Ian Granland

I cannot believe that I only spent one season as a member of the South Maroubra Surf Life Saving Club. I seemed to fit so much into that period which was only 6 months out of my life. Besides that, I often wonder what happened to those people I met whilst I was there. I made some good friends, had some happy times and best of all, I still retain strong memories of that period and yet, those people have been out of my life for almost 40 years.

rom 1963 through to around 1967 I had two very good friends: Geoff Cann who lived at Randwick and Neil (Monty) Ellard who resided in Queen Street, Botany.

I had met these two with my participation in Aussie Rules Football with the South Sydney Club. They were both good footballers, I was just a plodder, like most The three of us things, tried when I wanted to and other times, just did enough to get past.

In 1965 I started playing Reserve Grade for the club, although I was only 16 for the whole of the season turning 17 in mid August.

I was a big kid and often taken to be much older than I really was, so in playing open age football, even at 16 I was expected to be competitive. Both Geoff and Monty (a name I had christened him with) were a year older than me.

At the end of the 1965 season, I suggested to my two friends that we should join a surf club over the summer to try and maintain some type of fitness. For some reason and we selected the South Maroubra Club, maybe because it was the closest to where I lived.

The club was the newest in the Sydney branch at the time and accordingly, the poorest. The fibro clubrooms were painted light blue and they backed onto the then, Maroubra Tip.

We went down in early October and signed on as members. All of us had been swimmers (I was never that good) but had not swam competitively nor trained in a competitive environment.

We met the president, John Dynan who lived in Murrabin Ave Matraville. He was a South Maroubra Surf Club

very pleasant, thick set gentleman with short curley hair about 42 years of age who worked as a sales representative for a paper merchant. I had the feeling that John had joined of the surf club not that long before us. In fact he wasn’t a ‘surf club’ stereotype person. Other than that, he was genuine, sincere and drank a reasonable amount and he impressed me.

“Have you got your bronze medallion?” was one of his first questions. The bronze medallion was an actual medal, but was also the accreditation for becoming a life saver.

“No” we replied. “Good, we need some more boys to add to our bronze squad. Training is each Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at 6.00pm, down here on the beach, and of course he will have to start training for your belt swims”.

A belt and reel, this is not John

Belt swims? Well we had a fair idea what they were, but as time passed, one would be forgiven for thinking that ‘belt swims’ was John Dynan’s second name.

So the following Tuesday we arrived at 6.00pm to be met by the club’s chief instructor, Jim 'Jet' Jackson, in a fading springtime light.

We started learning about CPR and using the belt and reel. This, I might add, went on for months and every time we saw John Dynan all he would say was “I think we better have a belt swim just to keep up training”. I often wondered if it was us or him he was training up.

There were no females involved in the movement then so all the officials were male. President, Secretary, Treasurer, Club Captain, Chief Instructor and committee. We didn’t even have a canteen the girls could work in.

In fact, there was a shop attached to the old fibro clubhouse, just behind the showers. Fred Weeks had the tender and used to sell drinks, chips, pies and lollies. Fred also had the mixed business shop at Malabar on the corner of Dacre and Raglan Streets. His surf club shop was broken into quite often.

Actually I was a junior because I had not turned 18 so I was not supposed to drink, although as I said, I was a big lad and everyone took me for being a few older than what I was.

I think the only give-up that I was younger than everyone else was when I went in the junior swim and beach races. I can remember heading the club championship after the first week.

Each Sunday Morning the club had a round of its club championships. A swim out and around the buoys which were put out by the surf boat crew beforehand and a beach sprint. The firstr week I received 6 points for entering the swim race and 10 points for entering and winning the beach sprint, even though my niagara falls sprung out of my speedos as I galloped across the sand.

The picture shown was taken of us struggling through the sand in a senior beach sprint by a visiting American who had a Polaroid camera. He gave me the photograph and a brand new 50c US silver coin. We all thought he was a bit of suspect so kept our distance. That was the only time we saw him.

Like all organisations there were different personalities in the surf club and we became friendly with most. I think the golden rule was that you had to be a drinker to fit in – and despite our age, we fitted in perfectly.

Bob Wurth was one who was young and loved a drink. He became a journalist and later worked with ABC television, being the resident PNG reporter for some time.

A lot of us used to drink at the Dugout (bar) in the Golden Grove Hotel, Anzac Parade, Maroubra. It was there that we always 'threatened' to expose Bob because he got his job in journalism not having attained his leaving (HSC) certificate. This became a standard in-joke with us all.

Another one we got on well with was Bob McQuiggan, a resident of Maroubra who was of a thin frame and someone referred to him as ‘stick and balls’. Well the title stuck – with us at least and when speaking about him, we would always call him ‘stick and balls’.

The Spankie Brothers played a big part in the club in those early days. Bob was the social secretary whilst his brother Dave, was involved but certainly not as dynamic and as influential as Bob.

Quite often on a Sunday Afternoon, the club would hold a drinking session out in a fenced patio type area on the northern side of the club in an attempt to raise some money. Later this area had its fence elevated to stop the public gawking in on us.

One Sunday Bob couldn’t stay and put me in charge as barman with beers one shilling a glass. Well being as we all get some time or other, the need for them to pay soon passed and I think most were getting free beers as I dolled them out from the beer gun which was attached to the keg.

All members would be allotted a patrol group and we were no different. Bob Spankie was our patrol captain and we would rostered on either Saturday Afternoon, Sunday Morning or Sunday Afternoon about once every two weeks.

There were no others in the club I knew. This was strange because as close as I lived to the club and as close as it was to Matraville High, the school I had attended, there were no others from there as members during the time I was there.

Having fair skin, I used to get sunburnt every time I went on patrol and would always wear some protective clothing and plaster that white zink cream on my nose. A straw hat was my next protective instrument. Yes, I looked a real sight.

At that time we had the orange and red canvass patrol enclosure that we would erect on the beach, between the flags. I would try to lay in its shade to keep out of the sun and wear my hat, but with the reflective qualities of the sun and water, it never worked.

That’s probably one reason I never did not renew my membership after the initial season, because of the sunburn problem. I hated it. Besides that, the other two weren’t keen on going on either.

Tommy Purcell was another of the members of the time. A big strong raw-boned, well tanned fellow who lived with his family in Minneapolis Crescent, Maroubra. He worked on the garbage run and was a fully committed member of the club. We used to have a few drinking sessions with Tommy who used to ‘ark’ up occasionally.

Sometimes on my time off, I used to go to the surf club mid week in an attempt to clean it up. Although there was a gear/boat shed at the rear, the main room was dirty and forever full of stuff. I must admit my efforts were in vein and really only touched the surface of things.

Once, during my cleaning efforts one of the more established members came down to the club and challenged me as regards to what I was doing there. Needless to say, I didn’t go back.

As I said, the area behind the club which is now the Arthur Byrne Reserve, was a tip when I joined. The Entry to the club was from a road (track) off Fitzgerald Ave, about where it intersects with Marine Parade.

Parking was fairly restrictive with cars lined along the white, post and rail fence separating the road from the tip area. One busy and hot Sunday it was suggested, or maybe I volunteered to go out direct the cars coming in to parking spaces. These spaces weren’t pre-determined, just where there was a vacancy. I spent about 2 hours out there in the sun wearing my yellow and red life savers cap and using my ‘police cadet vehicle direction skills’, much I think, to the mirth of those watching from time to time, up in the clubroom.

We were still training for the bronze. Each Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon and now he had us swimming of a Saturday Afternoon as well. John was determined that we should pass. I was even getting good at belt swimming.

By half way through the season, I had acquired my father’s 1958 Green Holden Special sedan so I could get around myself.

I was almost in awe of the fact that the club had the Australian SLSC double ski champions as members: Dennis Green and Barry Stewart. I understand both transferred from the Maroubra club following some type of disagreement.

They didn’t do regular patrols at South Maroubra (which was compulsory for each active member) but were permitted to represent at the local, state and national titles. Well I didn’t ever see them doing patrols.

They trained at Botany Bay and I decided to buy myself a single surf ski.

I looked in the Saturday Morning Herald and found one for £40. So I visited the address in Kingsland Street, Strathfield, liked what I saw and purchased it. Luckily enough a tailor made roof rack was included in the price so I mounted it on the car and took it home.

It had no rudder or any of the flash attachments of today’s models; a natural finished, ply built ski with a paddle, that was it.

One other thing which encouraged me to buy it was after I went to try out as a member of the club’s B boat crew.

They trained at Yarra Bay, near the Sailing Club and Geoff and I thought we would give it a go. Monty worked in town and found it a bit hard to get there on time.

We both went to training one night under sweep, Pat Jollo and rowed out. After we got about 100 metres from shore my arms locked up I literally couldn’t do any more. “Bad luck” came the reply “you will have to stay in the seat until we go in”. This proved to be at least 40 minutes. For me it was sheer agony.

From then I was forever ‘crabbing’, a term used to describe when rowers can’t complete their stroke.

I don’t have very strong arms and could not maintain the consistent effort in using the oar. To be honest, it was a nightmare for me. I was in so much pain that my arms became numb. I simply could not use them. I felt like Sally Robbins, but about 39 years too early.

Tne memory I have of the early days at Yarra Bay was of B boat member, Ray Halpin who lived in Kitchener Street Maroubra. Ray was in training for some tertiary position and purchased a navy blue MGB. He was a bit of a poseur, but not a bad bloke. I can remember him coming to boat training in a hot summers evening, along Kooringal Ave at Yarra Bay with the top down in the car sporting his pork pie cap and gloves. It took a while for him to live that one down.

After I got the ski, on which I might add that I had no previous experience, I took it down to Yarra Bay as well, just to practice. Dennis Stewart was there a few times and gave me some basic instructions. I fell off it a few times before I got my balance and away I went.

The first time it was just going on dusk and I paddled my way out towards the centre of the bay, getting myself closer and closer to an oil tanker which was disgorging oil to the Boral Refinery which was near the Botany cemetery.

When I felt I was a reasonable distance I began to turn round and head back to the beach, only to find myself about 800 metres from shore. The sailing club looked so distant and so dark and I felt extremely vulnerable way out in the bay and began to wobble a bit with fear. I gingerly paddled my way back to the sand, picked my ski up, locked onto the roof of the car then went into the club for a few beers with my ‘boaty’ colleagues giving the impression that I was confident and doing well at my new chosen sport.

I used to put the ski in at South Maroubra, but again, with the size and weight of the thing it became a major production. I wasn’t that confident of paddling the ski out over the shore break and of course, initially I was quite tentative coming in on any large wave.

One Sunday morning early in 1966, wearing a long sleeved white football jumper to save on sun burn, I paddled from the south end of the beach to Maroubra Beach proper and I guess I was about 80 or so metres off shore when I noticed this dark shadowy figure looming under the ski.

‘SHARK’!!! I got so nervous I started to wobble and nearly fell into the water, but managed to raise my paddle in a perpendicular motion which is a universal sign for a shark sighting. Not too long after that the familiar WWII air raid siren in the Maroubra Surf Club began wailing forcing a multitude of swimmers to leave the water. I raced to the shore and when I beached the ski, one of the more senior members of the surf club approached me seeking information about my alleged shark siting. In the meantime, the club launched their surf boat in search of the predator.

“Just exactly where did you see the shark?” he asked. I pointed to where which was in an approximate line from the north side of the clubhouse.

“Are you sure it was a shark? What did you see?” I began to explain how I saw this dark shadow about 3 or so metres long directly under my ski. “And what did it do, did you see its fin?” “Christ, I don’t know, I just wanted to get out of there” I shot back at him as a bunch of young kids milled around me firing questions, left and right.

The surf boat crew were frantically paddling around beyond the breakers whilst my interrogator somewhat sceptically watched their progress.

(Whats the problem I thought? I have done you and all these people here a favour and yet its like I am lying).

Not too long afterwards the surfboat returned to the shore following their fruitless search and the people were allowed back into the water.

“Where ja see it” asked the boat’s sweep, a well tanned man of about 35. I pointed and told him about 80 metres off shore. “That’s no shark” he said, “that’s the fucking wreck”.

“What wreck?” a perplexed and slightly embarrassed Ian Granland asked.

In May 1898 the 1513 ton sail rigged iron clipper, the Hereward was wrecked on Maroubra Beach after a severe gale blew her onto the beach.

She layed there until December the same year when waves managed to break her in two.

By 1937 the only visible signs of her was a triangular dorsel fin above the water line. In 1950 Randwick Council feared injury to surfers from the wreck and began The Hereward beached on Maroubra Beach, May 1898 blasting the remnants. Further blasting in 1965, and by Navy divers in 1966-7 has removed all trace of the Hereward.

So much for my heroic exploits. Just maybe though, my little experience may have encouraged action by the Navy divers to rid the beach of all signs of her. The ship is remembered locally by a street named in her memory.

Errr, what do you in a situation like this?

Anyway, I paddled very gingerly back to Sth Maroubra, not mentioning anything about the incident.

Another member of the time with whom we shared drinks with and another grat guy was Frank Gidley. Then, a think stoic sort of guy about 3 or 4 years older than myself with dark auburn hair who was into amateur boxing.

I met him a few times after my time at the club. Once when he told me he had spent quite a time in the mines at Mt Isa and saved a fair bit of money and another when I was working in the Licensing Police at Waverley in 1975. The Licensing Sergeant and myself visited the Imperial Hotel, 252 Oxford Street Paddington on balmy Saturday afternoon and here was Frank, a ‘minder’ for the S P Bookie.

Believe it or not, I had never been to a New Years Eve Party before 1965. Well, I suppose that’s pretty normal for those days, I was only 17. Although my parents and from what I can remember, my immediate family did not celebrate the new year in any particular fashion.

The surf club put on a New Years Eve Party at the clubhouse 1965. Tickets were 10/- each (ten shillings or one dollar, but 10/- seems much more expressing it that way).

Geoff, Monty and I went along. I remember wearing a pair of tartan dress shorts. Outrageous at the time, I used to think and they always got a lot of comments.

We had a real ball, danced all night and I ended up continually pressing the shark alarm siren, come 12 midnight. I don’t think many were aware because the music in the small clubroom was so loud. I distinctly remember staying in a very passionate embrace with a girl during most of the evening, but nothing came of it. I never used to follow up those encounters then – stupid me, eh?

By the way the normal music in the clubrooms in those days was from a second hand radiogram which someone had donated. They type with all the stations printed on the dial and a record player incorporated in the unit.

Geoff Cann had a 1956 grey FJ Holden sedan. It was a nice car he picked up for £275 second hand from a private sale – with the help of his parents.

One Sunday after an all day session on the grog at the club – did I mention that one the chief requirements of being a club member in those days was that you had to be able to drink? We all piled into the car and Geoff was giving us each a lift F J Holden home. Down Fitzgerald Avenue, left into Malabar Road, long before the section between Beauchamp Road and Scott Street had been sealed and of course, just as long before any housing was built in that part of the street.

This route took us along the sandy Malabar Road, incidentally, part of one of the first access roads between Sydney and Botany Bay back in the early 19^th century.

The car struggled through the sand, but was doing OK however when we reached the Beauchamp Road intersection, Geoff took the turn a bit too quickly and the vehicle slid onto it’s near side, and there we stopped.

All full of ink, I was piggy in the middle shouting “Get out, get out, before it catches fire”. We were all struggling to open the driver’s door and finally managed to scramble out as the residents from the nearby housing commission flats ambled out onto the street to see what the commotion was all about.

Here we were, slightly dishevelled and all three as full as a state school, standing round wondering what to do next. I recognized the fact that the vehicle wasn’t too badly damaged and the best thing we could do was right it and get it going before the police arrived.

We solicited some help from the locals pushing the car onto its wheels, Geoff attempted to kick it over and it went first go. Right, we were off as Monty and myself piled into the kindly old FJ and headed home.

The only problem was with the gear linkages. It wouldn’t move out of second, so Geoff had to manage it like that for the journey home then to his place.

“Can you come home with me?” Geoff meekly asked. I knew he was shit scared of his mother and wanted some moral support. “You’ll be OK” I said, “just tell her a dog ran out in front of you and you had no option but to swerve and miss it – anyhow, how would I get back to my place?” He gave me that ‘yeah sure, shes not a fool’ look.

His mother used to give him a pretty hard time and it wasn’t till he was much older that he could tell his mother what lots of contemporary young boys learned to say to their mothers at an earlier age – say around puberty time. Funny how most mums now appear to accept that. I guess boys are still telling their mothers to F*** off at this time of their lives. I have to be honest here though. I never spoke to my mother like that.

The car ended up OK. He had a mechanic look at it on the Monday and we were back to using it as our only means of transport for the next couple of years. <>

One Sunday after the season the boat captain, decided to hold a bar-bar-que come piss-up at the ocean inlet to Bunnerong Power Station at Bumborah Point, Yarra Bay.

I had often walked over this area when I was young but this time it was a drinking session with the ambitious boat captain leading the push.

In 1965 the power station was still working, generating power into the NSW electricity grid and the inlet took water which cooled the generators which was then pumped out the northern side into Botany Bay. I also used to play in that area as a kid sliding down the warm moss covered waterway better known as Bunnerong Canal.

Anyway, the kegs were assembled, we paid our £1 (one pound – two dollars – gee it seemed a lot then) entry fee and started drinking with Bob Spankie manning the beer gun and another club official on the sausages.

Soon most were pissed and someone started a diving competition from the rocks into the reservoir which surrounds the actual water inlet to the power station, a distance of about 8 metres.

It was quite deep there and reasonably dangerous, given that the water was being continually sucked into the power station. This didn’t deter the 19 year olds who were absolutely bullet proof and one after another, me included (although I was 17), dived in and generally fooled around till darkness fell when we could hardly scratch ourselves.

I don’t recall anyone ever being involved in a motor accident or being injured as a result of our drinking sessions. But as I said, this was years before the introduction of the breathalyser and people would just fill themselves up with grog, start their car, point it in the direction of home and go.

Again, during all this, John Dynan was consistently at the three of us to do belt swims on windy Saturday Afternoons, with hardly anyone on the beach apart from him and us. It almost became an obsession to him.

After our swims I can always remember is comment. “Feel like a noggin?”

Come January 1966 there was a surf carnival at Umina Beach on the Central Coast. They wanted someone to tow the surf boat there and of course, just recently having acquired my father’s car which had a tow ball, I volunteered, so when the day came off we went to Umina.

It was there that I first marched in the march past team all dressed up in the pretty full length costumes like a pox doctors clerk with Bob Spankie looking resplendent carrying the pennant on behalf of the club. We were all pushing our chests out and punching our toes into the sand as well marched in a stilted fashion like veterans past the judges. We didn’t get a place, but it was fun

We went to a couple of other carnivals whilst I was a member, one at Era Beach in the Royal National Park and another at Manly.

Rescues weren’t that common whilst I was on patrol but one day a sandbar collapsed and it was all hands on deck. This happened north of our beach, between us and Maroubra and so we had to run with the belt and reel to the spot whilst one of our more experienced swimmers took to the surf to affect the rescue. I worked the reel.

Come late in the season we had to undergo our bronze medallion examination, fortunately enough, at Maroubra Beach, just up the way, one lovely Saturday Afternoon.

There ended up about 8 of us to examine and together with other student surf club members from clubs within the Sydney Branch we amassed at 10.00am for the test.

Running the show was the Chief Examiner for the Branch and the other examiners running around in their white polo shirts and shorts and sand shoes with their clipboard in hand. One of these was from our club.

The surf was running a big shore break; I would estimate about 8 foot. One by one we took our place as the patient, rescuer, belt, line and reel operator.

Even though I had been practicing in the months leading up to the examination, I was not a strong swimmer. It came my turn to be the patient and I had to swim out to the buoy located about 80 or so metres off shore and wait for Monty who was the rescuer, to get me.

I was having great difficulty getting out past through the treacherous shore break whilst the others in the 6 or so reel teams seemed to have no problem at all. I was crashed a few times into the sand and began to get nervous with the prospect of failure.

I managed to get out through the breakers and slowly swam my way to the buoy only to have Monty out there waiting for me. “Are you right son?” Monty asked in Maroubra Beach his affable manner. He had become accustomed to referring to both Geoff and myself ‘son’ in a light-hearted and friendly style.

“Well I made it Mont. but I don’t know about the next swim” (as the rescuer) I gasped. “You’ll be OK, come on in we go” and he cupped his hand around my chin, signalled the reel team and we waited to be hauled back to shore.

After we went through the motions of cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) using the Sylvester-Brosch method, closed chest cardiac massage, mouth to mouth resuscitation etc. it was my turn on the belt and I had to rescue Geoff.

I struggled in the strong surf, there was no-one there to help, but made it. I could see the examiners looking doubtfully at my performance. Due to me, our team was way behind the rest, but it wasn’t a race, it was a test.

Then, after demonstrating the life saving techniques we went into the Maroubra Surf Clubhouse to undergo an oral examination on CPR and equipment knowledge.

When it was over, one of the instructors approached me and spoke to me about my performance. There were severe doubts, because of my swimming ability as to whether I had passed, or rather, whether they should pass me. My friends did OK, but to be honest, I struggled. In retrospect I don’t think I would have had any trouble had their not been the big shore dump. But still you have to take them as they come.

Fortunately we all passed.

The president, John was there when we were tested and after it was all over, we went across the road to the Maroubra Seals “for a noggin”, even if we were all under 21. (The legal age to gain admission to clubs in those days was 21).

As I said, John was not the norm. when it comes to surf clubs, but as far as I was concerned, he was a good bloke, his heart was in it and he later went on to become president of the Maroubra Seals Club for some years.

At the 1966 AGM of the club there was a motion put to alter the club’s constitution to provide that in order for a person to stand for office he should have been a member of the club for at least 12 months beforehand.

The meeting was packed out. I was not rejoining but felt the motion was an affront to John so I went along. I voted against it, but it was passed. The mover said it had nothing to do with current people, but would stop any interlopers coming in and taking control.

Even at my then youthful age I thought, how naive can you get, we didn’t come down in the last shower. John wasn’t in his push.

TOP

HOME