Published: 23 Feb 2026

The Fishing Weekend Commences;

Friday’s work day went slowly for Grady, brought about by excitement towards the weekend’s fishing trip. Grady hadn’t had a break since finishing high school, starting his apprenticeship the very week of the school break-up, even before he received his final results. Grady had suggested commencing work after that Christmas to enjoy some time away at the family beach house but Jack Byrne needed a go-for’ with many customers making their vehicle ready for the long break.

Then there was Christmas and three days of festivities shared with families from both parents being arranged for different times, as David’s lot didn’t get along with the Olsons’ being Karen’s family.

True, Byrne garage did close down after Christmas for two weeks with David deciding to take extra time down the coast at the family’s holiday house.

As for Grady;

He was instructed to remain behind to look after the house, not forgetting watering David’s prize lemon tree.

“You need to piss on it every day.” David instructed in a most serious tone.

“That’s gross.”

“If you want good lemons, you need to fertilize it with piss.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“It is a well known fact son.”

“I’m never gonna’ drink mum’s homemade lemon cordial again.”

When it came time for watering with David absent to supervise, Grady quickly reneged on the piss although he did keep up with the watering. Not forgetting the party Grady had the previous time he was house sitting, with spillage on the shagpile and a cigarette burn to the couch, this time he adhered to the no party rule, only having Biff over for the occasional drink.

Four-thirty Friday and the day’s work is done, Grady is chaffing at the bit to be away, even so he is careful to finish up in the manor that suited jack’s fastidious ways.

Eventually it is time to depart.

“I’d say that’s about it Mr. Byrne,” Grady hopefully suggests.

“How are you getting out to Davies Creek?” Jack asks as he locks the office door and as usual gives the door an extra shake for good measure. You can never be too careful he always announced with the shaking, as his memory remains strong when a couple of town louts broke in through the skylight, finding the office open raided the beer in the refrigerator and took off with the tea kitty, not to mention a number of expensive tools.”

“We are using Bazza Jones tray truck and Brownie’s old Ford Sedan.”

Alfred Deed is laughing, if he shook his head with more force it most probably would fall from his ageing shoulders.

“What’s the humour Alf?”

“I wouldn’t want to go anywhere in either vehicle, especially on the shire’s fire track leading out to Davies Creek.”

“Why so Alf?”

“I’ve done worked on both vehicles; they are all prayer and fencing wire.”

“Then I’ll pick up an extra coil of wire from dad’s Emporium on the way out.”

Alf remains mocking.

Grady gives a confident grin, “besides they will have me if anything goes wrong.”

“Have you ever changed a radiator hose by the side of some bush track, when the motor’s boiling and it is forty degrees centigrade in the shade?”

Grady, as would any lad under the age of twenty, remains confident and resolute towards his ability.

“If you like you can use the work utility, we won’t need it until next week,” Jack offers.

“It’ll be right Mr Byrne,” Grady collects his travel bag, “I better head off as I’ve got to get to the butcher before closing, I’ve been given the job of steaks, chops and sausages.”

“Who’s bringing the beer?” Alf asks.

“That’s a good question, I hope someone, or it will be a dry and thirsty weekend.”

“Don’t bank on that lad,” Alf says, “have you heard the weather report?”

Arriving at Bastion house Grady finds the front door wide; he enters and calls.

“Biff, are you about?”

Ron comes in behind him from the yard carrying a bowl of his prize winning tomatoes being an entry in the local show;

“He shouldn’t be too long I’ve just come of the phone with him, there was some problem during the afternoon shift at the mill.” Ron goes to the kitchen drawer and finds an old paper bag;

“I’ve picked some tomatoes so you can make a nice salad.”

“Salads Ron?”

“You do eat salads?”

“Only when I have to; honestly I don’t think any of the boys would know what a salad looks like, especially Brownie he would have steak from breakfast, lunch and dinner with lashings of beer for gravy if it was up to him.”

As Grady speaks Barry’s Bedford truck can be heard from a street away.

“It is about time Bazza’ did something about that truck’s exhaust,” Ron suggests as they go to meet the arrival.

“Yes he’s already been warned.”

The Bedford pulls up blowing more smoke than a chimney stack, moments latter Barry is on the ground and calling;

“Hey Greedy where is everyone?”

“Not far off I should think.”

The trucks windscreen is covered in red tableland volcanic dust, smeared in a wide arc where the wipers failed to clear, thus displaying only the blurred outline of the passenger;

“Who is with you?” Grady asks.

Luke Bevin pokes his unmistakably ginger head out the side window, “it’s me you Galah.”

“Nice seeing you Ron,” Barry greets and offers an overzealous hand.

Ron accepts the greeting;

“How’s the timber carting?” Ron asks.

“Slow is the best description for that one. If it doesn’t come up trumps soon I may have to go back onto the land.”

“We were saying it’s about time you got that muffler looked at.”

“I keep to the back roads, although I will admit the old girl could do with turning; that in translation means for you Grady to pencil me in after the long weekend.”

“Alf said he won’t work on it.” Grady says.

Moments later Michael Brown’s sedan is spied at the corner and Biff is arriving on foot from the direction of the mill.

“It appears we’re all here,” Barry suggests as the sedan pulls up beside Barry’s truck.

“Not Wayne Nelson, we have to pick him up from his place, I see Biff up ahead, he’d be later for his own funeral,” Michael points towards Biff’s slow approach and waves.

“Who wants a beer?” Ron offers the lads.

Michael Brown becomes attentive;

“We better not Ron,” Barry declines for the group, “we should get going if we want to beat the dark.”

“Right-o lads, I’ll leave you to it. The barbeque is in the shed and don’t return it stinking of rancid grease and there is also a spare gas bottle.”

A short stop to pick up Wayne Nelson and the happy campers are away. With four of the six ahead in Brownie’s Ford, the Bedford is close behind travelling in a cloud of red tableland dust thrown up by the Sedan.

Barry decides he had enough of the dust as the truck lacks side window glass therefore he falls back a little, besides the Bedford’s old motor is prone to overheat if pushed past forty.

They reach what is to be their camping spot for the next three days with little sunlight remaining to pitch the tents. The chosen campsite is well above the falls alongside a deep pool where the water gathers before cascading into a long wide scar in the basalt. The waterfall isn’t a single drop but a number of smaller falls over a distance of about a mile until reaching the slightly undulating land towards the main highway and a number of tobacco farms.

“Tents ladies,” Barry Jones calls as he jumps down from the truck, looking about Barry points towards a clearing, “that spot looks as good as any. We will have to work fast we are quickly losing the light.

They all go to retrieve their tents from the tray.

“Before you do anything,” Barry intervenes, “someone give me a hand with this?”

Barry is manhandling a large package to the side of the tray.

“What is it?” Luke Bevin quizzically enquires.

“A canvas fly-over, I hear there could be a little weather over the weekend; I thought we could string the tarpaulin between trees and set our tents beneath.”

“How did you come up with that idea?” Luke asks.

“I wasn’t a corporal in the school cadets for nothing. We would use a fly whenever we were on bivouac, sometimes when the troop leader was in a sadistic mood it would be only the fly and the bare ground for our beds. He reckoned it was character building,” Barry groans from his telling, “character building be buggered, I’ve still got the scars from my allergy towards bull ant bites.”

“Bull ants,” Biff reckons in his usual friendly mocking way.

“Yea all across my arse and legs, want a look?”

“Keep your pants on Barry,” Wayne Nelson discourages.

Barry settles from a not so pleasant memory then with military precision he mustered everyone to the task.

In no time the large tarpaulin is strung and three small tents erected beneath. As the last of the daylight dissipates hurricane lamps are lit and placed about the campsite.

“Dinner;” Biff calls; he had missed his lunch because of an incident at the mill, a colleague had injured his arm when a pile of weather boards fell on him. “Who’s the cook?”

“It’s your barbeque Biff.”

“I don’t have a chef’s hat,” Biff quickly expresses.

“Who brought the sausages?”

“I did and there is plenty, and steaks,” Grady proudly announces, “also chops,” he adds to the selection.

“Then you’re the cook mate.”

With little effort a camp fire is set and the barbeque fired, soon the smell of sausages is rumbling stomachs with their sizzle and spit.

With fresh bread and tomato sauce, not forgetting fried onions, in no time all bellies are filling to satisfaction.

“Who brought the pudding,” Luke Bevin asks as the last of the sausage sandwiches is consumed.

“It’s a bloody camping expedition Bevin, not the Ritz.”

“Right now I’d love a big bowl of ice cream,” Bevin says, “and some of my Grand’s suet pudding.”

“I wouldn’t mind a serve of chips with vinegar.”

“Yea Greedy we all know about your love for chips.”

“Who brought the crap paper?” Wayne Nelson calls and by his reflection in the flickering lamplight he is in quick need of it.”

“Right lads, the crapper will be over behind that lot of shrubs and there is a shovel on the tray to bury your shit, we don’t want some goose standing in it – and go light on the dunny’ rolls, I’ve see what’s used in the club house toilets.”

“Fuck off Bazza I’m still eating.” Biff complains.

Barry calls for attention as Wayne Nelson returns into the firelight appearing most relieved, “right who is sharing the tents?”

“I’ll share with Biff,” Grady suggests.

“I thought of much,” Michael Brown says.

“Watch it Brownie,” Biff growls, “you’re not too big to get a smack in the mouth.”

“The trouble with your Brian, you’re too serious; you should lighten up a little.”

“Right Wayne you can share with me,” Barry suggests, “so that leaves Mick with Luke – any complaints?” Actually there wasn’t any complaint as the arrangements were pre ordained as had been during their scouting trips during their school years.

“It is time to break out the beer.”

The words are spoken by Michael Brown whose only employment happens to be unpaid part time barman at the Royal that is owned by the family, so for the trip he had been given the job as beer monitor.

Brownie did his job well bringing three slabs of the Bulimba Gold Top brew, hopefully enough for a weekend’s entertainment, if not the Emerald Cross-over hotel is less than a dozen miles away on the main road.

The beer is shared with much conversation. In some ways these six young men are back at school, with all the trappings of school yard humour. In truth two of the six had only finished their education the previous year, while Barry ‘Bazza’ Jones is already twenty-one and considered middle age; as for the absent members of the football team being mostly married men whose wives would lend little trust in them joining in such an expedition.

Eventually the conversation turned to Biff’s break up with Trish.

“So Biff, what’s this I hear about you dropping Trish Baker?”

“I suppose Brownie it is simply we aren’t compatible.”

“Compatible!” Michael Brown scoffs, “you don’t need to be compatible to fuck some chick.”

“It is the only answer I’m offering,” Biff frowns towards Grady as if to say, don’t you dare comment.

The frown wasn’t necessary as Grady would never comment against Biff.

Biff then gives his reply a sting;

“That Mick is why you can’t keep a girl for any longer than one night’s entertainment.”

The others laugh and Brownie appears hurt.

“Brownie gets enough,” he retorts.

“Year your hand,” Luke teases, “besides,” Luke continues then pauses his reply.

They all wait as Luke is well known for his long pauses in conversation.

“Besides girls don’t like bottles.”

It appears Biff is quick with Luke’s meaning’ he is grinning, “bottles Luke what is that?”

“Bottle-dick,” Wayne laughs; Mick has a longer overhang than the shaft.

Barry can see the heat rising and as usual being the mediator cuts in, “right girls keep it nice and for once leave your appendages out of the conversation.”

For a moment the conversation dies, then returns this time aimed at Grady.

“Hey Greedy, I hear you are following Biff out of the game next season,” Wayne Nelson suggests.

“Who told you that?”

“It’s true isn’t it?”

“I only said I was leaving to annoy dad, so again who told you that.”

The only other person who knew of Grady’s plans is Biff and he would never betray confidence.

“My brother works for David and your old man told him.”

“You can’t fart in this town without everyone knowing about it.”

Brownie grins, “you can sure smell it,” he says, “and there is enough dirt about this town to write a novel,” he pauses, “no a whole trilogy of novels.”

“If I’m sharing with you Brownie I hope you brought a good size cork to plug the bugle arse of yours- especially after a gut full of fried onions and grog,” says Luke Bevin.

“Who wants another Beer?” Barry offers to lower the tone of the conversation.

They all agree.

Drinking beer often brings a group to turn towards contemplation and after a third beverage even Michael Brown comes down from his usual abrasive attitude. The campfire is burning low to glowing embers with the night air remaining humid. The sky above is cloud free with a carpet of stars and the milk maid has spilt her pale, or so was said by Grady’s Grandmother when as a boy he asked what brought about the milky-way. Adding to the night’s serenity is the distant gentle mesmerising sound of water over rocks.

Eventually it is Barry Jones who finds voice;

“Biff I hear it is possible Bruce Menzies is to fill your footy boots.”

“I hear he has small feet,” Biff answers.

“What does that mean,” Luke asks.

“He’s welcome to try but I don’t think he has enough talent.”

“You are big-noting yourself there Biff,” Brownie suggests.

“Time will tell Mick, besides it isn’t my decision or problem, besides I’ve heard otherwise.”

“Like what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Luke lifts from the conversation, “As we’ve come for fishing, I think I’ll throw a line.”

“The only bite you’ll get at this time of night is from Biff,” Michael Brown suggest in reference to Biff’s attitude towards his banter.

“Who’s coming?”

No one agrees.

Luke collects his fishing gear.

“Seeing you’ve got a gut full of grog Luke, be careful near the falls.”

“I’m not that pissed Mother Jones, besides I’m not going near the falls.”

“I’m just saying.”

Luke commences towards the river.

“You should go with him Mick, I think he’s pissed.”

Brownie shrugs the suggestion away as Luke moves out in full moonlight.

“Last call for the bar,” Barry calls while collecting the empties.

No one takes up the challenge.

Grady yawns, “gotta’ be up early tomorrow for the fishing so I’m off to bed.”

“I’ll join you,” Biff innocently says.

“Yea I reckon you will,” Michael sarcastically retorts.

“What does that mean, Mick?”

“Too much grog mate – nothing.”

That leaves Barry to tidy the camp and while packing away their hamper he thinks it wise to look in on Luke and his fishing.

Barry finds the narrow path leading towards the river and moments later he spies Luke seated beside the water, obviously not fishing.

The sound of Barry approaching is heard by Luke causing him to turn sharply.

“Bazza,” Luke quietly says.

“Catch anything?”

“Not trying – I needed to think on my own for a while.”

“What’s worrying you?”

“It’s the way Mick keeps going on about how he treats girls and questioning Biff why he broke up with Trish.”

“Why would that concern you Luke?”

“Just does.”

“Someone it helps to share a problem.”

A sigh from Luke as Barry lowers beside; both sit for watching the moon’s reflection on the surface of the still pond. In the distance there is a hooting sound otherwise it could be considered they are the only living souls in the universe

For a time nothing is spoken although it is obvious Luke in building towards sharing his mood.

“It’s Sue,” Luke eventually says.

Barry allows Luke to continue without interrupting.

“We were planning to marry towards Christmas and last night she has called it off.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t mention it to Mick or I’ll never hear the fucken’ end to it.”

“I wouldn’t repeat anything; I know Sue, possibly she simply needs a little time to get used to the idea of being married.”

“I doubt it; from what I hear she is already seeing someone else.”

The two remain for some time without furthering the conversation. Sometimes a simple presence is helpful, simply another soul who understands life’s long line of disappointments.

Luke is playing with a short stick.

He gives a huff as he breaks away its end then tosses the stick into the water breaking the perfect orb of the moon’s reflection.

A fish jumps as the stick strikes the water’s surface.

“At least,” Barry says.

“At least what?”

“At least you just proved there are fish to be caught. Come on bed time, at least enjoy the weekend and leave worry to the next.”

They both walk back to the camp.

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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