ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
Under the late morning glare of the Gold Coast sun, Daryl McIntyre stood barefoot on the damp concrete apron of Sea World’s dolphin enclosure, wondering, not for the first time, i f this was, in fact, the most bogan thing he had ever done.
It was Kaz’s idea. A birthday gift, she’d said. A memory. Daryl had nodded, picturing himself with outstretched hand, meeting nature halfway. Now, standing in a chlorine-stained lifejacket that clung unkindly to his chewed-Mintie-like midsection, he suspected the memory would be less Attenborough and more like a Facebook album from 2011.
The dolphin, a sleek and sexy, grey patriarch named Bubbles. She surfaced with practised grace, her dark eyes reflecting the same patience she’d likely offered thousands of tourists before him. Daryl was instructed to rub the creature’s flank “firmly but respectfully,” a phrase that made him acutely aware of both his city-boot calluses and the absurdity of the moment. He was warned and signed an agreement that he would not attempt to touch or play with Bubbles’ impressive dolphin penis, which brushed against his leg a number of time, to the point where Daryl was convinced it was on purpose.
He smiled for the camera when told, the kind of smile that would later be mounted in a faux-wood frame in his parent’s pool room. In twelve minutes it was over. A handshake of sorts, a wet kiss to the cheek, and a damp souvenir towel purchased for $49 to prove, in fabric form, that it had all really happened.
Later, at the pub, the framed photo would be passed around like contraband. Some mates laughed, others nodded gravely, as if Daryl had participated in some great rite of passage. He sipped his beer and conceded quietly to himself. Yes, this was bogan. But it was the early 2000s.
More to come.
