Shit HolidaysCamping on a dried-up river bed, we discovered when it rained during the night and half of our equipment and clothes were already most of the way to the Irish Sea why you shouldn't camp on a dried-up riverbed. Tell us about crappy holidays.
Suggested by Zuowon
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Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 15 Aug 2014, 10:32)
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My First Surfing Trip: An Australian experience. (long, but hopefully not dull)Many moons ago, in my spotted youth, one of my best mates (Dave) was the first bloke in our social group to get his car licence. He’d scraped together enough coin to purchase a battered old 60’s wagon, and so began a new found freedom at around 16 years of age. At the time, we were all into surfing, and this meant that rather than relying on the goodwill of our parents to drive us to the beach, we could now pool our money, buy a few litres of petrol and drive (all by ourselves!) to a remote beach for a day of paddling through pounding surf, trying not to drown and with some luck, catching a wave.
Happy times. Innocent times.
We also made some new friends through surfing – we got to know some older blokes who we’d regularly meet at the beach. We’d chat, share a few waves, and generally be in awe of their surfing skills. They were a bit rough, but seemed very grown up and cool to a pair of innocent 16 year olds. They did cool things like smoke cigarettes and tell stories of getting shitfaced at nightclubs, and you know, pulling chicks, to like, fuck and stuff!
Anyway, this one time, the older surfers invited us to an overnight camping trip. Oh man, we’d graduated to the “cool” group. We’d arranged to all meet up one weekend at a remote beach & stay overnight. We’d have a fire on the beach, sleep in our cars and have a jolly good time, swapping lurid stories of imaginary sexual conquests.
I’d been camping before, but this was going to be different – there would be alcohol, and perhaps some chicks. This was going to be so cool. It was all very exciting to be invited, but Dave and I were worried that we’d be labelled as dorks if we turned up without alcohol or cigarettes. We had absolutely bugger all money, so budgetary constraints dictated that we had to nick a few bottles of cheap port from my Dad’s wine cellar, and “borrow” a packet of smokes from Dave’s Mum’s handbag.
All very povvo, and in hindsight, a bit sad that we valued drinking and smoking as prerequisites for social acceptance to what was, in essences, a group of fucking bogans.
Anyway, after a few hours drive, we meet up with the others. There’s about 10 old cars parked throughout the dunes, a big group of blokes, we all hit the water and paddled around for a few hours, and just as dusk fell, we returned to shore and got busy building a fucking huge bonfire in amongst the dunes. It was Winter, and fucking cold.
Eveyone got stuck into the booze, Dave and I entered into the spirit of the occasion with the enthusiasm and gusto of the awkward novice.
Now at this stage in my life, I’d never really had much to do with alcohol, so in hindsight, it probably wasn’t such a great idea to rapidly neck 2 litres of cheap port on top of a feed of cold baked beans.
Inevitably, before long, the sky started spinning around my head and I stumbled away from the fire to seek out the quiet coolness of the dunes, away from the raging bonfire, just as great gushes of purple port-soaked baked beans started violently exiting from my body with great heaving retches, mostly through my nose. (Remember your first alcohol induced chunder? It’s quite scary the first time, isn't it?).
I must have passed out for some time in the quiet darkness, as next thing I know, a couple of very drunk, but well meaning blokes were dragging me by my legs, back to the warmth of the fire, asking if I was ok. They dumped me almost into the fire, and through a crust of sand and vomit, I could see a scene of utter carnage.
Everyone had been getting into the grog and probably some harder stuff, and the stupid shows of bravado had already started – a couple of blokes were been tearing around the dunes in an old car, headlights swerving at crazy angles, engine screaming, sand flying, little regard for the proximity of drunk people. The car swerved to avoid one drunk bloke (but actually clipped him and sent him flying) hit a tree and came to a rapid stop.
Everyone cheered wildly, helped the battered bloke to his feet (cigarette still clamped between his lips) then another car started up the same performance. It seemed to go on for hours. I finally twigged that this was actually a primeval bogan method of harvesting more wood for the fire – smash down a tree with a car, then drag it onto the bonfire.
Jesus, this was getting scary.
Inbetween dry retching, I saw blokes fall into the fire, blokes fighting each other, the sickly waft of cigarette smoke would set off another round of retching. Someone had their car stereo at top volume. It was noise, smoke, vomit, violence, all around.
I wasn’t having a very nice time.
I sought the refuge of Dave’s wagon, hoping to roll up in a blanket and quietly pass out, but, as I discovered, Dave hadn’t bothered to seek the refuge of the quiet dune to chunder. So yeah, Dave had laid down in his car, as he felt a bit "woozy" and had spent quite some time power-chundering bile and port flavoured baked beans throughout the entire interior of his nice old car. The stench was overpowering, and there were no dry blankets on account that he’d also pissed himself.
So, I spent the night curled in semi foetal position near the fire, avoiding the drunken lurching cavemen, trying to not be killed by witless piss heads engaging in vehicular tree felling.
As dawn eventually broke, the daylight revealed a scene that would rival the Somme Battlefields of World War 1 – shredded vegetation as far as the eye could see, bloodied bodies, a haze of smoke drifted across the landscape, the occasional broken vehicle. Broken souls wandered through the carnage, looking cigarette butts, or a last swig of grog from a discarded bottle.
Oh, and this was in a designated National Park too! So...if a Ranger happened to come along (which was highly likely on a Sunday morning) we would all be up for some hefty fines on account of the significant environmental damage. It was just a massive level of depraved base devastation in one stupid evening. (I’ve never experienced anything quite like it since).
I wanted to get the fuck out of there, away from these cretins.
So, with all my 2 hours of driving experience to count on, I shoved Dave aside, brushed off most of the dried baked beans, and bunny-hopped his shitty old car (no synchro in 1st gear – a good time to learn to drive) all the way back home. He lay on the back seat, intermittently moaning and retching out the window.
All the way home, I prayed that we wouldn’t get pulled over, as I had no licence, and Dave was in no condition to think and breathe, let alone drive.
I eventually came to a shuddering stalled halt outside my Mum’s house. Thankfully, she working a weekend shift, so Dave slept all the rest of the day on the front lawn, while I quite literally hosed out the interior of his car. Eventually he recovered sufficiently to drive home.
So yeah, that was my first "big" surfing trip.
It was really quite shit.
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Ken Oath, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 14:55,
11 replies)
An accurate tl;dr.But not needed, as the story is entertainingly written, as ever.
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 16:05, closed)
I scanned this and got "surfing" and "bogan" but no "barbie", " chunder" or "roo"I therefore award this 2 strines out of a possible 5.
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Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 16:26,
closed)
There's defiantly a chunder in there somewhere, I mean, you can't talk Strine without at least one chunder.
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Ken Oath, Thu 21 Aug 2014, 3:35,
closed)
This won't be the first time you've won QOTWIf my memory serves me well.
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 19:36, closed)
good callI concur
(, Thu 21 Aug 2014, 13:22, closed)
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