1933-2008 
1963-2020

You’ve left home
father and brother, 
earlier than expected
with nothing 
to pack.

I grab my faded cap,
a companion 	
for lost thoughts,
dew brushes limbs
down the overgrown 
track.

You’re like two 
soft sanded soles,
that dance 
down drifted dunes,
breezing into view
your lean abled faces, 
my ocean surges  
filling empty 
embraces.

We head up 
to the pier,
once well-trodden 
shores, 
reflections 
splash out  
to the sounds
of our old stereo 
and backyard 
cricket roars.

Out on the waves 
surfers in dark suits 
and hoods
appear
like reapers 
shredding glass, 
the tide turns 
a hasty retreat, 
agitated gulls
screech past.

A huge set 
barrels in  
parting our ways,
once again 
you are mariners 
amidst the mist
hidden swells. 
One last glimpse
sculptured 
like a portrait 
to take,
back home
up the dry path
ticking off 
another day
since 
the last wake.

I remember die Frau in traditional Dirndl dress drifting backwards and forwards with trays of schnapps. The lines of firewater being chugged whole, followed by intense grimaces, then empty glasses thumped upon the old wooden table.

Das Bayernhaus was perched high on the forested ski slopes of Garmisch in southern Germany. From this possie, there were sweeping views across to the jagged peaks of Austria. The two-storey chalet was well frequented by die Skilehrer, after a thirsty days’ work pounding the pistes with the punters.

Captain, I forget his actual name which was never spoken, in particular, was in a very jovial mood having stacked up quite the pile of empties. The rowdiness echoed around the ornately decorated walls. By the time the last call was upon us, most had slid away to recharge for the next day. We were the last to stumble out.

The four of us step off the porch into black space dotted with bright and milky constellations. The session had numbed the chill, but the air is hard to gulp being a fair deal below zero.  We fumble around for our gear and eventually all our skis are clacked on, and we’re ready to take on the long downhill run to the valley floor.

A surrealness glows over die Bayrishen Alpen. The night is silently still except for an occasional burst of birdsong that rings out from the tall timber outlines. Christine and Ally are first off along the narrow track which leads through the woods to the main slope. They are soon engulfed by the shadowy firs. I follow and Captain takes up the rear. Working off memory and from leg responses to the invisible contours is the key to staying upright. One mistake means a high-speed head on with a hefty trunk. Despite this I am feeling confident, no doubt amplified by the booze.

Next thing, I am suddenly propelled, hurtling skywards and at the same time caught in a suspended moment waiting for the inevitable impact and carnage. Whooompfa, a shuddersome thud, an out-of-control arms and legs windmill manoeuvre, then I come to a reverse thrust-like stop. I’m now wide-awake and breathing heavily. Aargh, I clean forgot about that gnarly bank drop off where the trail joins the valley run.

I check my vitals, some dull pains but otherwise surprisingly intact. I gather myself, and catch up with the girls waiting ahead. We drift off together, carving large radius turns on the wide sweeping slopes, gliding as the golden eagles do in the currents by day.

We stop for a breather on a plateau. There are only our three shadowed shapes under the moonlight. Where’s Captain? We holler up the Hausberg, yet only hear our voices returned back from the massifs that surround us.

Our euphoria freezes, then starts to plummet as time passes. We kick off our skis and start the slog upwards in our clunky boots. We climb at pace, our chests burning, but we have to stop often to suck in more frosty oxygen, and shout out, “Captain, Captain…”.

Eventually we hear a muffled sound descending the basin. We head onwards towards the far away noise, possibly that of a wounded animal but maybe not. An outline can soon be seen in the distance, something splotted into the snow – a fuzzy lump. It is unlikely to be a bear but is hard to tell with our beer goggles on.

We crunch our way nearer to the spot and are relieved when we can make out the figure of a person. En-route some skis and poles scattered like aircraft crash debris. Captain must have had serious air time, 20 metres or so of it. Our exhaustion is quenched by the adrenaline, every moment is vital. His cries are excruciating. The reassurances we give do nothing. We dare not move him beyond making his head comfortable and try to warm him with our jackets. Christine tries her cell. Yes! Coverage! It rings and soon Deutsche is heard on the other end. A desperate exchange of information follows. Die Bergwacht will come up immediately from town.

I help relay the news to Captain. The sight of his howling body lying on the frozen expanse is sobering. I’m hit with the gravity of the situation and my own near miss. The days of schussing when sloshed needs to finish. Especially for me; I can’t afford to partake in this lifestyle. I now have a dependent. He is only nine months old and over yonder awaiting my return.

I recall some months later when I was in das Skischule Buro, this tall wiry man hobbled in. He was framed like scaffolding around a building. It was the first time I’d seen Captain since the snowmobile carted his stretcher off. My memory was just flashing lights and a beam disappearing into the nothingness.

He was grateful that we hadn’t shifted him. Further damage to the four fractures in his back would have been inevitable, and could have even resulted in paralysis. As it happened, he faced a long recovery and it was uncertain whether he would ride again.

Sitting shiny on the wooden shelves at home, are loads of plastic tubs. Inside they are full of sounds, rock music Dad calls it.

There is even Heavy Metal. These bands have long hair like me but greasy. They sing like a cat being run over and the doors dance when these ones are on. Dad is only allowed to play these when mum is out shopping. Same with the Punk ones. They wear leather outfits and chains, and have weird as hairdos. One is called the Sex Pistols – yuck.

I sometimes just sit just looking at the colourful covers. You can find dog people with human heads. Freaky. Lasers firing out of one-eyed walking bottoms. My little brother likes this one. A baby floating underwater getting money. Creepy. A nuddy motorbike rider blasting into space with a screaming giant bat. I even found one with a teacher on fire, playing a piano to the class. I wonder if Mrs Bamford likes this one.

The records inside are mostly black. But there are also pink ones, bright green with purple spots ones, and someone splattered it with rainbow paint ones. They all are like a skinny frisbee. But they don’t fly as good. I tried it out one day with one that Dad said sounded crap.

With some of the old records I block my nose when I take them out. Because they smell like Nana and Grandads house. You don’t touch the surface, as you might leave grubby finger marks.

Dad showed just me, how to play them on this marvellous machine. So he says. It has a needle like a sewing machine. But it can’t make clothes. The machine goes round and round. No that is not true. A plate thingy spins round with the record.

Anyway, when you put the needle down, carefully! Music comes out the speakers. Dad did explain how it all works, but I wanted to go on the X-Box so I can’t remember.

Let’s just say it is magic. Like Spotify. But sounds better. Well, that’s what dad reckons.  

I looked for Tay Tay, Katy, the Bieb, and Ed. But Dad doesn’t have these. I think he is much too old.

He has ones like:

Rolling Stones. The singer looks like grandad but has a bigger mouth.

Led Zeppelin. Dad gets out his air guitar. Soo embarrassing.

Pink Floyd. I like them. Because they sing about no school.

Michael Jackson. He’s cool. But Dad is selling these ones.

AC-DC. I block my ears. The dude wears a school uniform.

Beatles. Nana says she has fond memories as a teenager listening to them and smiles all funny.

Bob Dylan. Gee he needs to blow his nose.

David Bowie. Dad was so sad when he recently died.

Kiss.  They do more makeup than mum and wear Halloween costumes.

Elton John. I love his sparkly glasses.

And heaps heaps more.

My bestest song is Sweet Jane, as Jane is my middle name. Dad plays it for me and we turn it up real loud. When I buy my first record, I think I will get Metallica. Nah, just kidding, only bogans in loud cars listen to them.

Me and Dad went to Benee’s concert the other night. She is sic. She is famous on TikTok and writes her own songs. I want to be like her. I will buy her record.

The Shore Sound

Part I

A faint sound chimes sporadically through the pine plantation edging the dunes. The melody is hard to decipher through the creaking weatherboards, getting a sanding from the easterly. The noise suddenly stops, hopes heighten in our young hearts. Reassuringly, it starts again, the notes now more distinguishable.

My older brother and I fling our best entreating gazes. We are aiming for a direct hit, not a deflection into the basket of disappointments. Yes! Dad starts ferreting about in the top draw, and seemingly in one motion, we receive the baton, and are bounding down the stairs with our happy coins.

The rear driveway is like the straight at the end of a cross country, but we are pulled along by the magnetic jangle. Our heads reach the end first, stretching around the corner fence like Rubberman.

There it is!

A pink and white truck beaming on the shingled corner in the dimness, like a landed spaceship. Twirled cones on either side giving it horns, wipers a couple of eyelashes, the front grille a large licking smile, and a small rectangular sign above its glinting eyes with neat blue handwriting: destination ‘Heaven’.

Part II

Decades later, the sound of Greensleeves skipping in a tin can rolls down Rockinghorse Road, bouncing round the now built-up burb. The villa laps the edge of the tidal mudflats. Inside the kids hone in on the beacon that beckons them, and start to do a Whippy dance. They celebrate like their tongues are already gluttoning the delicious dairy, knowing that I’m a soft serve.

I flick through my wallet checking for a few Edmund Hillarys. By now, all little legs have vacated, vacuumed up by the appliance churning out the tune. I struggle to match the zippy pace set to the same corner, which now brandishes an asphalt seal, albeit well cracked.

There it is!

Bright red, yellow, and white, dressed up like a fairy-tale, a Hansel and Gretel cottage on wheels, where sugar is the witch, and her spell is diabetes. But who is worrying about that today? Not this family.

The menu has a mesmerising effect, but the requests are soon flowing – double scoop! double flake! double dipped! double denied!! The Candyman hands over single cone sherbets and sprinkles, accompanied with his creamy grin.

In a blink, he disappears from the dispensary of delight, and his truck trundles off in a jingle further into the broken community, one where many homes are set to be demolished like ours.

Two generations retreat over the liquefaction spewed across the footpath. We hold onto more than hope with our confectioned cones – a sweet connection, one linking youthful dreams, and bred right here in the belly of the neighbourhood.  Amidst the quakes, climate change, and rising oceans, there is an anchor, an unscathed constant – it sings right along our street.