The Creek
1973, half past September. It’s Saturday morning and a 7 year old boy awakes to the possibilities of a new day. Breakfast is eaten, early morning cartoons are watched and old clothes put on. The Creek beckons.
The boy’s mother kisses him on the head, says “have fun” and watches from the kitchen window as he crosses the road to The Creek. Hector the Safety Cat has taught him well as he looks both ways before crossing.
The Creek meanders through the suburb of West Chermside and is the boy’s playground. It’s been the playground for local children for years. Each generation believes that they are the first to discover its mysteries, explorers of uncharted territory. It has a name now and probably had one then but it was unknown and unnecessary. It is waist deep in places and ankle deep in others and seems as wide as the Brisbane River.
The boy carries an assortment of buckets and containers, a home made fishing net on a stick and a small spade. His bare feet know the way along the well worn tracks through the waist high grass and lantana.
The morning drifts by with the flowing water. The boy’s bucket slowly fills with guppies and sword tails. There are penny turtles in The Creek but the boy has never been able to catch one. There are eels too but the boy is not sure he wants to catch one of those. A plan is hatched to build a dam across The Creek at a shallow place to help in the search for an elusive turtle. Dad’s help might be needed, he’s good at building stuff like that.
The boy’s stomach tells him it’s lunch time. He counts the fish in the bucket, pleased with his morning’s work. He sets off along the path back to the street and home. It’s a different path than the one taken earlier, everyone knows this is the “out track”.
Home and hungry, the boy strips off his muddy clothes. There is white skin in the shape of shorts and t-shirt, the rest is black with mud. He shivers as Dad turns on the hose. He is already thinking of the afternoon. A hill, a home made go-kart ....
“You can’t coach that”
