Jim, ex CBC boy and long-term Semaphore resident,

reminisces about his old mate, poet, Francis Webb, 1925 – 1973.
 
Frankly       i didn’t know if he was

telling the truth

       or simply weaving a web

laced with lies & deceit

       but as i sat there smoking

cigarettes in his Semaphore backyard

       he pointed out the Jacaranda tree

where Francis would hang his red Speedos

out to dry

       he’d just sling them over that low branch

just above head height

       & he talked about how the colour contrasted

wildly with the green

       & he described in detail the aqua blue

full-face diving mask he’d wear

       & how it was slightly frayed

around the edges	 & how it left red welts

across his face that lasted for an hour or more

making him look somewhat grotesque

       & i drifted with the smoke . . .

& thought of nothing but him
i was jolted when he said that Francis

had the biggest snorkel in Semaphore ––

       i laughed aloud & commented

that i thought Francis was definitely gay

       & went on to say how he’d smashed

chairs to toothpicks in the past when

challenged on that point

       but i was told smartly in return

that Francis loved a challenge

       & how they’d dive the Semaphore reef

& harpoon sharks on steamy summer afternoons

       & how Francis could swim for miles

with an ease & natural grace that most

sporting men envied
but he told me too of his dark side ––

one incident that quickly came to pass

was how one broiling January afternoon

when too many long-necks had been emptied

& thrown with wild abandon into the overgrown

buffalo grass

       that the landlord had appeared looking stern

& began a lecture on moderation & temperance ––

       it was all too much for Francis

who waved his harpoon in his direction

& screamed       desist you bugger       desist

       & began to chase him around the backyard

with a stream of other even more foul

& cutting obscenities

       & how within the hour two coppers

arrived on a motorbike & sidecar

       booting it up the driveway & waving their

truncheons at Francis who by this time was

staggering exhaustedly around the backyard

in his once white ‘y’ fronts & wielding

his own weapon

       calling the landlord a cunt repeatedly

(& rather loudly it should be said)

       much to the utter disgust of the

woodcutter who lived next door

       (who was always thought to have called

the police       but who of course ––

on later questioning

       would never put his hand up ––

though some did suggest it may have been his wife
it was shortly after this event that the

harpoon was strapped to the last pylon

on the northern side of the Semaphore jetty ––

just below the waterline at low tide

       (suffice to say that the charges were

subsequently dropped       perhaps due to the

lack of substantial evidence)

       but they say too ––

that sometimes when the water clears

& the Semaphore sun is bright

       that if you swing out far enough over

the jetty railing

       you can see a leather belt with a brass

buckle about a metre below the waterline ––

but as for that harpoon

       it is no-where to be seen.