Here's an account of Wilson's Promontory,
boot of coastal Victoria, available to swimmers,
surfers, mountain climbers, nature nuts
and all-round ratbags.
By foot, in 1927, Grandpa and two mates
swatted sandflies all the way from Derby River
to the Lighthouse, leaving written proof of their
deed in the Lighthouse Register: Treasury Trio.
I first hit The Prom as a pre-teen kid in the 60s,
family camping at Tidal River, all of us sticking
to tracks, walking to adjacent coves, Squeaky
Beach, Little Oberon Bay. Windy, wild, wet.
Later I post-Christmas camped with the Links:
carrot-topped, freckled boy scout, John,
primary school friend with tenting talents,
Les, his joshing, bushwalking father,
and Marg, John's meatball-making mother.
Bitumen ring road, ti-trees, kerosene lamps
in tent annexe, ham and cheese sandwiches,
nightly euchre played on wonky, cracked
red vinyl-topped card table. Battery torches.
Outdoor cinema, byo deckchair. Lemon
cordial. Then school camp, form six. HSC.
Climbing rocky Mt Oberon in fierce wind.
Anthony Kemm unwittingly barging
into one of the girls' cabins, surprising
soon-to-be-model Kerry Daniel, struggling
into her close gripping black wetsuit.
Kerry first-reactioning 'Sorry' before covering up.
That apology bewildering Anthony - and all those
he told - and establishing him unchallengeably
as the luckiest lad on The Prom.
Returning again, unchaperoned to rustic cabins
at school's end. Frying blades of mowed grass
to vary hamburger mince diet. Sticking
together, drinking beer from long-neck bottles
inside, outside, blurring our fact-filled minds.
Jenny Sayers's blue bikini, windblown hair,
carefree cackle, bubbly Claire's heaving hoots.
Stubbing out cigarettes in beach sand. Wind.
And again, a year later, at eighteen. Now
twenty of us in one big old beach lodge.
More beer. Mess. Three undefrosted fridges.
John Kenneth syphoning ice melt through
the hollow metal legs of a kitchen chair.
Getting seagulls stagger-drunk on
metho-soaked stale white bread.
Body surfing. Running at dawn on empty
Norman Beach after staying up all night.
Losing my virginity on sweaty sheets
on a single bed, paranoid that someone
would burst in and see my bobbing bum.
Playing Truth or Dare round beer-bottle strewn
tables, eating 15c hotdogs from the Tidal River
store each dusk until money ran out after day
four of seven. Hunger. Living in footy shorts
and t-shirts. Telling jokes. Laughing at jokes.
Groaning at puns. Not working. Not studying.
Not reading. Mosquitoes. Moonlight. Marijuana.
Billy Thorpe cassettes. Red lichen on big grey rocks.
Sea gulls. Tea-tannin river water. Skull Island.
Years later, walking back from Refuge Cove,
with my wife, groin aching, dark threatening,
seeing a woman with baby in pusher, heading
the other way. Waking to football kicked into tent
next morning. Packing up. Driving off. So stiff,
having to lift left leg with hands to reach clutch.
Whisky Bay, Picnic Bay, Prom Gate, Anakie.
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