Childhood Summer Holidays
Boating With My Big Brothers - Circa 1963
During my final days leading up to the Christmas break, a blowfly flew into the office and buzzed around me. You’d think my first reaction would be that of ‘disgust’ with this dirty pest invading my space.
But no. The buzzing sound immediately transported me back to my childhood holidays at our ‘shack’ on a little beach in country South Australia.
We lived on a farm about an hour’s drive from the shack at Kellidie Bay on lower Eyre Peninsula. Dad would finish harvesting the wheat and barley crops just after Christmas. While he cleaned down the truck, storage bins and harvester, we’d help Mum pack for the shack. Clothes for Mum, Dad, my three big brothers and I, would be neatly folded into a long, high sided plywood box. It would be lifted into our boat on the trailer, along with cardboard boxes of groceries, a couple of sturdy metal eskies, fishing rods, jerry cans of outboard motor fuel, and Ringer, our black and white sheepdog.
The garden would get a good soaking to last until Dad came back in a few days to check on the sheep and chickens. He would pick any ripe nectarines, apricots, peaches, tomatoes, and cucumbers from his flourishing patches, before all six of us would climb excitedly into the car and set off. Ringer was just as elated. From his vantage point in the boat being towed behind the car, his bright pink tongue would flick saliva as his happy face pointed into the wind.
Bumping slowly along the pot-holed, dirt track through the scrub, as we neared the coast Dad would say, “First one to see the sea gets a penny”, even after decimal currency came in. As we turned onto the track in front of the shacks, our hot legs sweating against the vinyl seats in our non-airconditioned Holden, the welcome smell of the sea greeted us with a hint of things to come. Mum gave the shack a thorough sweep out, removing spider webs and debris from bird’s nests in the roof. We raced down to put our feet in the water and Dad cleaned up Ringer’s traditional vomit in the boat. We had arrived!
For the following four weeks, life was full of sun, fun, and freedom
Mum relaxed on the Lazyboy reading the Women’s Weekly and Readers Digest through her white-framed sunglasses, Dad went fishing, and we swam and snorkelled, built rafts and forts, played beach cricket, made sandcastles, went for hikes through the scrub, and invented our own fun.
We kids would eat our lunch outside under the pine trees with the sound of the breeze rustling through the adjacent sheoak tree, the click-click of cicadas and the smell of pine. Fritz and sauce with Dad’s fresh tomatoes and cucumber never tasted so good. We’d wait out the obligatory one hour before we could go back into the sea (to avoid getting cramp, allegedly) by continuing a game of cricket. Shoes weren’t worn, our feet were quickly toughened from running on shellgrit, limestone rocks and dry grass.
A bucket of freshly dug cockles sat in the shade of a tree. They’d quickly close up when our little prying fingers tickled their protruding fleshy bits. Dad would clean his catch of tommies and whiting, squatting down at the water’s edge. It must have been a back-breaking chore as his hessian fishing bag was always bulging. Fish and chips featured heavily on our dinner menu. With limited facilities, Mum managed to cook up a delicious feed for her salt-encrusted, dirty and happy family; our wet bums seated on wooden chairs at the wonky table.
We’d lay our sun-drenched bodies on the beach at night, gazing up at the stars and dreaming about life and possibilities. Mum would eventually call us in to bed where we’d drift off to the smell of mosquito coils protecting us as we slept. Mum kept a potty under her bed as the thought of getting up to go out to the long-drop toilet during the night was more than any of us could bear. Well, for Mum and me especially!
Dad built the shack in 1957. It was simply a steel framed shed clad in corrugated iron. There were no screens on the small louvre windows, nor screen doors. Mum hung coloured, plastic streamers, in the front and back doorways to try to keep the blowflies out. The streamers weren’t too successful and the sound of blowflies became synonymous with shack life.
A partition divided the whole space into one bedroom and a kitchen/dining area. The bedroom housed two wooden double bunk beds and a chest of drawers. The aforementioned plywood clothes storage box was carried in and placed on the floor. Mum and my brothers slept in the bunks. I slept in a wrought iron cot (with my feet touching the end) on a horsehair mattress and Dad slept on the Lazyboy in the kitchen. Bright orange, tan and brown lino covered the floor, electrical tape holding the joins together. Mum loved that she could just sweep out the dirt and sand after we’d wandered in with dripping wet feet.
This was a no-fuss environment
The shack had no internal cladding. We watched mice scamper across the timber frames and any amount of bugs, spiders, ants, mosquitoes and the occasional snake, shared our space. There was no electricity and no running water. No kitchen sink even. From our one small rainwater tank, Mum heated water on the two-burner gas cooker and did the dishes in a plastic container on the table, throwing the dirty water out onto the ground afterward.
We had a ‘long-drop’ toilet out the back. We bathed in a blue, oval-shaped metal tub that initially had pictures of Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse painted on the outside. Donald and Mickey faded over the years but our love for the shack never did.
Dad worked hard as a farmer in the age of very basic implements. His grain harvester had a hessian umbrella above the seat and steering wheel, to protect him from long hours in the hot sun; a far cry from harvesters of today with their air-conditioned cabins and GPS steering. We didn’t see much of Dad during harvest. We discreetly giggled about his ‘farmer’s tan’ once he got to the shack and donned shorts and a singlet. His legs were as white as snow, as were his arms above the elbows.
Having Dad around every day on our summer holiday was priceless
Reminiscing about these times, I realise how they shaped me as a person. I learned you don’t need much to be happy and fulfilled. I learned how precious water is and to conserve it. I learned we share this world with many other creatures. We all have our place. I learned to be mindful, to notice things around me. I learned about species of fish, sea creatures, birds, plants and trees.
I’m incredibly grateful for my upbringing, where watching TV was minimal (and never at the shack) and no mind-numbing, distracting devices were around. Where respect and manners came as naturally as breathing. I’m also incredibly grateful that I was able to provide all this for my own children too, who in turn, are doing it for theirs now.
Dad passed away in July 2019 at the age of 93. He still had a well-tended, flourishing garden until the day he died. Writing about him stirs many emotions. I miss him dearly and am incredibly grateful for the life he provided and the values he instilled in me. He was an amazing person and I like to think I carry a bit of him with me today.
