Once we were all safely checked into the motel it was time to get ready for the evening’s activities.
A digression here on the two main destinations:
Port Stephens is about 150 miles north of Sydney. A beautiful bay area but sparsely populated with a few stunning beaches. Nelson Bay is the main town and as you can see the view is amazing
Even Nelson Bay only has 6 or 7 thousand people so it’s a couple of pubs and the local golf club.
Newcastle on the other hand is a proper city about the same size as the English one. Famous for having a massive steelworks it also has great surf beaches.
Adamdaley, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
There’s a lot of pubs on the main drag and back then there was even a nightclub called – I shit you not – Fannies.
Back to the itinerary
Drinking on a minibus for several hours with beer spraying around and wearing a vest top, shorts and flip flops meant you were covered with filth by the time the motel manager had reluctantly granted you access to the premises.
A shower was first in the order of play and then it was time to work out what to wear. Unless you turned up in a pair of speedos pubs generally let anyone in but we were usually looking for a cheap meal in the local golf or returned servicemen’s club which had a 1960s dress code. This meant no T shirts, jeans or trainers so it was a collared shirt, trousers and decent shoes. This also helped if we’d managed to track down a nightclub.
Friday night was mostly a scouting mission. Get in the nearest pub and get the locals to tell you where the action was.
Despite strenuous efforts luring the local girls back to the motel was often a difficult task. Perhaps our cultural sophistication was too overpowering.
On the odd occasion it did happen it was usually a reason for the individual concerned to be shitting themselves for months afterward in case their wife or longstanding girlfriend found out. And remember there was another 20 odd guys to spill the beans. Nearly all had girlfriends and we all knew that was the end of it if one of them found out.
A secondary concern was that a lot of the rooms had an interconnecting door with the next one (presumably for family convenience). It was considered a sign of some kind of secret perversion if you locked the thing. Consequently one fortunate individual was interrupted numerous times in flagrante delecto by team mates barging in and giving encouragement to his efforts even extending to a pat on the backside.. We gave it about a minute between each incursion for maximum disruption to his rhythm. Despite regularly shouting “fuck off” he should have been grateful as he undoubtedly lasted a lot longer than he would have at home.
With the extinguishment of most romantic aspirations it was time – at about midnight – to get back to the motel. This was a haphazard event where it was every man for himself. The minibus was clearly not an option – I doubt whether anyone had the capacity to switch the engine on let alone drive it anywhere. So in Port Stephens it was a walk. On this occasion I was with two teammates.
About 30 minutes by my guess. A two lane road with a narrow beach and the bay on one side and detached houses well set back on the other. A fairly straightforward walk ( well stagger) you would think. There were distractions..
About 10 minutes in we noticed that there were a number of small boats tied up on the beach. They were locked to wooden pegs. A quick examination revealed detaching them from the peg was next to impossible so we opted to dig the peg out of the sand. After getting down about 2 feet the peg was free and the boat was in the water.
One colleague foolishly opted to climb on board whereupon two of us recognising a golden opportunity gave it a massive shove into the bay. No surf so by the time our gullible friend realised his predicament he was 30 feet into the bay and heading in the wrong direction. With no oars or motor.
He could have swum back in but there were nasty jellyfish and potentially the odd shark plus he was in his going out gear. Being in the sea after dark is actually quite scary so, operating like a turbocharged pedalo, he managed to get close enough to wade in from knee deep.
I suppose that was the last outing those shoes and trousers got.
We were responsible adults though and got the boat back onshore and even returned it to its original place.
The journey then resumed.
Boredom soon set in.
Outside the big city centres housing was like US suburbia. Detached homes with a decent sized front lawn. No one was going up every driveway to deliver mail so letterboxes were either freestanding at the bottom of the drive or mounted on the adjacent fencepost.
Kgbo, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
One mate had been watching too much WWF ( not our intrepid sailor who was still recovering from his nautical experience). He decided it would it would be a good idea to practice flying drop kicks on these items.
After successfully taking down four or five of these items another good candidate was identified. Free standing with no fence or shrubbery in the immediate vicinity to inhibit the effort.
Cue my mate taking a long run up and launching into the sort of drop kick Hulk Hogan would have been proud of. Unfortunately the homeowner was one step ahead of us and had cemented the bloody thing into the ground.
It gave a massive clang and vibrated a lot but remained standing prouder than a honeymooner’s dick.
We all shrugged and thought on to the next one. No such luck. A front window opened, an angry voice shouted “Oy you bastards” and we had to leg it.
I’d got about 100 yards when I saw the front lights of his car come out of the driveway. Prudently I separated from the other two and made it back to the motel before anyone else. While I got inside without any drama the other two had to climb a 6 foot wall at the side by the pool and then hide in the grounds for a good time while the night manager got an earful from one enraged homeowner.
More next time including riding around at 2am in the minibus and further interaction with the local letterboxes.
© ArthurDaley 2026
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