Amateur Fisherman

By Ron Frost

The wisdom of hindsight along with superb storytelling, brings to life the nostalgia of being a child in the sixties and the thrills, spills and horrors of living dangerously in the seventies. Future events and adventures intertwine Ron's account of childhood. There is political, religious and social opinion voiced, while exploring the inner

• Language: English
• Publisher: Windship Pty Ltd
• Release date: Feb 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648989714

Ron Frost

Husband 35 years, father 33 years, grandfather 5 years., fisherman 55 years. Eternally a stirrer.

Book preview

Copyright © Ron Frost 2020

This book is copyright. Other than for the purposes and subject to the conditions prescribed under the Copyright Act, no part of it may in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, microcopying, photocopying, recording or otherwise) be reproduced, or performed, or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted without prior written permission.

All scriptural references are from the King James Bible

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Print:

ISBN: 978-0-6489897-0-7

e-book:

ISBN: 978-0-6489897-1-4

Written and edited by Ron Frost

Cover photo taken March 2019

Cover design: Ron Frost & Eevi Stein

Produced & printed in Australia

Printed by Ingram Spark, Melbourne, Victoria

Financed by Windship Pty Ltd

BSB 062562 Acc 2800 0110

Introduction

All the world’s a Stage

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their Exits and their Entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages

As he becomes master of the faux pas

Eventually the pious realises Ego is not a dirty word because the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who has subjected the same in hope.

For the wisdom of hindsight, along with some quirky anecdotes about the creature, reveals the fun, folly and trauma of being a child in the sixties and a teenager in the seventies. Future events and adventures intertwine my account of childhood. Political, religious and social opinions are voiced, while exploring the inner working of the male mind at a time when the music was real and the world moved to a different beat.

A brief but cathartic examination around the breakdown in one of Australia's largest Pentecostal churches in the 1990s brings to light unchecked natural emotions and worldly power plays.

Using a bit of poetic licence, this loquacious prose unveils the thoughts, imaginations, actions and intimacies of real relationships. It is humorous, dark, hopeful and informative. Truth is stranger than fiction.

There is also some great fun around fishing, surfing, Bali and cruise ship holidays, leaving little time for the reader to get bored.

We were all young once, so perhaps this colloquial narrative will remind you of your own story, as we live life, overcome difficulties, learn from our experiences, have a few laughs and make memories.

God speed.

The Word of Ron

Many books are about the extraordinary, this book is about the extraordinary ordinary; dedicated to those who believe in a fair go for all.

Chapters: Contents

Amateur Fisherman

School

Grade 2

Hopeful

Isle of Pines

Back to Port Broughton

Trip Home and Pondalowie Bay

Grade Three

Christmas

Deadly Predator

Football and Getting Booted Out

Jude 20

Warryl & Country Bumpkins

The Contenders

Meeting Leanne

Demon Spirit

We Need a Talk

Some Bible Analysis

Engagement Period

Lady Bay and Scott’s Little Chat

Fish Chips and Supertramp

The Great Divide

The Carrickalinga Football Match

A Tough Little Bugger

Ultra-Light Adventure and Melbourne.

Grade Five Primary and Holidays

Cobdogla

Hoppy

Tadpoles and Dodgy Investments

Bali Trips

Back to Bali 2018

Islam and Jerusalem

Back to Bali

Back to My Boyhood

Soccer Lizards and My Birthday

Royal Show and Velociraptors

Three Ronnies and Xmas Holidays.

Grade 7 and My Future

Nug Nug

News Flash

A New Life

After Hospital

Sheringa and Chess

Annoying the Hell Out of the Neighbours.

Life Goes On

Holidays

More Sharks

Last of the Holidays

Good Fishing Stories

The Bay and High School

Algebra Dope and Firemen

Booze Spinners and Night Lights

Zeppelin Pauline and Being a Man.

It’s Time for a Break

Ascot Park and the Bay

Mother’s Son

Working and Giant Cicadas

Chrysler Kim and Rory

Then I Remembered the Rabbit

Men Cars and Mental Health

Shaman’s Blues

Real Music

Magic Happens

Eek a God Freak

Secrets of the New Moon

Roads

Mark of the Beast

Quotes

We are what we are because of what we have been; to change the future we must change the present. Whatever happened to the revolution?

You can’t expect everyone to have your vision, but by example you may lead some there.

Little expectation brings little disappointment and joy comes from surprise.

Life is full of infinite absurdities, which, strangely enough, do not even need to appear plausible, since they are true. Luigi Pirandello

It is better to be very smart or very slow. Being of reasonable intelligence is the torment of knowing one’s limitations. Nevertheless, high IQ without application is stupidity. Slow and steady wins the race

If you hit yourself on the finger with a hammer, and it hurts like hell, it’s probably best not to do the same thing again.

AMATUER FISHERMAN

Remember the days before computers, laptops, iPhones, Flat Screens and twenty four hour plastic entertainment? Days filled with adventure, fun, and mischief. When you lay your head on the pillow at night with an uncluttered mind that would delight in living and dreaming without the buzz, remember?

For all those who can’t remember or are of a different generation, I invite you to come along for the ride.

As with all stories fishermen tell, this one may seem embellished and embellished may seem like a fancy word for a fisherman. Nevertheless, this story is made up of real memories about a life lived.

I was born in 1958 to an English father and mother of Irish descent in the South Australian town of Mount Gambier. Mum, Elaine, said I was the perfect baby, the apple of my father’s eye. Dad’s name was Ron short for Ronald, as was my name. Mine eyes were bluer than the Blue Lake at Mt Gambier, which was formed in an extinct volcano. This adoration I later realised is endemic in all parents of first born children, and as with all children, there were to be ups and downs.

Dad had a corner store, a delicatessen called Jack’s Corner. It was called Jack’s due to the family name of Frost.

Within two years of my birth we moved to Glenelg, a beachside suburb of Adelaide where my grandma lived. She was a widow. Her husband, who I never knew, died of Tuberculosis in the West Australian gold fields in the 1940s. Grandma’s surname is Savage.

All kids love their Grandma and I was no exception. My first and fondest memory of Grandma was in her warm bed on a cold winter’s morning.

So mother was an Irish Catholic and my father an English Frost. The Frost Savage union was to become a mini version of Ireland in the 60s and 70s with a peace solution being very hard to find.

My first conscious memories formed around four years old when mum was pushing Bob, my younger brother in a pram. I followed behind her as we walked up Miller Street in the Southern suburb of Darlington. This particular day would bring something very special into my life.

While walking alongside a house, out from the garden trotted a weaned kitten. It came straight to me and said a typical cat hello as it rubbed itself against my legs with a deep rattling purrrr. It was mutual love at first sight. Picking her up, she had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen in my short life.

That day I realised there was a heart in my chest.

Can I have her? Can I have her mum?

The cat isn’t yours Ronnie.

So with mum’s insistence, I put her back into the garden and continued walking home. No sooner had we gone ten paces, when I saw the beautiful feline walking with me again.

Mum picked her up, went to the front door of the house from which she had come and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so she popped the cat on the doorstep and we started for home. As before the young cat was right on my heels.

Can I keep her mum, please?

If it follows you home, you can have her.

Well she followed me three quarters of a mile to 31 Braeside Avenue, Seacombe Heights. We both knew that day we were kindred spirits. I named her Fluffles, she had thick black fur with a white chest and white socks on both front feet. Her bright yellow eyes a dramatic contrast to her shiny black coat. Little did I know that Fluffles would become a confident amateur fisherman!

Although I had a younger brother Robert, who was always called Bob, two years my junior and a sister named Shirley three years younger, from age four until ten I have little recollection of my siblings. Perhaps the passing of over fifty years has dulled the memory, but I’m sure as I write, memories will surface. Fluffles however features prominently at this time of my life.

Before long it would be time for school. This was to be traumatic, as it is for many children. Meanwhile the twelve months since Fuffles had come into my life were full of adventure.

Our house at 31 Braeside Ave was the second last on our side of the street, after which was open country with trees, rock mounds and oat fields. Directly behind our house ran a gully which in the winter and into early spring often had water in it. From the back fence to the gully come creek, was about 150 yards. The sides of the gully were thickly covered with olive and almond trees along with some native species of trees. The gully ran south into the Adelaide foothills; about 200 yards along the gully from our house stood a giant gum tree.

By age four and a half, the war between my parents was well under way so Fluffles and I spent most of our time exploring the gully. I’m not sure what happened with Bob and Shirl, but I suspect they spent a lot of time in the battle zone, if they weren’t sent off to Grandma’s.

In the gully Fluffles and I could get lost in time. Birds, lizards, mice and sometimes tadpoles completed a young lad’s perfect playground, though it would be a couple of years before I fully appreciated the joy of stalking and catching these creatures of great interest. Fluffles on the other hand, had become a master hunter by the time she was one year old.

SCHOOL

Late January 1964 and the first day of school had arrived. Being just five years and two months old made me much younger than many of the children starting in my class.

This had ramifications through most of my school years. Shirley on the other hand was born in March which made her older than most of her fellow class mates. Being older than her peers, with a little more life experience, made her a very confident person absolutely sure of her limited abilities. Bob and I were born in November and even after schooling, I often wonder if he ever had real confidence in himself. Older more dominant children can take a toll on their younger brethren.

Mum and dad took me to school by car the first day, it was the first of two times I was driven to school. On arrival they walked me through the school yard. Hundreds of children playing and conversing frightened me and for the second time in my life I realised there was a heart in my chest.

When introduced to Mrs Oliver, the teacher, I stood there trembling while she spoke to my parents. She directed me to sit on the floor with the rest of the children. As my parents left, paranoia started to set in. I was not comfortable with other children, especially in large groups. Not knowing anyone, plus the sight of my parents leaving was a fearful thing.

Finally the panic was too much, I upped and bolted out of the classroom as fast as my legs could take me. Across the school playground, a right turn, 50 yards a left turn, another 100 yard sprint then a right turn at Braeside Ave. Usain Bolt couldn’t have run the half mile home as fast as that frightened five year old. I ran round to the back door which was always open and charged in. As you might expect Ron & Elaine had very surprised looks on their faces.

After the initial shock dad asked the question. They both comforted and gave me reassurance. That was the first and last time I remember them as a couple doing so. After about an hour and feeling calmer, I took my second trip in a car to school. Mrs Oliver spoke to me very kindly. She said that although it was wrong to run away from school and I could be punished, instead I was to have a special friend. Her name was Irma. She was about nine months older than me. Sitting next to Irma on the floor, I soon put my head on her lap and fell fast asleep. It was all too much.

GRADE 2

By the time I woke up it was my second year of primary school and through green eyes I was observing classroom hierarchy and teachers’ pets.

The teacher, Mrs Tunks, was a middle aged woman. To assist her, she had selected three girls. They were Shelly Write, Corinne Hitchen and Sandra Hunt who were the teacher’s pets. It appeared that apart from handing out a few pieces of paper and collecting them again, they were allowed to talk among themselves whenever it pleased and had free reign in the class room.

One day I couldn’t refrain from saying to Mrs Tunks, Why do Shelly, Corinne and Sandra do what they like in the classroom?

Her answer was a whack on both hands with a ruler.

By the end of grade two, I got the hang of school. My parents had a peace treaty and things had become what you might say was normal family life. I would sit on dad’s lap, watching westerns and war movies while he had a rolley burning. A rolley was a cigarette you rolled yourself. A pouch of tobacco contained an ounce of tan brown tangled tobacco; his favourite was Five Star or Drum.

When sitting on his lap he would let me puff away on his home made cigarettes. This was fun for a young boy. Neither of us ever drew back on a rolley but dad did seem to puff away on a lot of them. Maybe it helped curb his vicious temper and gluttonous appetite, which never occurred when he was puffing away.

Dad was the youngest of six children. He had four sisters and one brother whose name was Charles (which is my brother Bob’s middle name). Charles Arthur Frost was his full name. I was given his middle name so I was Ronald Arthur Frost. Bob was Robert Charles Frost and while we’re at it, Shirley, was Shirley Ethel Frost. Mum later changed Shirley’s middle name to Anne because she couldn’t stand Ethel, whoever she was. Grandma Ethel Mary Keeple, I believe.

Charles was a rear gunner on a Flying Fortress in World War 2. He didn’t live long. Dad, being a boy was spoilt rotten by his older sisters and parents. My most vivid memories of dad were the explosions of anger that would take place when the smallest thing went wrong or he didn’t get fed on time.

One peaceful Sunday afternoon, sitting on his lap puffing on a rolley, there was a tap on the front door. He got up to answer.

After opening the door, Dad said, What the hell? There’s nobody here. He sat back down and two minutes later there was another tap. We both went to the door and opened it. Again no-one was there but Fluffles was sitting on the wall looking at us.

As we opened the door a little wider to let her in, on the door mat was one of dad’s prize goldfish. She had fished it out of the pond we had built in the front yard. Fluffles was one proud moggy, but father was not impressed. After half a dozen goldfish catches and door knocks to prove she was a fisherman, she stopped catching them or maybe the fish finally wised up.

For a period between the age of five and seven I became a bed wetter and loved to suck my thumb. Some would say it was from stress due to my parents fighting and yelling at each other and us kids.

Though Ron senior had some major dummy spits over my bed wetting, my memory was different. Lying in bed snuggled up sleeping soundly one morning I realised the need to do a wee, so I got out of bed walked to the toilet and started to wee. A beautiful warm sensation surrounded my tummy and lower body. My bed was soaked. It wasn’t long after this I recognised the dream before it was too late, although there were a few more wet dreams as a teenager.

Sucking my thumb took a little longer. I can see myself in Jim Carey when he sucks his thumb in the film Dumb and Dumber. Perhaps stress does affect kids. From time to time throughout life I have had a suck on my thumb, but it never feels like it did as a child which was satisfaction, comfort and security.

When I got over bed wetting Fluffles would often sleep in my bed at night. She would get right under the covers and her warmth felt lovely. It would have been nice to have her in bed every night, but being a hunter as most amateur fisherman are, she had other ideas and would get quite aggressive if she wanted to go hunting at night. If I tried to stop her I would be sorely warned with an ominous variation of the meow. It was more like meowww...meowww, that groan of discontent a cat gives before you get scratched.

The next morning on the doormat there would always be a dead or half eaten mouse. She caught hundreds of them and often played catch and release on the front lawn.

Strangely some mice instead of running away, would hop toward their assassin. Reading a science journal one day pointed out that these suicidal mice may have been infected by a parasite called Toxoplasmosis. The parasite that causes Toxoplasmosis affects the rodent brain causing radical behaviour whereby the mouse is ready to take on the cat. In the end the rodent always loses and is usually eaten by the cat. In the cat’s gut Toxo, is able to complete its life cycle and eggs are passed out in the cat’s scat. People with cats, particularly children, often contract the parasite and scientists believe it may invoke excessive behaviour in individuals who have been infected. In my case it may explain some future scenarios.

Pigeons were a big thing in the sixties at least where the Frosts lived in Braeside Ave. We coaxed dad into building a pigeon loft. It was rather large, about ten feet by six feet by eight feet with lots of sheltered area for the birds to get out of the weather. We bought three pigeons, two grey and one brown with white shoulders. They had a beautiful rainbow shimmer highlighting the main colour. We locked them in the loft for a month, and then opened it so the birds could have a fly. At first they would not leave the security of the cage but eventually fluttered to the exit platform and took their maiden flight.

I was terribly worried we would never see them again. They flew to a height of about fifty yards, circled the house a number of times. Together, the three of them landed back onto the entry exit platform and went into the loft, to my great relief.

Around this time dad began taking me on fishing trips with him. I was six and a half years old. Bob and Shirley didn’t come. They were too young and I suspect enjoyed the peace from the fresh eruptions between Ron & Elaine. Dad was always happiest when the two of us went fishing. On these trips which were anything from ten to fifty miles from home, we would take the pigeons. Upon arrival at our destination the birds were released then we would go about our day of fishing.

At the end of the day, if we weren’t staying overnight, we would head home, sometimes with fish. Once back home the first thing we did was check the birds, because more often than not, they returned to the loft with fellow pigeons. Within two months using this strategy, we had twelve pigeons all with varying colours and patterns.

HOPEFUL

At the beginning of the school holidays that year, dad bought a little white fibreglass boat with a two and a half horse power inboard motor. Dad decided we would go on a trip to Port Broughton, a fishing village located on the Spencer Gulf about eighty miles from Adelaide.

Everyone was excited. There hadn’t been any fights between Ron & Elaine for about two weeks, which made us all a lot happier. We packed the boat with fold up chairs, ground mats, a big tent, eskies, water containers, fishing rods, crab nets and whatever else was necessary for a camping trip.

If the boat had a name, it may have been Hopeful. We headed north from Braeside Avenue through Adelaide on a warm January morning - it was eighty five degrees Fahrenheit. Hopeful was how I felt. Hopeful we might catch some fish, explore new places, go swimming and drink some strawberry milk shakes. Most of all I was hopeful there would be no more fights between mum and dad.

In those days fights between parents were called domestics. Bob, Shirley and I had seen our share. Later in life I formed a theory about domestics which I will try to explain.

As with all highly emotional situations, of which a good domestic is as high level as it gets, the brain or endocrine system floods the body with chemicals to prepare for what the brain perceives as the physical battle about to occur. This gives the domestic participants a heightened sense of strength, awareness and aggression. Consequently, domestics once started, usually get more intense as each person feels stronger and angrier. If someone doesn’t come to their senses quickly enough, physical violence is often the final outcome. Both parties of the domestic get their high from the hormones, adrenalin, or whatever it is, and it’s not long before they are looking for another rush. Unfortunately many people in today’s society are addicted to the domestic. It’s something that Ron & Elaine could usually take right to the second before physical violence occurred.

After passing through Adelaide and the northern suburbs we were on the Port Wakefield road. This small two lane corridor was often very busy especially on weekends as Adelaide holiday makers headed to country towns on the York Peninsula and Spencer Gulf. Being a Wednesday the traffic wasn’t too bad. About an hour after leaving the burbs we arrived at Port Wakefield, which wasn’t much more than a large shop and petrol station in my memory. Dad filled the car with petrol and came back with five Golden North ice-creams in cones. Golden North ice-cream has beautiful local honey in it and to this day in my mind is still the nicest ice-cream ever. Leaving Port Wakefield still heading north, there is a hard left turn off the main road which takes holiday makers south toward the foot of the Peninsula. We continued north toward Wallaroo and Port Broughton.

Wallaroo and smaller towns in the area were established the previous century on copper mining, as Welsh miners came to work the mines. One of their legacies is the Cornish pasty, a flaky pastry usually filled with potato, carrot, turnip and sometimes low grade minced meat. A Cornish pasty is made with a large knob of pastry at both ends. This was done so the miners could eat them holding the knobs with their dirty hands. After eating the body of the pasty the dirty knobs were discarded. Cornish pasties are not gourmet but made properly with the right combination of ingredients and seasonings can be a real delight. In the Adelaide airport there is a café which sells Cornish pasties and whenever I’m there I enjoy one of these traditional dainties.

After passing the York Peninsula turn off, the traffic became lighter, and as we drove along there were two large lizards on the side of the road.

I had become a bit of a lizard catcher, with a small collection at home.

Dad pulled over so we could take a look. We walked back to the lizards which were still on the side of the road. Once within eight feet of the reptiles they bent their bodies into a half circle and lifted their heads with wide open mouths hissing fiercely at us. It was quite intimidating for a young lad. When moving around them, the lizards would move too. Their large open triangular mouths with big dark blue purple tongues kept facing us, they were more scary than a Maori at a Haka.

The lizards had scales like those found on immature pine cones except they were slightly thicker. The lizards were a charcoal grey colour on the back with a yellowy mottled underbelly, their overall length being around one foot. They had a small rounded tail about two inches long. We knew them as stumpies or sleepy lizards but on a warm summer day they were far from that. Their proper name is shingle back lizard. I had handled them before on trips with dad; nevertheless, you did not want to be bitten by one as they have very strong jaws and can inflict a nasty bite. If you pick them up in the middle of the body between the two sets of legs they can’t bite you. If you’re too slow as you pick them up, the small beast will happily latch onto your finger, with pain and tears being the outcome of any such encounter. Fortunately there was none of that this day. Dad emptied out a cardboard box containing kitchen utensils and we put the fiery purple mouths in it. We decided to keep them as we had already seen some dead ones on the road.

Once back in the car with our new cargo secured, we continued our journey to Port Broughton. No sooner had we travelled half a mile, when there were another two shingle backs. Apparently it was breeding time, so the lizards were following one another around. Shingle backs always have the same partner every year for their entire life. Maybe people could learn something from these ancient creatures. Two more sleepy lizards in the box. Port Broughton was another forty miles and we collected another thirteen lizards without being bitten. Sadly some of the courting couples had already lost their partners to cars or trucks.

We arrived at Broughton around 3pm. Bob, Shirl and I were abuzz with excitement. Dad was frazzled but didn’t blow his stack & mum seemed relieved.

After checking into the caravan park we surveyed the surrounds. The park was on the water’s edge with a lovely jetty some one hundred and twenty yards to the south of the park.

Now we had to set up the tent. First we laid down a large canvas sheet which was the same size as the floor area of the tent. Then we positioned four aluminium corner posts and hammered in two tent pegs to secure the ropes which hold the corner tent poles in place. After this we laid the tent into position, mum and I had to get inside the tent to raise the centre pole. It was much like a circus tent, except a perfect square. The dimensions were four and half yards by four and a half yards. We crawled into the tent with the two piece pole, as fast as possible we found the centre of the tent which had a wooden knob for the centre pole to go into. Putting the pole end into the knob we raised the tent to half height. This made it easier to breathe, but it was very hot and I was labouring trying to get air into my lungs. Attaching the bottom half of the centre pole, we raised the tent to full height. Dad positioned one corner post and secured it with the two ropes then he did the second one, as he went to secure the third corner pole a fresh east wind blew up. Mum and I had to hold onto that centre pole as tight as we could while dad was yelling at us to keep it steady, so he could secure the last two corner poles. It felt like the entire tent was going to take off. Once the four corner poles were tightly secured, the tent stood on its own despite the wind. Four more side poles fastened by ropes and the canvas castle was going nowhere.

Within an hour our campsite was completely set up with beds in place. Our beds were pieces of thin foam. There were hotplates and gas for cooking along with chairs, table and eskies. We were ready to have fun, but God had other ideas.

Around 5.30pm, dad bought some fish and chips with a large bottle of Coca Cola. At seven years old there was nothing more delicious than greasy chips with battered fish, washed down with a sugar loaded glass of coke, yummm, that’s my kind of food! Bob and Shirley totally agreed and we scoffed down dinner in no time flat.

After dinner as the wind died down, mum let Bob and I go to the jetty and look around. Walking down the jetty we could see the water wasn’t very deep, there were some blue swimmer crabs moving around on the bottom. These were a popular quarry and very common in Port Broughton. The end of the jetty came to a T junction along which ran a deep channel. There were channel markers with different shapes on top of them. Across the channel there was more land which had mangroves along the edge. Heading back down the jetty toward the caravan park, a giant brown cloud like a wave appeared before us. It was about a mile away and filled the whole horizon. Staring in amazement, a ferocious wind hit us followed by flying red grit. It was a dust storm. Bob and I ran into the howling wind wanting to get back to the tent with mum and dad. Half way back it was like twilight, increasing our fear so we ran faster. A branch from a large gum tree thumped on the ground close to Bob. I grabbed his hand and we safely walked around it. Finally back at the tent, the flaps were all down; mum and dad were frantically calling us to get inside the tent with them. They opened the front entry and we quickly scampered into safety as the entrance was secured behind us.

We were covered in red dust and my lungs felt tight. After a few moments, everybody settled down and although the storm was still in full flight we started to get the giggles.

The higher powers however were not finished with us yet. Mum suddenly let out a loud scream and continued screaming while jumping on one foot with her hands in the air, looking like the devil had taken hold of her. Then I saw it! Attached to her foot was a shingle back! The screaming was relentless.

I’m sure the entire park thought there was a homicide in progress, but us Aussies are taught not to be nosey so no-one came to see what was happening. Perhaps it was because of the dust storm, which was now starting to ease. Dad and I got mum into a chair as Bob and Shirley watched on like wide eyed frightened sheep. Once she stopped moving her leg, the beast let go. Mum was still crying but at least it was over until the sheep in the corner started screaming, yelling and crying.

While watching the commotion with mum, Bob and Shirley had unknowingly squatted on four more purple mouths which were now hissing and crawling at their feet. It was another five minutes before calm returned. We checked mum’s foot. She had been bitten across the first three toes. There was a neat indentation with some bleeding on the little toe. Shingle backs have large teeth for crushing snails but prefer a vegetarian diet, mum being fortunate the bite wasn’t worse. The look of that large mouth and purple tongue increases the fear and pain factor, and I was soon receiving flack because of those bloody lizards loose in the tent. The box had tipped up either because of the wind or perhaps shingle backs were more agile than we thought. They do get a little jump going on occasions. Whatever the cause, it was my job to get all fifteen lizards in the box and out of the tent. Thirteen were accounted for but two must have exited the tent during the storm. I released the thirteen in a clump of scrub on the edge of the park. As I tipped them out of the box, the grumpy stumpies casually crawled away as if nothing had happened, never to be seen again to the great relief of mum.

It was now 8pm. The sun was low in the western sky and the wind had stopped. South Australia has some of the best sunsets in the world and this night was no exception. The dust in the air caused a darker than normal red brown glow on the horizon.

I didn’t feel well at all. By 8.30pm it was dark and we were all in bed and asleep within fifteen minutes, it had been a long day. At 9.30pm I was awake, unable to breathe having a severe asthma attack, seriously thinking I might die. Every breath a fight, lungs deprived of oxygen. Previous bronchial problems were nothing compared to this. Dad finally woke up, hearing me labouring for breath. He quietly spoke to me and said not to worry as asthma can’t kill you. And then he went back to bed.

Unfortunately there was no Ventolin in those days; something all asthmatics would testify is a God send. I spent the next several hours labouring with breathing, trying to assure myself you can’t die from asthma. However, every breath was a struggle. It’s like holding your breath, only there is no reprieve. Sometime after midnight, sleep returned. I awoke the next morning feeling better, but exhausted. Nothing was ever said about the lizards or my asthma again.

During the night while gasping for air, I asked Jesus to help me.

Several weeks prior to our holiday some sort of church Sunday school had moved into a small hall about five houses up on the opposite side of 31 Braeside Avenue. Mum, from a Catholic background and dad from a Church of England background were both now basically atheist. They had no problem with me going along to several classes where I learnt Jesus would help people. I also found out that He was a very good fisherman. One day He caught one hundred and fifty three fish. I often dreamt about catching lots of fish but to this point in time hadn’t caught more than three or four on any given fishing trip. Usually just small bream or mullet, but all that was about to change!

While at Sunday school I also learned that God made the earth and everything in it. This perplexed me because if God made everything, who made God? Then you have to ask who made who? Who made God? It seemed endless. Nevertheless, this Jesus and God had somehow got hold of a little bit of me.

Everyone was up and having breakfast, mum and dad were on either side of a green topped camp table having a cup of tea. Mum asked me if I wanted some Cornflakes, pretty much a staple for a Frost kid’s breakfast. Dad on the other hand, often had bacon, eggs, sausages, tomato and toast. His favourite breakfast was called bubble and squeak, shortened to BS; not to be confused with the other BS that tastes like poo. Bubble and squeak was made of mashed potato and other leftovers, fried up the next morning in lots of butter. Butter is continually added in the frying process until the mash gets a nice brown skin on it. Once ready it was put on a piece of toast with lots more butter. Sometimes when Ron senior was about to eat a favourite fat bomb, he would get the shakes before the first mouthful. Daddy loved his high fat foods! Cheese pickles and pickled onions, deep fried crumbed lamb chops and sometimes even crumbed griller chops. The unfortunate consequence of such a diet is the flatulence - a fancy word for fart. The car was the worst place for such a dreadful event, the foul gas unbearable. Picture four Frost heads hanging out of the car window, gasping desperately, trying to escape the evil presence filling the air, while neighbours looked down their noses at the developing Bogan culture.

After my Kellogg’s Cornflakes doused in long life milk with loads of CSR white sugar, my vitality had returned. Dad said we would be going fishing in Hopeful after lunch, meaning there was time to do some exploring. At home Fluffles would usually accompany me on exploration trips but she was at Grandma’s while we were away, so I was by myself. Bob and Shirley were doing their thing whatever that was.

The park stretched for about two hundred yards along the foreshore. To the south, the jetty was a hundred yards past the end of the Caravan Park, as was the main street of Port Broughton. Fifty yards north of the tent, the park ended and there was a dirt road about a hundred yards long that went down to the boat ramp and turning bay. On the other side of the ramp road was scrub where the stumpies were released. Running parallel to the park was Park Street, which you turned off to go down to the boat ramp. Immediately north of the park, on the east side of Park Street were some small industrial sheds then shacks, housing and the fringes of the township.

I decided to take another walk down the jetty and maybe have a swim. The previous day, the day of the dust storm, other boys had been swimming and jumping off a convenient swimming platform which had a ladder into the water.

Despite being only seven years old, I was a strong swimmer. Bob could also swim well & Shirley could do the doggy paddle. As soon as we could walk dad taught us to swim. Looking back now I can remember days at Glenelg beach when around three years old, swimming with my Grandma. Perhaps the photos helped my memory. Credit to Ron Frost senior, all three Frost children could swim like fish despite his problem with impatience. When teaching us kids to swim and even my own son, he had no problems with temper. A cool swim is very calming.

At the jetty, the water was now a lot shallower than the previous day and there was no sign of any crabs. The ladder on the swim platform didn’t even reach the water due to the very low tide. Past the platform was the T junction alongside which boats of up to forty feet could moor, there was no railing on this part of the jetty. Walking to the right at the T was a northerly direction and extended about ten yards. To the left you were heading south and this also extended about ten yards. The channel, if followed in a southerly direction was only a couple of hundred yards long then it shallowed rapidly as it became part of a large basin of tidal sand flats. These, like the water under much of the jetty were very shallow and being low tide, a fair proportion of them were exposed. Beyond the sand flats were saltpans. The seawater only covered the saltpans on very big tides usually associated with a full moon or a new moon. Later in life as an amateur fisherman I learnt that fishing on these moons and a couple of days after their peak can be very productive.

Heading north past the jetty, the channel continues in a straight line. After about three hundred and fifty yards a smaller channel enters the main water course from the right. This smaller water way is the channel from the boat ramp. Along the main channel are large poles with colonies of mussels on them.

Wherever navigating in the channel there are always vast areas of shallow sand and weed patches on both sides. Further along the channel is a hard bend seaward. After another mile, a deep water trough crosses the channel. To the left is the Whiting Spot, to the right, a smaller trough.

Effectively the channel follows the profile of the land which is about 400 yards to the left when heading out to sea. Continuing west from The Whiting Spot another mile brings you to the final channel pole, indicating you were in the open sea past the lee of the land where there were no more sand flats, it was a lot rougher and no place for a little boat called Hopeful.

Back to the jetty, as I arrived at the T, there were two fishermen sitting on the northern side. The tide was still slowly moving out, so by fishing the north side their lines were pulled away from the jetty by the ebb tide. This prevented them from washing under the jetty and getting hooked up on the structure. I got closer to the fishermen, curious to see if they had caught any fish, but saw a dead seagull. It had no head and was half plucked. Staring at the mutilated bird, slightly shocked, one of the fishermen in a loud hearty Irish accent said,

If you can’t catch a fish you may as well have a seagull for dinner, hey laddie?

I nodded, half smiling and not sure about having a seagull for dinner. I liked seagulls and would feed them chips with Grandma at Glenelg Beach. Both men were drinking out of a bottle that was in a brown paper bag, they seemed very happy and looked like they had been there for a long time. The fish weren’t biting but according to these wine hounds it would be better when the tide started coming in. While saying goodbye I couldn’t help looking at the bird again on its back wings splayed out, pink featherless breast with bloodied neck where the head had been cut off. A far cry from the elegant wind glider it once was. The image fixed in my mind to this day. The two men wished me all sorts of good things walking away but I didn’t think they were very good fishermen.

Heading back to the beachfront I looked over the railing into the shallow water from time to time hoping to see some fish or crabs but there were none. The tide was dead low and the sand flat creatures were hiding or had moved to the safety of deeper water in the channel. It didn’t take long to get to the shoreline. It’s only a short jetty, maybe a hundred yards long. I went down some stairs onto the beach and explored under the pier lifting rocks. There were a few small crabs. Inspecting their robust little bodies, one tried to nip me and got a piece but it didn’t hurt. Sea worms with red fleshy bodies and thousands of tiny legs slithered quickly into the sand when exposed to the light, turning more rocks hoping to find something exciting but worms and small crabs is all there was.

My stomach started telling me it was nearly lunchtime so I headed back to camp. The tent looked very impressive standing there like a castle with a large wooden knob high in the middle of the green stretched canvas roof. It was a big tent, you could stand up inside and it comfortably housed five of us for sleeping. A canvas pergola extended at the front was supported by three poles. This area had a cooker, a table and some chairs so that kitchen necessities could be performed. From the front of the tent you could see the jetty and round to the boat ramp channel, the water was very smooth. Straight out about forty yards from shore there were a couple of large white buoys. These were on their sides as it was low tide but when the tide came in they would stand up straight. Looking past the buoys is the channel and another couple hundred yards after that, you could see the flat saltbush covered peninsula that ran parallel with the channel. It was a picture.

In eons gone by this low lying land was probably under water and prehistoric beasts with huge teeth and claws stalked rays, sharks and giant fish that left the safety of the channel to feed on the primeval flats when the tide came in.

Dad was sitting to the side of the kitchen area with another man talking about crabs both puffing on a rolley. Mum was making vegemite sandwiches while Bob and Shirley were squabbling over some insignificant thing, another picture. For lunch we were given two sandwiches and a glass of raspberry cordial, CCC Cottee’s Cordial. It was a warm day and the butter vegemite mix had melted into the full processed white bread being a real taste sensation. In 1965 the bakery Tip Top brought out a new type of bread, called whole meal. My opinion shared by all Aussie kids, inedible. Meal is just the waste part of the grain but the powers that be decided we should eat it. No thank you.

Red sweet cordial on the other hand, complimented vegemite sandwiches perfectly as it slid over the palate washing the masticated mix into the stomach and intestines re-energising young bodies in no time at all.

After lunch we played chasey also known as tag. Shirley being the youngest was caught most of the time. We started to slow about twenty minutes after the initial bread and sugar rush. There was talk that red cordial could make children hyperactive and cause ATB or ADD or ABC or something. I think kids were just very active in the sixties, perhaps they still are.

After lunch and play we all, including mum and dad, had a sleep. Yesterday had been a big day.

Lying on my camp bed safe and secure inside our warm canvas castle, a familiar thought started to surface. Walking along the passageway at home I got to the toilet, went in lifted the seat and started to wee. Aahh that feels good. Warmth surrounded me, a pleasurable comfort and pleasant dream. It was another half hour before the stirrings of the family woke me. Saturated in my own urine, why God, why did this happen?

Ron senior had blown his stack a month earlier when I’d wet the bed, yelling at me savagely, "What is wrong with you? Bloody idiot, waaake upp when yooou waant to go to the toilet."

Pacing backwards and forwards next to my bed, waving his arms around as if ready to beat me, his face bright red, beads of sweat on his forehead, muttering obscenities and getting off on a rage rush. It only lasted a minute, then he left the room, but it took five minutes before my body loosened. I didn’t know how I felt. Fear probably stopped me bed wetting for the next month but I had trouble sleeping and broke out in blisters all over my lips three days later. Though Ron senior did lots of things for me and we had many adventures, these explosive events were a regular occurrence throughout my childhood. If he wasn’t getting his domestic high with Elaine, he found it with me, usually over the smallest things. When the mind starts to fade, my fear is that events like this will be the final memory I have of my father.

What would happen when Ron and Elaine found out my bed was wet? I was terrified. They thought I was over the problem, it had been a month. I made out I was asleep while everyone else got ready for the afternoon. When dad, Bob and Shirley left the tent, I told mum about the wet bed. She looked at me and I realised her blue eyes were just like mine.

Smiling she said, What are we going to do with you Ronnie?

She helped me remove my wet baggy white Bonds underpants and singlet, poured some water out of an esky type water container onto a flannel, and gave me a quick wipe down. Then she dressed me in a pair of shorts and an off white shirt. No undies, I only had one pair.

We won’t tell your father. She pulled back the blanket exposing the thin narrow foam bed and sheet I had been sleeping on, and said, It won’t take long to dry.

It was now mid-afternoon and very warm in the tent. I gave mum a great big hug and she hugged me tightly back. I love you mum.

I love you too. Little moments like this are the reason why all children love their parents.

However tender this scene appeared, the war between Elaine and Ron was still on - and as with all wars each side likes to have allies. Later in life it would become evident to me that mum had taken Bob as her main ally. The reason for this must have been because she saw me as an ally of Ron senior. Regardless of the fact that in my mind, I was on the end of most of his mental attacks when he wasn’t at war with Elaine.

After giving mum a great big hug I lifted up the front flap of the castle and went outside to see what was happening. Dad was tending the boat. He had set up two fishing rods with whiting rigs on them and one rod with a garfish rig on it. A whiting rig consists of a sinker above which there are two hooks and a swivel. This is commonly known as a paternoster rig. Whiting hooks are fairly small because whiting have long snouts and a small mouth for sucking those slithery little sand worms out of their holes. The garfish rig was an adjustable float that looked like a porcupine quill with small rubber bands on each end. The line is pulled through the two bands of the float about three feet, and an even smaller hook is put on the end of the line. Garfish like maggots. We would call them gents.

Looking toward the channel the buoys forty metres off shore were starting to sit upright, meaning the tide was coming in. Ron senior always said fishing with the incoming tide was the best time to fish, and that is the reason we were just about to go fishing.

For those who are interested, my favourite time to fish is three and a half hours after the full tide. The fish usually bite well for an hour or so at this point. However you must have a line in on time, to catch a fish that’s fine, or you will miss out. Even on an average fishing day, this particular bite time, can produce results.

It was now around 2.30pm and dad said we were going fishing. By we, he meant the two Ronnies. Bob and Shirley at this stage were running around the water’s edge, they weren’t interested in fishing, and mum never fished.

We jumped in the old Holden and towed Hopeful out of the caravan park. Before her maiden launch we had to get petrol and