Boat training took place near Goddard's Wharf on the Pittwater side of Palm Beach every Friday evening at 6pm. After much rowing and calisthenics designed to develop supreme fitness, we would then all adjourn to the Newport Arms, which saw to it that boat training became a complete and utter waste of time. As our first surf carnival race was only two weeks away, Boat Captain Splasher decided we were in dire need of surf experience, so the next training session took place at North Avalon. The surf was one to two feet high and held no fear for any of us. Little did we know what was in store for us all the following weekend. Our first race was to be at the Collaroy surf carnival and most of the morning was spent watching Avalon closing out from the Whale beach headland to Bilgola in the south. Were we concerned? Not really? We were pretty certain that Collaroy would only be breaking at approximately 5 to 6 feet and when we arrived, this appeared to be the case. What we didn't know was the boat events were going to take place at South Narrabeen and when informed of this disturbing news, the unanimous reaction was, Faaaaaark!!!!!

The waves were over 10 feet high and breaking on a shallow sandbank no more than 6 foot deep. Every now and then even larger sets, so high that one would suffer nose bleed looking over the waves' front, kept on crashing down on the bank causing the beach to vibrate. Surely, we all thought, that nobody in his right mind would send water craft into that maelstrom, but things were not looking too promising. "Hurry up you lot, move your boats to the water's edge," shouted Mick the Starter, after the previous heat had set out to sea, not knowing if any of their crews would ever see their families and loved ones again. Six boats started, none finished. The beach resembled Darwin after Cyclone Tracey, when what was left of the six boats eventually washed ashore. One boat's bow dug into the shallow sandbank, causing it to do a 180 degree stem to stern rollover. Whilst vertical, one of the crew members fell from the boat's stern and was knocked senseless. When rescued by the duty patrol, he was in extreme pain having been impaled on a 5 foot length of shattered and jagged sweep oar. After he was taken away to hospital by ambulance, it was time for our race to get underway. The start of our race was delayed for what seemed like an eternity, owing to the previous devastation, only adding to our rapidly increasing nervousness.

Many years ago, the American General George Armstrong Custer said, "Trust me, I know the Little Big Horn backwards." Almost a century later on Collaroy beach, sweep Brian Daniel Sheehan said, "Trust me, I'll get you out and back bone dry." Our starter Mick fired his pistol and six boats took off like the back of a Bondi bus. The two on our immediate right disappeared under a mountain of water and eventually resurfaced minus half their rowers and without an unbroken oar between them. Three boats made it out the back and even though we were more than half full of Pacific Ocean, we unbelievably happened to be one of them. We rounded the can in third place and headed towards the shore. God only knew how we were going to arrive home alive. The two crews in front of us had checked their boats and were obviously waiting for the opportunity to sneak in on something small. We assumed that we would be doing the same, but Brian Daniel saw this as an opportunity to win the race and achieve immortality. "Here comes ours," came the shout from the boat's stern. We broke with protocol and stopped rowing to observe what was in store for us and were relieved to see the swell bearing down on us was roughly 8 to 10 feet, not bad considering what was still rolling in and doing its best to change the shape of the NSW coastline.

"Row you dickless sons of motherless whores," came the request from our illustrious sweep. "Pull harder and bend those backs you miserable motherfucking retards."  We were all impressed with his vocabulary. He then added, "You miserable yellow bellied pricks, row onto this one otherwise there'll be no nookie tonight, because we'll all be fucking dead."As nervous as we were at the time, we perceived the last statement to be a little farfetched. We started to pull down the face of the swell and Mr Sheehan called out loudly, "Come aft." Despite my inexperience I was convinced this order was a little premature, Tom agreed with me. One third of the boat was poking out the front of the about to break swell and for a nasty moment it appeared we were going to nose dive into the shallow sandbank below. Somehow the wave passed by and broke underneath us and we found ourselves coming off the back and into the trough behind. In anticipation of the next order, we began to return to our rowing positions, but were told, "Stay where you are," then after a short silence, "Sorry fellas, I've got you in the shit."

We all looked beyond the boat's stern and recalled Brian's previous reference to our possible demise and realised it may not have been as farfetched as originally thought. Krakatoa must have erupted again, for a liquid version of Uluru was approaching from the rear, increasing in height the closer it came. We were then given some meaningful advice from our obviously concerned sweep, "Lie on the floor, keep your head below the gunnel and take a firm hold of your balls, because they're about to be blown out your fucking arsehole." We did as we were told and waited for our short lives to be terminated. Jim the stroke reached up and took hold of the sweep oar to assist Brian as the clearly 15 foot plus monster started the boat sliding down its front. For what seemed like an eternity the bow of the boat hovered in mid air before dropping quicker than the old Big Dipper at Luna Park. We hung on tight expecting a 180 degree flip after the bow dug into the bar. But when the bow buried itself, the boat swung sharply to the right and we found ourselves parallel to the wave's face, with tons of water about to crush us all to death.

Everything went wet and white as the whole of the Pacific Ocean landed smack in the middle of the boat and I discovered what a cockroach must experience as it is crushed under a boot. The boat was kangarooing it's way north completely underwater and finally when the blue sky appeared, we were all surprised to find that we were still south of North Narrabeen. We had ended up around 150 metres north of our racing alley and the boat had managed to hold together rather well, considering the pounding it had taken. We lost two rowing oars, one sweep oar along with Brian Daniel our sweep, all of our rowlocks were gone and the rescue reel in the boat's bow wasn't looking too healthy. There were two of the crew who managed to stay with the ship and I hasten to add that I was one of them. We were praised for our courage and determination, but in my case at least, I had no choice, as my leg was somehow trapped underneath one of the seats. I failed to mention this at the time.

When one viewed all the action that had been filmed on 8mm, it was difficult to imagine that we all survived injury free and the boat wasn't smashed to matchwood. Throughout the 60's there were many, many more wipeouts, some almost as fearfully dangerous and exciting, yet the most severe injury I can recall was when Sam Burgess broke his nose at Wedding Cake island off Coogee sometime during the mid 60's.