The Beach Boys were there with us on each and every road trip. Each song had its own special moment to shine along the journey.
Slowly, I begin to understand. He thinks Australia is an army camp in South Vietnam. He thinks that’s where I’m from. And that’s when he starts screaming. And by screaming, I mean, screaming – in-fear-of-his-life screaming.
We hit the road. I press play on the album Baby Caught The Bus by Clairy Browne and the Bangin' Rackettes. I lose count of how many times I replay Love Letter.
As mom and my older sister played The Carpenters on the car stereo I listened to MxPx, Face to Face, Suicide Machines, or Bouncing Souls on my discman.
My mind drifts away with the sublime guitars and complementary vocals. The song unfolds gradually but confidently, like the highway I’m driving on...past Tutye, Boinka, Linga, Underbool...
We’d run out of petrol returning from Mildura. Mobile phones were an invention of the future. We couldn’t even see a house light in the distance, let alone a public phone.
…the crash site, barrel-rolled down the hill at 100 Ks an hour, a miracle we both walked away over a year ago now, sorry for the van, I hate Grafton now…
I think of my past snakes, all those blue eyes and banjos over the years, the late night knocks and needs that kept my heart shielded and my eyes always on the door.
I’d drive all night with my brother if I could. It would be escapism of a sort but also a rare chance to spend time, a long time, together. We’d pack sandwiches and snacks and drinks. Chocolate. A football. Some of Peter’s surfboards.
We engaged Joie's Mazda 818's unofficial air conditioning—two windows down and eighty kilometres an hour—and raised our voices in chat and song over the wind streaming into the car.