Gulliver’s Travels
Every long weekend, Christmas, Easter and any other Hallmark Holiday that got us a paid day off work a group of us would go on a surf trip to Wye River. The group would vary in size from six to twenty over the duration of the stay. Wye River is 15 kilometers past Lorne on the Great Ocean Road in Victoria Australia. It consists of a river (duh), a General Store, a Country Fire Authority Depot, A Surf Life Saving Club, two camping grounds, a surf beach and last but definitely not least, a Pub.
Many long amber fluid intake exercises were performed in that Pub when the surf was flat. After one of these sessions in particular we left The Rubbery Chook. That’s not the actual name of the Pub. It is called the Rookery Nook but alcohol consumption and boredom lead to calling things different names for our own shits and giggles. Anyway we left and headed back to the camp site. We sat around drinking and talking about how expensive sitting in the pub is compared to surfing. A few were hoping for the surf to pick up the next day so they could avoid the inevitable over consumption of the loud mouth soup.
Now balance is always an issue when is this state. Some people handle it more than others. I preferred not to move too much and play the law of averages. I figured the more I tried to stand the more chance of falling. JH had already proven this by falling into the river three times in the last four nights. It was fairly sedate around the camp fire and then we heard the noise and crashing of what can only be described as the man mountain known as Moose. Now Moose is a big guy and when unsteady on his feet can cause more damage than a swinging demolition ball.
With a bottle of rum almost empty in hand and doing the last lager waltz I have no idea how me managed to avoid the fire. He bounced of cars, fell off chairs and was fast becoming a potential threat to destroying some of the tents. As amusing as it was to watch, this was Victoria, bloody cold and no one was gong to want to sleep under the stars if it could be helped.
He wasn’t heeding any call just to sit down and relax for a while. It was only a matter of time before someone got very pissed off with Moose. But what can you do with someone that big and intoxicated.
I put any solution into the too hard basket secretly hoping he would fall in the river and give us all a laugh. I then saw Homy rustling around in the boot of his car. He had one of those grins on his face that only meant something was going to happen and it wasn’t going to happen to him. Then before I knew it Homy, who is built like a bear crash tackles Moose and pinning him to the ground. He called for assistance in holding down Moose. We jumped and grabbed a limb each. Homy then produced the instruments to aid us in our efforts. A large mallet and a bag of large tent pegs. We started with his legs. Pulling out the legs of his jeans we hammered pegs through them deep into the ground. Moose was calling us every name under the sun and stating how much his jeans had cost him. We held his arms out placing large pegs over his wrists. I was sure Homy was going to cause a serious injury. He was lifting that mallet way to high and smashing down with considerable force. How he was so accurate I don’t know. Then through Moose’s T-shirt more pegs went. We even had tent ropes across his body and connected to pegs for added security. After exerting a bucket load of energy we had him pinned. Just like Gulliver.
He was a little annoyed you could say but the village (well campsite) was safe once more. Every time he started to incoherently complain some one would pour whatever available booze was into his mouth.
He became quite the attraction that night as more and more people filtered out of the Rubbery Chook and headed back to their camp sites. In hindsight we could have made a killing charging five bucks a look.
There are some photographs of this momentous occasion so maybe I could do a picture book for children some day?
Every long weekend, Christmas, Easter and any other Hallmark Holiday that got us a paid day off work a group of us would go on a surf trip to Wye River. The group would vary in size from six to twenty over the duration of the stay. Wye River is 15 kilometers past Lorne on the Great Ocean Road in Victoria Australia. It consists of a river (duh), a General Store, a Country Fire Authority Depot, A Surf Life Saving Club, two camping grounds, a surf beach and last but definitely not least, a Pub.
Many long amber fluid intake exercises were performed in that Pub when the surf was flat. After one of these sessions in particular we left The Rubbery Chook. That’s not the actual name of the Pub. It is called the Rookery Nook but alcohol consumption and boredom lead to calling things different names for our own shits and giggles. Anyway we left and headed back to the camp site. We sat around drinking and talking about how expensive sitting in the pub is compared to surfing. A few were hoping for the surf to pick up the next day so they could avoid the inevitable over consumption of the loud mouth soup.
Now balance is always an issue when is this state. Some people handle it more than others. I preferred not to move too much and play the law of averages. I figured the more I tried to stand the more chance of falling. JH had already proven this by falling into the river three times in the last four nights. It was fairly sedate around the camp fire and then we heard the noise and crashing of what can only be described as the man mountain known as Moose. Now Moose is a big guy and when unsteady on his feet can cause more damage than a swinging demolition ball.
With a bottle of rum almost empty in hand and doing the last lager waltz I have no idea how me managed to avoid the fire. He bounced of cars, fell off chairs and was fast becoming a potential threat to destroying some of the tents. As amusing as it was to watch, this was Victoria, bloody cold and no one was gong to want to sleep under the stars if it could be helped.
He wasn’t heeding any call just to sit down and relax for a while. It was only a matter of time before someone got very pissed off with Moose. But what can you do with someone that big and intoxicated.
I put any solution into the too hard basket secretly hoping he would fall in the river and give us all a laugh. I then saw Homy rustling around in the boot of his car. He had one of those grins on his face that only meant something was going to happen and it wasn’t going to happen to him. Then before I knew it Homy, who is built like a bear crash tackles Moose and pinning him to the ground. He called for assistance in holding down Moose. We jumped and grabbed a limb each. Homy then produced the instruments to aid us in our efforts. A large mallet and a bag of large tent pegs. We started with his legs. Pulling out the legs of his jeans we hammered pegs through them deep into the ground. Moose was calling us every name under the sun and stating how much his jeans had cost him. We held his arms out placing large pegs over his wrists. I was sure Homy was going to cause a serious injury. He was lifting that mallet way to high and smashing down with considerable force. How he was so accurate I don’t know. Then through Moose’s T-shirt more pegs went. We even had tent ropes across his body and connected to pegs for added security. After exerting a bucket load of energy we had him pinned. Just like Gulliver.
He was a little annoyed you could say but the village (well campsite) was safe once more. Every time he started to incoherently complain some one would pour whatever available booze was into his mouth.
He became quite the attraction that night as more and more people filtered out of the Rubbery Chook and headed back to their camp sites. In hindsight we could have made a killing charging five bucks a look.
There are some photographs of this momentous occasion so maybe I could do a picture book for children some day?
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