Ride Like Hell and You'll Get There (16 page)
Diego was doing his excited beam. ‘Pol, I can’t believe we are going to fly in that plane soon.’
We wandered over to the small office overlooking the marina.
‘You must be Paul,’ said a guy in neat casual clothes who appeared out of thin air as soon as we walked through the door. ‘Jethro Nelson,’ he said and shook my hand. He had a warm clean-cut smile and relaxed but organised demeanour, that wonderful combination you get with some ex-military people that puts you immediately at ease just because you can be confident that he knows exactly what he’s doing, even in his sleep. He introduced himself to Diego, explained that Chris was at a business meeting and would be back after lunch when he’d give us a safety briefing before we flew off. Jethro was right on top of his game. He gave us a quick tour before parking us in a really nice restaurant next door where he had organised lunch while we waited for Chris to arrive. Lunch was a seafood spectacular that would make Captain Birdseye wet his pants.
‘Oi, you in the filthy T-shirt!’There was Chris, looking happier than I’d ever seen him.
We had a quick catch-up then Jethro gave us the rundown on safety and the aircraft, and that was it. The next thing Chris was starting the Beaver’s radial engine and in what felt like a few seconds we were airborne and climbing over Hobart, with Mt Wellington as a backdrop, gazing out the window in awe.
Within a very short time we were flying over huge areas of complete wilderness unmarked by any manmade feature. The landscape stretched into the distance flanked by steep snow-capped hills. The Beaver ducked down into a ravine 200 metres deep and tracked along the Gordon River, dropping in with a slight bump and coming to a stop within a remarkably short distance near Sir John Falls. It was a breathtaking ride.
We had a quiet cuppa at the falls, talking about the good old days and just taking in the bush on sensory overload. But it wasn’t an idyllic picnic for long.
As we left the river I started to suspect that Chris was having a brain-snap; it pretty much looked like we were taking off directly into a very big wall of vertical rock jutting out of the water. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Diego’s face freeze, only his eyes got bigger. ‘This is the good bit,’ Chris casually commented over the headsets. I looked at him—he looked like a cab driver stuck in peak hour—then I looked out the windscreen through the spinning prop at rock, everywhere I looked was rock. He pulled hard on the controls and we climbed and banked aggressively but effortlessly, pulling up and away from the ravine wall. I was gripping the side of my seat so hard I cut off the circulation to my fingers.
‘Wooooohooo, let us do eet again!’ Diego was loving it but thankfully for me we didn’t.
On the way back Chris took us all round the city, giving us his rundown on what’s what. Touching down in millpond conditions we gently glided back to the pontoon at Kings Pier Marina.
‘Beer time, lads,’ Jethro announced as we gathered on the jetty.
‘Do you drink beer, Diego?’ Chris asked.
‘Oh yes, I drink the beer very well,’ Diego replied.
‘Good,’ said Chris. ‘We have a day off tomorrow, mate.’
WE PILED INTO
a nice trendy-looking bar, found a corner with a couch in it and started drinking.
‘Christiaan tells me your father was an RAF navigator.’ Jethro was sitting next to me, looking relaxed.
‘He was, mate, 11 Squadron for a long time,’ I replied.
Jethro’s eyebrows raised. ‘I was based with 11 Squadron, bit after his time, though.’
‘Well, it would have been in the 60s. Dad was in Javelins, I believe.’
He smiled. ‘Wonderful aircraft. So is he a bike nut, too?’
I laughed. ‘Mad for them, cost him dearly, though.’
I went on, ‘He got smashed in the officers’ mess one day and on a dare tried to ride his bike right through the bar . . .’
Jethro sat forward, his face lit up and to my complete surprise finished the story off. ‘He rode up the steps to the entrance, paused on the nice clean red carpet that ran the entire length of the hall, dropped the clutch and sat there pissed while the long red carpet was hurtled out the door under the spinning wheel. He runs out of carpet, the back wheel hits floorboards, flipping his Vincent up into a trophy cabinet, then bursts into flames and the whole fuckin’ place nearly goes up—your dad’s a legend.’
I was speechless that Jethro knew the story which I had grown up with.
‘You know, that bike is mounted on the wall behind the bar now. I used to stand there with a pint looking at it.’
Now I was really stunned; my dad’s bike decorating a bar, that I did not know.
‘Back in a minute,’ Jethro said, glancing at his watch and picking up his phone before going outside.
Christiaan was telling Diego about how the boys amuse themselves on their days off while Diego had that wide-eyed amazed expression on his face. It’s hard not be impressed; these guys are motivated on a different level from Diego and I, they have spent decades in a constant state of readiness, relentless training of the mind and body. Then when they leave the service, one that has placed an operational tempo on them that’s significantly more demanding than flying a sea plane full of tourists, they find themselves lacking challenges. Building up their business took focus and both men have worked very hard on it; just getting the permission to fly in and out of Kings Pier Marina was a massive achievement. So when they take a few days off, what do you think they do? Chill out and relax?
Fuck, no. They take it in turns to set each other challenges. For example, Jethro will fly Christiaan out into the wilderness, way out, and drop him off with a compass, knife, tent and, in case of emergency, a radio transmitter, then Chris has to make his way back to Hobart in a given time. Next its Jethro’s turn, and so on. Of course the challenges also have to get harder and eventually they’ll be dropping each other off in their underwear with a can of dairy whip.
These guys are the real deal; they just get on with it, they have nothing to prove to anyone, they have done their duty in peace and in war, more than once. As I write this, both men are flying round the clock, moving victims and trapped holiday-makers away from the catastrophic bushfires that have blazed across Tasmania in the last week. Without any hesitation, they just started flying to the fire front, landing as close as possible to pick up the needy and move them to safety. Bless them both.
‘There you go, chap.’ Jethro was back and was holding out his phone. On the screen was a photo of my dad’s bike, mounted on the wall behind the bar in the RAF officers’ mess. ‘I just phoned a mate who I knew was a pretty good chance of being in the bar and asked him to take a photo and send it to me,’ Jethro explained.
I sent the photo to my dad straightaway, who called me back straightaway. Once we stopped laughing I asked how he was doing, but the cancer was something he didn’t want to talk about other than to tell me he was ‘fighting’. I went back inside to hear more flying stories, drink more beer, then single malt, and piss ourselves laughing until the sun came up.
When I woke up the next day it was still morning and I was fully dressed on the floor near the bed in our hotel. Diego was on the couch in the lounge room, also fully dressed. Jethro was there as well, but he’d actually removed his shoes and clothes and physically got into a bed and slept like a normal person. He bounded out half an hour later, chirpy and lively, while Diego and I stumbled as far as the wharf across the street looking for coffee.
At the wharf we saw an impressive vessel, big and painted in what I’ll call ‘waterflage’. I was drawn to it, alone at the end of the pier, no one around, no one on deck, only a big fuck-off set of teeth painted down her bow at the waterline and a Jolly Roger snapping at me through the wind from the top of its line. As we got closer I could see it was not actually a Jolly Roger but rather a skull with a shepherd’s crook and trident crossed underneath; she was called the
Bob Barker
.
Rounding the edge of the pier we saw a small trestle table set up next to the gangway with a sign that said ‘Free Tours’. A young woman sat there smiling. We looked like a couple of bums in leather jackets, but she sprang from her seat and launched into what turned out to be a really remarkable hour-long visit with the crew of the
Bob Barker
. That flag she sails under is apt; they were patrolling the sea to protect marine life, part of a large and committed organisation called the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. On this occasion their aim was to harass and track the Japanese whaling fleet. As history will tell you, if you want it done, and it’s at sea, you get a pirate to do it.
The
Bob Barker
crew were a focused and determined bunch but we were made to feel very welcome and the tour was an insight into the things that go on out at sea when people don’t think you’re watching. Of course the Japanese have every right to go whaling, provided of course they do it according to the rules, but they are not. Last year Sea Shepherd saved 500 whales from turning the ocean red with their blood. We all went out on the main bow deck and took a group photo, Diego calling out as he focused his camera, ‘Okay, everyone look like hard bastards.’ By the time we were back on the pier waving goodbye, I was fired up and mulling over the satisfaction I would get from running down a helpless whaling crew with an aircraft carrier.
That afternoon Diego and I hopped on our bikes and headed south of Hobart down the B68 that tracks the coastline all the way round a small cape then doglegs back up north again. The asphalt gods were good to us that morning, the beautiful green undulating hills revealing picture-postcard town after town with names like Snug, Flowerpot and Woodstock.The road, however, was the opposite of its laidback sleepy surrounds; it was draped like a discarded black necktie over the landscape, serious aggressive riding; as soon as you’re out of a blind turn you’re already setting up and looking for your exit from the next one. Concentration on the relentless corners should be forcing you to slow down and enjoy the surrounds a bit more. Instead we opted for the riding experience, though we did stop at every town to take a look and almost every town had something interesting to look at as well as the occasional tourist coach to avoid slamming into the back of. It was a weird time of year to tour Tasmania, in between the energetic grey nomad ramblers of summer and the winter walkers.
As we hit the bottom of this little cape, the road offered up wonderful sweeping seaside corners that gave a visual all-clear for any other traffic and an open invitation to lay the bike over, drop a gear and use the whole road to take it as fast as you can. And that’s where the local police will nab your arse for speeding, lesson learnt.
Speeding fine neatly folded in my wallet and a friendly wave from the cop who just blew my beer money, we mooched along well under the limit back up the other side of the cape till we hit the A6 at Huonville, turned left and tracked down to Southport. I started thinking about the endless choices for dinner; the food was good, really good here. Progress was stress-free, and we had plenty of time to admire the views.
I was really loving the riding; the road was completely empty, the weather was warming up with the sun bathing more colour into the landscape. Tasmania has some of the most unspoilt and dramatic scenery anywhere in Australia. It’s also tidy; I wasn’t scanning the pavement for dog turds or praying I don’t step on a needle at the beach.
Coming around another meandering corner through deeply green rolling fields pepper-potted with tin-roofed, thick-timbered barns, any random one of which I would gladly convert into a holiday home in my private helmet screening of ‘Paul’s Barn Conversion Grand Design’, we hit the edge of a huge forest and the whole thing starts to look like Switzerland, but without the associated smug smell of melting chocolate and money. With the greying aged barns floating on a sea of green waving grass, backlit by forest and hills, I was suddenly insane with the need to just ride into the fields, up the ever increasing hills . . . being chased by the Germans atop badly disguised Triumph motorcycles. My imagination went wild.
Yes, oh yes . . .
there was a break in the fence line and a clear dirt road that stopped after 10 metres, unleashing an open grand green Valhalla of a field for my complete and total encapsulation of the full
Great
Escape
moment.