Dame Margo Mayes
Jack Bluey Mayes was tough, a former merchant seaman, changing over to the U.S. Navy during the war.
Big wave rider, ice hockey player, free diver, surfboat captain and he could go the knuckle.
In those days to join a surfboat crew there was an initiation test, if you failed, no place for you in the boat crew. You had to stand nude under a cold shower and a team of blokes would throw bricks at you, a few flinches, a swerve is fine, a duck is a fail.
At a surf carnival, when Jack as sweep of the Tamarama boat, was judged to have run a close second on the line, Bluey lost it and was raving and swearing at the referees. A member of another crew said. “ Prima Donna! Bloody Dame Margo Mayes” The nickname stuck, not to his face, as one could finish up with a second disposal orifice, named something like that planet Uranus.
At certain times the banks in the south corner gave a good hard left into the deep rip at the rocks, the gromm’s would, like most gromm’s drop in.
Jack was standing on club rock letting the sun dry him off, sucking on a tailor made as the Head walked up from the water dropping his board below the rock, was asked, “ You been nicking my ciggies again, and if you keep dropping in on me I’m gunn’a plant my thong up your Khyber, with my foot”..
Now in those days no one gave the finger, it was a closed fist, thumb up, offered in a short upward motion, which the Head delivered with a “Fuck you Dame Margo”
Conversations stopped, the sound of waves stilled, it was like a vacuum, Bluey fixed a locked stare on the Head, quietly said “How’s Mum?” “You don’t know my Mum” Head replied. “How old are you now?” The Head replied “Ten” Bluey said. “At the golf course, I was having a hit with the Flea.” “Your a dill my Mum doesn’t play golf.” Bluey broke off the stare, as he turned away, he said over his shoulder. “It wasn’t golf, she was in a bunker pulling a train, you popped out about nine months later.”