…I am woken by crunching gravel.  I blink into the blinding beam of a powerful flashlight.
Oh, sorry mate.  Didn’t realise you were sleeping in there, says a nervous young voice.  The flashlight beam moves off my face, and I see an embarrassed looking young cop, with his hand still hovering over his gun holster…

Neil picks me up near Kiama.

“I’m only going as far as me mate Kev’s place, in Ulladulla, he says.  I got a bunch of stuff in his back shed, and he needs the space.  It’s Ok.  I got to sell some stuff anyway.  I got a few debts to pay off before I go overseas.  It’s mostly surfboards I’ve got stashed at Kev’s place.  Some of them are worth quite a few quid.  Limited editions and prototypes I did in the eighties.”
“You’re a surfboard maker?” I ask him
“Used to be.  I done a few different things in my life.  I managed a modelling agency.  Had a pretty successful board shaping business.  Did stunts for a while.  Worked with some of the blokes did the stunts on the original Mad Max.  Worked in security a bit too.  Used to be the doorman of the Cauldron night club, in Kings Cross.
I know the Cauldron, I say, I went there a couple of times when I first moved to Sydney in the ninetees.
Yeah.  The Cauldron had gone to shit by 1992.  Cops clamped down.  New government.  New top brass.  When me and Kev worked the door there, the coppers would show up in their uniforms – two or three of ’em.  Business or pleasure, gentlemen?  I’d ask them.  If they said pleasure, I’d say, welcome gents, come on in.  They’d go inside, have a few drinks, in full uniform mind you, then come out an hour later, with big brown envelopes under their arms.  The boss knew how to keep them sweet.  If, on the other hand, when I asked them business or pleasure, they said business, I’d say, I hope you don’t mind waiting a minute or two.  Then I’d pop inside, bolt the door, and raise a shout; oy, the fuzz is here!  Everyone scampered around, all the dope would go out of sight, the girls would get their gear on, and then I’d unbolt the door.  the cops would come inside, have a few drinks, and an hour later they’d troop out again, with the brown envelopes under their arms.  It was a simple and effective system, and no-one had to do any unnecessary paperwork.
The police commissioner and the premier came by one day.  The commissioner had his bloody cap on and everything.  Kings Cross was a different place in those days.  They’ll take your license away for selling beer to sixteen year olds nowadays.” 

“I got to get my shit sorted out.  I need to make some money, but all my business ideas need seed investment. 
One thing I’m trying to launch right now is a new line of bikinis.  I’ve been making knee boards out of Kevlar weave for years, and I had the idea one day to make bikinis out of it.  Imagine that; a bullet proof bikini.  Perfect for girl surfers.  No more chafed nips!  I had some photos taken of the prototypes.  Check it out.”
Neil hands me his phone.  I look at photos of pouting models wearing skimpy swimming costumes with panels of shiny grey fabric in them.
“Cool, hey? he enthuses.”
I agree.
“The girls are mates of mine.  Used to be on my books, a couple of them.  They don’t mind doing me a favour.  I still got some connections in the fashion world.  I can get these in stores, I just need enough dough to get some sewn up.”
In the last picture, the model is wearing just the bikini g-string, and looking over her shoulder with smoldering eyes.
“She’s outrageous, that one” Neil comments.  “I used to represent her mum in the early eighties.  Her mum and I were a thing for a while.  Tanya’s been trying to get in my pants for the last five years.  It’s a sore temptation, but her mum would kill me if she found out, and the first thing Tanya would do is go tell her mum.”

We arrive at Kev’s place.  It’s a shabby, live in workshop, with a flat over the garage area.  Pieces of cars, engines, motorbikes and surfboards are scattered all over the garage and the gravel, weed ridden yard.
“You’re welcome to stay the night” Kev tells me when we are introduced.   “I’ll make you blokes a bit of a feed later.”
Kev shows me around his place. 
“This used to be the headquarters of the Bandidos outlaw motorcycle gang” he tells me.  “I never have to lock the doors, ’cause no cunt has the guts to rob the joint.”
Kev is a former biker, former stuntman, and former alcoholic.  He is a softly spoken man.  He makes us a simple but tasty stir-fry for dinner.  He and I swap stories about south east Asia.
“I got a couple of girlfriends over in Thailand” Kev tells me.
Neil rolls his eyes. 
“Why don’t you get yourself an Aussie bird” he teases Kev.
“Because Asian women know how to treat a bloke” Kev huffs.  “My fat slut of an ex-wife rooted around behind me back, lied to me twenty-four seven, and then took me fuckin’ house in the divorce.  Paulie, me Thai girlfriend, cooks for me three times a day, fucks me ’til I’m bruised, and keeps herself looking good too!”
Neil snorts. 
“It’s alright for you, Mr model agent” Kev snaps at him.  “Some of us got to work for a living.”

Kev and Neil tell me stories about their days doing stunts together.
“The Australian film industry was more like a fucking sports club in the seventies” Neil says.  “You risked your neck, ate once a day, and hardly ever even got paid properly.”
“Remember that bloke, broke his fucking back on Mad Max?” says Kev.
“Yeah.  In hospital six months.  Nearly fucking died.  They didn’t even use the shot.  I remember him saying to the stunt coordinator, ‘why dont we rig up the crash car with radio control?’  Know what the fuckwit says?  Too expensive!  Just strap yourself in.  She’ll be right.”
Kev and Neil sip their drinks.
“We were lucky to fucking survive” Neil muses.
“It’s a fucking miracle we’re still here” agrees Kev.  “I live my life to the fullest every day, cause I know, it could all be over in a moment, mate.  You should come with me to Thailand this time, Neil!”
“And risk getting AIDS from some skanky bird?  No fear” Neil says dryly.  “I’m crazy, but I’m not suicidal.”

I sleep in Neil’s van in the yard beside Kev’s workshop.  In the middle of the night I am woken by crunching gravel.  I blink into the blinding beam of a powerful flashlight.
“Oh, sorry mate.  Didn’t realise you were sleeping in there” says a nervous young voice.  The flashlight beam moves off my face, and I see an embarrassed looking young cop, with his hand still hovering over his gun holster.
“No problem mate” I grunt, and manage a bleary smile.  The cop goes back to his truck with an apologetic nod.

In the morning, Neil is up early and we head for the beach. 
I tell Neil about the cop who woke me up.
“Cheeky cunts” Neil laughs.  “They watch Kev’s place all the time.  He’s been legit for twelve years or more, but it’s a small town so they’re always sniffing around.  Sheer boredom.  That kid must have seen the back door of the van open, and thought old Kev was getting in a midnight shipment.  Bloody retards.  As if you’re gonna drive it up to the door in a fucking panel van, like a bread delivery!”

At the beach, there are no waves.  Neil looks disappointed. 
“I’m sixty one.  I got arthritis, a fucked back, two bad knees an enlarged prostate and chronic acid reflux; but  I still love to get in the water” Neil says.  “Most things in life lose their edge eventually.  Sex is OK, cocaine isn’t bad, I don’t mind a drink now and then, but surfing…  surfing never gets old.”

 
>> Read more of my stories about travelling in small-town Australia.
>> You don’t need to spend money to get a good nights rest. Read my get-started guide to urban camping.
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