Disaster Dick at the Helm

Many, many years ago, while supposedly being educated in Australia, I had a classmate by the name of Richard Burt. We did a lot of stupid things together.

Richard lived in a huge old house overlooking Little Sirius Cove in Sydney Harbour. It was a great place to hang out in—because of its size mainly. We could get up to all kinds of mischief without close proximity of adults. And being on the water, it had a dock…and boats.

Richard didn’t need me around to get into trouble. Earlier on, he’d taken one of his parents’ cars for a joyride and managed to hit a power pole. The car was still driveable, so he slipped it back into the garage with the faint hope that the blame might fall upon other shoulders.

Me and Richard in a school photo

Alas, his hopes were dashed within minutes of the damage being discovered. In his haste to distance himself from the vehicle, his wallet had slipped from his pocket and onto the floor of the car.

Not long after this incident, the neighbour’s dinghy was sent to the bottom when a large boulder landed in it. Richard told me later that he’d been in the vacant lot adjoining his house and had simply wanted to roll the boulder into the bay. But as soon as he dislodged the thing, it found its way into a groove and went trundling over to the neighbour’s dock.

After each of these little adventures, Richard was allowed no visits from friends for a few weeks.

Once his privileges had been restored however, he was soon back to his old tricks.

I was at his place one afternoon when we found the spare keys to the second car and decided to put them to use. Neither of us saw too much risk in messing around with the vehicle as long as it remained within the garage: back it up a little, go forward—practice our clutch-work.

How could any harm come of this?

With the house being situated on such a steep incline, the garage—supported by concrete pillars—protruded out over a courtyard. The street was a cul-de-sac so there was virtually no traffic, and the stairs leading up from the house to street level were clearly visible from beside the garage.

While one of us stood watch, the other was free to hone his skills with gears and clutch. Before long though, we began to broaden our horizon by reversing the car to the far side of the road then driving forward into the garage—nice and slowly of course, taking no chances.

But youthful exuberance led to competition. The challenge was to pass through all the gears, accelerating in each in an attempt to get into fourth before reaching the wall of the garage.

After several unsuccessful attempts, Richard finally managed to get into fourth. A triumph!

But his achievement was not without cost. He was a tad late with the brakes and into the wall of the garage he went. By sheer luck the car stopped before plunging into the courtyard below—and by luck again, no one was in the courtyard when half a ton of bricks went crashing down.

I legged it up the road while Richard took off over the fence into the vacant lot next door. His plan was to get down to the water, climb back over the fence to the boathouse and engage in some innocent aquatic activity.

Unfortunately for Richard though, as he leapt over the fence, his father—who’d been summoned by an urgent phone call from the main house—was exiting the boathouse and the two of them met.

After this one, it was some time before Richard was allowed to entertain guests. But as before, when his time was done, things went back to normal.

A sunny Saturday afternoon some weeks later found Richard and I whipping around the cove in a little wooden runabout with an outboard engine. Richard was at the wheel when he spied his father on the dock, dressed in a pair of shorts.

“Watch me soak the Old Man,” he chirped gleefully. And with that, he zoomed up toward the dock as if to pass it by a couple of feet. But as we approached, he threw the wheel hard over, intending to produce maximum spray.

Well, he not only managed to drench his father, he also flicked the stern of the vessel into the corner of the dock, causing the transom and outboard to part company with the rest of the boat. Under the searing gaze of a dripping Mr. Burt, Richard and I, still seated in what was left of the vessel, slowly submerged.

Mr. Burt didn’t say a word. With a firmly clenched jaw he just shook his head, turned and jogged up the steps toward the house. Perhaps fleeing the temptation to whack the two of us over the head with an oar before we made it to the dock.