DANGEROUS DAYS II
PADDLE HARD
(The autobiography of a photojournalist continues)
‘As told to’ JAMES TURNER
Copyright 2012 by (James) J. William Turner
Smashwords Edition
(Original version copyright 1989 by (James) J. William Turner)
The blizzard and night on Mt. Feathertop, and finding my teacher dead, had changed me forever. It had also changed how I was seeing my life in the future. I needed some quite special and very safe, quality time alone with my peer group. An overnight, canoe trip to a lake with my friends and cousins was supposed to be just that; a great, unforgettable adventure. Instead, we were confronted by the violence of the illegal drug trade in what became a classic contest between good and evil.
This story is fictional. Any similarity to historical events, or to any person living or dead is coincidental and unintentional.
Other works by J.William Turner:
Dangerous Days I (Storm Ridge)
Dangerous Days III (Outback Heroes)
Dangerous Days IV (Enemies Within)
Blades I (Street Kid)
Blades II (High Country)
Blades III (California Dreaming)
Blades IV (Aftermath)
Fat To Fast
Jake’s Magical Easter Adventure
Saturday, 23 January 1982 - Saturday morning had dawned sunny with clear skies, but was cooled by a southerly wind. All of us in south-east Australia were expecting a warm, windless afternoon and night, to be followed, on Sunday, by scorching, hot-northerly winds from mid-morning onwards. So said the morning weather forecast on the radio of my father’s Range Rover as the vehicle cruised down the Princes Highway towards Geelong. The forecast had been preceded by updated reports of the week’s two, major news stories; the bashing to death of a policeman near the alpine resort town of Bright, and a callous murder in Geelong. Bernie Luscombe, the middle-aged proprietor of a large, city, video arcade, had been found shot in the head behind his office desk on the previous, Tuesday evening. The police had no motive, weapon or suspects. We showed little interest in what was becoming old news. Less than half an hour had passed since we crossed the Westgate Bridge, and with only a few other cars on the road in Melbourne, our journey from Brighton had been quick.
Graham, Scott and I were sitting together in the rear seat. Mum and Dad sat in the front. On the roof, two Canadian canoes were securely tied. We boys had been eagerly looking forward to this excursion since early January. My grandfather had decided to hold a gathering over the Australia Day weekend at his home in Ocean Grove. It was to be attended by my immediate family, my Uncle Paul Hill, Aunt Kath and their three kids, my cousins, Linda, Kim and Dwight, who everyone called DC.
Canoeing on the lake was our main topic of conversation. Many birds lived there, and I was anxious to practice wildlife photography with my expensive, new camera; a reward from my school’s Board of Governors for saving the lives of my ten classmates in the blizzard. When asked by the Chairman what I would like, I told him that my ambition was to find a career involving photography, once I had finished the next four years of secondary school, followed by tertiary studies. So, on Speech Day at the end of the year, I received the camera gear from the Chairman and Reginald Oswald, my despised headmaster, together, in front of the entire student body, their parents, staff, distinguished guests, and, most importantly, my proud mother and father. I remember smiling broadly at the Chairman when I shook his hand. At Oswald, however, I merely glared and scowled. That he had clearly read my mind, and knew the contempt I felt for him, I was in no doubt, just as I had intended.
I opened the padded camera-case, and fondled my camera, while Scott and Graham looked on with interest and mild envy.
“If I get only half a dozen good pictures this weekend, it’ll be worth it,” I said.
Scott chuckled. He just wanted to do as much canoeing as he could, having never done it before, and asked Graham for his opinion.
He only shrugged slightly in reply, but I knew what was really on his mind.
“It’s seeing my cousin, Linda, isn’t it,” I interrupted with a laugh. “You like her.”
Graham leaned forward in his seat, and turned to look at me defensively. “We’re just friends, that’s all.”
Scott, though, had become curious about my cousins, and asked for details.
DC was fifteen, and a real cool guy. Linda was fourteen, and Kiem-Lien, sixteen. We called her Kim, for short. She was a Vietnamese child-refugee, an orphan, evacuated from Saigon, now called Ho Chi Min City, just before the war ended in 1975. My uncle and aunt adopted her just after her tenth birthday. Her English had become excellent by then, and she liked living in Australia. In fact, she still does.
But Scott was more curious about the other boy. “Why do you call him ‘DC’?”
His real names are Dwight and Cuthbert, which he hated, and I mean really hated. So he told us, at the age of five, to call him ‘DC’ before he started school.
“Hey! What a maniac!” Dad exclaimed loudly as he looked in his rear-vision mirror.
We looked back through the rear window. Two hundred metres behind, and gaining rapidly, I saw a bright-purple panel van, with an orange-coloured, plastic canoe on its roof. Closely pursuing the panel van was a police patrol car, its blue warning lights flashing and sirens screaming. In only a few seconds, the panel van was behind our Range Rover. It swung hastily into the right-hand lane, and roared past, followed two seconds later by the police car, its deafening siren echoing throughout our vehicle. We were all suddenly excited, and I reacted quickly, spurred on by a massive dose of adrenaline. With my camera already out and adjusted, I took three snapshots in rapid succession as the two vehicles passed.
“I wonder what they want them for,” my mother thought aloud.
“Probably traffic offences,” Dad guessed.
“Nah, I reckon they’re wanted criminals,” said Graham.
“They must have done something really bad to drive that fast,” Scott added.
“Ah, who cares,” I shrugged. “At least I’ve got some great action pictures of the chase.”
We continued to watch the pursuit keenly as the two vehicles sped away quickly. The panel van and police car were half a kilometre ahead of us when the chase became sinister. We saw the back door of the panel van open, followed by several puffs of smoke. One of the blue lights on the police car stopped flashing. It began swerving wildly from side-to-side, and then ran off the edge of the road onto the grass verge, and narrowly missed a tree, before coming to rest just short of a fence. The panel van continued on without slowing down.
We all viewed the shooting with disbelief. Our hearts were pounding, as Dad stopped the Range Rover on the shoulder of the road. “You kids stay inside, right!”
He walked quickly to assist a very shaken, but unharmed, policeman from the shot-up vehicle. The damage shocked the rest of us. The police car had suffered six hits. A front headlight was shattered, as was a blue roof-light. The right-front tyre was blown out. The radiator was hissing steam, and leaking water. Worst of all was the pair of bullet holes in the windscreen. I raised my camera, and took three snapshots; two of the damaged car, and one of my father talking to the policemen.
Dad then returned promptly to the Range Rover, and resumed his seat behind the steering wheel. He told us that the officer was not injured, just scared by what had happened, and that we were to be on our way as he had already radioed for help.
“Did he tell you anything about the man who shot at him?” I asked hopefully.
Dad shook his head, looked back at me slyly, and said in a teasing voice, “Who was that I saw photographing all the action?”
I glanced down at my camera, feeling satisfied, but pretending to be embarrassed to hide my intense thrill and excitement at what I had witnessed. They were good pictures, which I needed it to go with the other ones I took of the chase.
Dad chuckled quietly at my photographic enthusiasm, unaware of my intense arousal at the whole incident, and started the engine, just as I was quite surprised at just how big a buzz I had received from it. Our vehicle accelerated away from the scene, and we continued the first part of our journey into Geelong to meet up with our extended family. The morning sun reflected off the water as we crossed the Barwon River, and entered the city’s affluent, southern suburbs. The Hills’ house in Highton was less than a five-minute drive from the bridge, and Dad coasted to a stop by the front gate, probably the last time he would do so as they would soon be moving to a house near our's in Brighton. Kath and Paul Hill saw the Range Rover arrive, and came out to greet us. The adults kissed and shook hands, and then they welcomed me.
“Hi Wesley,” my aunt kissed me on the cheek, “enjoying your school holidays?”
“Yes thanks, Aunty Kath, and I can’t wait to get on the lake today.”
“Good for you, Wes,” my uncle added, holding out his hand to greet me.
Paul looked across at my friends. Graham, he knew already, but I had to introduce Scott to my aunt and uncle. Paul then invited us inside to find his kids. We entered the house, and followed the sound of a Bruce Springstein tape into the family room where Linda and Kim were sitting. We greeted each other warmly, and Scott seemed instantly mesmerised by Kim’s appearance. She really was a beautiful girl. Her dark, almond eyes contrasted sharply to Scott’s round, pale-blue ones. He could not stop looking at her, almost to the point of staring, and he swallowed hard.
At that moment, DC appeared in the doorway. He was blond, like Scott, and although a year older than the three of us, about the same height. But his tight T-shirt and football shorts revealed a much stronger and athletic build by comparison.
My mother saw him first, and smiled broadly. “Hello DC. How are you?”
“Fine thanks, Aunty Pam. Hi, Uncle Frank.”
There was no expression on his face or in his voice as he spoke. He seemed almost sullen, which was totally out-of-character, even when my dad greeted him and introduced Graham and Scott.
His answer was mumbled and terse. “Yeah, hi guys.”
At DC’s suggestion, we teenagers went to leave the room for the back door. I could see that my parents were quite mystified by DC’s unusual, withdrawn attitude, as much as I was. So I lingered out of sight, listened, and heard Dad ask Uncle Paul if DC had done something to get himself into trouble. I remember wondering briefly if his girlfriend was pregnant, but that was not the case, as my uncle sighed, “I think he’s been really upset by that murder in the city last Tuesday. He knew the victim, Bernie Luscombe. He’d go to Bernie’s arcade quite often. The shooting was so cold-blooded. We had to talk him into not dropping out of the kids’ canoe trip.”
“Phew,” I muttered, “poor old DC.”
Mum asked if there were any suspects, but Uncle Paul shook his head, and made reference to the police officer murdered at Bright. That was when Dad told them of the police chase and shooting that we had seen. My uncle and aunt gasped at the same time, and Aunty Kath asked if anybody had been hurt. She seemed relieved when told the only damage was a cop car full of bullet holes. My uncle shook his head again, and then made a surprise announcement, that he had booked joy-flights for us at an airport on the way down to Ocean Grove, so we had to leave immediately.
Mum chuckled, “Joy-flights for the kids?”
“Awesome!” I exclaimed quietly.
Uncle Paul said it was an extra Christmas present for us, that if we were going to canoe the lake, we might like to see it from the air, and that his mate, Bob Began, had booked a plane for us at ten thirty.
My dad grinned at his brother-in-law. “Just like you to give the kids a special treat. Wes and his mates will love it.”
Meanwhile, I joined the other teenagers who were sitting on the patio discussing the canoe trip, and their expectations of it. I had my camera to photograph wildlife, and the Hills wanted to increase their previous, canoeing experience. Only Scott and Graham were novices. We all laughed and talked, except for DC, who listened occasionally, and laughed or said little. Normally, he would have been actively involved in such a discussion, instead of sitting quietly to one side. At least, I knew what was wrong, but Graham was puzzled by his behaviour. He gave me bewildered looks, while Scott could not understand why I had referred to DC as a ‘cool guy.’ To Scott, the word ‘cool’ meant a bright personality, and a sense of humour. Even when we described the shooting of the police car, DC seemed totally disinterested, although his sisters were horrified. It was not until I described the pursued vehicle in detail that he reacted. At the mention of the words ‘purple panel van,’ DC sat upright, his eyes wide-open. The look of shock on his face silenced the rest of us. But before we could speak again, our parents came out of the house. My cousin’s reaction, though, told me that he knew something more about the panel van; something he was keeping to himself. It was then that Uncle Paul entered and told us about the surprise joy-flights. The announcement obviously delighted us all except DC, and we returned indoors. When my uncle and aunt had completed a final check of the house, we left by the front door, and drove away.
The drive to the country airfield took only fifteen minutes, and Bob Began was there to meet us when we arrived. He was a tall, sun-tanned man with a bushy moustache, and a broad grin. His mirrored sunglasses, and peaked cap with winged insignia on the front, completed the image of a fanatical pilot. The booked aircraft, a four-seat Cessna-172 Skyhawk was parked nearby.
We looked at the small aeroplane with a mixture of enthusiasm and nervousness. All of us had flown in commercial jets, and the Cessna seemed very fragile by comparison. Bob told us he would make two, short flights with three passengers on each.
“Right,” he said, glancing at his would-be fliers, “who’s first?”
It was agreed that Graham, Linda and I would go on the first flight. We walked out to the aircraft, and I asked the other three to pose in front of it for a photograph before boarding. Bob then invited me to sit in the front beside him. When we were all aboard, and securely strapped in our seats, Bob turned the ignition key. The noise of the engine was quite loud, both inside the aircraft, and out. Bob donned headphones as he taxied the Cessna along a parallel taxiway to the north end of the airstrip. It rattled and bounced over clumps of grass, but the pilot seemed unconcerned. He was quietly whistling, “We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz,” and as I glanced at him, he flashed the biggest smile in return. “No worries, son.”
“What sort of dork is he?” I thought, unfairly with hindsight, as Bob turned out to be a great guy during my association with him as an adult in following years, until his sad, untimely death from cancer in 1994.
Bob stopped the aircraft on the side of the airstrip, completed the final, pre-takeoff checks, turned into the wind, and applied full throttle. The idling engine roared into life, and the Cessna accelerated. My excitement increased with the speed of the aeroplane. I expect Graham and Linda were the same. And when the wheels finally left the ground, Bob flew low along the runway to gain airspeed, before pulling back on the controls, which created a memorable g-force effect on my testicles.
The Cessna climbed rapidly. I looked down at the others waving to us from below. Half a minute after take-off, the pilot banked to the left, set course for Barwon Heads, and levelled at five hundred metres altitude. We were delighted with the magnificent view on this perfectly-clear day. To our right, were stretches of surf beach, and on the left, the lake was easily visible, with the city of Geelong spread out beyond it in the distance. Ahead were the twin coastal towns of Barwon Heads and Ocean Grove, separated by the Barwon River estuary, five kilometres away.
Although there was little sensation of forward movement, the Cessna was cruising at two hundred kilometres per hour, and we were over the towns a minute and a half later. Bob banked to the right to provide us with a good view, and completed a three-quarters circle, before levelling the wings, and heading north, upriver. The others and I were most interested in seeing the course of the river on which we were to canoe that afternoon. The river was broad and tidal near the sea. The wide expanses of sandy beach showed it was low tide. Later, the incoming tide would help transport us to the lake. I snapped a photograph. A short distance upstream was a large bend to the left. Bob turned to head west towards the lake. This was to be our first, close inspection of the lake, a large body of open water, with a small island near its southern shore, and surrounding areas of swampland, mud banks, and reed beds. I smiled to myself when I noticed several flocks of birds flying over the water.
“Good photographic material,” I thought, and took another aerial snapshot.
I then loosened my harness, and turned around in my seat to talk to Graham and Linda. How cute was this? They were holding hands, and looking down at the lake. I quickly reset my camera, and took their picture. Linda and Graham heard the sound of the camera, and looked up together. They saw me smiling at them, grinned in return and Linda put her head on his shoulder. So much for them being ‘just friends,’ and I took another picture. They were also suitably impressed with their view of the lake.
I turned to face the front once more, and tightened my seatbelt. Glancing casually at Bob, I was suddenly horrified to see him reading a book called ‘How to Fly.’ The incredulous look on my face would have been obvious. Bob winked at me, and chuckled, “Hah, just kidding,” closed the book, and put it back under his seat.
“He’s a hoon as well as a dork,” I thought again. I was too judgemental sometimes.
When the Cessna had passed the lake, Bob turned south towards the airfield, and reduced the power. Our ears popped with the rapid descent. The pilot banked left, levelled off, and joined the circuit pattern. We flew low over the southern end of the lake for final approach. The Cessna landed with a slight bounce, and taxied back to where the others were waiting. The flight had lasted fifteen minutes.
“How was it, Lindy?” her father asked as she ran up to him. “Pretty good, ay?”
“It was marvellous, Dad!” she exclaimed. “Much better than a Jumbo Jet! You can see a lot more!”
I echoed my agreement with her, and Paul chuckled loudly, pleased that his daughter and nephew had enjoyed the flight. “And what did you think, Graham?”
“It was good, Mr. Hill. Thanks for arranging it.”
He patted Graham on the shoulder. “You’re welcome, mate.”
The roar of the engine being restarted attracted our attention. We watched the Cessna taxy off for the second flight. Less than five minutes later, it was airborne once more. Graham, Linda and I walked over to a nearby picnic table to await their return, and to talk. The morning sun shone brightly as we sat at the table, talking further about our expedition or about the summer holidays in general. Eventually, though, the topic of discussion became the change in DC.
“Lin, what’s up with your brother?” Graham asked. “He was a really fun guy last time I saw him.”
I silently nodded my agreement, even though I already knew why.
She looked down, thought briefly, sighed, told us about DC’s association with the victim of the video-arcade murder, and that he was really cut-up about it.
“So that’s why he’s not himself,” Graham muttered. “After what happened on Feathertop, I sort of know how he feels.”
“Me too,” I mumbled.
Linda sighed again, before telling us about the night it happened, how they picked him up at ten o’clock, that there were police everywhere, and that DC never said a word in the car home, except to tell them that Bernie had been shot dead. Linda added that she had never seen him looking so down, and that late that night, after they’d gone to bed, she got up, and when she passed his room, she heard him crying. It was the first time since they were little kids that he’d done that.
Graham and I thought in silence. Bernie Luscombe’s death had been sudden and violent. The news reports stated that the police were without a motive. No money had been stolen, and Bernie was well-liked. The reports had also stated that police were baffled by the absence of any gunshots being heard. They suspected the use of a silencer. But the Homicide Squad was refusing to comment on media suggestions that the killer was a professional assassin; a hitman. These reports, and the large amount of other publicity surrounding the crime, had prolonged the pain felt by the victim’s family and friends, including DC. He was not just my cousin, but also our mate.