By PHIL JARRATT
This column comes to you from the land of the long white cloud, for the second time in a few months, albeit briefly.
More precisely it comes to you from the stinking hot Murray Linton Room of the Princes Gate Hotel in downtown Rotorua, where we have lobbed in the late afternoon to get a bit closer to an early flight out of Auckland.
It seemed like a good idea at the time but I’d forgotten about the sulphurous stench that hangs over the capital of Maori culture. Of course every cloud has a silver lining and sufferers of abominable flatulence, such as your correspondent, can walk the streets unleashing unnoticed.
But back to the Princes Gate, which was recommended by a friend as we were leaving the scene of the 60th, a beachside bach on Hawkes Bay. It’s kind of poncey mock-Victorian but in a nice way, except for the heat. It’s not a warm evening, but I’m sitting at a desk in a postage-stamp room with no AC and a fan at head level, and I’m sweating like a pig, which again is a cloud with a silver lining, I suppose, since I need to expel the toxins of an extended weekend of great local wines and French champagne, paired with the bounty of the bay, succulent crays and kingfish.
Oh, and we surfed, how we surfed! Beautiful fast-running beachies right in front of the house, just a few mates in the water for hours on end. I can’t think of a much better way to mark the passage into old age than a house party with good mates, good waves and the girls bringing the chilly bin (see, it’s catchy) of sundowners onto the sand as the shadows get long.
And then, of course, there is the theatre of dinner. The birthday boy, a Kiwi, has made his life in France for more than 30 years, a rugbyman, surfer and bon vivant extraordinaire, so we eat late, very late, and drink well, very well.
Bon anniversaire, Kahuna!
Farewell to surfing’s funniest dude
I woke up on my last day at Mahanga Beach to the kind of message you always dread. While celebrating with one bestie, another cherished friend had passed away. Lester Brien was battling brain cancer and we knew he was not with us for the long term, but it was still difficult to imagine that crazy cackle would no longer be heard.
I first met Lester in the early 1970s when he had transitioned from being one of Sydney’s hottest surfers through the ’60s to a much-in-demand hip lawyer in Byron Bay and a stand-out performer at Broken Head and Lennox.
Then it all went tits-up for Lester when some very high profile surfer clients got busted on drug offences and he refused to allow the prosecution access to client records. LB did time for perjury and got disbarred for his loyalty, but that was kind of typical of the wonderful mad bastard.
In the ’80s he bought Bloomfield Lodge at a wild rivermouth on the Daintree Track. It was a rundown fishing resort and it attracted some wild-eyed and rundown fishos, myself included. We had some insane expeditions in a beat-up punt, Lester lathered in sunscreen and cackling maniacally as we enjoyed beers and multiple hook-ups.
But things went south and Lester tried to pull a game-changer in Southern Asia, arrested at Sydney Airport in possibly the worst kept secret in the history of drug-running.
When he was in Long Bay Jail, Tony “Captain Goodvibes” Edwards and I pulled some money together and bought him a computer and told him to write his stories down. He did, and The Byron Connection was a cult hit. More recently, The Ton Run confirmed his ability as a writer of wit and style.
Out of the slammer, Lester started his surf safari business with son Garth, and was soon carting busloads of wide-eyed Euros north from Sydney’s Central Station on week-long and life-changing psycho-surf expeditioning in a painted (by Captain Goodvibes) bus.
I once encountered Lester on New Year’s Eve at Point Plommer, where the surf was pumping. He explained that he had a full bus of backpackers so would probably press on to Crescent Head where they could party without causing too much offence. I suggested he bring them around to our place up the road, a huge estate owned by friends where we were all camped and had organised a party with a band coming down from Crescent.
It was one of those awesome nights that lives in the memory. There was some kind of cross-dressing theme and I recall Lester and the backpackers cacking themselves when Shane Stedman and I danced together in drag.
It was always a crack-up with Lester. I don’t know anyone who laughed harder at life’s ups and downs, or who thought more deeply about the future of the planet.
Wherever you are tonight, old mate, I hope you’re laughing still. You will be sorely missed.
