========
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: D.J.Files...a surfing life. #26 'Jaws' - djjaws.26 [1/1]
From: dp025@seqeb.gov.au (Bear)
Date: 2 Nov 1996 21:23:41 GMT

  
  Disclaimer :  the 'Files are fiction, altho they do say "write about what
                you know"...

                  The D.J.Files #26

                Jaws

         John McKenzie was on an extended working holiday. Originally from
 New Zealand, he had qualified as a dentist and had been working on England's
 south coast and travelling over to see Europe, when he had time off. He was
 also a surfer. He reckoned all the housewives on the south coast were on
 vallium ,plus he needed to be somewhere with a better chance of a wave, so
 he drove around to Wales for a look...and found a practice looking for a
 bloke just like him. So he stayed awhile.
         D.J. spotted a new face out in the water. When he happened to end a
 ride right where John was paddling out, he said hello. So John ended up with
 a few new mates.
         ...

         "The Sands" was a typical 70s British disco/club catering to holiday
 visitors and locals alike. D.J., Thong, Brother George and other 'crew'
 members from 'the Fisho' (see #20: Smoked Fish) have piled in an assortment
 of vehicles and gone there. John is with them. 'Rave and his lady are also
 there in their little panelvan. Everyone is going to sleep in the vehicles
 in the parking lot opposite, so they can get stuck into the grog.
        John found the British pubs/clubs very convivial. Well you would,
 after Kiwi beerhalls eh? But he reckoned the beer was weak. Funny tho, it
 didn't seem to stop him from staggering about and/or falling over. He was
 well on the way to doing one or the other, when 'Rave and his lady approach
 the bar for a chat with him. But they say when you've had 'a few' the real
 you comes out....well the real him was still a dentist...the whole subject
 fascinated him intensely! In the middle of expounding up on the wonders of
 this science to 'Rave (who seemed to have met his match in the words-per-
 minute category) he grabs some poor unsuspecting guy, who's just up to order
 a trayful. He has him bent over the bar and has pulled his jaw open to illus-
 trate some point to Dave.
        Rave manages to prevent an affray. The other guys are wandering over
 too, as it happens. THe guy carries away his tray of drinks and everyone
 settles at the bar for awhile. It's a nice bar too, mahogany for the front
 timbers and a lovely brass footrest. John is beginning to list, like a ship
 in a force 5. But he's still trying to get the guys to open their mouths,
 or grab a stray passer-by. Finally an attempt to waylay someone causes him
 to fall over completely...and pass out. Right down between the brass rest
 and the bar. The barman asks politely if they'll remove their friend...easier
 said than done with a 6'4" paralytic Kiwi. Most people wouldn't even _fit_ in
 the narrow gap between a footrest and a bar. He was wedged. It took all the
 gang about 10 minutes to get him unwedged and drag him outside.
        If I recall correctly, I think he came around in time to join Thong,
 D.J. and Rave in a 'good chunder' over the beachside railings, before
 everyone crashed in the cars. 
        ...

        Boomph!....boomph! the Germans were here again and it was all go over
 the tank range. Like many such military installations this tank range was
 adjacent to a rather good beach. The shooting only occurred on week days, so
 anyone weekending down that way would surf it on the Friday evening, if there
 was enough daylight (up to 10 or later in June/ July), plus Saturday/Sunday.
        McKenzie stood at the 6 foot fence, hands on hips reading the sign:
            DANGER!!
           KEEP OUT!!
        Unexploded Shells 
   No Entry to Unauthorised Personnel
                                       ...while D.J., Sammy, and several others
 were pulling their various-colored neoprene on. And pulling out the boards.
        "I dunno..."    he said as they waxed up. And the first couple of guys
 climbed over. The shooting stopped. Boards were passed over the fence. The
 rest of the guys were clambering over. A lark sang. Butterflies..er..fluttered
 by. All was quiet. No more shells.
        "Um..." they were already 50/60 yards away along the perimeter fence
 that ran on up the headland "..you guys" They hesitated. Well?, said their look.
        "Where do I hide the keys?"
        ...

        Slithering down the sand dune, he could see the others out. That D.J.
 bloke surfs O.K., he thought...for a bloody Pom! He tramped over a couple of
 hundred yards of sand, expecting at any second to be blown sky-high. But it
 didn't happen. He got to the the water's edge. He was pleasantly surprised how
 clear and clean the water was here. Almost like New Zealand! The head-high
 surf wasn't too bad either. It was just off low tide, they'd told him. It
 seemed to be breaking over some fixed bottom contour here: a rocky oyster-bed,
 they said. Anyway, not bad. Here we go....
       He picked off a nice mid-set wave. Pulled a floater (they were called
 roller-coasters in those days), made it back onto the wall, ducked thru a 
 section. Not bad at all, he thought. He agreed with the others about the
 conditions, altho it sounded like "Sux fit and glessy' to their ears.
       There's a reef break further out here and when the tide moves in the
 beach break peaks can have good shape too. Also, for some unknown reason, it
 doesn't get very crowded :-) A very nice warden in a 4WD asks you politely
 to leave, once he's spotted you out there and waited for you to come out.
       ...

       When they walked into the pub, McKenzie was flat on his back, shirtless.
 Aw shit,not again! They were about to pick him up, when his eyes rolled back
 their way and he grinned. Someone turned from the bar and placed a pint of beer
 behind his head. There was a pile of money on a table, held down by an empty
 pint glass. What's going on?
       McKenzie lifted his legs. He bent his knees and brought them right up
 past his head. He then proceeded to pick up the full pint of beer, with these
 self-same knees and bring it above his face. He took a deep breath, jerked,
 and poured about half the glass down his throat. A big cheer erupted in the
 bar. He repeated the action, draining the glass, stood up, took a bow, wiped
 his face and put his shirt back on. Then pocketed the money. The dock and
 refinery workers were quite happy to lose a buck or so each, just for the
 cabaret value of the Kiwi's little party piece. He became quite famous for it.
       "I bet I can drink a pint without using my hands" he'd say, walking up
 to a bar...and those in the know would say nothing, while others slapped down
 their bets.
       I wonder where he is now.....

                            ***


-- 
Bear