In the late 1980s my family owned a small holiday home on the northern Central Coast of New South Wales. Situated in an ideal location close to the beach, lake and local watering hole, it was the venue for many memorable weekends shared amongst a large circle of friends aged in their mid-twenties. We would regularly travel from our homes in northern Sydney on a Friday evening to spend our leisure hours surfing, fishing and of course partaking of the odd ale.
As one particular weekend approached the usual sojourn was planned. On the Thursday before, I was approached by a friend named Mark who was overjoyed at having a half work day on Friday; he asked if he could have the house keys to travel up early with another friend to get a head start on the weekend. Mark was a trusted friend; therefore I could see no reason to deny this request. Arrangements were made for him to pick up the keys from our house at lunchtime on Friday.
The following day Mark arrived on time, perched upon his preferred mode of transport — the beloved Suzuki 750cc motorcycle. Surprisingly, another friend, Chris, who at the time was unemployed, had made a spur of the moment decision to travel with Mark as a pillion passenger. They were leaving early to enjoy the fine weather, and spent a short time with my mother before heading off with sleeping bags and luggage attached to the rear of the cycle.
I arrived home around 3 p.m., and within an hour was joined by the others who intended travelling that afternoon. Just prior to our departure I received a phone call from Chris. They had come off Mark’s motorcycle on the F3 Freeway, and he had been transported to Hornsby Hospital by ambulance with some minor leg injuries. Mark’s whereabouts were unaccounted for; however, Chris assured me he was not badly injured. Despite our concerns, Chris assured us he was okay and would soon be discharged into his mother’s care (she was already there).
I made a few phone calls, but in those days before the mobile phone if someone wasn’t home it was anyone’s guess as to what they were up to. I did establish, however, that Mark was not taken to hospital. So with that unexpected delay we commenced the hour-long journey north.
On the way the conversation centred on Mark. What had happened? How was he? Where was he? We need not have worried, for our minds were soon to be put at ease. As we neared the holiday house I saw the blinds were parted and the wooden front door clearly open behind the mesh door. Our convoy of vehicles stopped out the front and the group slowly congregated outside the front door. Someone was certainly home. Most of us assumed that Mark had somehow managed to continue his journey.
However, several hard knocks on the door failed to draw any response. We circled round the back through the old steel gate and as the rear yard came into view I saw a sight I will never forget.
Mark had managed to ride his somewhat worse for wear motorcycle to the house and park it in the rear yard. He had then grabbed a full carton of cold beer stubbies and a beanbag from the house. He had placed the beanbag in the middle of the back yard, cut the bottom out of the beer carton, exposing the base of the stubby bottles, then placed the carton upside down in the bean bag. He had then positioned his red raw rump, complete with gravel rash and lacerations, squarely in the centre of the beer in an attempt to alleviate the pain of the road rash he suffered in the accident. His shredded and bloody jeans were draped across the crashed motorcycle.
So there he was, sunning himself in the middle of the yard with his bum on a slab. He looked at us and said, ‘See, guys, I told you the beer is strictly for medicinal purposes.’
The rest of the weekend was just as interesting, but this memory is priceless and permanently etched in my mind.