paul was celebrating his mate’s 20th birthday but then it all went horribly wrong. 

December 1994

It has been a long second year at the University of Tasmania. I’d developed a strong friendship with fellow Human Movement student, Jonathon. It is funny how people come back into your life. Jonathon was the kid I met at Maths-Science Camp in 1984 (see related post) and the same guy that beat me at the Inter-High Swimming Carnival in 1990 (see related post). We hit it off in second year after my long term relationship dissolved. Jonathon was also recovering after separating from his most recent girl friend.

We went out on on weekends at regular intervals over the long winter and resolved to ‘party’ in Hobart at the start of summer to celebrate the end of exams and our 20th birthdays. On the two hour drive to Hobart on the first Saturday in December 1994, Jonathon’s white Ford Falcon overheated. We parked on the side of the Midland’s Highway, near the turn off to Richmond, and waited for the engine to cool. While we watched the cows graze and the steam from the engine recede, a car load of similar aged girls drove past, then stopped, turned around and came back to offer their assistance. There wasn’t much they could do, but the gesture was appreciated. We engaged in flirtatious chat for a while and then waved them on their way. Immediately after, Jonathon, with a smile from ear to ear, reflected, “it’s going to be a great night”.

And so it turned out to be. We settled in South Hobart at a mate’s uni accommodation located 25 minutes walk from the CBD. We even took in the setting sun while seated in a park eating one of Modello’s finest pizzas for tea. We washed it down with some cheap drinks and hit the town about 10pm. Our first pub of choice was Montgomery’s on Macquarie Street. As we  stood at the traffic lights opposite the pub, two girls joined us. We nodded and smiled at them. In return, they grabbed our hands, pulled us across the road, passed the bouncers at the front door, and led us up onto the top of the bar to begin dancing. I believe we ordered and paid for drinks at our ankles, and danced with our new friends in the most unconventional start to an evening ever.

The drinks went down, the dancing improved, and at midnight we resolved to find a ‘night club’ to continue the fun. On the walk to the new venue we conversed with our new female friends and learned that they were both 17 years old. “We’re almost 18!”, they declared in stereo, “Well next year we are, anyway”. Jonathon and I laughed our way up the street, realising that we had been “used” by the “under age” girls to get into the pub. They also informed us, that they liked us, and if they hadn’t liked us, they would have dumped us hours ago. We ran with it, and they slipped into the night club with us, after a small wait. In the new multi-level venue the four of us explored each floor and danced for another hour.

Just after 1pm, Jonathon approached me and said he was “tapping out”. He felt like he was betraying his ex-girl friend, and he wanted to go back to our room and call her to see if he could repair things. I hugged my mate and said that I’d stay on for a bit and see him later. I offered to buy the girls some water as I had well and truly had enough alcohol. While I was purchasing several small bottles of water at the bar, I spotted the girl I had spent the evening with in heated conversation with a guy. He towered over her, and the conversation was extremely animated. It had been resolved by the time I received my change, and the guy had disappeared by the time I returned to my friend. She suggested we head off and get some fresh air. We waved to her friend, and left the party.

Walking hand in hand, sipping water, and talking we found a space to sit out of the wind at the back of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG). I asked my friend if she was okay, and she explained that was her “ex-boy friend” and he was “being a jerk”. I provided a listening ear, and provided my shirt to her when she began to shiver. Seated side by side we talked freely for 30 minutes. It was my first real opportunity to talk openly to another female since the end of my long term relationship in spring. We clicked, or so I thought, until our chat was interrupted by her telling me, “You’ve gotta go now”. This was a direct instruction, and there was real terror in her voice and face. Puzzled by what was unfolding, her final words to me were, “Run! Now!”.

I looked up, and 50 metres away was her ex-boyfriend and four mates. All running full throttle at me. I flashed back to the pool assault (see related story), and then reality sunk in. I didn’t want five guys hammering down on me.  The fight, flight, and freeze mechanism was activated. Again, it was “flight” that powered my escape. From the seated position I launched into my best sprint, leaping a garden bed and running for my life up the incline of Macquarie Street into oncoming traffic. I checked over my shoulder several times, and the party of five were persistent and shouty. I paused for a moment to jump in a taxi, but when the driver could see the imposing gang he sped off with the door open. I regained my running rhythm and started putting distance on the rag tag group of runners. This cat and mouse game continued for far too long. I was faster than them, but they did not give in. I planned to stay on the main road, and in full vision of traffic, but at 2am there was very few people around. I changed plans, ran down a side street, jumped a fence and hid in a garden. One of the guys ran passed the garden shortly after and then they were gone.

I remained hidden for another 20 minutes to recover and then walked back to the accommodation. Boy did I have a story to tell Jonathan on the trip back to Launceston the next day – I’d survived what could have been a particularly nasty fight, but I had literally lost the shirt off my back – my favourite shirt.

The following week a parcel arrived at my house. The shirt had been dry cleaned and pressed, wrapped and mailed to me. That was pretty impressive. I had only mentioned my surname once all night, and my friend had tracked me down. There was no phone number nor return address, just a hand written note, “Sorry”.

Postscript

I share this story in order to create a space here to define ‘fitness’. Rather than using some arbitrary metric like body mass or fat mass, or your shuttle run score, or vertical jump – they all have their place – I choose to use a more open definition of functional fitness: “Do you have the capacity to physically do what you need to do in an emergency?”. This applies across balance, endurance, muscular strength, muscular endurance,  flexibility, and body composition. Without endurance that night I would have, in all likelihood, been physically assaulted and injured, potentially with serious consequences. I have friends that have endured “one punch” incidents that have been life changing for them and their family. But this equally applies to one’s capacity to swim following an on water incident. We should prioritise our focus on building the confidence and competence of young people, through school and across the curriculum, to better understand and apply how to stay functionally fit. And every child in Tasmania should be supported to learn how to swim competently by the time they are 10 years old. Let’s not wait until puberty and body consciousness interferes with participation.