it happened , but it was moved from May 24th. to the long weekend in June, where it remained up until 1986 I think, when the authorities bit the bullet and banned it completely. Another Aussie icon sadly, but understandably, bit the dust.


Yes we do have a pollution problem today, but without a Cracker Night, I can categorically state, in the words of the late and great Al Jolson, " You ain’t seen nothin’ yet."