Church OF THE Open Sky

The first time I met Russell Hughes, I found myself riding with him on the back of a flatbed truck from Bulahdelah to Sydney with my good friend John Witzig. It was probably 1963 – could have been ’64. Exactly how Russ ended up with us on the tail end of our surf trip to Queensland escapes me.

John and I were on a surfari to Noosa Heads, and I guess Russ had organised with John to get a lift to Sydney. Two-thirds of the way to the city, we blew up Mrs Witzig’s VW beetle, which John borrowed regularly to go on our surfaris. After a day of dicking around in Bulahdelah, we were forced to leave the thing behind.

For some reason, a nice truckie took pity on us. That’s how the three of us ended up on the back of the flatbed, hiding under a tarpaulin to protect us from the driving rain, huddled close to the cab, bouncing up and down on the old two-lane Pacific Highway. In those days, it was a good four hours to Sydney. All those pies and Cokes from the previous days had created a gastric problem for Russ and me, and the situation was driving John mad. We were both farting like troopers.

At first it was funny and Russ and I were laughing hysterically. However, every time one of us would let one go under the tarp, John would explode, pulling back the cover, gasping for air and punching the arm of the person he thought was responsible. Usually, John was not sure exactly who had dropped the fart. I suppose it was whichever one of us looked the guiltiest. The accused would scream with indignation at the suggestion that he was responsible for the pungent smell: “It wasn’t me! It was him!” So it went on under the tarp for hours. Good fun, but in retrospect I think you had to be there to appreciate this level of humour.

Russell said he had been raised in a circus. He knew some