It was May 1977, and I had made the State Team to compete at the Australian Surfing Titles in Margaret River.
We nearly didn't go because we were building our house and the shop at Point Leo while living in the caravan park. I hadn't surfed for three or four weeks, so it was a last-minute decision to throw the tent, TV, heater, and anything else that would fit into the boot of the HT Kingswood. Matt, 5, and Simon, 3, had been with us the year before for the Titles at Manly, NSW, so we had things pretty organized.
As we were going through Crystal Brook, a small town two hours west of Adelaide, someone did a U-turn straight into us, damaging the front guard and bonnet. The local panel beater said it would take a week to fix, so we stayed the night at the hotel. The next day, we took a taxi to Port Pirie, where I decided to rent a car.
"Unlimited kilometers. Can I take it to WA?" I asked.
"We would prefer you not to," she said, "but you can. Did you want insurance?"
It seemed ridiculously cheap. The car was a nearly new red Falcon, the same size as the Kingswood, so we packed everything in and strapped the two boards to the roof.
I was hoping to surf Cactus, but just as we reached the turn-off, a 30 to 40-knot change came through, so we drove on. The road was dead straight, with a service station and motel every 200 to 300 km. At one of the stops, someone told me wombats were really dangerous. Running into one was like hitting a small boulder and would often result in the car rolling over.
Finally, we reached our destination, Margaret River, but the surf was too small. The contest was due to start the next day, so I got up early just to get wet at least. However, the surf was massive, and I'd left my gun back at the camping ground. I raced back, got my board, and paddled out just as a massive 10 to 15-foot closeout set appeared right in front of me. The guy beside me took his leg rope off, and I tried to do the same, but it was too late, so I just pushed under it. I don’t think we had learned to duck dive properly at this stage.
Up and down, round and round I went. I kept my board, and the guy was still beside me, but his board was on its way to the beach. Somehow I managed to get through the next two huge walls of whitewater, caught one wave, and the event started. I didn't make it out of either of my heats, so the contest was over for me.
We stayed at the Margaret River Caravan Park, where virtually all the other competitors were staying. To summarize, we were the family crew that went to sleep around 9 o’clock. Ian Portingale's group, the Wine and Cheese crew, slept from 10 to 11. The pub boys stayed up until 1 to 2 a.m., while Tommy Peterson’s 4 a.m. team definitely made the most noise.
The red HT Holden Kingswood outside the Big Banana on one of it's many family trips. Sailboards and Surfboards attached to the roof with soft racks.
On our return trip, being a regular risk-taker, I decided that if I drove from Bunbury straight across toward Norseman, I'd cut 100 km off the trip. It could have been the dumbest thing I'd ever done, but luckily, after traveling at 100 km an hour on a 150 km dirt road without any signposts—and only passing one other car in two hours—we finally hit the Albany to Norseman Highway just as the sun was about to set.
After another 15 minutes, we could see the lights down the road from the motel where we planned to stay. Suddenly, there was a massive crash. A huge kangaroo hit us on the passenger side, forcing the car onto the wrong side of the road. Fortunately, I had a good grip on the eewhl. We survived and managed to roll into the motel car park.
The side impact had trashed the entire passenger side of the car and shoved the front grill and two radiators into the motor. Nobody was hurt, and of course, I had taken out the insurance. The red Falcon was a goner. No wonder they call me "Lucky Phil."
We booked ourselves onto the 8 o'clock Adelaide bus, which arrived in Crystal Brook at 4 a.m. the following day. We had made a call from Ceduna, and our Kingswood was not going to be ready until after the weekend, but they left a loaner car at the bus stop for us. It was an old HR sedan with trade plates on it.
Five hours later, we checked into a motel in Port Pirie for a well-earned rest. To be on the safe side, we didn’t drive the car and just walked around the town instead. That night, we heard a fair amount of noise outside, but we just thought it was normal for the town we were in.
The next morning around 8 o'clock, there was a knock on the door. Before I could get there, the motel owner opened it, saying, "Oh, you're still here! Your car is gone, and I thought it was you leaving in the middle of the night."
I must have looked pretty suspicious; I hadn't slept or shaved for a couple of days and didn't really have a permanent address, only the Point Leo Caravan Park. I rang the panel beater and asked him if the car was for sale, and then I told him it was stolen. His only concern was his trader plates. The car was found at an Aboriginal settlement a few days later and returned in good condition.
Our extremely eventful journey was almost over. As we left in the good old Kingswood, I said to Trish, "At least I haven’t been booked for speeding."
Driving through the lovely country town of Nhill, I cautiously passed between two trucks, was pulled over, and was subsequently booked. I could have told the officer I was on an incredible roll, but I couldn’t be bothered by that stage. It was just one of those trips, and at least no one was injured.
See you in the surf,
Phil
