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The Beattie Files: A night with Tassie Bob
Fisherman,
footballer, fighter, adventurer, bar manager and a
world champion story-teller, Tassie Bob left a
lasting impression on our intrepid travelers
(Ed's
note: These are excerpts from young Beattie's book on
some of the more colourful incidents in an action-packed
life. See the end of the piece for more info.)
(August 2024, Chris Beattie)
The
“Biker Friendly” sign outside the small bar and grill
was hard to resist, as was the classic bright red ’51
Ford coupe parked out the front. It was also close to
lunchtime. Fellow bike journo Hamish Cooper and I were
on a pair of Harley test bikes at the time and heading
south past Big Sur on the Pacific Coast Highway on our
way to LA.
Earlier
in the week we’d attended the world launch of the first
Harley V-Rod (and I’d earned a ‘personal favour’ from
none other than Willie G Davidson – but more on that
another time!). It was another California-perfect day,
the road was just starting to get interesting and the
scenery was full of redwood forests and spectacular
coastal outlooks.
The
night before had been spent inland in a rundown motel in
the equally rundown town of Salinas, inland of Monterey.
The hotel carpark doubled as an after-dark outdoor drug
market from what we could tell, with small powder-filled
plastic bags being exchanged for money. We nodded off to
the occasional bursts of what we took to be small arms
fire, punctuated by the odd plea for mercy.
And
before we even got to Salinas we watched on as an
ancient American car slowly self-destructed up ahead,
preceded by rapidly increasing smoke discharging from
underneath the weaving relic and culminating in large
pieces of hot metal distributing themselves over the
freeway as we weaved to avoid tyre damage. Pissed ’n’
broke was the verdict when we pulled in for fuel a
little way up the road.
So, we
were definitely looking forward to finally reaching the
coast, and it appeared we had found the ideal oasis to
take a midday break. But not before Hamish disgraced
himself by chasing pedestrians up a footpath in the
trendy Carmel shopping strip, whereupon he was duly
apprehended by a well-armed member of the local
constabulary.
“It may
be different where you’re from buddy,” said the local
cop, “But here in Carmel we don’t allow our pedestrians
to be chased down the sidewalk by guys on Harleys.”
Hamish the Crazed Harley Sidewalk Commando was duly
issued a warning.
But
back to the Biker Friendly, which was our next stop just
down the road …
As we
wandered into the darkened bar, we were surprised to see
AFL posters and a framed Richmond jersey on the walls,
betraying an Aussie connection of some sort.
“So,
what’ll you have,” said the tall, bearded figure behind
the bar.
“Actually,
I reckon a VB would go down mighty fine mate,” I
replied.
“Might
take a while,” said the barman, hesitating to take a
closer look at his new customers. “So where are you boys
from anyway?”
The
Aussie accent was still strong, even though, as we found
out, our new buddy had been living in the States for
more than 16 years.
“Tassie
Bob’s the name,” he said, with a firm handshake. “First
one’s on me -- sorry it ain’t a VB.”
It soon
became obvious we weren’t going to make any more
progress on our bikes that day. Over the next few hours
and countless beers, the Tassie Bob story emerged.
Several different versions, actually.
Unsurprisingly,
Bob
was originally a Taswegian, who reckoned he’d played a
season or two for the Richmond Tigers footy club before
heading overseas to pursue a career as a professional
trawler fisherman.
Chasing
large Pacific tuna, Bob had fished on commercial
trawlers from way up north in Alaska to the warmer
climes of Mexico, he said.
On one
of his trips to the southern tuna grounds he decided to
take the Pacific Coast Highway on his ’74 Harley
Sportster and dropped into the Fernwood Bar, Grill and
Campground. He liked what he saw and on his return trip
the owner offered Bob the position of manager of the
sprawling facility. It was an offer too good to refuse,
he reckoned.
That
was four years ago, and Bob and his lady Sheryl had
since set up home across the road, high on a hilltop
overlooking the campground and bar and with a
spectacular view of the Pacific.
Having
the ocean on your doorstep and the Santa Lucia mountain
range literally in your backyard makes for a picture
postcard-perfect setting and Bob and Sheryl were keen to
share their good fortune with two visiting Aussie bike
journos.
“Why
don’t you guys run the bikes across the road and unpack.
You’re our guests for the night. While you get cleaned
up, I’ll have the cook fire you up a good feed of
California beef,” said Bob.
While
staying the night would mean a pretty long ride the
following day to return the test bikes and make our
flight back to Australia, we decided that it would be
impolite to refuse.
“Sounds
like a plan, mate,” I replied.
By the
time we returned, the bar and restaurant had filled up
with hungry and thirsty locals. Bob joined us as we
tucked into some large, juicy steaks and we spent a
couple of very pleasant hours drinking malt whiskey
while Bob shared stories of his life on the high seas
and the many ports he’d apparently visited during his
maritime days. The longer the night wore on, the better
and more outlandish the tales became. As a master
storyteller, Bob deserved a Nobel prize. According to
the man himself, he’d won a couple of footy games for
the Tigers single-handedly and would have given Ali a
run for his money in the ring if only he hadn’t been
busy wrestling giant whales in the Arctic.
We
spent the rest of the evening in Bob and Sheryl’s spa,
which had a magnificent view across the redwoods and out
over the Pacific. The stories continued well into the
night as steam from the spa mixed with fumes from
Sheryl’s potent rollies while we watched on as the smoke
faded into the starlit night.
One
thing was for sure: It wasn’t hard to see why a bloke
from Tassie had decided to set down a few roots in this
spectacular part of the world.
At some
point during our stay, it was also decided that Bob and
his crew would be perfect hosts for our
100th Anniversary Harley Homecoming Tour, which was
still a couple of years away at this stage. The coastal
setting and spectacular ride in from our tour HQ in San
Francisco would make for a great first day on the road
for our tour members, I thought, and so a plan was
hatched.
The
next morning, we were greeted by a thick golden carpet
of fog that stretched out across the Pacific far beneath
us. It was almost as thick as the fog of hangover that
clouded our brains as we attempted to get our gear in
order for the nine-hour ride ahead.
“Thanks
for stopping by blokes,” said Bob, running his fingers
through his thick beard. “Looks like you’re up for a
good day. Just make sure you keep an eye out for deer –
they’re like rabbits around here. Big fuckin’ rabbits.”
As we
bid Bob farewell, I was thankful for the bracing effects
of the strong black coffee I’d had over breakfast. Even
more so when, only a handful of corners later as we
admired the spectacular view high above the ocean, a
large black shadow leapt from the cliff directly over my
head. Immediately Hamish bleeped his horn then rode past
me and signalled to pull over.
“Fuck,
how big was that deer!” he exclaimed. “Don’t know how it
didn’t take you out!”
I just
looked at him and shook my head.
“What
fuckin’ deer?” I replied, mystified.
It
turned out a large deer had lunged off the cliffside
literally right above me, and as near as we could work
out, had then plunged several hundred metres to a
grisly, bloody death on the rocks below.
While
some of Bob’s tall tales from the previous night seemed
a little far-fetched in the cold light of day, I was at
least grateful for his parting warning about the deer.
Sadly,
I never did get to thank him. By the time I returned to
Big Sur two years later with a few hundred thirsty and
enthusiastic Harley riders for our big tour in 2003, Bob
and Sheryl had departed the scene.
Apparently,
their
leaving coincided with the arrival of a delegation of
local law enforcement officers keen to have a chat. I
never did get the full story, but I’m sure if Bob had
his say it would make for a great yarn …
More at The Beattie Files
home page
The excerpt is from Beattie's wild and woolly book. So far as we know it's had one brief print run and he's threatening to do another. Watch this space.
In the meantime he can be contacted by email.
More at The Beattie Files
home page
Travels with Guido columns here
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