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They were having a hell of a hoot of a time, with plenty of real serious drinking. After the first few days of rambling about the bays of the place,
they had found an old abandoned house at the end of a small but deep inlet, right up in the bush. It was tucked away, hidden
from the outside world, not only, by the isolation of these islands, but by the camouflage of this concealed place. It was just a simple shell of a structure really, with little comforts to speak of. A couple of old chairs, a table and a bunk room. Just a bit more than a shearers hut, you know the sort of thing one might find way up in the hills of the sheep stations. And like these, it was always fair enough for anyone to stay over in them.
They had set up a good camp in the bush initially, but once
the existence of this house had been discovered, they quickly
packed up and moved down all their stuff to this new spot. The building seemed so deserted and disused, that they had all felt
that no body would probably ever think of that place ever again.
It appeared that the place was abandoned for good. God, they
had only found it themselves by sheer accident. It was just left
to turn to rack and ruin in the total forgottenness of the land. It
was basically going to rot here neglected for years to come, until it eventually just fell to bits.
It was a bonza place to set up though. The weather could throw
all the crap under the sun at them and unlike the tents, (for there were some frightful leaks on the deck, and the water could seep
in and run down with a constant drip all night), they could sleep
dry for a change. For here at least, in this old place even though it was a bit run down, they did have a dry space to stretch out.
There was another room that must have been used to dry their clothes out on, as it had long racks.
Their small craft, had approached the bay under sail, running
far up the hidden arm of the bay, that disappeared visually into
the bush but then opened up to provide a perfect anchorage, sheltered and hidden from the outside. It was here that they anchored the old tub. It was pretty shitty weather outside
with squalls sneaking through unexpectedly all the time and just
as it seemed to be picking up, there would be a hell of a din on
the roof as a heavy burst pounded out of the sky on to the corrugated iron. It had been quite a trip down too. They
always knew that it could be, but in a boat like their one,
well they were just glad to be here, and as they were all a
bit crook the less said about that the better.
Once a firm anchorage was jacked up, they proceeded to bring ashore all their stuff. They had also brought a fairly decent
supply of liquid refreshments with them, and all that had to
come ashore as well. They had intended a some good nights
with a few beers beside a ragging fire right from the outset.
There were sleeping bags, blankets, washing stuff and the
tucker and that had to come ashore too, so there were a
few trips in all before it was finished and they were snug inside.
It took a while, but once she was all safe and sound, they
began to poke about the place a bit more. There were even
older huts and shelters scattered around the bush. Most of
them had sort of junk and stuff in them, certainly nothing of
any real value or worth taking back as a souvenir. One had a
few sacks of coal which was great for the fire. Away up the
hill was a sort of tree house. It hung way out on a limb over
the bay, and further up the hill, right at the top was another
hut hidden in the shelter of the bush. It had big windows
facing out to sea and provided a commanding view of the
greater bay area. Once they found this hut, it wasn't
long before they worked out what this
place was all about.
Apparently it had been used by the army during the war to
keep an eye out for any Germans
and Japs in case the dirty
devils got any smart ideas about creeping up from down south on us. There were even the old charts for spotting the different
types of ships still pinned to the wall. Shit, it must have been a cushy number. While they were away with the blood and guts brigade in the danger zone, these blighters must have been here
with a few pair of binoculars and all the time in the world to fart about. Cripes, some blokes get all the luck. Bloody poofters.
It was after about three nights in the house that the real fun
started. They were all getting pretty pissed every night
each one had got better than the night before. They could
go on to about 11 p.m. with the hurricane lamps burning a
way, and the odd flicker of a candle, and as the night drew
on things would start winding up. That third night wasn't
too bad, but the next night, Jack had got up for a pee and
as he made his way for the door in the dark, over he
tripped and staggered into a chair that was in his road. In one
of his usual fits, he sent the thing flying and the leg stuck
clean into the wall. Gee's it looked funny sticking out of the wall. George got pretty upset with him waking everyone up and
after a hell of a lot of yelling, they had a fair dust up fighting
on the floor, both were pissed of farts of course. It was
George that had the black eye the next morning though.
They had a 303 with them and after they had woken about 10 a.m.they would make their way out the back of the house
where there was a sort of concrete thing. It was perfect for placing bottles on and popping them off. If they missed, the
ricochet would send the bullet screaming off in any direction.
It was a hell of a laugh. They pretended the concrete stump
was a German, and they were the coast watchers popping
them off. Ever time that Jack missed, he would run up in a
rage and bash the hell out of the stump with the back end of
the axe as a sort of punishment for his own bad shooting. The
others would piss themselves laughing. Cripes, there was stuff
all left of it by the time they packed up and left. And that lump of concrete had split to bits from the heavy blows that Jack kept inflicting on it.
There were some good windows in the place going to waste too,
so they got out the hammers and a crow bar from the boat and started ripping out the best ones. Bert said he could use them
for his place at Colac Bay. They had double sheets of glass
in them, not like the windows that you see in most houses back home in Invercargill. It was a fair job to get them out and took the best part of the afternoon to do much. It was easier to pull them inside and take them out through the door. Some were a bit big though and they came up with the idea of widening the
gapping hole where one of the windows had come out of.
So, they set to smashing great bit s out of the wall.
It became quite an organised game to see who could smash
out the largest section in one hit. Only one swipe at time with the crow bar or the hammer, take your pick. There was rubbish
flying about in all directions. It became quite rousing smashing
things up, and they had all got more excited as the afternoon
went by. At the end, they were running across the floor and
jumping through the air to crash into the side of the wall.
When they stopped for another drink, for it was hard and
thirsty stuff, the screw driver was wedged in between two
boards with the point sticking out, and Dick went over to the
table where one of the old tins of baked beans were sitting,
for there were miles of tins left behind by the war mob.
In one great motion, he yelled out "Bloody baked beans again",
and the tin went flying through the air, hitting right on the end
of the screw driver. The sharp point of the screw driver went
right through the lid and the horrible familiar orange liquid
oozed out onto the floor. They all burst out laughing and it was made worse, as Jack had a bottle of beer up to his gob and
when he laughed, the piss went everywhere. Then he got up and with his finger over the bottle opening, shook the hell out
of the bottle and then sprayed the shit out of all the others.
They chased each other about the house for awhile spraying piss everywhere. Shit they all laughed.
You wouldn't read about it, one throw straight on to the sharp
tip of the screw driver. And they had a few bets to see who
could do it again. So they all thought they would give this
throwing a go and their attention turned from the windows to throwing tins of baked beans at the screw driver point. It was
quite hard to begin with, and Jack's first throw had been a lucky one. There was a bit of a knack involved, but with some practice, they could all score a hit after about three throws with each tin.
Bert was getting the best score by far and had six hits in a
row at one stage. God they cheered. Once a tin was hit and slit open, it was turned upside down on the table to let the stuff
run out. There was a hell of a mess by the time they finished.
Not only had they thrown all the tins of beans, but all the tins of spaghetti and jams had hit the spike, as they called it, as well.
There was a hell of a mix running out across the table and
trickling on to the floor. In all George had scored 16, Dick 22
and Bert was well ahead with 34. It left bugger all on the
dusty shelf of any worth. There was a couple of bottles of
Roses Ship's Lime Juice, and a bit of tined beef, plus a few
tins of milk powder. Still, no bugger would be back
here for awhile.
It was starting to stretch out towards evening, and they lugged
off to the boat the windows that were lying on the ground. It
was obvious after awhile that they had taken out too many. The boat was only going to bee able to take about three, and they
had ripped out at least six. Still, it didn't matter a dam, as the
whole place would have rotted apart anyway, and the wreckage from their stay was stuff all in the run of things. They managed to get every thing sorted out as the dark set right in and they spent
one last draughty night in the house, but they were all up at the sparrows fart to leave the next morning.
As they walked out for the last time, the house looked pretty amazing and you could tell there had been some wild parties
here at some point. The tins of food were stacked up on the table and the food still oozing out in all directions, and there was the
great gapping holes in the walls they had smashed to get the windows out. There were plenty of broken glass from all their smashed piss bottles about as well. It was real evidence
of their bloody rip roaring time on the island. Still, it was
doubtful that anyone would ever be back here again. What would be the reason?
