A Free Day in Fremantle: Trying to Hop to It

There was a day off--a lay day, the sailors say--between the winning of the America’s Cup and the presentation to the victors of the Cup itself, so some of the guys were looking for something to do.

“What did you end up doing?” I asked somebody the next morning.

He told me he had spent the whole afternoon on the rottenest island. I was sorry to hear it, until he repeated himself and I realized that he had spent the day on Rottnest Island, which is a hop, skip and ferry ride from here.

“What did you end up doing?” I asked somebody else.

He told me he had played golf at Karrinyup Country Club, where kangaroos came hopping all over the fairways. He told me that just as some golfers are lining up putts, they often feel a tap from behind, turn around and find themselves standing next to a kangaroo.

Another guy told me he spent the day at the 24-hour Burswood Island casino, playing two-up and keno. I asked him if the roulette wheel was ever interrupted by kangaroos. He looked at me funny.

And everybody kept asking what I had done on my day off. “Not much,” I kept saying.

This is what I did:

First, I walked through a city park and ran into an aborigine named John. He was selling homemade boomerangs, and giving lessons. I bought four of them.

Next, I was passing the Fremantle Institute of Technology when two young ladies in garish costume grabbed me by the arms and led me to a side door.

They told me they were part of a local theatrical troupe called the Threadbare Players, and they were about to raise the curtain on one of their four-times-daily productions of their new revue, “Blame It on Freo.” I paid $4 and sat in the back.

There were several skits lampooning the America’s Cup, and the TV coverage, and the American tourists, and in particular a Perth suburb called Inglewood, until finally the five actors announced that they were ready for their big finale but needed someone from the audience.

They looked left and right, then one of the women suddenly bolted up the aisle and picked out a volunteer from the rear, the poor idiot who happens to be typing this story.

They took him backstage, slipped his arms into an orange jacket, tucked his head into an orange visor, and smeared his nose and cheeks with white cold cream. “You’re going to be Dennis Conner,” one of them said.

On cue, this new discovery had to come on stage, pretend to be steering a 12-meter yacht, race the Australian skipper around the auditorium, weave side to side as if we were “tacking,” and get water squirted in our faces. Naturally, I was the winner.

Ten minutes later, I was back on the street, where two teen-age girls came up to me and said, “You were great, Dennis.”

For a moment I was flattered, but then I remembered that Tom Stoppard’s “The Real Thing” also had received good notices on stage in Perth, even though one of its stars was Rula (Alberto V0-5) Lenska.

I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in a Fremantle department store.

The sporting goods department had some really good stuff. There was a Stuart Surridge model cricket bat, “oval supercover, ready for immediate use,” $49.95. I asked the salesman what Stu’s batting average was last year. He looked at me funny.

I settled for a couple of Dennis Lillee cricket balls, “guaranteed hand sewn, made in India,” a buck apiece, and an authentic Victorian Football League “Big Ball” football, $22.99.

The toy department was even better.

Two games were especially tempting.

One was “Yacht Race,” for ages 8 and over, $29.95. The playing board is a map of the Indian Ocean, off Fremantle’s coast. It even has a space for Rottnest Island.

You throw the dice and land on squares. Sometimes you have to take a card. The cards say things like: “The Wind Has Died and Become Flukey, Forcing You to Lose Ground. Move Back Six Squares.” Or: “Spectator Craft on Your Port Side Forces You to Make a Starboard Tack. Throw Dice Again.”

I just know the kids back home will be dying to play this game, so I bought it.

Then I ran across “Squatter: The Australasian Farming Game.” I was intrigued.

The back of the box listed a brief summary of how to play.

Each player starts with an unimproved sheep station fully stocked with 3,000 sheep. With pasture improvement and irrigation, the sheep station can be stocked with 6,000 sheep. The money needed for pasture improvement, irrigation and other running expenses is earned from players’ shrewd selling and buying of sheep and from the sale of their wool. Players encounter droughts, floods and fires during their endeavours to become wealthy Squatters. The first player to fully stock his or her completely irrigated property is the winner. I just know the kids back home will be dying to be the first to fully stock his or her completely irrigated property, so I bought it.

The game board is like Monopoly’s, where you roll the dice and go around and around. Only Squatter’s squares do not say B & O Railroad or Boardwalk.

One of them says: “Poison, Fumigate Rabbits. Pay $50.” Another says: “Drench Sheep for Worms. Pay $10 Per Pen.”

Satisfied that it had not been a wasted day, I headed for home. On the way, I ran into Jim Kavle, one of the grinders for Dennis Conner’s boat, Stars & Stripes.

“Just the man I was looking for,” I said. “Wanna play ‘Yacht Race’ with me?”

He looked at me funny.

“Look at this card. ‘Sharp Work by Grinders in Making Sail Adjustments. Have Another Throw of the Dice.’ You were made for this game,” I said.

“No way,” he said.

And nobody else would play with me, either. What a disappointing way to end my day off. Here I was, ready to be Dennis Conner again, ready to race yachts, ready even to irrigate a sheep station if necessary, and nobody would play with me. Not even a golfing kangaroo.

It was the rottenest day off I’ve ever had.