White 501s

White 501s

Their surf boards hang out car’s rear window, just slightly. Like a signal they are headed up this coast to surf. An insignia marking this group as part of larger tribe. Sometimes exhaust fumes are a little hard to take, especially when this old car, they’ve named Henry, struggles up a big hill. To prevent Henry having an engine failure, boys stopped frequently, let his engine cool and kept themselves awake.

Radio would work, mostly, since Troy rigged up a coat-hanger aerial, formed into girly hip shape. Occasionally catching items like the price of various crops and grazing animals at local sale yards. Mostly music wafted out of temperamental speakers. One-time Casey Kasem’s top forty rang out, once Troy managed to access a similar program presented by Alice Cooper. Kept them curious, especially when he started to talk about his golf handicap. Right now, they tuned in, to catch twangs of occasional country ballads and rockabilly foot stompers.

Henry cut a magic figure under trees for yet another toilet stop. Not required for Henry’s engine, at least this time, but he also appeared thankful, resting and taking a sigh of relief. Not too many body rust cancerous growths on his panels. Henry’s body equally marked by exposure to salt air, kindred to many other surfer vehicles. Other things marked him as unique. One blue door contrasting wonderfully with body-work of baby cack brown nicely set off by his white roof.

 ‘Haven’t got a matching right color, but it should fit,’ a helpful scrap-yard bloke said, further spreading grease and dirt across the door.

But when they’d got a replacement door home, bloody thing wouldn’t stay shut so Troy decided to wire it closed. Problem fixed.

Any passenger now needed to climb out over bench seats. Most likely to be Al. Nervous about dust on his precious white pants, he refused to wear famous 501s when they drove up coastal highways. Bound to be a chance to don his favorites later, to devastating effect.

‘Accentuates my butt, makes a package look more attractive,’ Al often boasted. Modelling with slight sashays, showing off original leather label depicting horses pulling jeans apart.

‘Jesus mate, is it so urgent?!’ Troy complained as Al pushed past in a rush.

‘What can I say, I need a dump.’

‘Your farts really stink.’

At least, among gum trees, a chance to breathe deeply of humming silence. Surroundings rain dampened mingled with yesterday’s sea mist to make this way-side stop look wiped new, provided you didn’t get too close to long drop dunnies. Provision of essential services, pity more flushable facilities weren’t available.

‘You let any more of those while we’re driving and you’re walking!’ Threatened Troy.

‘All empty now mate. Proud of my twelve pounder, size of a baby’s arm with a perfect taper.’

Even though Troy usually wound up doing more driving, Al inherited Henry from a friend of his dads. Their car’s old body, plus zones under the bonnet, subjected to various major jobs as anyone came into any spare cash. Once a manifold gasket needed replacement, damn near gassed residents inside, especially if they were trying to warm Henry’s engine before departure. After worst panel rust was repaired and Henry’s engine ran ‘smooth-ish’ they decided to christen his name, officially. Getting together, organizing a few mates, barbeque and a slab of beer, to christen Henry; aka Pleasure Wagon. More than once Henry purred proudly at The Pass or sheltered them from bad breezes, or provided a warm sanctuary to sleep off effect of pub overconsumption. Full evenings when Al’s famous 501s wove their magic, might also lead to in-car amorous adventures.

Stories, not always about waves, or secret spots, still exchanged about a time cops shone torch lights in expecting to see bottoms or tits, finding Troy and Al blinking out of secure sleeping bags. Coppers just let them be, caravan park full to capacity anyway.

Al smiled to recall times he woke up Sundays and parted curtains to see Henry’s familiar multi-coloured panels. Blissfully unaware of how a few beers, girls and fights (not necessarily in that order) at Northies Hotel eventuated in his being safe home with Henry unscathed outside waiting patiently under his car-port. Often couldn’t remember heading home. Those pants neatly folded away, rather than resembling something dismembered on a messy floor of someone’s flat, partnered with a short skirt, or jersey paisley print shirt. His 501s, worn for two benefits. Firstly, those pants accentuated his tight butt, drew attention to other attributes. Akin to how keeping his balance on a surf board often involved complicated hand gestures which looked like he waved at those watching from shore towels. And secondly, they glowed luminescent blue under dance floor lights.

‘Girl magnets.’ Troy called those 501s.

Those pants did seem to help Al’s pick-up rate.

‘Remember our trip to Coolangatta?’

 ‘When we pulled Henry up underneath one of those big, old Queenslander house verandas.’

‘Fuck, look at that!’ Came morning cries. Heads turned towards to surf to behold a six to ten-foot wave, perfect right hander, rolling from Snapper Rocks, past Rainbow Bay, around Greenmount Point right though to Kirra. Corduroy like folds in crystal clear lemonade ocean. One of those days recorded in future re-telling, preserved as part of dreams.

‘We had to walk back carrying our boards.’

‘Michael Peterson telling everyone to fuck off.’

‘And Paul Liddy saying, don’t tell me to fuck off!’

Bystanders telling both to keep control of unpredictable tempers.

‘Died and gone to heaven…that day…best waves ever!’

‘Joseph rang up his Dad and told him to call work and say, he would not be in, invent some illness, say I am sick.’

‘Some guys never went back. Peter got work at Surf Coast Golf Club, Steve picked up a job at Coolangatta Airport.’

‘Peter, worked at the RTA, hated where he worked, frustrated with pushing a pen about more of his work hours. His new job meant possible to surf each day.’

‘I heard he met a surfer girl and married, they’ve got two kids now, living up in Noosa.’

Only going to Angourie this time, wasn’t far.

When they pulled up into rough parking areas a right hander small wave worked fine. Al first out, off before others blinked, on a good wave. His goofy foot style appeared unstable, sort of like he’s not joined together right, waving his arms again. Always tell Al from a distance, or decked out in his white 501s in a crowded bar. Surfing, he signaled imaginary photographers. Pulled expressions in taverns, as if he did model on a catwalk. If he ever got good enough to win competitions there’d be plenty of magazine coverage. Including secrets to do with his after-hours activities. Maybe such articles would feature his butt decked out in recognizable 501s, exposing exploits and conquests following trophy presentation functions. What are the chances he’d be able to get Levi Jeans to sponsor his surfing career?

Next morning, they woke to cold drizzle. Stopped soon enough, but by then the boys stood about frowning at grey skies, water colored like dull metal. Wasn’t long before wind got up, just to add to general misery. Crappy easterly breezes created a messy chop, coming on shore. Whole beach a grubby waste of time; no point getting wet. Good for nothing, so they decided to drive on, try their luck further north. As they pulled out Henry rumbled discontent, puffing out exhausts tinged with a burnt oil blue smoke.

Flat as a tack off Kirra Point, ‘looks like Jervis Bay,’ said Troy, ‘let’s go to The Patch, everyone will be there, might meet a few girls.’  

With nothing approaching reasonable surf, so their group spent a lot of time laying on beach sand, getting over hangovers. Eating through entire Guest House menus, or hanging out in tables at chew and spew (rissole and veg $2). No one got sick, but once established, nick names habitually stuck.

By three days, without a decent wave, they decided if things didn’t improve next morning, there wasn’t going to be any good surf this trip, and took a vote, deciding it was better to make tracks home.

Before settling a final decision, they kicked Henry over to go down and check out if D-Bar worked up into a decent wave. He blew a bit of blue smoke, again and coughed on whatever engine spittle settled while he’d stood waiting beside flat surf, patient for attention from a driver and passengers. If Henry existed as a person, a mate, you’d think he’d be pissed off.

Finally, Henry crawled up D-Bar’s slight hill and everyone spilled, across front bench seats onto lawns. While a spectacular view, surf obviously non-existent, each of them drew in disappointed breaths. Heaps of Kombis, similar station wagons and surfer transport cars parked, dudes spilled out, playing cards, with disgruntled expressions. Looked like off shore winds took a short break. Nothing. Whole coast sent only tiny ripples in onto beaches.

Before fully packed, various bags and boards shoved into random corners, ready to depart sun shone, and things starting getting warm. But still nothing like a wave worth putting waxing up boards.

Turning Henry’s ignition over produced only a coughing gaggle.

‘Henry’s karked it!’ Said Al.  

‘Check oil, water or maybe battery is dead.’ Suggested Troy.

All these simple things looked healthy. So, they decided to close Henry’s front boot bonnet thingy and make this day a carbon copy of previous few. Perhaps a solution would present itself. Everyone agreed to an outing to The Patch, only as a pretense for getting drinks as wake for Henry. Al decided to don his white 501s, ‘…because you never know, might get lucky.’

Next morning, with a new set of sore heads, a great opportunity emerged. Chris and Ben planned to head back south in their Kombi, there would be space for both boards, ‘but what about you guys?’

‘No problem,’ Troy answered on Al’s behalf. ‘We’ll fly back in a couple of days.’ No surf, but always other activities to keep them busy up this way.

‘Isn’t Al’s off with some chicks over at Rainbow Bay,’ said Ben, wondering how come Al was such a lucky prick, couldn’t be those white 501s alone.

Once he’d heard a girl call Al, ‘…obnoxious.’

Silly prick kept grinning and saying, ‘I’m in mate, she likes me.’

‘I don’t think you know what obnoxious means, mate.’ Ben tried to say. But Al stopped listening.

Walking along a flat surf foreshore, smile on his face, whistling, Al recalled his interesting night. He offered to walk two girls’ home, protect the hapless creatures from night dangers, like bush turkeys with desires on unaccompanied females. Always a chance to get lucky. Slightly chubby one dashed back inside leaving him with slim blonde one, suited Al anyway. He’d convinced her to take a little moonlight stroll. When things started to get hot, Al suggested, ‘be more comfortable in her flat.’

‘Can’t do that, Jenny will get annoyed.’

At her suggestion they finished off in back seat of her VW while it was parked underneath their flat.

Now ocean skies began to lighten, and scrub fowl shouted raucously from bush around Greenmount. A few enterprising gulls were already on the scrounge, and long beaked ‘bin chickens’ were inspecting various council bins.

As usual around daylight, Al began to feel a desperate need to use toilet facilities. Set his watch on usual morning bowel habits. These sensations grew worse as he headed down a steep hill towards surf club buildings; really nudged. No problems, public toilets were right there. Finally, able to sense relief, a hand outstretched for doors. Only to encounter some little kid zip past and get in a single empty cubicle first.

‘I’ve shit me self.’ He turned around to show Troy a growing stain on those famous white Levi 501s.  

‘Why didn’t you go at her place, mate?’

‘Long story, no toilets in a VW back seat.’

‘Take them off and clean yourself off, you stink.’

‘Such a good pair of dacks, shame to waste them.’

‘Well then don’t throw them out.’

Those chick magnets, white 501s, were rolled up in a towel and secreted in a corner of Chris and Ben’s van. Troy and Al giggling like school girls. This one bound to get back to them.

‘Did you fart?’ Chris began to ask, not far down the highway.

‘Nah, but what is that stink?’

‘Sure you didn’t fart?’

Took Chris and Ben until Kempsey to figure out what caused such a dreadful smell.  

Far away from discovery of those soiled 501s, Al and Troy needed to deal with their own dilemma. Henry resisted another attempt to resuscitate his dead engine. No way he could be saved, not a whimper out of Henry’s so far faithful engine. Beyond redemption like those 501s. So, they organized with another surfer to give them a tow their poor unconscious car to a nearby wreckers.

Catching sight of numerous car bodies with wheels up like dead beetles, crashed wrecks and dismembered one-time family sedans, evoked frowns. Multiple husks of cars bearing collision scars. Surely Henry’s shell and engine parts were worth something. Al stood for long moments with his hand on a dead-cold bonnet, offering condolences. Thinking of all fun times, trips up coast roads, giggling girls and finding Henry’s reliable shape still parked, under Morton bay fig trees, within spit distance of a fantastic party.

Out from a hovel like office came a wrecker. His overalls struggling to keep in a flowing beer gut. Closer cigarette smoke fumes wafted over those boys, and casting a judgmental eye over Henry, he laughed in their faces, exposing broken and rotting teeth.

‘Nothing here possible to salvage. You got to be kidding.’

Best they could do was offer $50 to take Henry off their hands.

How would they recover from the loss of both 501s and Henry on one faithful coastal trip.