Puberty Blues Read online

  The beach was the most sacred place of all. Boys’ boards came before everything. It was waves, then babes. They were faithful to the sea and we were faithful to them.

  Sue and I had learnt the rules and at last made it to Greenhills. It was about an hour’s walk up the endless beach.

  We spotted our gang. Sue and I mosied along, really cool.

  ‘Hi, Danny.’

  ‘Hi, Bruce.’

  We dropped our towels and collapsed. There was Strack, the Brown-Eye chucker. Gull, short for Seagull. He could stay in the water longest. Wayne Wright, Cheryl’s boyfriend. Tall, spunky, top-sufer, Dave Deakin. Glen Jackson, the doll, Johnno, Hen, a few others and Danny and Bruce, our boyfriends.

  Soon the other girls arrived, galloping up the beach on their frothing horses. There was Kim on Cochise, Tracey on Rebel, Vicki on Prince, Cheryl on Randy and Kerrie on Candy.

  Kerrie got conned into holding the horses while we had a cigarette break. Pulling out our Marlboros, we had smoke-ring competitions and flirted. The girls mounted up and galloped off along the beach. The boys mounted up and dived in. Sue and I were left behind. My horse, Misty, had gone lame. Sue didn’t have one but we always doubled. Now we couldn’t ride for a month.

  It sure was boring sitting alone on the beach.

  ‘Oh, Bruce, lend us ya board,’ I begged, squeezing my little boobies together with folded arms. They pouted out my black stocking-lined, crocheted-by-Auntie-Janet, bikini top.

  ‘Go ask Johnno.’

  ‘Oh, Johnno, lend us ya—’

  ‘Bite ya bum.’

  Susan began to pester Danny.

  ‘Go on Danny. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Go ask those other guys up the beach,’ he said, pointing to a bunch of black specks. We made the trek to another tribe.

  ‘Can two of you lend us your boards?’

  They looked at us dumbfounded. Then the tallest, brownest, blonde-hairedest spoke up.

  ‘Watja want me board for?’

  ‘For a ride.’

  ‘Oh hand roun’—you’ll ding it.’

  ‘Where yas come from?’

  ‘How old are yas?’

  ‘What do ya want a board for?’

  It was no use.

  After two weekends of hassling we finally got the boards for half an hour as the surf was flat. The other gang guys had gone to catch the afternoon swell at Sandshoes.

  Vicki, Greg Hennesey’s chick, came with us. We hauled on the boys’ boardshorts, giggling and squealing.

  ‘Oh, they’re too big.’

  ‘How do you do up this fly, Danny?’

  ‘Bruce, will you do up mine?’

  ‘Oh, they keep falling down. Hee, hee, hee …’

  ‘Hope we don’t get a board rash.’

  ‘At least we won’t get jungle rash*,’ whispered Vicki.

  With our boards under our arms, and our boardshorts flapping, we trotted down to the shore-breakers.

  We paddled three feet out into the seething two-inch swell. Vicki nose-dived. I slid off. Sue made it to shore. Out we paddled again. Vicki nose-dived. I slid off, and Sue kneeled for a fraction of a second. After catching two waves we were exhausted. We lay on our boards and let the surf take us to shore. There we stretched out on our waxy mattresses, panting.

  ‘Oh no!’ I gasped, clutching my board. ‘Don’t look now.’

  We all looked. No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. But there he was. He was supposed to be round at Sandshoes.

  ‘Darren Peters!’ Vicki and Susan shrieked in unison.

  ‘What’ll we do?’

  ‘And Glen Jackson too.’

  ‘Just lay here.’

  ‘Don’t look.’

  ‘Smile.’

  ‘He saw us.’

  Darren was the King of Cronulla Beach. Tough. Cool. Sexy. Brown. Strong. Where Darren Peters walked, Dickheads feared to tread.

  We were to talk about this for weeks.

  ‘… and then Darren Peters walked up the beach.’

  ‘What? Darren Peters?’

  ‘Yeah. He saw us surfin’. Oh God, it was just so embarrassing.’

  We got out straight away, pulled up our boardshorts and staggered back to our boyfriends. They laughed at us zig-zagging towards them, too weak to carry the boards against the wind. They checked their boards for dings and stood over us as we waxed them. I’d watched them often enough to know what to do. We pulled on our tight Levis over sandy, dripping crocheted costume pants.

  The gang boys had hauled tyres from the local Sandhills tip. The girls arrived on their horses. Black smoke belched into the sky as we huddled around to keep warm. The fire raged and Cronulla knew the Greenhills Gang were going. Then the storm clouds came and it was a mad race up the beach that we never won.

  By horse, train or car, we made our way home, all sandy, soaked and exhausted. Sue and I picked off the last grains of sand from our jeans pockets, hair and toenails.

  ‘Oh yeah, Mum, the pictures were great …’

  Each different surfing gang up and down the south coast has its own rules which you must respect when surfing in their territory. Each group resents the intrusion of any other tribe on to their beach. Cronulla surfies wage an endless war against the kids who come from the Western Suburbs. They’re called Bankies, Towners or Billies. Cronulla being at the end of the train line, all sorts of tattooed, greasy, bad-surfing undesirables slide off. Boys from Cronulla are just as unwelcome on other beaches. For instance when you’re surfing inside a tube, you call out ‘Ooh!’ so the other boys know not to ‘drop in’ on you. When Bruce did this at Wattamolla* Beach, three touch locals approached him later. ‘You don’t say, “Ooh”, ’ere mate, you say, “Ay!” Why doncha go back to where ya come from? We don’t want any Cronullaites round ’ere.’

  When the surf’s been especially bad for a few weeks, one surfie gang I know reckons they can get the waves pumping again. They get a dinged-up old board that’s going mouldy out the back and strip it. A stake is plunged into its centre as a mast. A pair of scungies, which last about as long as a board, are strung up as a sail. Now it’s time for the sacrifice. Girls are forbidden to attend. The board is set alight and cast out to sea. This pleases the God of the Seas, King Huey, named after a great ex-surfer. The next day, so the boys tell me, it’s perfect tubes and nine-foot swells.

  Another ritual is the surfie funeral service. Once when a local top-surfer was drowned in freakish big seas, for three days after no one was allowed into the water. The locals guarded the beach. They were paying their respects to the dead. Sanden Point went unsurfed as the perfect tubes rolled in.

  The customs differ slightly from beach to beach. Dave Deakin, one of our top guys in the gang, moved from Cronulla up to Coolangatta a few years ago. He died there soon after from a heroin overdose. Nearly every surfie in Cronulla paddled out, past the point, to sit in half an hour’s silence, mourning the death of their best surfer. One guy hurtled his board off the top of Cronulla Point where it smashed on the rugged rocks below.

  Susan and I had our own little ritual. When sitting on the beach every weekend in the rain, hail or blistering, burning, thousand-degree heatwave got too boring, we tried staying home. We filled out Dolly quizzes, watched TV and waited and waited for the boys to show up. When that boredom became unbearable, Sue and I did rain dances on the verandah. We ‘whooped’ and ‘stomped’ and made genuine Daniel Boone Indian war cries round and round a beach towel. If the boys had seen us we would have been dropped. It never worked anyway. The sun still shone and the boys still surfed. We only ever saw them when the waves and the sun went down. Somehow, we had to get their attention. The gang girls stopped going to the beach on Saturday. We took up our own sport.

  Saturday morning, after a breakfast of Cornflakes and sugar, all of us girls made our way to jazz ballet. On the way we called at the cake shop for a quick cream bun or a custard tart.

  There was Tracey, the doll, Kim, Danny’s sister, giggly Vicki Russell and Ch
eryl with the bow legs. Everyone knew she was a moll; you could tell by the way she walked. She wasn’t a gang-bang moll though. The boys liked her and she didn’t root for nothing. She always got a friendship ring. Then there was Kerrie who was on the fringe of the gang. She was going round with Gull but he was only using her. And Sue and me.

  We lined up in our tight leotards and little terry-towelling shorts, not quite covering our coloured underpants. Black undies were only for school. Every time we bent over, there’d be flashes of red, yellow, pink, lace, spots, leopard-skin … but never cottontails. Only nurds wore them. We practised a dance over and over to T-Rex. We were all desperately jealous of Kim who had the star role. She had a disjointed hip which she could flick out impishly. Sue and I stood at the very back waving our arms like fleshy windscreen wipers. Bronwyn was the teacher. She went on Bandstand and she was engaged!

  ‘Debbie and Susan stop talking or I’ll send you out!’

  For fifty cents each, it was one and a half hours of torture. The room was a mass of half-shaven legs, pointed toes, bottom cheeks peeping out, thighs, long swinging hair, giggles and groans.

  After class we ran up Waratah Street, past Glen Jackson’s house, all screaming and giggling, hoping Glen wouldn’t see us in our shorts. Most of us wished he would though. First it was a banana and sugar sandwich at Kim’s. That killed about an hour. Then it was a GI cordial drink at my place and maybe a biscuit. We talked about the boys.

  ‘Deadset Kim, Dave’s stoked in you.’

  ‘Yeah, he told Bruce down the pub that he just wouldn’t look at another chick.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be goin’ roun’ together for heaps. Danny reckons Dave’s getting’ ya a ring for ya birthday.’

  Finally we tropped up to Sue’s place to play ping-pong. Not to feel idle, we practised jazz ballet and worked up few of our own routines. We pretended we were going to show them off to the boys. Kim flicked her hip, Vicki giggled, Cheryl shouted and flashed her friendship rings. Tracey looked pretty, Sue and I cracked jokes and Kerrie didn’t do anything.

  One afternoon our rain dance worked. The surf dropped off. Mrs Knight let the boys in and disappeared to the kitchen. A series of jeans filed down the spiral staircase into the rumpus room. Denim Levis. Cord Levis. Green Levis. Black Levis. Patched Levis. Never Amco and never flared. And there was blonde hair—long, blonde, sun-bleached, stiff, straw-like, damp, salty, straight-from-the-sea hair. The girls were so brushed and the boys were so rugged.

  We giggled and pranced about, pretending to be embarrassed in our shorts. All afternoon we showed off and bent over. They still didn’t notice us.

  ‘Dropped in on Towner today.’

  ‘Oh good onya mate.’

  ‘Yeah, he was a roole egg.’

  ‘Didja see the tubes this morning? … Perf!’

  ‘Wanda was pumpin!’

  ‘Bummer it dropped off.’

  ‘Shouda seen me in this unroole tube, eh Deak?’

  The boys pulled out their Marlboro cigarettes. Us girls hovered around them, listening attentively.

  ‘Oh didja Danny?’

  ‘Gee you’re brave Bruce.’

  ‘K’niver fag Glen?’

  For the rest of the afternoon, the boys took turns at the ping-pong table, shouted at each other and smoked cigarettes. The girls smiled, bludged smokes and looked attractively bored.

  It was fantastic to have the boys for a whole afternoon.

  6

  he led you in by the hand

  ON Saturday evening, we girls got ready. Little bit of blusher, black mascara, blue eye-shadow and perfume. Only a few of us could afford make-up and cigarettes out of our pocket money so the rest of us stole it from our local chemist. We wore straight-legged Levis, casual suede shoes, little white shirts, jumpers and zipped coats. It was a comfortable uniform.

  We usually met at Sue’s place, even when her parents were home, because there was a little TV room downstairs. The whole gang crammed in. There was some stupid show on that none of us were really watching. It was just an excuse to sit or lie next to the person you were vaguely interested in. If you didn’t have too many pimples he’d probably be vaguely interested back. Within an hour, all the couples would be snuggled up and smooching anywhere they could fit. Over the night-and-day, under the night-and-day, in between the goldfish tank and the piano, draped across the television aerial, under and across the ping-pong table or compressed together like two bits of corned beef in a vinyl armchair sandwich.

  You’d always just get comfortable and Mrs Knight would come down to bring us a packet of chips. The sound of her scuffs clapping on the stairs went through us like an electric shock. By the time she got down to the bottom of the stairs, we were brushed, buttoned, zippered, upright, legs crossed and sitting at attention.

  ‘What’s on the telly?’ she asked. Our blank faces turned up to her.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Oh … well … It’s been good, really good … hasn’t it … Danny?’

  ‘Mmmmmmm … bin a lot of ads but …’

  ‘Well I’m off now dears.’ Sue’s was the best place to hang, ’cause Mr and Mrs Knight were always going to the club. ‘There’s plenty of soft drink in the fridge and I’ve left out some lamingtons and Cheezels so look after your guests, Susan. I’ve left the number of the club by the phone. Behave yourselves now.’

  As soon as the Ford turned out of the driveway, the boys leapt into violent games of ping-pong, shouting at each other, smoking cigarettes and frisbeeing the ping-pong bats. Us girls sat in terror of the little room. This was an adjoining spare bedroom, supposed to be used as a study.

  At any time of the night, you could look up and notice one couple missing: Johnno and Tracey, Sue and Danny, Dave and Kim, Garry and Vicki, Gull and Kerrie or Cheryl and her current—either Wayne, Glen Jackson or Darren Peters. It was like musical screws. Somehow or other, at some time of the night, you found yourself conveniently positioned near the door of the little room. When the coast was clear, he led you in by the hand. Your boyfriend wedged the Coolite surfboard under the door handle and against the wall like a foam burglar alarm.

  Bruce was still trying to screw me. We both took off our clothes. I could see this great, hulking, looming thing in the darkness, with blonde hair and glasses. Then there was a hand on my breast. Knead. Knead. Knead. Not that I had much breast. I had developed certain positions to make my boobs seem bigger. There was the lying-on-my-side-crunching-them-together-with-my-arms position. There was the bending-over-letting-them-hang position … because when I lay down on my back, they seemed to disappear.

  I didn’t know how he got an erection. I didn’t even know what an erection was. There was just this hard, mysterious thing zooming towards me as Bruce mounted and shoved it in. Well, he tried to shove it in. He tried and tried and tried to shove it in. For half an hour he tried.

  ‘We need some Vaseline.’ He broke the painful silence.

  I had to put all my clothes back on; orange hip-nipper underpants, little white shirt, zippered coat, shoes and socks. I smoothed down my hair, climbed over the Coolite and left the little room … alone.

  Vaseline was an essential in surfie-life. It was used to soften eyebrows before plucking, rub into surfboard rashes, pull off your randy horse and various other things.

  Everybody watched me as I crossed the room and went up the spiral staircase. I searched everywhere; in bathroom cupboards and dressing tables. Down I went again.

  ‘Where’s the vaseline?’ I whispered to Sue.

  ‘In the bathroom drawer.’

  Now the whole gang knew why I was going backwards and forwards across the room like a ping-pong ball.

  When I returned Bruce was waiting naked and patiently. I pulled the Vaseline out from my underpants, handed it to the Maestro and undressed in the darkness.

  Things got gooey. He drowned me in petroleum jelly and coated himself. He mounted me and tried again. He tried and tried and tried to shove it in. It just wouldn�
�t work. What a marvellous sensation! Being split up the middle!

  ‘Stop ’angin’ onoo me ’ips.’

  I let go and clutched the bedspread, digging in my fingernails. I waited in agony to pass out.

  He gave up.

  We dressed in silence, dismantled the surfboard security system and it was Tracey and Johnno’s turn.

  I’ve still got that rusty little jar of Vaseline, all these years later, full of eyebrow and pubic hair. A little something to remember my first love.

  And that was our Saturday night. It never much varied. It was either a night in the back of the panel van at the drive-in, hanging someone’s place when their parents were out or gate-crashing a party.

  7

  rugged stuff

  BRRING … BRRRINGG …

  ‘Susan! Telephone.’

  ‘Who is it?’ she called up the stairs.

  ‘It’s Danny.’

  ‘Okay.’ She raced up the stairs to the lounge.

  ‘Hi Danny.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How are ya?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Oh … how was school?’

  ‘Ah, not too bad.’

  ‘Oh … It was really funny in history today. Debbie and I were just sittin’ there and Mr Nashville walked in, oh God, and he—’

  ‘Hang on.’ Clunk. Sue could hear the television in the background. It was Thursday night, the Benny Hill Show. Danny wouldn’t miss it for the world. Five minutes later he returned to the receiver.

  ‘Danny, wadaya doin’?’

  Chuckle, chuckle. ‘Oh God, he’s just so funny. Should’ve seen what he just did …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Benny Hill! This chick was just walkin’ across, and her pants fell down ha ha ha, and she fell over, and Benny Hill went up to her and ha ha ha … hang on, the ads are over.’ Clunk.

  Sue clutched the receiver and stared at the ceiling. And it was a five-minute wait till the next break. She heard the music for the Lemon Fab ad, and braced herself. Danny related the last ten minutes of the show. He told her about Benny standing up and Benny sitting down. Benny running. Benny falling over. Susan laughed in all the right places.