William James Clough came out from England as a Salvation Army Officer to work in the Wonthaggi Mines of Victoria, sometime before the First World War, and as far as I know, brought this very boat with him or made it on the long trip out here. He was my grandfather on my mother’s side and the HMS Victory has been lost from my family since his demise.
I never knew the man; he died a long time before I was bourn. Even my mother only had vague memories and a story of how he died in a motor cycle accident. This kind of endeared me to him, for as I grew up, I began a long love affair with the deadly two wheeled beasts. So I find it amazing and appropriate that I end up with, what I assume, was his prize possession.
When he died, he left my mother an orphan to be raised by older step children whom inherited all he left. As time would have it, they all did quite well in this Australian life, except my mother who suffered from a bad case of the “Cinderella’s”. So when the wreck of the Victory finally resurfaced this year and made its way into my possession, it represented all we ever inherited and an appropriate representation it is.
On the other side of the world, while William was beginning his stinted attempts at a dynasty, Thomas Scholfield my paternal grandfather was leaving a wife and a profitable business as a Cooper, to fight for his county in the trenches of France. He returned a broken man after receiving three doses of mustard gas for his trouble and spent the remainder of his day’s unsuccessfully partitioning for adequate compensation.
Eventually World War Two broke out, my father signed up to do his patriotic duty with the British Navy and ended up in Australia after serving in every theatre of war the second had to offer, including being one the first set of allied feet on Japan’s freshly radiated soil. With boundless energy he went about doing all the dirty job’s Aussies didn’t want and he didn’t stop till Cancer stopped him, all without any recognition from the British and no repat pension from the good old Aussie Services.
Not to worry, it’s all good here in the lucky country as I, being the only surviving male heir in Australia to both my Fathers clan and Williams are here to attest. The point of telling this little tale is two fold; one to inform those that don’t know that the original wreck of the Victory has been found and is looking like being the biggest find of English Maritime treasures with heaps of brass cannons and four ton of gold coins. Here’s the link http://www.shipwreck.net/hmsvictory.php and for those that are interested, after my fathers estate was settled I had another interesting item to go on the mantelpiece with Granddads model ship; a lovely original pigskin wallet, empty of course.
FC
It came to exist at the same time as me
And was originally called a Holden FE
My dad bought one and he called it fun
The maiden voyage, the Queensland run
First photos of Wayne were at the wheel
It was then that I knew I had the feel
For beautiful cars, and the wild life
Even though it would lead to strife
Sixteen years latter I had my own
The ancient equivalent of a mobile phone
If you couldn’t hook up, with one of these
Chances are you had mange, or fleas
My best mate had one with a back
A panel van, wide wheels and board racks
Mobile freedom and a bed on the go
We had it made with flairs and a fro
Double Jay concerts and days at the beach
No party or venue was out of our reach
Girls on the make and grog near at hand
We really were, kings of the land
No car could match it for style and grace
Even though you’d get beat in a race
Didn’t mater what anyone said
Fords were only for extreme rev heads
V8 Holden’s were for Peter Brock types
We were above that and better at nights
Rolling along with Hendrix and songs
Girls in the back were wearing their thongs
If you wanted a drag my bike would suffice
Twelve second quarters at a Honda price
Would leave them crying in my wake
With all the horse power they could rake
Yep Holden’s ruled there’s no doubt about that
Believe what you want with out knowing the fact
While you were dreaming outside in the back
We were nailing it, in the old FC hack
Goin’ Fishin’
My old man worked twenty four seven
Which wasn’t bad, for a Westie Bevan
His quest for dollars became a mission
But that didn’t leave much time for fishin’
When times came around for taking a trip
The bugger was full of lies and bull shit
After thirty years or so, it fell to me
To invite him fish hunting, as a retiree
The prep was grand on a scale for us
Buy a fibreglass skiff and a trailer with rust
Patch it, paint it and put an Evinrude to match
Get the rods and the reels, a bag for the catch
A tent, sleeping bags, blow ups, the lot
Stacked in the boat not much we forgot
Sun cream, Aeroguard, hats and a change
Maps and spare fuel I cleverly arranged
Two hours north and a beautiful day
We were off-- to Tin Can Bay
But before we got there, I must explain
It positively pissed down with rain
Not to worry for we were in the car
And it fined up fast before we’d gone far
Only problem was the soaking of bedding
And that could dry out while we were fishing
So with tent set up and ship set to sail
We were absolutely sure not to fail
With Dad in the front and me in the back
I soon reeled in my first Mangrove Jack
Everything was going well as night began to fall
But there and then we realised mosquito’s were the call
Not your every day type, these ones were from hell
Big black bastards and our blood they could smell
I thought I had it covered though
Cause back to the camp we would go
Lots of repellent and a fully meshed tent
To enjoy a dinner that was heaven sent
With a six horse, flat strap, we couldn’t out run
Twelve thousand mossies lookin’ for fun
I went quite mental swinging my belt
By the time we got there, just one big welt
Left the boat in the water and run at full pace
Picked up the bedding, it looked like a race
Into the tent with no moments to spare
But a nightmare was waiting, when we got there
Midges had nested in all that we owned
Silence was shattered as both of us groaned
And the pest sprays didn’t work as they orta’
The mean little buggers drank it like water
To make matters worse, they come two abreast
Thought my father was having an arrest
I just needed some time to think
So back to the river and into the drink
We sat there up to our ears in relief
Bating our eyelids to stop further grief
But as time would have it we started to freeze
The plan was to run for it and head for the breeze
Out of the water and into the car
The windows were down so therefore no bar
It was full of bities so we had to get going
Down the track we went without even slowing
Bouncing around like two jumping beans
At least we were rid of those flying machines
All was lost and there was no going back
Calamine lotion was all that we lacked
Rolled into Gympie at quarter to five
Suffering from a bad case of hives
Waited outside till the chemist was open
He took one look at us and said “you’re gotta be jokin”
Sitting in the cafe with only our shorts
Covered in white stuff and listening to snorts
When a young Murri guy let rip a jibe
“I know were I’m from, but what’s your tribe.”
Dolphins, what dolphins?
A meditation on top of the falls
Clear as a bell I heard the calls
To sojourn in the sea of salt
An invitation to good to fault
The nearest beach was miles away
Somewhere near our Byron Bay
But a walking track was not so far
And I finished the last part in a car
On the sand at waters edge I see
A six foot closeout barring me
From entry to the glassy rack
Forming nicely out the back
I grab the board with no leg rope tied
And paddle for hell against the tide
Under lips that were pushing me
On to the bottom of the sea
My dash for the back was almost done
When looming there against the sun
Stood a briny pyramid ten foot high
Blocking my vision to the sky
To make things worse and me quite glum
My board had gone and I had no gun
Five dolphins lay readied on the crest
To speed my way and piece my chest
I dived as deep as I could go
Only to be pulled up into the show
Opened my eyes as wide as I could
Flapped my arms and patiently stood
In the wave that was ten tones thick
I was worried I would shit a brick
Five noses coming straight for me
At thirty knots and no time to flee
One went directly over my head
And two at my hands I could have fed
Two at my feet but they quickly past
A star of energy and a memory to last
Old man of the sea
Sleep wasn’t coming easy
The radio didn’t help at all
Reports of a giant swell
Building from the gates of hell
Kept the adrenalin flowin’
And I couldn’t wait to go
Down to Currumbin Rock and see
The waves that were haunting me
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Mornings light was yet to shine
The wet suit drying on the line
Boards were lashed to the Holden’s rack
And nothin’ was going to hold me back
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The car park full at quart to five
Everything was cumin’ alive
The line up started on the rock
Bravest souls first to drop
Into the soup and paddle out
Under brine stacked like a house
By the time I took the dive
Legends were hangin’ five
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The barrelin’ section in front of the rock
Was an esky lid play pen not for the lot
Diving in there was death for sure
Paddling around the back even more
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Pick up on the wrong one and expect to die
I’m telling you this and I do not lie
T’was getting bigger with the tide
Pick the set and you’re in for a ride
Back from surfers on the bus
Amidst the chunder and the fuss
Most of us were paddling, going nowhere fast
The BIG ones wasted, too far out
------------------------------------
All of a sudden and right on cue
The Mayor of Currumbin came into view
On the tip of the rock and about to pounce
And paddled straight out, regardless of paunch
Pulled on to the Wave of the day
Freefell ten feet into the fray
Stagger a bit and grabbed the rail
In a bottom turn not for the frail
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He drove up the face with awesome force
Trimmed and stood there proud as a horse
As the barrel engulfed him we all held our breath
Cause this old guy was dicein’ with death
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He looked a little wobbly
As he spat out of the hole
But it didn’t matter
Style was not the goal
Gathered speed with turns of gold
Hit the lip right on the fold
Floated sideways into place
And into Lacy’s with heaps of pace
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Down the line he did go
Passed the young guns and those that know
Men like that don’t come along all time
And poems about them usually don’t rhyme
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So when I tell my stories now
I don’t forget the sacred cow
Of tales and memories fading fast
Or Ishmael, when tied to the mast
Was something most will never greet
Or someone they will never meet
And defiantly all but none will ever be
As brave and heroic as the old man of the sea
A day to remember
I was heading south out of Queensland and had paused to spend the coldest part of the night sucking down a bottle of Stones. This was the only way to stop the wind chill factor shakes that was preventing me from having a clean run. The bull dosser that pushed yesterday’s trees into a pile by the road was my best ally against the frozen wind because the fire wasn’t much help; couldn’t get close enough to it. Sleep finally came and it seemed only like a moment before the early morning road gang was waking me up.
On with the full face, kick the beast to life and back at it. It was a full 10 minutes before I let the tacho rise above three grand and only when the Burringbar Range was in my rear mirrors did I lift the right foot to place the segregated gear box into top gear. The touring range of my interstate tank was full and the Grafton fuzz weren’t out of bed yet, so it only seemed like a dawn breaking fart before Coffs was a distant memory. Maxville’s Iron Bridge became Newcastle’s gateway and a milkshake at the Oak wasn’t as attractive as a Hawkesbury oyster, so I pushed on towards Sydney. Just passed the Toukley turn off and wouldn’t ya know it, a creep club was blocking me. As I rounded the big right hander on to Wyong straight, I couldn’t take it anymore, I flicked on the blinker, stuck the nineteen inch Dunlop on the yellow line and before we were half way along the eighteenth fairway I was three cars behind the offending long wide load. A police escort was in front waving the on coming traffic onto the verge, when a Mac Bulldog, carting a full load of bricks, came out of the Wyong township, steered left over the railway bridge and didn’t even attempt to slow down as it turned to negotiate the verge. As it turned out rather unsuccessfully!
Here I was, perched in the middle of the road with nowhere to go and fifty ton of bricks heading straight for me, pushing a jack knifed prime mover. I had less than five seconds to live. I tapped the Mageera leaver in my right hand twice, just enough to see the tail lights of the Falcon beside me, laid into a ninety degree lefthander and gassed it off the bonnet of a Commodore up the Fords arse. As I was leaving the raised surface of the carriage way, I managed a quick look in the direction of the driver of the offending implement, visible to me through his side window, and he was ducking for cover. Boom, the fibreglass cab exploded into a million pieces as the overhanging load from the westward bound freight ripped it open like it was a can of tuna.
Back to the task at hand: I was leaving a perfectly good road surface and taking to the air between it and the wire mesh fence protecting motorists from stray white balls, I just cleared it and landed heavily in the sand bunker. That day in seventy six never left my memory, as I’m sure it didn’t the twenty odd drivers that got side swiped or the shell shocked suicide jock that crawled out of the burning wreck.
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