“Oh dear!  What have we started?” Sean Hopwood said aloud into the darkness of a moonless Autumn night.  It was 2.00 am and he had watched the man he considered his godson, slip into the water from Nelson’s Boulder Bank.  Clad in a black wetsuit and towing a similarly black waterproof kit bag, Ollie Cooper was soon out of sight.  Hobbling back to his car on arthritic and aged limbs Sean thought back to where this present situation started. Had there been an embryo with a linear path to this point in time?  Could there have been subtle influences to nudge the now invisible swimmer on to a different course … or was this like an accident – the combination of numerous small happenings combining to create an unstoppable event ?  On reflection he felt that there were three distinct prongs to this story, that had come together to make a powerful trident, which could possibly be the downfall of several of the players involved, himself included … especially himself.

Ollie Cooper had come into his life as a 15-year-old, next-door-neighbour, many years ago.  He was known to be different but what syndrome he had, or the spectrum he was on was never determined or even sought.  He was what he was, and no alphabet of descriptors would change that.  He was delightfully even tempered and whilst there were parts of his schooling that he seemed to have no comprehension of, there were other things that he intuitively knew and needed no tuition.  Sean took him under his wing and at 16 he got him a job at Port Nelson where he was a line manager.  Ollie was employed as a labourer and subsequently as a construction diver in the wharf and infrastructure maintenance team.  A popular team member, he never seemed to need instruction about how to carry out any work, he just ‘knew’ the right way and was an industrious worker.  He sensed the required spans of timber members for any specific loadings and he understood mechanical interactions intuitively and accurately.  In the mechanical workshop he showed an eerie awareness of what needed to be hard, what needed tensile strength and what clearances should be included in any fabrication.  His supervising leading hand and the group foreman both found this spooky but soon came to rely on his judgement and noted that any work being done by a team that include Ollie in its makeup was always carried out efficiently, with little wastage.

Of course, success brings praise and Ollie’s team was always popular because of this.
By his mid-twenties he was a legend in the port, and his regular, slightly odd fixations on topics or hobbies that took his fancy, only added to the myths surrounding the man. Sometimes these fixations were brief, other times they resulted in being part of the essence of the saga that was Ollie.  Two of these seemingly irrelevant fixations involved Sean and he wondered if there was tacit culpability as these fixations hardened into the trident of his fears.

 “Who would have thought that a harmless hobby could be a building block to where we now are!”

It had been the passing of an old relative of Sean’s that brought the unloved Norton Jubilee into their lives. A simple joint-project of restoration led to research and the knowledge that the range of Norton ‘lightweights’ were designed by Bert Hopwood, a famed figure in the British motorcycle industry. Although a man of great experience and ability, it seems that in this instance he got it wrong, and the 250 cc Norton Jubilee and its 350 cc and 400 cc siblings the Navigator and the Electra, were adjudged by history as being poor and fragile.  This meant nothing to Ollie and attaching a family link via their shared surname, he always noted them as being made by ‘Sean’s uncle’ and accordingly loved them irrationally through all their foibles.  Ollie was relentless in his quest to locate examples of all three.

As the years passed Ollie and Sean became renowned for their knowledge of these not-great examples of the once-proud marque, whose slogan was Unapproachable.  Sean was the unlocker of the internet and email world, whilst Ollie was the workshop maestro.  Contacts from all around the globe became friends through the aether, with a few morphing into flesh-and-blood mateship.  One such regular visitor was Jack Daniels, the Aussie skipper of a roll-on, roll-off car ferry that visited Nelson every two months. Ollie kept a bottle of the iconic American whiskey on the workshop’s trophy shelf, and almost always opened their greeting with “So you’ve come to drink the family liquor have you?”  Sean could see that there was strong mutual affection between the two.  Their lives were so different but for the period in the workshop, they were kin.

 “But we probably need to go back further … to the era of Quality Assurance and ISO 9000!” he mused as his headlights picked out the track along the access track from Glenduan. Nights were always good for reflection, now that they often included long periods of age-related sleeplessness.

The 1990s had brought the weight of measurable quality and safety to the business units of the local government authorities. As this began to impact on Ollie’s world, he questioned Sean about where it had come from and why it was needed.
 “The shiny bums in Wellington have seen it working overseas.”
Ollie initially loved the term ‘shiny bum’ but as the quest for demonstrable efficiency started to exclude his inclusion in work teams because of a lack of a relevant qualification or certificate, shiny bums became a symbol of an undeclared enemy.  Shiny bums were the ‘They’ who seemed to want new formalisations every month.  Soon there were JSEAs (Job Safety and Environment Assessments) needed for even the smallest of tasks. LTI analysis followed. This confused Ollie because they started rewarding the teams for no Lost Time Injuries.  
 “But aren’t we paid to do the job without injury?  Why do they then give us a night out every time we get to 20,000 manhours without injury?”  
Sean had no clear answer that was acceptable to Ollie.  Ollie saw more intrusion from the shiny bums.  They came and assessed all the types of work that Olly’s team might do, so that they could create KPIs to measure against.
 “What is a Key Performance Indicator?  Why do they need them … and who wants them?  We just get asked to do a job, big or small and we do it.  You want a new dolphin pile?  We’ll make it happen.  Fender repairs … same!  We’re the ones who are doing the work.  The shiny bums produce nothing … and what the ‘flock’ are the dashboards they keep referring to?”

Sean remembered all those discussions and also how the shiny bums’ world was slowly implemented across all the port’s operations and how those like Ollie who couldn’t, or wouldn’t get the necessary qualifications for the work were finally laid off.

 “You’ve got rid of my best worker!” Sean protested to his immediate manager, “How does that make us more efficient?”  The shiny bums ignored him.  Done was done!

There was a payout and Ollie expanded the workshop that he and Sean shared.  Life went on ok but all figures of authority, or non-producing workers all became shiny bums and his disdain strengthened into a low-level of distaste bordering on hatred of all forms of bureaucracy.

Around the time of the millennium an Australian backpacker named Ingrid came into Ollie’s life and for a period they were an inseparable pair.  Sean was pleased to see his neighbour and friend, indisputably and deliriously happy.  Sean chuckled as he recalled Ingrid adding to Ollie’s worldly awareness, giving him another mantra to adopt as his. Relaxing at the picnic table on a sultry Friday evening, beers in hand, all was well in their world. Sean and Ollie had just completed recommissioning a Jubilee engine and Ingrid had finished a long week of apple picking. A transistor radio was dispensing talkback wisdom in the background, almost unnoticed by the trio.  Sean could now only remember part of the interplay that unfolded, but the key action would remain verbatim forever.  Once more he smiled at the memory, even if it was another of the foundations of the situation they now found themselves in.

 “… society needs rules and laws. If behavioural interplays are not controlled and constrained, anarchy will break out!  It is imperative that we don’t allow that to happen.”

Ingrid leapt to her feet and started shouting at the radio.
 “Bullshit!  Anarchy is just direct action!  If you are doing nothing wrong … you are doing nothing wrong!  Anarchists are the good guys!”
We never knew exactly what preceded the phrases that got Ingrid so worked up, but a passionate tirade followed that railed against Big Brother and urged resistance.  Ollie adopted the mantra of “If you are doing nothing wrong … you are doing nothing wrong!” and would  reference it at the drop of a hat in the years that followed. Sadly the ardour of their relationship slowly faded and didn’t survive Ingrid’s inevitable return home. Sean always thought that this was a pity because her tempestuous nature was a great balance to Ollie’s gentle but rigid one.  He’d enjoyed watching the two of them together, Ollie solid and almost square, Ingrid tall and svelte.

Pulling up to his door in Mapua, Sean calculated that Ollie would now be at the location of the Mercury Ace.  He pictured it looming large over the black-clad figure climbing the wharf-end ladder. Sighing heavily, he brought back all the memories which contributed to the three players being awake at such an hour.

February 2017 saw a statuesque young woman stride up the shared driveway between Sean and Ollie’s houses.  They watched the confident figure from the open workshop front with not a little trepidation.
 “Hello Sean, hello Ollie!  I’m Petunia Symonds … and I’m told that you are my father!” she whispered quietly, pointing to Ollie.  She stepped forward and drew the shocked subject of her utterance to herself, in an almost-bear-hug. Not normally ones for manly expletives, in unison the menfolk gave out a “Holy shit!” … in absolute harmony.  This completely broke the tension of the moment and the trio burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Petunia was a regular visitor over the next few years and a consistent email correspondent through the conduit of Sean. Like her mum’s, Petunia’s life was varied and exciting. She’d crewed on super-yachts in the Mediterranean, worked ski-fields on three continents, starred in four cinematographic advertisements, written for a glossy adventure magazine and now seemed settled, working as a Jillaroo on a remote Australian sheep station.  The sad news of her mother’s passing, in mid-2024 was tempered by the invitation to her wedding at the Betoota Hotel in February 2025.

 “Dear Ollie (Dad!), I’d love you to give me away on the day of my marriage.  It won’t be formal or posh, and you don’t have to give a speech … unless you want to.  There is nothing at Betoota, except the old hotel which they open for events like this.  I think you’ll love it out here.  If Sean wants to come, he’s welcome too.  You’ve got a few months to sort it out.  Love – P”

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 “You’ll go won’t you?  I can’t make it, but I think you should.  We’ve got time to get you a passport”  Sean looked across at his offsider expectantly.
 “Why should I get a passport?  Go begging to the shiny bums! You went to Aussie back in the day without one.  Captain Cook arrived there without one.  My ancestors got here to Aotearoa without them.  I’ll just go with Jack!”
 “You can’t expect Jack to take you to Aussie.  It’s against the law.  You have to have passports, and tickets and credit cards and all sorts of stuff to travel these days.”
 “I see people every day on tele moving between countries without passports or Visa cards.”
 “But they’re refugees or people fleeing from strife of some sort.”
 “Jack’ll take me.  He’s taking the Electra when we’ve finished it.” Pointing over to the partly-finished bike on the hoist. “He said he was taking it the trip after next if we’d have it ready … and the Mercury Ace is in Port on Friday, so I will ask him then.”

Friday duly came, and Jack turned up at the workshop after completing all the Customs requirements and getting the unloading of vehicles underway.  There were two hundred cars to be unloaded and 21 to be loaded.  This would be a quick 29-hour turn-around.
 “Morning team, where’s my deleckie Eleckie?” he greeted the boys with and before Ollie could give forth his usual Jack Daniels spiel, he’d spotted the bike up on the hoist and further exclaimed “Ooh, looking so good … how can anyone think they are ugly?”  Clearly Jack was over the moon with the progress on what for him was the Holy Grail, the mightiest of the Norton Lightweights, 400 cc, 12 volt electric start, handlebar-end blinkers, unit construction engine … as advanced as it got in 1964.
 “Jack, I’ve got a favour to ask.  You know how you said you once brought your wife on a voyage to NZ … I want you to take me to Australia for Petunia’s wedding. It’s at Beetoota.  We’ve looked it up and got a plan.  I come with you and the Electra to Adelaide.  You offload it there and I ride it to the wedding and deliver it to you in Brisbane … and I get back from there!”  This all came out in a rush, leading to a surprised silence.
 “Oh Ollie, I am so sorry, but we can’t just do that.  We’ve got rules and regulations about freight and passengers.”
 “But you brought your wife that time, and you’re taking the Electra … and you said you weren’t scared of the shiny bums.”

Jack put his head in his hands for a good long period before finally raising it and looking Ollie in the eye and saying quietly “Fuck the shiny bums, tell me your plan.”

Once on board with the challenge, the three of them got busy agreeing a methodology to make it all happen.  Ironically, they used a lot of quality assurance learnings to review and test all facets of the plan.  The equivalent of a detailed ‘hazard analysis’ was carried out.  All ‘what-ifs’ were played out in role-playing sessions.  A simple red notebook was filled out with the sequential timeline of actions summarised in bullet points, limiting all ‘critical path’ activities to a page of their own.  Risky actions were done in red ink, less risky in black. As each unfolded, it was intended that Ollie fold over the corner of that page on completion.  This way he would always know what he was meant to be doing and where he was on the plan. A basic cell phone was bought and the numbers of Jack, Sean and Petunia linked to simple icons, shortcutting and simplifying the process of contact. The plan was reviewed numerous times until Jack and Sean adjudged it as good as could be.  All risks had been assessed against the shiny bums’ directives to Eliminate, Isolate or Minimise. The boys also thought that ironic.

Security around the port perimeter was tight, but the weak point was from the sea.  Ollie knew all the wharves and their construction.  He knew that the Mercury Ace was docked at Berth 24 and that end of the wharf had easy access from the sea via a steel ladder for safety purposes.  He also knew that at mid-tide there would be a lower-level, slatted area well above the sea, where he could get out of his wet suit, towel-off and get into dry clothes and sneakers.  So it was that at 3.30 am he poked his head up above the wharf deck to confirm its emptiness, before quietly walking up the gang plank and onto the large car carrier.  Jack had arranged to feign sleeplessness and encourage the sole deckhand on watch, to join him in the galley for a hot chocolate.  Their timing was impeccable and by 4.15 am Jack, Ollie and Sean were all asleep, happy that stage one of the adventure was behind them.

For five days Ollie alternated between Jack’s cabin, which as skipper, was a non-shared berth and Lifeboat No 8.  It was a time of boredom but also a time to fully memorise his little red note book.  He knew he would be dropping over the side in the pre-dawn, climbing down a rope which Jack would subsequently recover and re-stow.  The swim to the shore at North Haven was not in the least bit daunting for him, as he likened it to aquatic walking … something you could do for a couple of hours without a break.  The first 222 bus to town would be at 7.30 and near the terminus would be eateries and the YHA where he would hole-up again until the Electra was ready for him.  As he had no ‘cards’ or ID, everything would be expedited via cash … from the roll Jack had provided as part-payment for the Electra.  

During those days he was to find himself a jacket, preferably from Vinnies, or the Salvos and a helmet. When the bike was ready a taxi driver would be engaged to drive to the edge of Adelaide with Ollie following.  Once on the A1 Highway, Ollie was to ride it till he reached the B83 minor provincial road.  Jack had felt-tipped waypoints from there, on to a card fitted beneath the clear top of the magnetic tank-bag which sat in front of him on the Norton. All Ollie had to do was look for signposts matching these.  

Without incident, this all came to pass and after two solid days of riding he reached Marree, the end of the sealed roads and the beginning of challenging Birdsville Track.  Here, Ollie gave the Electra a once-over and texted ‘ALL OK’ to his audience of three. He’d never travelled before and the whole experience was exciting.  Every vista was new and stimulating … like a National Geographic spread that you were allowed to ride through, and smell.  Already he had seen kangaroos and wombats (albeit dead on the road) and wedge-tail eagles.  The sky was bluer than he thought possible, the ride warm and his heart filled with the tingles of what lay ahead.  He even made up a song in his head around a chorus of “If you’re doing nothing wrong … you’re doing nothing wrong!”  This had filled the long hours on the straight roads.

The Norton proved to be capable on the unmade roads of the Birdsville Track, which the old hands in the Marree Hotel had told him was in good nick, probably the best it had been in years.  The roadhouse at Mungeranie (pop 2) provided a night of succour and good cheer courtesy of the Robinson Crusoe-like proprietor.  Ollie was getting increasingly more and more excited.  The landscape stimulated him with its diversity of colours, flora and fauna and the road (call it thus if you must) challenged him with its constant corrugations and hollows, humps and bull dust swathes. Life was good, he reflected.

Birdsville was a surprisingly busy little hub, with adventurers from the Simpson and Strzelecki Desert crossings pausing for refuelling and reprovisioning.  The pub was a welcome respite for Ollie and his last night before reaching Betoota and Petunia.
 “What brings you out here on that old classic?” the gnarled old barman enquired.
 “I’m going to my daughter’s wedding in Beetoota.”
 “Ha, Petunia … flower of the desert!  We’re all going … shutting the pub.  None of us can imagine missing it for quids!  It’ll be up there with the races.  Pretty much everyone in the shire will be there. The beer and your room are on us.”
In some ways it could be said that the last day was more of the same big red outback, a lonely road stretching off to nothingness, but the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow made it different for Ollie.  Any early start saw him ride into the ghost town of Betoota in the early afternoon, fully three days before the wedding.  He knew from Sean’s research that the pub had been bought and recommissioned in 2020 to open for events like this.  Already there was a plethora of tents set up for the expected throng. Petunia soon spotted him and with a smile as wide as an old Cadillac’s grill came running over
 “I knew you’d make it!”
 “I might have missed a lot of your life, but I am here now … and I am sorry about your mum.”
 “As the principal guest of honour, you’re in the shearers’ quarters over there.  Settle in and come back, there’s some hard yakka to be done and some pretty special people to meet.”
And so there was.
True to the barman’s prediction, hundreds turned up for the ‘Royal’ wedding as they called it. From all over the vast Diamantina region they flocked in, dusty 4 x 4s all attesting to resoluteness of the guests, and their resolve to be there.  Petunia and her man Jimbo, truly were the stars of the day, a picture-book couple who laughed and smiled their way through the whole event.  True to type, Ollie made no speech.

Back in New Zealand Sean fretted for news.  The wedding date passed, so did a further two weeks.  A ping from his computer finally alerted him to an email coming in.

“Hi Sean, Petunia is writing this for me.  Her station is seriously in the wops, about 57 km from Birdsville.  I have been working here while they were off in Brisbane having a honeymoon.  It is so good that I might stay for a bit.  There are no shiny bums, no pre-start meetings, not even any toolbox meetings. I repaired a Coopers Little Giant pump for them.  I reckon it might have been made by a great uncle of mine.  What do you think? I’ve found another one to do up as well.  Jack says he is coming out to get the Electra the next time he is home.  I might have to find some more lightweight Nortons over here, although I am pretty busy doing up my own family’s stuff.  The Coopers are well-made but have a few fundamental flaws.

I’ll write again soon.
O”

“Good on you son!” Sean whispered to the computer.

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The now re-opened Betoota Hotel

The clever but flawed Norton Electra