Summer circa 1995. Watching Lindsay teach our two kids how
to do a Bombie at Lake Leschenaultia .
Lindsay stood out a mile. With his ripe white belly and
dirty great big red beard, he couldn’t blend in, or disappear. He stood out. Even when quiet, people always look at him.
But now concentrating hard on doing the perfect bombie off a long wooden jetty,
on a very hot day, he had everyone’s rapt attention. Everyone being all the
local teenagers; scrawny, pimply faced, with their wet jeans hanging off them,
they stood at the water’s edge, or slouched on a rail, focusing on the master
bomber that was Lindsay.
First, Lindsay crouched, ready to sprint. Everyone holding
their breath. Then off like a rocket roaring down the jetty which shuddered
under Lindsay’s weight before launching himself off the end of it, one
leg tuck in tight against his chest, clamped with his arms, then pitching his
body, a missile, a fully grown man f l y i n g then
momentarily suspended mid-air, a ball of white flesh, red beard, and blue
striped board shorts. Then the master bomber landed onto Lake Leschenaultia.
Kersplat!!! The crowd sways, awed by the
splash, jets of water shooting sky high and creating waves which ripple across
the lake. Our children’s eyes wide and
widening, the spectacle before them seared into memory, to be practice and pass
down to the next generation - the perfect bombie.
That afternoon when Lindsay did bombie after bombie, he was
followed by the army of teenagers and, our two children, desperate to emulate
the master. Lake Lesnaulitia became a sea, a tempest, churned by a hundred or
more human bombs.
The master bomber’s beard is now grey and he hung up his
board shorts a long time ago. But my children have learn something invaluable;
they have learn how sheer joy and exhilaration feels using only their body,
water and a long wooden jetty on a hot summer’s day.
