SHORT STORY: FAMILY LEGEND

A GOOD YOUNG COLT

In the late 60's as in every era, it was a fairly regular occurrence for most young pupils to strive for immortality by etching their names into their school desks. Maybe it would be a 'tag' today, . The local Deputy Principal decided there had been too much of this graffiti of late and embarked on a 'crack-down'. 

"Now, right, you young blokes, listen here; we've been telling you about writing on the desks lately and this is your last chance. Any more of this and it's six cuts! Do you get that? Six cuts! No more mucking around with you blokes, we've got an inspection coming up in the school soon and we want the desks and the classrooms to look spick and span. We don't want the school getting a reputation as a hang-out for young ruffians and hoodlums. No more mucking around, six cuts!" Do I make myself understood?"

Most of the school assembly were used to the Deputy's ranting and raving and many wore a slight smirk on their faces but they all knew just the same that he meant it. Get caught and it was 'six of the best'. 'No Mucking around'! In the late sixties and seventies, teachers were still able to administer corporal punishment in the form of hitting pupils' hands with a 'light cane'. I had been on the end of it a few times during my 'education' in primary school and to be caned was traditionally called 'getting the cuts'.

It all came to pass a couple of days later. The class was running out of puff in the lead up to the morning break ('recess')  and the last of the exercises were being completed. Out of the corner of his eye, the first year teacher suddenly caught sight of one of his students carving his name into the desk. He had progressed about half way through his name, when he looked up to make eye contact with the teacher standing next to him. A sheepish and very guilty look flooded his face.

"You'd better go down and explain to the Deputy what you've been doing." A sullen expression replaced the guilty version as the student stood up and sloped out the door. One minute later the bell rang and the rest of the class left the room for recess, a little quieter than usual as one of their mates had clearly fallen foul of the Deputy.

Another two minutes later the Deputy appeared at the door. "Now what's all this about this young feller writing on a desk?" he spluttered. The Deputy always spluttered.

"He maintains he didn't do it!' The hairs on the back of the young teacher's neck rose in anger. "Look here, look at this desk. He'd only got half way carving his name there when I caught him out!'

"Good enough for me, young feller! Thank you," and out he stormed.

Recess concluded some fifteen minutes later and the siren rang for the daily assembly out in the playground area. The Deputy took up his usual stance at the microphone on the dais and cajoled the stragglers to get into line.

"Right now," he started ... "about two days ago, I warned you blokes about writing on desks. Well, only today, one of our new members of staff, a vigilant young bloke, good colt,  happened to notice one of his students carving his name into a desk. Now I warned you all what would happen if you got caught doing this ... six cuts! That's right six cuts! Now I'm not going to mention any names here and embarrass the student. Get into my office S. I'll deal with you shortly! Start warming up your hands!"

"Good colt that new staff member. A good young colt!"

"Alright the rest of you, that will do for today. Keep your scribble off our desks or you'll be in there with your mate, now off to class and hurry up about it!"

SHORT STORY: A GOOD YOUNG COLT

A GOOD YOUNG COLT

In the late 60's as in every era, it was a fairly regular occurrence for most young pupils to strive for immortality by etching their names, and maybe a 'tag' today, into their school desks. The local Deputy Principal decided there had been too much of this graffiti of late and embarked on a 'crack-down'. "Now, right, you young blokes, listen here; we've been telling you about writing on the desks lately and this is your last chance. Any more of this and it's six cuts! Do you get that? Six cuts! No more mucking around with you blokes, we've got an inspection coming up in the school soon and we want the desks and the classrooms to look spick and span. We don't want the school getting a reputation of a hang-out for young ruffians and hoodlums. No more mucking around, six cuts!" Do I make myself understood?"

Most of the school assembly were used to the Deputy's ranting and raving and many wore a slight smirk on their faces but they all knew just the same that he meant it. Get caught and it was 'six of the best'. 'No Mucking around'! In the late sixties and seventies, teachers were still able to administer corporal punishment in the form of hitting pupils' hands with a 'light cane'. I had been on the end of it a few times during my 'education' in primary school and to be caned was traditionally called 'getting the cuts'.

It all came to pass a couple of days later. The class was running out of puff in the lead up to recess and the last of the exercises were being completed. Out of the corner of his eye, the first year teacher suddenly caught sight of one of his students carving his name into the desk. He had progressed about half way through his name, when he looked up to make eye contact with the teacher standing next to him. A sheepish and very guilty look flooded his face.

"You'd better go down and explain to the Deputy what you've been doing." A sullen expression replaced the guilty version as the student stood up and sloped out the door. One minute later the bell rang and the rest of the class left the room for recess, a little quieter than usual as one of their mates had clearly fallen foul of the Deputy.

Another two minutes later the Deputy appeared at the door. "Now what's all this about this young feller writing on a desk?" he spluttered. The Deputy always spluttered.

"He maintains he didn't do it!' The hairs on the bac'sk of the young teacher's neck rose in anger. "Look here, look at this desk. He'd only got half way there when I caught him out!'

"Good enough for me, young fellar! Thanks you," and out he stormed.

Recess concluded some fifteen minutes later and the siren rang out for the daily assembly out in the playground area. The Deputy took up his usual stance at the microphone on the dais and cajoled the stragglers to get into line.

"Right now," he started ... "about two days ago, I warned you blokes about writing on desks. Well, only today, one of our new members of staff, a vigilant young bloke, good colt, happened to notice one of his students carving his name into a desk. Now I warned you all what would happen if you got caught doing this ... six cuts! That's right six cuts! Now I'm not going to mention any names here and embarrass the student. Get into my office S. I'll deal with you shortly! Start warming up your hands!"

"Good colt that new staff member. A good young colt!"

"Alright the rest of you, that will do for today. Keep your scribble off our desks or you'll be in there with your mate, now off to class and hurry up about it!"

SHORT STORY: BUCKLE

Buckle

"Mark, we'd better head in for lunch soon, mate. We've been out here about two hours," I called to my ten year old son. "One more wave, Dad," he called back, but I knew that one wave would probably turn into seven. He'd been getting the hang of the surfboard only in the last couple of days and he was obviously reluctant to come out of the surf just for lunch.

I called back that I was taking a wave into the beach and steered the wave ski into the take-off area. "Kids everywhere ... all trying to get their slice of the action," I grumbled to myself. "Aren't they lucky these days - wetsuits, surfboards, boogie boards, flippers? In my day we were lucky to be allowed into the surf at all and always between the flags!"

My mind turned back lazily to my first few times in the surf at North Steyne Beach in Manly when I was only a little younger than my son. Dad and Mum were close by of course never daring to leave our side. Tales of sharks and rips and a myriad of other possible dangers scarcely dampened my enthusiasm for cracking a wave nor my longing for the freedom of surfing without a minder.

The surf this day at Blue Lagoon on the Central Coast was miniscule - perhaps two feet at best. The swell would build up gently and unleash its 'fury' on the reef that created a lagoon at low tide. On a reasonable day you could get a fifty metre ride at best over the reef itself and, if lucky, you might stay with the wave till it built back up again on the sandy area closer to the beach. A ride of some 100 metres was the best you could ever hope for but it was a great place to learn to surf for all the budding Mark Richards and Kelly Slaters.

Occasionally the surf could really 'rip' over the lagoon but only when it was impossible everywhere else on the open beaches. Knowledge of the rock platform formed by the reef was a distinct advantage because the reef consisted of three sections. If you sit on the either edge of the reef, you can usually pick a wave on the shoulder and avoid the inevitable 'dumper' on the rocks. At mid-tide this can provide some pretty 'hairy' rides when the surge of the wave sucks most of the water covering the reef in front of you just as you take the drop. Great sections of jagged rock are suddenly exposed right below you and a 'ding' in the board is unavoidable and a bruise or two as well. Bleeding from a cut foot in the surf was never my idea of fun especially having been told at North Steyne about the sharks with incredible senses of smell just waiting to pounce on the some hapless surfer.

On this particular day, the surf was benign, and two feet at best. All the kids from 5 to 50 years of age were out there hassling for the best take-off spot. All manner of surf craft dotted the lazy sea. Kids paddled around frenetically on boogie boards, dads less so on malibus and 'goat boats'. I drifted around in the take-off area trying to outwit the opposition and find a half decent two footer that would take me to shore for one last ride.

My mind cast back to this exact same spot some 30 years beforehand. The surf that day was a little bigger, about a metre or s, but the weather was overcast. The surface of the water over the reef is always somewhat turbulent and the sudden swirls and eddies close to the surface can be rather spooky because they can give the impression a large fish has just surfaced nearby - a very large fish maybe with very large teeth. The sky and water were a dullish grey and with a light sou'easter whipping up an irritating chop, the surge of the waves at mid-tide just gave me an uneasy feeling.

"I'm going in, I don't like the feel of things out here," I said. My mate, Ron, just ten metres away, was manic about sharks. Sitting with another mate a further 5 metres away, Ron came to the conclusion I was just trying to 'pull his leg' because he knew that I was aware of his fear of sharks. If the truth be known, I wasn't too keen on them either but Ron really did have a problem to the extent that I couldn't believe he could ever find the courage to venture out the back.

 I picked the board up slowly and headed up the beach. I'd gone not 5 metres when I looked around to see Ron and Boo scurrying towards the shore with arms and legs flailing in the water.

"What's up?" I called out. "Christ!" said Ron as he hit the beach. "On the wave behind the one you caught in to shore a fin appeared and followed you in for about 50 metres. I thought you were just crapping on as usual!" We all had a laugh about it going back home in the car that afternoon but nobody was laughing on the beach at the time!

A two-foot 'monster wave' somehow managed to escape all the kids around me and I quickly pulled onto the wave and headed for shore. The wave steered me left and began to peter out in about a metre of water. A slight gust of wind and a surge of backwash suddenly tipped me sideways into the water. A choppy swell can get up to tricks like that if you aren't paying attention. I rolled to my left and under the water started to slide out of my safety belt backwards. I had done this 50 times before without a problem but on tis occasion I twisted slightly and the belt buckle became locked around my knees in a perfect rugby tackle. I tugged at the safety clip - no go! Being now submerged under the water I was also wedged under the ski. I tried to stand up, got my feet on the sand and pushed upwards. This secured me a second's breathing space before the weight of the board pushed me back below the surface of the water.

The next time I tried to push the belt further down over my knees - no go! I pushed back onto my feet again to try to get another second's breathing space and once again I was soon pushed back under the water.

"Don't panic!" I told myself. "Go right back under, stay down longer and have a decent crack at the buckle." All to no avail! The awful truth started to dawn on me- "you're going to drown here, mate!" Ten more times up and down ... "this can't bloody be! I have been swimming here since I was about 5, I can't possibly drown where I first learnt to swim!" I cursed.

The short breaks above the water were getting briefer and briefer and my heart started to race. "I'm going to have a heart attack here for sure, before I drown even, I just can't keep this up," I thought

In one fleeting moment when I surfaced I caught sight of my wife Robyn standing with a friend in front of our cabin some 300 metres away chatting idly. "Help, Darl, I'm drowning, and you can't even possibly know. She's looking in my direction, Christ Darl, I'm drowning!"

I came up again, gulped for a precious breath of air and suddenly saw Mark coming my way. Down again and up I came. "Mark, help me," I gasped. Quickly he paddled over and near the end of my physical endurance, I blurted out on the next time up, "flip me over, mate!"

When he did so, I was able to untangle the belt and unclip the buckle. I slipped back into the water, hung limply on the board and sucked in deep breaths while trying to regain some measure of composure. My heart was still pounding, racing, surely just a minute away from a certain heart attack.

Soon after I paddled ashore and made my way slowly to the cabin. By now Robyn had sensed that something had almost gone dreadfully wrong and was standing aghast beside me. I mumbled to her that I needed to lie down, dried myself with a beach towel and flopped on the bed. I soon drifted off into fitful sleep.

I awoke about an hour later and unscrewed the buckle from my wave ski.

SHORT STORY: TIME TO GO

TIME TO GO

Michael sat nervously fiddling with his bat grip. He cursed his memory lapse - he'd meant to fix the grip the previous evening and tape it firmly to the handle at the bottom. He didn't have time to fossick around for the tape and scissors in the dressing room in the bowels of his cricket kitbag. If a wicket fell, he was next in. "No time now, concentrate on the bowlers, adjust your eyes to the light, ignore the babble of team mates all around," he thought to himself.

A glance over the shoulder at one of his mates caught his attention. Brett had opened the innings today and for the second time in two days he'd failed to trouble the scorers too much. Now he sat alone hunched up in semi-foetal crouch, head buried in his hands, oblivious to the others. Michael's heart went out to his mate - nobody had worked harder at his game than Brett. Today he'd fallen victim to a great catch, a 'blinder'. Last week it had been a dodgy LBW decision by a doddering, old umpie and just when he had hoped to score well against the rep coach's team to cement his place in the rep team.

If Brett looked unhappy, it was nothing compared to the agonised figure of his mother who stared transfixed at her son from a respectable distance. His mother had learnt from bitter experience that she dare not invade her son's space to share his frustration at a time like this. She had quickly found out early in his cricketing life that disappointment could rapidly turn to anger and rebuke. Brett's father sat beside her, ashen-faced. His hopes for a few runs and a good day had been dashed. He offered little moral support to his spouse because he would never talk about his son' dismissal, the shot, the bowler, the coach. Brett's father wanted to suffer in silence and both parents knew the trip home in the car would be long and subdued.

To Michael's left, the annoying 'clunk', 'clunk' slap of a cricket ball drummed monotonously into his brain. Another mate, James, was throwing a bowl into the wall of the grandstand and rebounding on the concrete back to the thrower. James saw this as an ideal way to 'get his eye in' and sharpen the reflexes before he went in to bat. His team mates had threatened James numerous times with all manner of violence if he did not stop this activity but he simply persisted a further ten metres away.

A frenzied shouting from the field interrupted Michael's relative calm. A frustrated fast bowler grimaced at the umpire who remained impassive to his plea for LBW and then the bowler shifted his attention to the batsman and snarled menacingly.

"He's a bit sharp, this bloke," one of Michael's team mates volunteered. "He's not that quick," Michael retorted.

The chorus of encouragement from the fielders for the bowler rose and fell like the thrumming of cicadas on a hot summer's day. The annoying, mindless chant of 'come on, mate, knock him over!" was heard constantly. "Yeah, Robbo, this bloke can't bat! "He's hopeless!" Top seed, that, Robbo!" Then followed the endless clapping and shouts of approval for a good delivery or false stroke.

A crack of leather on willow ensued soon after. Michael's team mates suddenly groaned and fell silent as their attention turned to the flight path of the ball. A frenzied cry of 'catch it' came from several of the fielders and one second later a whooping of delight from the bowler.

A general excitement arose on the field as team mates raced in to clap the bowler on the back announcing the fate of the hapless batsman.

Michael stood up... it was time to go.