AN UNFORGETTABLE EXPERIENCE....ONE OF MANY....

 

Various Angles of the Regatta Hotel, Toowong, Brisbane

Somewhere early in the year of 1975...

Thank God it was Friday!   It’d been a long day, and busy week in the office. 

Around 6.45pm I walked into the unit, kicked off my shoes, and plopped myself down onto the sofa.  Smocka, my beautiful grey cat jumped up on my lap eager to tell me about his day, while Sasha, my equally beautiful ginger cat waited his turn at my side. 

The welcome silence and peace were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

“Honey! Can you come to the pub as soon as you can? Most of my staff haven’t turned up. I need your help...urgently!” Randall pleaded on the other end of the telephone.   

(Randall, my now late ex-husband, as I’ve previously written, had arrived back in Queensland, from New York, a few months previously...in late November, 1974).

“But, Randall…I’ve never pulled a beer in my life!  It’s Friday night! My God! It’s going to be bedlam city down there tonight!” I spluttered in reply.

"You can do it! I know you can do it! There’s no one else I can call this late in the day! C’mon, sweetie! Please, I’m in dire straits here!”

In for a penny, in for a pound! I figured I had nothing to lose other than my pride, my dignity, face, and my sense of humour...all in one evening!

Quickly changing into a pair of stylish jeans, a fresh top, and comfortable shoes, I raced down to the Regatta Hotel, (by foot, not by car...Randall had the car).

The Regatta Hotel where Randall was working as Bar Manager, a position he’d gained shortly after his return to our fair shores, was/is down along Sylvan Road...on the corner of Sylvan Road and Coronation Drive...across the Drive flows the Brisbane River.  It was not very far from the unit in which we lived in Cadell Street, Toowong, an inner-western suburb of Brisbane.

I arrived right on the dot of seven.  I could change faster than Superman could, and I was fleet of foot back in those days!

The place, of course, was a-buzz with Friday night revellers. I had no time to think about what I was letting myself into and, vice-versa, for the unsuspecting clientele!

Randall pointed me in the direction of the lounge bar, and of the cash register both of which would be mine for the evening. He then left, to return to the public bar, wishing me luck.

 Luck! I felt I needed bucket loads of it plus more. 

If I could have found a hole in which to hide, there I would have been in a flash, but before I could dwell on my personal plight, across the bar were what appeared to me to be hundreds of eager, thirsty people, all of whom were holding out hands of cash, as they pushed and shoved eager and impatient to be served.  The pleading looks in their eyes were like a scene out of a horror movie. Ignore them I could not.

Friday nights in the large lounge bar of the Regatta Hotel, Toowong, one of the most popular hotels in Brisbane, as expected were hectic; and, there I was, that Friday night on the wrong side of the bar, as far as I was concerned!

All around me quickly became a blur. One face blended into the other. The laughter and noise of the ever-growing crowd increased in volume as the evening progressed.

Beer flowed freely.  With little choice other than to do so, quickly, I managed to stem the flow pouring from the beer taps to the glasses I filled!  Myriad mixed drinks splashed in their glasses like surging waves.

Every so often, when able to do so, Randall wandered into the lounge bar from the public bar to see how I was progressing.  I didn’t have time other than to nod at him, recognizing him vaguely as someone I should know.  I’m sure the whites of my eyes displayed clearly how I was feeling.  But, onward I forged...pouring, and mixing!

A patron came up to the bar.  From me he ordered eight mixed beverages, all different, of course.  I felt like choking him!

A while later I noticed he was heading back for refills. I pretended not to see him.

“You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?” He said with a knowing smile on his face.

“Yes, I am. How did you guess?” I replied, half-smilingly. “I won’t be a moment.”

Fortunately, he was of good humour, and sensitivity.  He understood the pressure I was under.

Closing time loomed. The thirst of the patrons heightened. Panic began to set in for last drinks. The air was electric. The pressure was tangible.

Voices from the verandah overlooking the bottle shop rose above the wave of noisy heads. Any moment I expected trouble. Unfortunately, my expectation was correct.

Someone looked cross-eyed at someone else, and blows ensued.

 I asked one of the customers to get Randall.

 A couple of tables were upturned in the melee. A few soft punches thrown as some spectators cheered on.  Muhammad Ali or Joe Frazier they weren't.  Even paper bags would have been safe.

At the bar, I kept mixing drinks and pouring final beers. The end of my shift arrived.

The ruckus had settled down. The two culprits who started the fray quickly decided neither one was worth the trouble..and on their separate ways they went, hopefully feeling the worse for wear in the morning!

The rest of the customers finished their last drinks before heading off to wherever they were headed off to.

In the meantime, my heart was pounding, not from the “rumble in the jungle”, but from what the tally of my cash register would be at the end of the night.

Fearing the worst, expecting my register to be way out when I totalled it, I broke out in a cold sweat.  At the last minute, without prior warning or bar experience, I’d been thrown into the deep end, not knowing the prices when I began the night.

Gingerly, I waited as Mrs. Milo, the wife of the hotel manager counted my cash register’s takings.

Turning to me, Mrs. Milo said. “I don’t know what you’re worrying about, Lee. You’re eleven cents over!”

My “end of shift” drink was most welcome. I sighed with relief.  I couldn't believe my luck...and luck it must have been that my register was over...not under!

The night certainly had been a rude, swift introduction into the bar industry. What an initiation it was!

It was the last time I helped out at the Regatta Hotel. My adrenalin still raged when back at home.  Randall and I sat recapping the evening’s events over a couple of scotches.  It took a couple of Johnny Walker Blacks on the rocks for me to relax!

 

 

 

 

TIN CAN BAY....A SLEEPY LITTLE VILLAGE....CHAPTER TWO

Tin Can Bay Esplanade in Forefront

 

Acrylic painting by me...Tin Can Bay

Top Photo of Graham with a friend...taken the 1998 May long weekend he visited me...and the lower photos were taken on his birthday, 28th February, 1996

 

Prawns, in an abundant supply, were discovered in the waters surrounding Tin Can Bay in 1954/55...thereabouts.  Along with the discovery of the prawns, sea scallops were also part of the bounty.

 

Once the prawn trawlers were alerted to the fact, prawns and sea scallops became welcome accompaniments to our seafood feasts.  Until then, I’d not had sea scallops...and, very soon, I couldn’t get enough of them! 

 

As a child, I loved to paint and draw.  The scallop shells became my “canvases”.  Using poster paints, I’d paint scenes on the shells.

 

Not only did Tin Can Bay have the best fresh seafood in the world in those days, but it also boasted the best meat pies in the world!

 

Hind's Bakery...a little bakery on the Esplanade made the best pies. If I set my mind to it, I can still savour the flavour of those luscious, juicy meat pies!

 

Pies with golden, flaky-pastry tops that burned the roof of your mouth, but you didn't care, because the hot gravy from the meat running down your chin burned even hotter...and, you still didn't care...because the pies were so delicious.

 

One of our primary school teachers, Mr. Doug Enright, owned a holiday home on the Esplanade at Tin Can. He and his wife, who was the Matron at a Gympie’s Lister Hospital, were often in residence at their home during our many visits to the "Bay".

 

Mr. Enright, a tall, striking gentleman with a shock of silver-grey hair, was a favourite teacher of both my brother and me. In fact, I can confidently state 99.9%, if not100% of his students at that time... present, and past...respected him, holding him in high regard.  

 

He would have been around the age of 60 years, give or take, when he taught me.

As a teacher he was firm, but objective, and even-handed.  In a courteous, solicitous manner, Mr. Enright commanded his students’ attention

 

Way back when in the "olden days" as we called the days of our grandmother's younger years, Doug Enright was a member of our Nana’s circle of friends.  I think at one stage, when in their teens, they were sweet on each other. 

 

I remember clearly the day he was wandering up and down the aisles between our school desks, making a point about a lesson he was teaching...something he did regularly.  Impressing upon the class the importance, the intrinsic value of the lesson, as he walked by, Mr. Enright whacked his ruler on my desk.  Unfortunately, the ruler missed the desk, and accidently struck my left thumb! 

 

Boy! It hurt! 

 

Tears filled my eyes, but I hung my head, to hide my throbbing discomfort, not wanting to make a fuss.  I knew he’d not purposely struck me.  It was not the kind of person...the kind of teacher...Doug Enright was.

 

Immediately, Mr. Enright’s genuine distress was evident for the rest of the class to see. 

 

Almost in tears himself, he couldn’t apologise enough.  Even though my thumb was hurting, I felt sorry for him. 

 

The moment wasn’t forgotten by him.  The next time he met Nana, he apologised to her, as well, explaining what had occurred had been an unfortunate accident.  Nana understood.  I had told her about the innocent incident when I arrived home from school the day it happened.  I had no bad feelings towards my teacher.

 

I’d never been struck by a teacher before, or after that particular day.  Once was enough, even if accidental!

 

 

A fine, pure white clay...the palest shade of the palest grey, actually... was found along the beach, at low time, across from Mr. Enright’s Tin Can Bay holiday home.

 

My brother, Graham and I collected the clay to form different and fun objets d'art.   Our imagination went wild, as our hands followed its lead.

 

Mr. Enright allowed us to 'bake' what we created in his ovens, both at the 'Bay' and in Gympie.

 

He and his wife’s lovely Gympie home on the corner of Nash and Lawrence Streets, was the large, lovely home of Mr. and Mrs. Enright, only a short stroll from where we lived in Fern Street.

 

When I was living back in Gympie between the years 1998-2002, I was very pleased to see that their home had been purchased by a builder who was lovingly restoring the home to its former glory.  Some things...some buildings must be preserved.

 

The day of Mr. Doug Enright's funeral remains in my memory.

 

School children from the Gympie State Primary School, of which my brother and I were two, formed sombre honour lines down each side of Mary Street, the main street of Gympie, as his gasket passed by.  

 

Mr. Enright was loved and respected by all who were fortunate enough to have known him.

 

Throughout our childhood, along with our mother and grandmother, we continued visiting Tin Can Bay...and we continued enjoying feasts of fresh seafood.  Mum’s favourite fish to catch, and eat, was flathead

 

Graham, my brother spent the long weekend in May...the Labour Day weekend, May, 1998...with me in Gympie.  I had arrived back in Gympie, on ANZAC Day....25^th April, 1998.

 

Graham left my home in the very early hours of the Monday morning...he preferred to drive long distances during the night hours.  (as do I...or as did I).  Having been transferred from Townsville Hospital here he had been receiving treatment for cancer, he was staying with his daughter and her husband.  They lived here on the mountain, at that time. 

 

On the Tuesday, following his couple of days spent with me, Graham entered Brisbane’s Princess Alexandra Hospital.  Six weeks later he passed away.

 

The last thing Graham as he was about to climb into his car to leave that night was...

 

“When all of this rot is over...when I get through this thing, I think I will find myself a little place at Tin Can Bay...and spend my time fishing and crabbing.”

Hiding my heartache, I smiled, and replied...”That sounds like a bloody good idea!”   

 

I knew his dream would not come true.....

 

 Like our mother, Graham loved to go fishing.

 

 

 

TIN CAN BAY....A SLEEPY LITTLE VILLAGE..

 

Tin Can Bay Yacht Club

                           

 

Originally called “Wallu”, in 1937 the small fishing village’s name was changed to "Tin Can Bay". The name are said to be derived from "tinchin" meaning “mangrove, in the Yugarabul dialect of the Yuggera language of the local indigenous people.

Others say that "Tin Can" is a word derived from the word "tinken", a vine with a large ribbed leaf, which grew on the beaches. The area was also known as "Tuncunba" - "ba" meaning "Place of "; "Tuncun" meaning "Dugong" or "Plenty of tucker".   Are you confused, yet?

A white lad, "Zachariah Daniel Sparkes Skyring" was one of the first permanent residents in the area. He later called the town "Tin Can Bay". Zachariah was born on 13th. July, 1861 and died on the 4th.June, 1957.  

27 kilometres south of Gympie is Skyring's Creek.  "Skyring" is a well-known name in the Gympie/Cooloola area.

 In the early Eighties, for a brief period, I worked with a lass who was a member of the Skyring family. (We’re still in contact to this day).  Aged 16 years at the time, it was her first job.  She went on to marry a lad from another well-known local family.  They’ve lived in the Gympie area since marrying.  Their talented daughter, a singer, appeared on “The X-Factor” a few years ago, and is doing well in the world of Australian country music.

Tin Can Bay is about 30-40 minutes drive east from Gympie, depending on how heavy one's foot is on the accelerator! The drive through Goomboorian, a farming area betwixt Gympie and Tin Can Bay is quite stunning, in my opinion.

Quite often, when living back in Gympie during the years 1998 to 2002, and when time allowed, I would drive down to the 'Bay' on a Sunday morning for breakfast at the area’s small yacht club.  

Tin Can Bay’s current population is around 2,500.  Yes...that is correct...2,500, give or take...

The club is built on the water's edge.  Sitting out on the deck, lost in my thoughts as I enjoyed both the view and my breakfast was a very pleasant way to while away a couple of hours on a Sunday morning.

 Equally as nice as breakfasting on the deck of the yacht club...sometimes, instead, I would buy delicious, freshly-cooked fish (in crisp, golden batter, of course!) and chips.  Armed with my hot feast, I’d sit on the foreshore, surrounded by ravenous seagulls.

 I never mind seagulls hovering around me.  They are beautiful creatures, and, when in their presence, or they in mine, I'm always on the look-out for 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull'.  I’ve conversed with Jonathan a few times! He and I are old mates.  We always have much to discuss

 

When my now late ex-husband Randall and I married...in a very relaxed setting and ceremony on a Sunday afternoon at Randall’s parents’ home... conducted by a Marriage Celebrant...Neil Diamond’s soundtrack LP...”Jonathan Livingstone Seagull” played in the background throughout the making of our vows...vows using quotes from Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet".  Randall and I also saw Neil Diamond live in concert at Brisbane’s Festival Hall in 1976...the same year we married.  The "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" album and story are both still inspirational...and both still bring tears to my eyes.

 

Fishing and mud-crabbing were two of our mother’s pet pastimes when my brother and I were kids. Often, Nana, Mum, Graham and I boarded a bus en route to Tin Can Bay.  We never had the luxury of a car.  

In those days of the 1950s Tin Can Bay was a sleepy little fishing village, boasting a population of 240, thereabouts.

The township consisted of corrugated iron, timber, or fibro shacks. Most were without electricity.

At night, hurricane lamps and candles shed light inside the beach shacks in which our small family unit, as well as holidayed.  Most permanent residents lived in similar conditions.

 Late afternoon and evening the air would be dense with a heavy cloak of smoke from the smouldering cow manure packed in forty-four gallon drums in the backyards. The burning of cow manure was an endeavour to keep the mosquitoes and sand-flies at bay at The Bay.

The sand-flies were the bane of my existence. They loved me. They still do, for that matter!   The feeling wasn’t and still isn’t mutual! I hated them then and I still do now!

 However, these days, if I have need to go to areas where sandflies fly, for the couple of weeks leading up to my pending visit I over-dose on Vitamin B supplements to repel the nasty, nipping, little critters.  Even though, some “experts” denounce the practice, it certainly worked for me when Randall and I used to visit Fraser Island, or when sandflies decided, in their hordes, it was time to pay a visit Hastings Street, Noosa Heads...during the time I operated my greengrocery-health food shop in the street.

When we were kids, Tin Can Bay had an open-air picture ‘theatre’...not a drive-in.  There was just a large screen plonked in a wide, open piece of vacant land.

Many a night after dinner, my brother and I sat in the backyard of where we were staying to watch the screen from afar,  We could barely hearing or understanding the dialogue, but that didn’t hinder us. Mostly, we invented our own scripts, much to our delight.

Every day, and most nights during our visits to Tin Can Bay, Mum went fishing and mud-crabbing.  

Meanwhile, in the daylight hours, Nana, Graham and I collected oysters off the rocks to the right of the esplanade.

Armed with an oyster knife each, we opened the shells bearing the delectable delicacies, eating many as we went along the oyster-bearing rocks. We each had a large glass jar to fill with oysters to take back to the shack. At the threat of death, we guarded those oyster knives as if they were made of gold. The prized oyster knives had belonged to our late grandfather, who passed away quite a few years before I entered the world.

Once back at the beach shack, we feasted on the fish and crabs Mum caught, and our bounty of fresh oysters.

Our fresh seafood was always served simply with fresh bread, butter, vinegar, salt and pepper. No further trimmings or additions were necessary.  Perfection cannot be perfected!

As a small child, I gave no thought to the health benefits but now, of course, I know how nutritional fresh seafood is. Rarely were we sick as children, so I guess all those sand fly-ridden days and nights eating fresh seafood accounted for our good health. Other than the normal childhood maladies such as the mumps, measles, chicken pox, the only other times I got sick was from motion sickness. To this day, I get car sick if relegated to the back seat or if in a boat, if I’m not the skipper. Yes, I do have a boat license but that, also, is another story for another day.

As this tale has grown longer than I initially thought it was going to be at the outset...

To be continued...is the only way to go.....