"THANKS FOR SAVING MY LIFE DES.'

18. ‘THANKS FOR SAVING MY LIFE DES” (1993)

From the very first time a group of us young Brothers conned Fr. Con Duffy in 1951 summer holidays and went a sailing down Tarban Creek, I’ve been a devotee of the sport. Trouble was I was rarely near the water or had friends with yachts. But on the few rare occasions when opportunity beckoned I followed.

The results were generally less than impressive. I recall the time when Bernie Otter, a great Dundas stalwart, with his son Michael and me as his crew entered the Saturday competition from Drummoyne Sailing club. Unfortunately, it was a chancy, squally, spiteful day to sail. Disastrously there was a large oils lick which uncurled from over Berry Bay way and evilly tentacled across the harbour-river. Both would be our undoing.

We watched while other crews struggled to get their mainsail up and proceed a little before the jib was set in the blustery conditions. There were so anxious moments before they set and started on the course. Our time came and we pushed our boat out from the small beach, jumped in as Captain Long John Bernie organised his crew. We had barely cleared the sheltered beach when a vicious squall targeted us in the middle of a delicate manoeuvre. We struggled and swore but the wind won and over we toppled…..right in the middle of this evil oil slick.

Dispirited and humbled we spent the rest of the afternoon scouring and washing that mainsail. Later, we claimed insurance from the oil company but that did not make up for such a disaster.

It might have been a year or so later that there was great commotion among the highly moralistic folk of east Sydney. It appears that daring young fraulelins were flouting the law by going topless. As usual, since it was an ongoing comedy, the constabulary were to be summoned to protect the young and unwary. Now this battle had caused international headlines way back in 1ht 1940s when the bikini revolution was launched on Bondi Beach. The beach inspect or the time, Mr Lawson, would not take a backward step and neither would the rebels. Eventually, progress was not to be thwarted and sales of bikins rocketed and sleazy looking types with cameras with telescopic lens were seen lurking along the promenade. The later chapter in the conflict was to be played out on a discreet little harbour beach just five minutes along from Watsons Bay. Lady Jane Beach was the focus of the three million Sydney residents. Getting anything like a ringside seat would be difficult. But not beyond my mate, Bernie.

"Why don't we sail down the harbour and snchor off the beach and watch the fire works, Des?"

"Great idea. Why miss out on the fun."

And so we skimmed down the harbour in a light nor-easter.

Actually, there did seem to be a fair bit of activity on the harbour and it wasn't the racing season.

We soon found out why. By the time we arrived down near the heads, we found we were crammed in by hundreds of other voyeur craft! We must have been about back in row ten. And even with binocculars there was very little to report. Again, though, it was the law who retreated.

The next race I competed in was under Captain ‘Blackbeard’ Dick O’Connor in the US.  In 92 I’d been able to link up with the O’Connors after some 10 years. Paul Dunstan and I had the unforgettable experience of a family, white Xmas back in 83 and I’d maintained connections. The fact that Rita’s brother, Alan or Br Ivor, one of life’s clowns was a good friend made for a strong friendship. So it was that Dick press ganged me as crew and we lined up on the small lake, which sprinkle that part of New Jersey like so many sapphire chips among those green hills. It was lots of fun but we didn’t measure up competitively. I was enjoying it all, but not being as agile and effective as his leading hand. Dick got an awful fright when he realised that we were being overtaken by a one armed veteran and come in dead last when we leapt into action and beat our near nemesis by a short half bow.

Later, after the race, it was most relaxing sitting around a large round table drinking and chatting with my yankee mates when crisis struck. Rita had been most caring and plied us with hamburgers which went so well with the beer. Suddenly Dick pushed back his chair, struggled to his feet and started coughing. Obviously there’s a chunk of gristle blocking his throat and he’s trying to clear it. He kept coughing and started to colour up, going from pink to red to purple. By now, everybody is alarmed as they realised it was getting desperate. I’m stunned, expecting any one of them to jump up and apply the Heinemann technique which features in every restaurant in New York this was expressly legislated by Mayor Kock who nearly expired in such a situation. Nobody moved. Dick’s colour moved deeper.

“In a bound” I’m up, clutching the victim from behind and thumping his midriff area. I then noted that Rita returned, and taking in the situation, had rushed off.  It’s strange the thoughts that race through your mind in a desperate situation. I recall a certain annoyance with her ‘flight’. I was expecting some immediate response as I thumped Dick but there was no response. A quick prayer in panic and I moved my fists lower. After two wacks he coughed up the killer gristle. For a minute he was slumped over the table and fighting for breath before he sat down. A wave of relief swept over me.

It was a more subdued group around that table, as conversation took some time to pick up. Then Chuck across the way said

” Say, Des, where did you learn to do that?” My answer left them a little dumbstruck.

“To tell the truth, I learnt that technique last night when my friend Damien gave me a demonstration”!

By then of course, Rita had returned with a nurse in tow. Maybe, I wasn't needed after all.

We’d lost our appetite for more relaxing at the clubhouse and Dick really needed some time to just rest, as the shock was still penetrating.  And so we drove back home. I declined to come in for a cuppa as I needed to get back across the Hudson. Dick was pretty quiet but as we parted he said

“Des, thanks for saving my life”.

In true self deprecation or humility I demurred with

“Dick, I’m so glad to have been able to help. But really how do you feel now?”

“I’m a bit bruised….I think you might have busted a few ribs.”