With apologies to Banjo Patterson...
There was movement at the Alley,for the word had passed around,
that a wavesailing club was formed today,
And was looking for new members -- with mind and body sound,
so all the surfers had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted sailors from the suburbs near and far,
Had mustered at the website overnight,
For the coasties love hard riding where the big steep dumpers are,
And the surf-chicks view the battle with delight.
There was md74, who near as dammit got the previous cup,
Who knew most of what there was to know,
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up,
He would go wherever board and man could go.
And Northboy of the Gold Coast came down to lend a hand,
No better sailor ever gripped the boom,
For never board could throw him while the uni-joint would stand,
He learnt to sail wherever there was room.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
It was something like a freeride undersized,
With a touch of JP, three parts thoroughbred at least,
And such as are by all wave sailors prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry, just the sort that won't say die,
There was courage in his quick impatient tread,
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And MD said "That board will never do
For a long and tiring session -- Lad, you'd better stop away,
Those waves are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only NorthBoy stood his friend
"I think we ought to let him come" he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
for both his board and he are Maui bred."
He hails from north of Brisbane River, up by Wello, out the back,
Where the waves are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a rocker's rail strikes foam from the lip on every smack,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Wello riders in the suburbs make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between,
I have seen full many sailors since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such sailors have I seen.
So he went, they found the waves by the big elephant rock hump,
They raced away towards the big set's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at it from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And Northboy, you must ride them, try to quell your fright,
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could jump up two masts height,
And if you fall you'd better grow some gills.
So Northboy rode to smack them, he was racing on the wing,
Where the best and boldest sailors take their place,
And he raced his starboard past them, and he made the Alley ring,
With the underside, as he met the big waves' face.
The wave halted for a moment, while he gave the lip a bash,
But it saw the well-loved sand line full in view,
And it charged beneath the sail with a sharp and sudden dash,
And up into the air Northboy flew.
Then fast the sailors followed, where the breakwall steep and black,
resounded to the chop slap where they led,
And the sail gybes woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back,
from the big sign that beetles overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the swell rose in the bay,
Where kiteboarders and swimmers try to hide,
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the waves good day,
No man can sail out the other side."
When they reached the waves summit, even Northboy took a pull,
It might well make the boldest hold their breath,
The sandbars grew up thickly, and the hidden sand was full
of fin-extractors, and any slip was death.
But the man from Brisbane River let the board have its head,
And he gybed the sail around and gave a cheer,
And he raced down the waves face like a torrent down its bed,
While the surf-chicks stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the wavespray flying, but the straps contained his feet,
He cleared a fallen kiter in his stride,
And the man from Brisbane River never missed a beat,
It was grand to see that Queensland sailor ride.
Through flotsam and jetsam, on the rough and broken mound,
Down the pocket at a racing pace he went,
And he never sheeted out till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right amongst the breaking white as he climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the seashore standing mute,
Saw him ply the sail fiercely, he was right amongst it still,
As he raced across whitewater in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two walls of water met,
In the Alley, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant wave face the big wave breaking yet,
With the man from Brisbane River at its heels.
And he sailed them single-handed till their sides were foamed about,
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted, cowed and beaten, then he gybed and headed out,
And went way upwind for a single heli-tack.
But his hardy wave-bred board could scarcely raise a shlog,
It was nicks and dents all over from the chop,
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage didn't bog,
For never was a Maui board a mop.
And down by Currumbin Surf Club, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the breakwall the anglers sweep and sway,
To the breezes, and the Alley's mouth is wide,
The man from Brisbane River is a household word today,
And the sailors tell the story of his ride.
Geez I must be bored
