Doust leaves Albany and heads east
Jon Doust is heading east to shove and push and generally talk up his new book, Boy on a Wire. It’s a heavy book, yet light, and easy to read.
It’s time to push. Sales are good, but could be better. Lots of folk on the eastern seaboard have not heard about it yet.
Oh yes, the reviews have been great, but how many people read them? Lots, that’s why sales increase with good reviews.
But reviews have to be accompanied by appearances, handshaking, door knocking, and annoying behaviour in order to attract attention.
That’s where Doust steps in.
Here’s his itinerary.
TUESDAY 11 August
Life Matters ABC Radio National
With Richard Aedy
9.30am
TUESDAY 11
Shore Bookclub
7.30pm
WEDNESDAY 12th
Wenona Girls School
WEDNESDAY 12 August
Bowen Library Talk
669 Anzac Parade, Maroubra
7pm to 8pm
THURSDAY 13 August
East meets West
Canberra Writers Centre
6pm
MONDAY 17 August
774 ABC in Melbourne
With Richard Stubbs
2.30pm.
Penguin Novel Selection Evening
5pm
TUESDAY 18 August
Melbourne Athenaeum Library
188 Collins Street,
Melbourne
1pm to 2pm
Here’s how it works
My car, if you read an earlier blog, was killed, by a suicidal kangaroo.
The insurance company wrote it off, said it was dead, for all time, a meaningless pile of metal and plastic. We will declare it null and void, they said, which means you will have to re-license it. I said fine, ok, whatever it takes, because I like my car, I respect my car, as far as I am concerned it is not worth killing. Neither was the kangaroo, but it gave the car no choice, jumping as it did, right in front, while the car was at some pace.
All was done. I bought the wreck. On advice of the insurance company. Ricky Heng (earlier blog) repaired it. It ran well. The insurance company told me I could drive it away as the de-licensing had not taken place. all is good, they said. Excellent, I replied.
On arrival in my new home town of Albany, the Department of Planning and Infrastructure, the one responsible for licensing vehicles, makes sense, sent me a letter saying I had to hand in my number plates because my car had been de-licensed.
On instruction, I booked my car into a service station, one that checks vehicles for the Department, obtained a special permit to drive an unlicensed vehicle, had it checked, approved, then drove to the Department’s licensing centre.
You may not believe this, but it is true, the Department official then told me my car was not de-licensed and, in fact, was still in the system. In other words, licensed. So I can drive away then, I said, as though nothing has changed, as though you have not disrupted my life for no apparent reason, as though Mumbai has not been under attack, the world financial crisis has not occurred, and as though it is safe to yell I VOTED FOR BARAK OBAMA in the middle of Omaha Nebraska? She stared at me. Almost smiled, but not quite sure. She regained composure, then said, no, we have to re-license it. Mmmm, I said.
Right then and there, before my very eyes, she de-licensed the car, just so she could re-license it.
Wondrous. Amazing. I remain smacked, in the gob, and marvel at the trivial matters that inspire me.
This is a new start
All right. Not quite new. A second crack. The first first time this blogger attempted to work WordPress his head caved in. He hopes he can work it this time and keep his head.
Wish him good luck.
That’s him, Doust, on the left, standing by Ricky Heng, a genius of a man who fixed his car.
Photo by Chris Pash
Here’s what happened.
My partner and I are finally moving, from the city, Perth, a big smelly place, on the tip of Australia, the western bit, to Albany, a delightfully sweet location, on the southern tip, just before Antarctica.
On the way down, I pass through Manjimup, a small, once thriving timber town, now a thriving mixed farming district, with excellent cherry orchards, meander through the forests, past the last farm, when, without warning, an edgy kangaroo of a larger variety, jumps.
Of course, it being late at night, the roo has been out for some time, eating and drinking, no idea where it is, bang, dead, both, the roo and the car. I am left standing, on the side of the road, pitch black, no cars, no farms, nothing, but pristine forest, wonderful smells and the faint hint of rain.
The first car I flag down slows, looks closely at me, realises I am mad, a lunatic escaped from who knows where, plants his foot, leaves me in a hail of roadside stones, and, probably, not far on, bangs into another anxious roo.
I wonder about this. I look at myself. I see a man wearing ripped jeans, a torn t-shirt, and I remember my hair is long and uncombed and that I have not slept for three days and that I left the stinking city after loading a truck in a state of almost hysteria. Arr, no wonder.
The next car I flag I do so from the middle of the road and I yell into the closed window: “Gidday, Jon Doust here. My car is dead. I hit a roo. Can you give me a lift to a farm? Please.”
The luck: “Oh, Dousty. sure. Get in.”
I am saved. The driver takes me to a farm. The farmer drags my car into his yard. A brother from the nearby town drives out with a spare car. I sleep over night. Not much, but enough to drive on the next morning.
My car rots in the wrecking yard for two months while the insurance company decides which planet we all live on, according to it, and eventually Ricky Heng, the man pictured, gathers the bits together, adds some old bits from other cars, plus a couple of new bits, presto, working car.
The moral of this tale? There is none. Life is like that.
SHARK ATTACK
Searching for the white pointers at Ellen Cove, Middleton Beach.
Searching for the white pointers at Ellen Cove, Middleton Beach.
Saturday
Albany
Western Australia
It’s about 8am. I arrive at Albany’s popular Middleton Beach for my morning run and surf.
I get out of my car, run across the short piece of lawn, round the corner of the Surf Club building and face a small gathering of people around an ambulance.
Oh, I think, an early morning beach-side exercise.
I know some of them: the local member of State Parliament, a couple of friends and I recognise surf club members.
The politician turns to me and asks: You swimming?
I think: Yeah, of course I’m swimming. I swim every morning. I’m dressed for it. You know I swim. You being a smart-bum?
I nod, sideways.
“You swimming?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Shark attack.”
“Serious?”
He nods to the ambulance.
I look at the friends. They are agitated, focussed. They look through me. Something is clearly wrong.
The tale unfolds.
The early morning swimmers were about 20 metres from shore when one of them spotted a fin and said to his companion “dolphins.” His companion agreed, but then they both had second thoughts and a mate, one closer to shore, yelled “shark.” And in the same instant, the shark attacked. He yelled. The two out near the buoys decided to swim together for shore, keeping close and talking their way in. The shark circled and charged. Three times. They kicked hard and kept talking. On their way in they grabbed their mate. Another early morning swimmer, not yet in the water, saw their plight, ripped off her clothes and charged into the water, grabbed the severely injured man and dragged him ashore. Meanwhile, two others arrived, one raced in fully clothed, the other went for his mobile phone to call an ambulance. With the bitten man on the beach, they cared for him, wrapped him in towels, applied a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood to his badly lacerated leg and the man with the phone called the injured man’s wife. Within five minutes the ambulance had arrived and the injured man placed on the stretcher.
I see the fin. It’s big. Around it the surface water changes texture, like it’s tense, nervous, agitated. Then more fins, not fish, mammals, dolphins. The big fin is clearly a shark, a big fish. Others see it.
The ambulance leaves. A police vehicle drives onto the beach and heads north to warn walkers and swimmers along the beach line. A city vehicle arrives with an electronic sign: Beach closed because of shark.
Someone says the sea rescue boat is on its way. We can see it now.
The fin is moving around the pontoon, a popular destination for kids who like to jump and dive. No-one is in the water now.
I go to my friends. Now they see me. We talk. We agree to meet for coffee. They leave for the hospital with clothing belonging to the other friend, the one who was in the water, the one who was charged, and survived. She was in the back of the ambulance with the badly bitten man.
People arrive ready to swim. We send them away.
The sea rescues boat arrives. A surf lifesaver points to the pontoon. The boat circles it then begins searching in a deliberate pattern.
I stand around, listening, waiting for decisions to be made and ready to offer assistance, a car, a shoulder, whatever.
I see the woman who ran into the water sitting alone. I go to her.
“You remember me?”
“You’re the laughing man.”
“Yes.”
She laughs. Then cries. Then talks. She says she’s ok. She will call her son. She knows she’s wobbly.
I leave, meet my friends for coffee. They are wobbly, emotional, bonded.
Sunday
8am
I’m at the beach again. Talk to a bloke from Fisheries. He tells me they spotted two sharks, females, one 4 metres and the other 5 metres. Big fish. Hungry fish. I ask if it’s safe to swim, anywhere. It’s all a risk, he says.
I drive out to Goode Beach, 20ks out of town, facing King George Sound. I run in the soft sand. I run up a sand hill. I’m hot. I want to go into the ocean. I find a clear spot, no weed and watch. Nothing. I go in. I’m cautious, swim with eyes wide open above and below the surface, head swinging both ways and taking breaths from left and right. It feels good, wonderful, invigorating.
I get out, run up the beach, grab my chamois towel, turn, and tense: two fins. Bugger, dolphins.
Later Sunday morning
I’m back at Middleton Beach. A crowd is building. TV crews are lurking. Two boats are sweeping, one with a loud speaker system: “Keep away from the beach.” A helicopter sweeps with a leaning cameraman. Families arrive, park and rush to the shoreline. I meet an artist I met the previous day at the Albany Farmers’ Markets. He’s from Austria. He tells me it is madness, that on this very day many people will die on the roads, that people in other countries are starving, that people in Burma have no homes, that the Junta will take advantage and kill people they don’t like, that in Austria unspeakable things will continue to happen to innocent people and that people in the Western world watch too much television and the media feeds their insanity. Two dolphins frolic in the shallows. Some are interested in them, most seem eager for another sighting.
I get in my car and call the friends who were involved in the attack and the rescue. None of them slept well. They have heard others involved also did not sleep well. I did not sleep well, a night plagued with dreams about losing control and one about swimming over dark weed and panicking because I could no longer see the shark I was sure was there, even though I had not seen it.
