A much-anticipated weekend of tomfoolery for good friends Waz, Robbo, Corka, Dicko, Bif, Boxhead, and groom-to-be Shane-O has turned out to be a far mellower affair than forecast, with conduct barely approaching anything remotely ‘boisterous’, it can be revealed today.

Now nudging thirty years of age, and living in various locations along Australia’s eastern seaboard, the old high-school friends don’t get to see each other often as they’d like to, but take very seriously their vow (made at the end of Schoolies week, in 2006) to catch up annually for a weekend of regressing back to being mindless teenage fuckwits again. 

This year promised to be an extra debauched occasion, with Shane-O’s upcoming nuptials turning the trip into an unofficial buck’s weekend, thus raising the bar for lowering the tone.  

All keen surfers, the choice of Toonalook as destination was met with unanimous approval by the lads –– though in the weeks leading up to the trip, the prospect of surfing merited far less discussion than affirming their commitment to ‘going absolutely fucking nuts’ once free from the disapproving oversight of assorted GFs, partners, employers and, in the case of Bif (who still lives with his parents) … ah … parents.

Indeed, innocent campers had good reason to be concerned as the motley crew convened at the Toona River Camping and Caravan Park late last Friday afternoon where, amid backslapping man-hugs and cracking of beers, they set up their tents and swags while regaling each other with anecdotes of boorish carry-on from previous adventures.

As Noel and Marjorie O’Halloran, camped in a neighbouring spot told your reporter: “We just looked at each-other and went ‘uh-oh, here’s trouble’.

“We only caught snippets of what they were saying: there was something about nudie runs, hot coals, and someone named Bif being airlifted to a burns unit back in 2013 with his nutsack fused to his thigh. 

“Vomiting and pants-soiling seemed to be a common theme with these anecdotes.”

The lads’ first evening turned out to be unexpectedly uneventful. As man of the moment Shane-O explains: “With a solid weekend of debauchery ahead, we paced ourselves Friday night, just had a few quiet ones and a bit of a laugh. 

“If we’d known how the next 36 hours were gonna play out, geez, we might have gone bit harder,” he added wistfully.

The first impediment to a weekend of naughtiness-for-the-sake-of-naughtiness revealed itself with Saturday’s sunrise: clear skies, not a breath of wind, and a sparkling three-to-four-feet of easterly groundswell unloading on well-defined banks. By midday, our miscreant heroes had racked up nearly four hours of water time and were displaying the alarming early warning signs of mellow contentment.

Things only got worse after lunch. With the waves looking inviting a few clicks up the beach, a decision was made to ‘earn some lager credits’ and walk to the next surf session through the National Park. And despite their best efforts at puerile banter and geeing each other up, the scenic vistas unfolding along the walking track rendered them uncharacteristically hushed and thoughtful. 

Even the surefire anecdote about that time Boxhead was busted wanking twice in the same day at year-nine camp failed to ignite any meaningful heckling. 

And if the morning surf had taken the edge off the boys’ appetite for fuckwittery, the afternoon session up the beach – with A-frames textured and airbrushed by a gentle westerly – totally ruined them. 

To compound matters, the lads found themselves spending much of their three-hour surf in the company of a pod of dolphins.

As a clearly disappointed Shane-O told your reporter: “It’s hard to get your yobbo on when you’re sharing a lineup with a family of intelligent, sentient cetaceans. Cuntish carry-on just doesn’t feel right when there’s a pair of White Bellied Sea Eagles circling overhead… you can’t even raise your voice on the beach when there’s a joey looking at you from mum’s pouch three metres away without feeling like a dickhead.

“Honestly, those roos – those big gentle eyes just rob a man of all intent of being self-absorbed, loud and obnoxious.”

By 7.00 pm that night, the crew had made it to the Toona Tavern as had long been planned, but instead of inhaling beers at the bar, switching to silly drinks and morphing into a pack of screeching hyenas, onlookers testify this plucky band of brothers were barely able to get through their Parmas and chips, with Bif nodding off in his chair halfway through his meal, not from the sedative effects of liquor that famously and hilariously robs him of bowel control, but rather from being comprehensively knackered from a great day of surfing with mates.

“They got back from the pub early, and by 8:30 the only noise coming from their tents were snores,” neighbouring campers Noel and Marjorie O’Halloran tell us. 

“Oh, and a single fart.”

That solitary fart, allegedly emanating from Bif’s swag, represented the pinnacle of the weekend’s indecent behaviour. 

On Sunday the lads rose early and given their physical stiffness and fatigue from seven hours’ surfing the day before, found themselves conducting an improvised yoga class led by Shane-O on the beach before the sun had reached the horizon. 

And after brekky, a quick surf in the fading swell, pausing to forage for cowries along the high tide line, and relaxing in the shade with a cuppa to catch up on each other’s news, our heroes packed away their camping gear, along with several unopened cartons of beer (one of which they donated to a clearly stoked Noel O’Halloran), and dispersed back to their respective lives, surfed out, stoked, and quietly reassured that future catch-ups with the mates needn’t always involve carrying on like a pork chop. 

Not that they would admit that much to each other, however. After all, Shane-O’s wedding was only a couple of weeks away, and, oh man, they were sure to tie one on then.

// DING ALLEY

Ding Alley is illustrator David @maccatoons McArthur and writer Gra Murdoch.