Ker­mie’s son’s Stella road­trip

Big Rigs - - COLUMN - LIFE WITH KER­MIE GRA­HAM HARSANT con­trib­u­tors@bi­grigs.com.au — Take care of you, Ker­mie (84.9kg)

OUR youngest lad, Nick, is an im­petu­ous young man.

I have writ­ten in the past about his de­ci­sions to go camp­ing on the spur of the mo­ment.

His camp­ing bud­dies would all pull out or their par­ents wouldn’t al­low them to go.

Un­de­terred, Nick would head off into the bush­land by him­self with tent (some­times), sleep­ing bag, bread rolls and his sta­ple meal of frank­furters.

Nine times out of 10 it would rain.

If he’d gone to coun­try New South Wales we wouldn’t be talk­ing of drought to­day. This was back when he was about 14.

In the years since, noth­ing has changed. At the drop of a hat he would hop in his lit­tle buzz box and head off to des­ti­na­tions un­known at the time of depar­ture.

Like the time he and a mate headed for the beach some­where and camped for the night only to wake up and find the front of the Toy­ota buried up to its front axle in a sand bog.

In lat­ter years, Nick has hooked up with a guy called Aadil, bet­ter known as just Dil. The two have be­come firm friends and Dil’s de­sire to do things on the spur of the mo­ment is as strong as our Nick’s.

They came up our way camp­ing one time only to be shar­ing the camp­site with some crazy, drunken druggo.

They knocked on our door at 1am look­ing for some­where safer (and softer) to sleep.

Or the time they de­cided to head for the beach to sleep out un­der the stars. Leav­ing af­ter dark they got to the beach about midnight and found some sand in a hol­low to lay their weary heads.

They woke again at 6am – as a golf ball landed in the bunker they’d in­ad­ver­tently cho­sen as a bed.

Last year they were sit­ting around on a Fri­day arvo, and with noth­ing bet­ter to do, headed for the air­port and hopped on a plane to Launce­s­ton in Tassie.

Once there they got their first tat­too – a mous­tache of all things, on their index fin­gers. Go fig­ure.

Ear­lier this year they were at Nick’s play­ing pool and hav­ing a few drinks, in this case Stella Ar­tois.

“Y’know,” said one of them. “We should take this empty Stella bot­tle to a col­lec­tion de­pot in South Aus­tralia and get the 10 cent re­fund.”

Sure enough just the other day they an­nounced to one and all via Facebook that they were off to do just that. I mean, they did have two full days off work.

So into Dil’s trusty AU Fal­con Ute they hopped and headed up the road. A bite to eat at Bendigo and on to Kara Kara Na­tional Park to sleep. Of course, in their best tra­di­tion they didn’t think about sleep­ing bags or the fact that they could have slept more com­fort­ably in the tray. So af­ter a few hours snoozing up­right in the cab they headed onto Ade­laide.

Be­ing a week­end I won­dered if they would find a col­lec­tion de­pot open but they even­tu­ally did. In they go and see a bloke on a fork­lift.

Go­ing over they pro­duce the bot­tle of Stella and ex­plain how far they’ve come to-do-the-right-thing.

Forky driver is not im­pressed, tells Nick to take the cam­era off him or risk a $30,000 fine (?). He won’t take the bot­tle and ba­si­cally tells them to “piss off”.

“No sense of adventure, that bloke. He wasn’t too happy.”

“Nah. Guess he wouldn’t be. We’re only 21 and we’ve got bet­ter jobs than him.”

Long story short, but a longer drive home be­cause they de­cide to come back via The Great Ocean Road, the boys fi­nally lay the Stella to rest at a re­cy­cle bin at the Twelve Apos­tles.

They get home just in time to start work on Mon­day. Speak­ing to Nick that night I ask what’s next on their agenda.

“Who knows Dad­dio,” he replies. “Is NASA look­ing for vol­un­teers to go to Mars? That’d be a great week­end.”

What­ever they do they’ll have fun. I’m jeal­ous be­cause life is short and they are liv­ing it to the hilt.

‘P.S: Happy 21st Nick. Proud of the per­son you are. Moon and Stars.’

NICK’S AD­VEN­TURES: Ker­mie shares one story of his son Nick’s ad­ven­tures.

Nick’s trusty travel ute is get­ting a bit dusty.

PHO­TOS: GRA­HAM HARSANT

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