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from Waynes Word on Web, 16.10.09

Never has a vehicle served the ocean going hordes
As well as the red motored EH, to lash the boards
With a six pack of bodies and roof rack to match
Transportation to heaven or your favourite patch

Three on the front seat and three in the back
A boot load of wetties, towels and board wax
This was one legend you surely could trust
Even when down on power and filled with rust

No track in the land was safe from this car
The end of a journey was never too far
If two ruts were carved out in the hard sand
Chances were an EH had carried its band

Breakdowns no worries cause help was at hand
Every locality had its spare parts and a man
Who’d tape it or strap it, just to get ya goin’
T’was a labour of love they didn’t mind showin’

Yep the ultimate Aussie icon was the one to have
And not a lot of money did you need to save
To get you on the road and travelling towards fun
A sixty four Holden, would get the job done!


from Waynes Word on Web, 16.10.09

When I rode my first Honda Four
Nothing like it had come before
Reliability and performance plus
Super sports, without the fuss!

It didn’t handle and wouldn’t stop
But never the less, it hit the top
Sales and popularity, exceeding all
Pride cometh before the fall

Keeping it on an even keel
Required talent and that special feel
Remove the pipes and double stand
Four into one, the best in the land

Dunlop’s and a set of Ace bars
Then you could beat all the cars
Steering damper and tweak the shocks
Now ya talking, a ride for jocks

Bigger jets and filters that breathe
In a straight line others you’ll leave
But in the corners you’ll quickly find
The European will hold the line

Not to worry they’re twice the price
Filled with problems and raw avarice
This dilemma is a rave for some
But least I didn’t buy a Harley Davidson

from Waynes Word on Web, 15.10.09

Quirky things they are, these foreign imports to our land, yet so familiar to our culture you couldn’t imagine growing up without being in one of them, now and again. They are sort of up there, on the iconic scale, with Chinese food and French brandy. I had the “privilege” of spending quite an amount of time in this older model with no seatbelts, headrests, radiator or engine under the bonnet (that’s the hood for any American readers). As an added extra, if you hit a bit of a bump in a corner, the door would spring open and that’s very exciting if you don’t have a seatbelt.

They came standard with conventional tyres, which were also quite exciting when you were attempting a quick stop in the rain; considering there is no weight over the front end. But never the less with a few modifications like radials, a sandbags worth of gear in the “trunk” and some rope for the doors, I bravely travelled from Queensland to the snow fields of New South Wales for some early season skiing. Because winter began halfway there, I stopped at Coffs Harbour and wired the heater on full. This was the only time this extra was ever used and remained on till the return a week later and I must report, it all worked perfectly.

On the way up, and into the mountains where snow begun, the other cars were pulling over to fit chains to their tyres but not us we motored on all the way to the top car park and the chalet where we were booked in. It snowed that night and didn’t stop for the whole seven days. We all got snowed in and had to wait for the roads to be cleared before the cars could be dug out. Now, in the meantime, you get quite close to the people who are cabin bound and in this case it was about six four wheel drive loads of wealthier types than I was not use to hob knobbing with.

Anyway, as conversations go, things got around to arguing over which brand of 4WD was best suited for the type of conditions we were experiencing and I had to bite my tongue because technically, I didn’t have a 4WD. It was eventually decided it would be solved by a race to the bottom on the day all the cars would be dug out and I never did find out who won, because I was half way back to Queensland by the time they had thawed out their frozen engines and adjusted their chains.

Text: The X Mrs WWW (replies to a fishy tale)

from Waynes Word on Web, 14.10.09

When my husband spent some time
With his old man before he died
Dad’s wife came along for the ride
She was not much for fish or tides

They had lost touch along the way
A fishing trip needed to save the day
When the "boys" fled to be free
T’was decided she would stay with me!

We waved goodbye as off they went
I tried to ignore that hell was bent
Out came the sherries 1,2 and 3
Thought she’d be the death of me

We imagined them fancy-free
Laying comfortably under a tree
The sun shining down, the big fish biting
No women in sight to cause some fighting

Decided to jog to reduce the frustration
Along came his wife with great elation
In high heels and make-up she followed
Straining her knee and “wait” she bellowed

Missing “old teddy", she cried a loud wail
Until I thought I’d have to bail
But we hung on in and had a few laughs
With more Sherries and a couple of barfs

By Sunday arvo we were missing our men
Thought they’d arrive with Trevally for den
Boasting about “the one that got away"
And how they’d had a beautiful day

I hasten to say we were TERRIBLY wrong
There was no male bonding, not even a song
They came down the road as if in slow motion
The pair were covered in Calamine lotion

The weekend in paradise was all but lost
We were greeted with grumbles and frost
Phrases were bandied like "never again"
I guessed the experience, was not quite “Zen”

Mozzies and sandflies were never so savage
Pleased to be home, nearly saved our marriage
Teddy’s gone now, so the boat and trailer
And my mother-in-law is decidedly frailer

I’m sorry now their day was marred
By the ineffectiveness of Aeroguard
And if there’s a moral to this story
It’s "go and buy your next Dory".

With Love, K

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 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.

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


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.”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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