Happy

For Australians the Vietnam War started in the early sixties, fathers, sons, uncles and brothers were sent off to kill or to die.
War for me was High school and the Bullies and Jocks were my enemy.
I left in 72 when I was fourteen and dedicated my time to surfing, mostly in the perfect waves of Burleigh Point, that’s where I met Happy and that’s where my real education started.

During the week nobody was around and some days I would find myself surfing alone.
I started to notice another surfer appearing more frequently out in the water, firstly keeping his distance then gradually sharing the hollow barrels with me, hooting each other on and laughing at each other when we blew it.
We got to hanging out together and happy told me of his travels and how he had just moved in to the old picture theatre flats.
The Burleigh picture theatre had been closed for years and the front and back rooms were converted into flats, the theatre itself was still there, canvas seats, screen, projectors, the whole lot but nobody used it. Sometimes I shaped surfboards in there.

After surfs I would go to Happys and read surf mags, smoke pot and talk shit with Happy, his girlfriend Sue and their flat mate Michelle.
Over time I spent most days and nights there and eventually decided I needed a place of my own down near the point.
Living at home with my arguing parents and my bully brother was no longer bearable and coming home stoned was getting harder to hide.

One night I rode down to Happy’s on my pushbike to let him know about a place I had found.

The cold winter breeze was howling up through the old picture theatre’s dark stairs blowing foam dust around in ghostly swirls. An eerie chill swept through me as I tripped over a broken Ouija board outside the front door of happy’s flat.
What the fuck? I thought, as I knocked at the door.
Happy slowly opened it a crack and peered one eyeball out. “Quick come inside”
“What’s going on?” I asked feeling a little bit rattled.
Happy and his girlfriend had been playing with a Ouija board they had found, “just for a bit of fun”, until the glass started moving violently by itself across the board and off the table, smashing into the wall where his Rolling Stones Goats Head Soup poster was hanging. Happy had smashed and thrown the Ouija board out the door and was trying to calm down and get a grip over a few pipes. He thought I may have been some kind of evil apparition knocking at his door, not that evil apparitions have a habit of doing that. I had never seen him with the “Fear” before, and the room was full of a kind of dark presence hovering over us in an uncomfortable aura.
As he introduced me to the art of smoking pot through a bamboo pipe, we talked about moving into this great old house up on the hill overlooking the point, it had been empty for years and I knew the owner. Happy was sick of the small flat he was renting at the back of the old picture theatre and I was over living at home with my parents and brothers. So the decision to move was easy and after the Ouija board incident, Sue and Michelle were keen to move in with us.

The house was a massive old Queenslander with a verandah running all the way around it and because I knew the owner, the rent was only twenty-five bucks a week. It had five bedrooms and high ceilings with a perfect view overlooking the point. We democratically tossed a coin to see who got the best rooms, I opted for the front verandah which, although exposed to the weather, had the best views.

On our first night there we had a house warming party that was fuelled by a mushroom punch and copious amounts of hashish. All the local surfers and there friends turned up and turned on.
After a while I decided to go for a wander outside.
I can see the trunk of the palm tree vibrating, every atom bouncing in unison, yet still holding form as I stare closely at its particles.
There’s nobody else around, not a sound can be heard, no light except the glow of the moon.
I feel complete, almost divine, connected to the nature of my surroundings yet detached from the material world.
A moth struggles to free itself from the sticky bindings of a spider’s web. Should I help or should I let nature take its course, is it fate that I am here to observe or to intervene, mercy for the moth or grace for the spider.
A light rain falls and sprinkles moon glistened rivulets upon my vision, the molecular dance continues as water slips between the gaps in the atoms, the tree drinks in life as the spider takes its prey.
All around is wonder and beauty.
The depth of pain brings compassion and understanding to the surface, the act of love; euphoria.
I own nothing, but feel content, as I am slowly drenched.
The spider seeks shelter under the leaves of the palm; my shelter is in my mind.

I wake feeling drained from the night before, the price I pay for mushroom induced enlightenment, or is that hallucinogenic insight, either way I feel like shit as I stumble towards the bathroom.
The cobwebs in my mind entangle the truth and fantasy as I struggle to grasp the reality of cleaning my teeth. My image in the mirror reflects a strange difference to what I expect.
Walking back through the house I notice that no one else is up yet, so I decide to go and check the surf and maybe have a quick swim to try and lift this cloud out of my head.

Old man fisher is just opening his shop propping up the wooden shutters.
“Good morning Stan”
“G’day young fella, not much surf eh?”
Stan, a retired cop with three sons of his own runs the old caravan park shop and lives upstairs with his wife and kids.
The shop used to just sell food, fishing gear and assorted camping accessories. Stan, being the insightful bastard that he is, has added surfboard wax and the world’s largest and most varied range of lollies to cater for the pot smoking, surfing community.

The sun is shining its brilliance on the ocean like millions of diamonds, sparkling the glare all around, blinding my vision as it warms my soul.
This place is paradise, which sometimes goes unnoticed in the day to day. Old houses line the streets like totems and everything seems strangely unfamiliar like a hazy dream.
I walk these streets like a nomadic monk wondering about what goes on behind the closed doors of the shelters that line them. Do the inhabitants think like I do? Are they similar or even familiar in any way or am I an abnormality…some kind of mutant freak too dumb to know better yet too smart to know less.

The cool water of the ocean snaps some sharpness back into my conscience as I dive headfirst through a wave, floating out through the back, enjoying the liquid silence of my salt-water immersion. For me the sea is always comforting even in its wildest moods; today it’s very calm and glassy with just a small swell rolling in caressing the white sandy shore.

When I get back home everyone is up and about cooking breakfast and talking shit.
“What happened to you last night?” Happy asks.
“You disappeared for hours.”
At the time it seemed like minutes to me.
“Fucked if I can remember” I mumble back.
I was still feeling a little dazed and didn’t feel much like talking, stringing words together took effort.
“I’m off to work.” Might as well I thought, there’s no surf.
Shaping and repairing boards is fun for me, definitely a whole lot better than the normal nine to five grind. I can work my own hours and be creative.
“Want a cone?” Happy offers as I walk out the door.
“No thanks.” I knew I would go nowhere if I did; just fester on the couch all day.

Down at the surfboard factory the guys I work with are older, more experienced, and they notice my vagueness.
“Big night eh?” Fred comments.
“Yeah, don’t ask” I reply, not wanting to go into it.
“Anyone using this room?” as I disappear into it putting my dust mask on.
The fluorescent lights illuminate the white foam in front of me as I shave layers off with a planer, time passes unnoticed in a glowing trance as a hydrodynamic form takes shape before me. It looks okay but I know I’ll see it better if I leave it for a while and come back to it later. I leave work trying to avoid eye contact with the others. Feeling unusually paranoid and insecure as I peddle off on my old pushbike, up the laneway, towards the beach and home.
Walking up the steps of the old Queenslander we called home, I could hear David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust blaring out. Happy must be home playing guitar in tune with Mick Ronson and Earl Slick. He is sitting there on the couch in knee high boots with an uncanny resemblance to Bowie himself, stoned and jamming with his giant Plessey amp cranked up to high volume.
“Want a cone?”
“Yeah why not.”
That was it for the rest of the day and the night and many other day and nights. Cones, jamming, sometimes alcohol or hallucinogenics, occasionally food.
Slowly but surely I could feel myself slipping, questioning my existence like the drug-fucked sometimes do. Change was in the air, death around the corner and insanity hiding in the alleyways.
My work mates had been there before, some had found solace in Eastern doctrines, others in intellect or the arts and others just lost it.
They all contributed to the gaps left in my mind, adding to the confusion and the alternatives.

“Fuck!” I wake up sweating with a heaviness floating all around me, the darkness of the room disorientating my presence as I claw for something familiar. Where am I, who am I, what am I? My animal instinct fights its way to the surface as I take a deep breath; I am me, I am home, I am alive.

Happy got a job at the local nursery.
“Fucking good job, work my own ours.”
Which wasn’t many, but somehow he kept his job.
I continued shaping boards and doing ding repairs, sometimes restoring old classics for the odd collector.
At work Fred the glasser, Mick the head shaper, and P.C. the polisher are smoking joints and ranting and raving about their crap; Transcendental Meditation, Buddha, Hare Krishna, third eyes, animal magnetism, Kahlil Gibran, Lobsang Rampa, it was all there, colliding with itself, stretching the truth, manipulating science and logic to imply their own reasoning. The factories fumes have penetrated the core of their grey matter, I thought, as I patiently listen to them contradict each other and themselves. “Cows will come and cows will go but the bull around here goes on forever,” written on the shaping bay wall by Zero the sander who also listened to the daily barrage with amusement.
Along with Happy and I, Zero also had a similar outlook at all the cosmic bullshit and although being slightly older than us he would join us for a smoke and a drink on our lunch breaks enlightening us with his more experienced attitude. Zero was one of the best surfers out the point at that time, he had a casual Gerry Lopez kind of style and drew some of the cleanest, most beautiful lines I have ever seen. He was also a realist with a very laid back attitude to everything.

The Hare Krishnas invited us along to one of their free feasts at the C.W.A. hall, probably hoping to convert or recruit us. We had heard rumors that they put hallucogenics in their food so we were keen to give it a go. We were so stoned before we got there that we couldn’t tell if it was the food, the weird atmosphere or just our state. Some of the boys from the factory were embracing the Krishna faith and entertained us with their mini acts on the small stage there. The food was great and happy and I went every week and pigged out until they barred us because we would eat all their bliss balls and not hang around for the chanting.
We were over it anyway, so we just resorted to the drug soaked couch fester…our comfort zone.

The following summer brought a long flat spell, no waves for nearly three months. We all went out and brought or borrowed trail bikes to go bush bashing out through the foothills of Mt Cougall and the sand dunes up the spit. Getting stoned and riding out through the old tunnels of the disused railway line that ran out through Mudgeeraba, letting each other take the lead to break through all the giant spiderwebs along the way. In those days hill climbing was the big thing, nobody did jumps because the older suspensions couldn’t handle it, and we would blaze trails up vertical cliffs and muddy mountains, sometimes falling and sliding all the way back to the bottom before cracking the final ascent.
It was a rush, a kind of substitute for surfing that eventually became our second passion which we also heightened with the help of herbs and fungi.

On one occasion we felt the wind turn offshore while we were riding around the hinterland so Zero and I grabbed some mushies and headed back to the point.
It was four to six foot offshore and nobody out.
I am surfing better than ever before, performing moves as quick as I can imagine them, time passes irrelevently, hours turn to minutes, minutes into hours. I am alone and tuned in, no other surfers in the water and no spectators on the headland.
I feel totally free and energised, just the waves, the elements and myself. Surfing until my arms refuse to paddle anymore, I ride one last wave to the beach and then head home.
Walking in the door dripping wet, hungry but elated I notice the night crew are already partying and they all stare at me like I’m some kind of ghost.
“Where the fuck have you been? They ask.
“It’s been dark for three hours”
I look at the clock and its nine-thirty p.m.
“I’ve been surfing out the point, the waves were unreal…nobody out… I had it to myself” I state matter of factly.
“Bullshit, your tripping man, its black outside” Happy throws back.
Actually I was tripping with the help of a handful of gold tops.
Zero and I had taken them mid-arvo and then decided to go for a late-arvo surf, I lost Zero somewhere along the way, the last I saw of him was when he sat down in the middle of the road holding his head laughing hysterically. I left him there as I thought he was attracting too much attention and at the time I didn’t want or need anyone noticing us.
I had been surfing in the dark of night but could see as clear as day. How? Was I hallucinating? Did I imagine the whole thing? I was drenched in salt water, I was there, I was surfing, I had been in a psylocibin induced super-natural state, it did happen.
I never tried it again and I never really felt that level of performance and speed again, maybe I should have, I thought.
“Have you seen Zero” I ask. Suddenly noticing his absence.
“Nah.” Happy replies.
“Hope he’s alright.”
The next day I bump into Zero down the beach and exchange mushroom stories, He never made it to the surf, he got side-tracked up around the Headland and spent half the night trying to find his way out. Unlike me he had no night- vision.

The signs were there but I never noticed them and no one pointed them out. With the physique of a P.O.W. from not eating much at all, except only when I had to. Pot smoking, Mescaline, L.S.D and the mushies were taking their toll on my being but I was having too much fun to realise the devastating slow decay of mind, body and soul.
Like some kind of mutated, Rastafarian, hippy, pilgrim, I wandered the planet in a drug stupor wearing cheesecloth harem pants and Hawaiian wedding shirts, occasionally working, occasionally surfing, and only sometimes-grasping reality. My reality was like a foggy dream where thoughts floated by in front of me just out of reach and understanding dodged and weaved its way out of my path. I was experiencing enlightenment from a very dark place and I was happy with my lot but far from satisfied.
From where to the depths of my being did this lie creep in and become my life, I know not. I walk in its shadows and feed on the scraps of deceit.
The days grew shorter and the nights seem to never end as the darkness began to induce the fear of the unknown.
Surfing, skateboarding and adventure consumed the days whilst drugs and disorder digested the nights.
Happy was unaffected by all this and seemed to float in and out of what ever was laid before him. He was the type that nothing seemed to phase. The type that had no fears, no questions or problems. He once told me how he was miles away from the sea, alone in a tin shack, tripping on mushrooms, listening to what he thought was the sound of waves in the distance, etching a tattoo of a mushroom into his arm with a pin and some ink like it was a normal everyday occurrence.
I couldn’t even fathom the thought of that kind of experience and it seemed both humorous and fearful to think about.
Happy thought I was weak and un-adventurous and was always trying to get me to come on one of his basic survival bush camps, without much success.
We hadn’t had surf for over a month and I was becoming desperate for some kind of excitement.
So I agreed to go mountain climbing with Happy up the steep side of the Cougall peaks.
With no ropes or climbing gear we headed off early on a sunny morning. A back pack, containing water, a bong, pot and some fruit, was all we were carrying. We left our motorbikes hidden in the bushes near the entrance to Mt. Cougall national park and walked the rest of the way in. On the way there Happy and I picked and ate some gold top mushrooms whilst hiking across the numerous cow paddocks.
The familiar vibrating thoughts and a fearful cramp of excitement in the guts told us our trip was just beginning in more ways than one.
All I remember from that night are in flashes…. Happy’s face melting and distorting into grotesque creatures……Heavy rain and lightning…..Sliding down steep slopes of mud, rock, and moving trees…..Insane laughter…….intense fear…..moments of relief….psychedelic skies….riding home totally drained but relieved and glad to be alive.

The next night was Zero’s birthday party and we recovered enough to go. All the heavies were there doing their thing, this thing, and that. Being the grommets we did what we always did; kept a low profile, got stoned and mingled with our elders and peers. I smoked some opiated hash with zero through a carrot chillum because Zero didn’t like bongs and we ranted and raved laughing at nothing in particular.
Zero seemed a bit detached and bummed which was not his normal effervescent self. He was getting over a bad dose of the flu and I put his demure down to that, but I was wrong. Fred and his low life had been pressuring him to do some kind of international drug run for them but Zero wasn’t keen on the idea, and now he knew too much, so people from both ends of the deal were getting nervous. Zero was worried and tried to warn me about who was pressuring him.

I went home early to sleep and woke up to loud knocking at the door.
It was Happy telling me in between sobs and through tears that Zero was dead, apparently an overdose from a heroin injection, something Zero never did, needles weren’t his thing.

The funeral was a strange affair.
Amongst Zero’s family and friends were detectives, suspicious of foul play. Scattered around and about were police photographers snapping at all they suspected. Tears were mixed with anger and condolences with accusations, as some were obvious in their absence and others conspicuous in their presence.
Happy and I had an idea of who it may have been but weren’t sure enough, or brave enough, to point the finger.
The priest delivered his service and Zero’s mother and sister paid their respects with humorous and loving stories of their son and brother.
The police cameras clicked and flashed as the D’s interviewed everyone leaving the funeral. Happy told them to “Fuck Off! This is not the time or the place for this.” We knew that one of the D’s was in on it and they wanted a scapegoat to throw this thing at.

In the following years after zeros death we all kind of drifted off in different directions searching for the unfindable and finding the unsearched. I had moved into a small house on the beach front by myself and was focusing on my surfing, shaping and health, and after his girlfriend left him, happy moved out to an abandoned farm in the hills overlooking the coast. We used to make our own surfboards there and sometimes get the odd custom order from a friend. Happy grew his own pot and we could see the whole coast from the front verandah so a lot of days and years disappeared in a cloud of bong smoke.

Eventually I stopped going up there as much and started hanging at home with a string of different girlfriends that never eventuated to anything you could call a relationship. After splitting up with one of the girls I started to question my purpose and my future.
The summer breeze swept through the house like a good memory caressing my senses with a feeling of contentment.
Where do those wonderful times store themselves and how and what brings them out to soak in my being. The seasons come and go here bringing and taking whatever they may bring or take year after year. Sometimes I think they are coming and going later and later every year as if the time clock and the season cycles were out of whack from the beginning…seasons have no use for a timepiece…they need not to heed the tick tock of the passing hour.

These days my mind wanders and wonders about nothing in particular moving on to the next thought before I’ve grasped the last. My memory is overcrowded and unsorted, making my focused concentration distracted and seemingly directionless. The days of heavy drinking and heavier drugs have long but past, I now feel content with the occasional coffee, wine and sometimes a non-hydro joint. Top-notch pigeons are cooing outside adding to my contentment. In fact right now at this very moment everything is Zen…it couldn’t be better and I think to myself about how I would love to be in this state permanently, but then I would probably take it for granted and not appreciate its unique qualities. I had learnt that there always had to be a balance between desire and satisfaction.

Happy and I slowly stopped visiting each other as our suspicions of who was responsible for Zeros demise were confirmed, and we both decided it would be best for me to go it alone. Then, if things went wrong, I could always disappear out to the farm. Zero was a good friend and mentor and it wasn’t until he was gone that I realised just how inspiring he was to me.

I knew where the guy behind zero’s death was living and he was so fucked up he had no idea who his enemies were or the fact that I knew.
On the night I decided to pay him a visit a full moon shone down on the damp path to his house, guiding my way and strengthening my conviction.
The fear was pulsing through my being with every heartbeat, overloading my system to the point where I began to tremble.
My anger pushed me on to complete what I had started. To give in now would render the last few years pointless; in fact, I felt that it would make my whole existence meaningless. I had to do this even though I felt incapable.
It had been years since Zero’s death and Fred had aged into a frail decrepit looking junkie. His teeth were rotten and his flesh hung off his bones like thin wet cloth.
He stared at me through yellow eyes and his tar stained hands were grabbing air as he slowly recognized me.
“That’s right Fred, it’s me…. I knew all along …. Now it’s time to pay you fuck.”



I still live alone on the headland surfing, shaping and trying to stay healthy. Happy and I keep in touch and occasionally get together for a drink and a smoke.
I have learnt a lot over the years and realized the missed opportunities along with dead brain cells don’t return. My memories of those early years are vague and disordered, sometimes I get flashes of my life’s episodes and sometimes I wonder what actually happened and what I imagined happened. In the end it doesn’t matter, just like the murdering junkie’s life, the drug fucked years were wasted.