I don't think the bike was around when the events took place, around 1973. It probably was a Yamaha TX650, for those who care about such things... The Katz.

My family came to the same Motor Camp every summer holidays. Every year since I can remember. We had a caravan that we kept there for a small yearly rental.

The camp adjoined the beach. It was set under palm trees that gave the campers some shelter from the hot summer sun.

The beach was set in a small bay that was a popular recreational fishing spot. There was also wind surfing, boating, water skiing, all available from the beach concessionaires. A real family holiday spot.

I had just turned 17 that summer, my sister an annoying 13. My dad ran the family business, a wholesalers, taking over from my grandfather.

I guess you could say I had a silver spoon in my mouth, but I never thought of myself as rich. We lived in a good suburb and my sister and I both went to private girl's schools. All my friends went to the same school so I guess I never really met anyone that wasn't well off.

I was going to do my final year, next year, then it was on to University. I wanted to do Math's but dad wanted me to do Accounting or Law.

Anyway, we were in the camp store one-day, buying some stuff for dinner, when this rumbling sound comes down the drive. I look out the door and I see this big motorcycle arrive. It was piled up so high with camping equipment that the rider had difficulty dragging it onto the center stand.

The rider was tall and kind of skinny and, as he took off his helmet, had long straggly blond hair. His face was decorated with a moustache and goatee and he was dressed, head to toe, in black leather that was dusty and flecked with squashed flying insects.

The girl behind the counter looked apprehensive as he strode through the door. A cigarette dangled unlit from the biker's lips.

"I'm sorry, you can't smoke in here," the girl said nervously.

"It's not lit," the guy replies, matter of factly.

"Well, um, what can I do for you"? The girl asked, going through the practiced routine.

"Find me my tent site," he suggested, smiling. It was quite a cute smile I thought at the time but maybe I'm looking back with rose-tinted specs. It wasn't nasty, I mean.

"We can't... I mean... there's no vacancies," the girl said. Now I knew that was crap, They hadn't even started using the backfield yet.

"But I've booked, prepaid," he said, "look here's the form you sent me," he took out a piece of paper.

"Dad!" the girl called towards the back.

Mr. Winter, the camp owner came out from the back of the store.

"Sorry mister, no vacancies," he said straight away.

"Dad!" his daughter said, "he has a reservation, he's pre-booked... and paid"

Mr. Winter scrutinized the paper and scratched his head.

"We don't usually have motorbikes at the camp," he said, "you'll have to leave it outside."

"Where does it say that on the contract?"

"It doesn't... but."

So they argued back and forth and eventually Mr. Winter agreed he could stay but that he would have to push the bike to the tent site.

"If you'd give me a hand," the biker said, "It's soft sand all the way and the bike probably weighs about 400 Kg's or more."

Mr. Winter gave in and the biker was allowed to ride it to the campsite. He stood outside, just daring him to rev it up or something.

Later my dad said there would be trouble because this was a family camp and they shouldn't let in those people.

I was getting fed-up with my dad's attitude and sarcastically asked him,

"What people do you mean, dad, Jews, Arabs or poor people"? Dad stormed off in a huff.

The next day I accidentally (really) found myself walking past where the tenters camped. The biker was sitting under a tree in T-shirt and trunks, reading.

"What are you reading"? I found my-self asking.

"Anais Nin," he replied.

"Who"?

I must have sat there by the tree with him for hours just listening to him describing various books and authors. But I don't remember much of what he said. I remember the way his eyes sparkled when he described something, and the way his whole face lit up when he smiled at something funny.

I do remember that he was studying for his Ph.D. at V.U.W. That he'd written a book of poetry a couple of years ago and that he earned a bit of money doing a column in an Aussie Motorcycling magazine. And I remember his beautiful baritone singing of Irish folk songs,

'I wish that we were geese'

'So we all could live in peace'

'Oh the taties they are small, over here'

And.

'O' bean a ti cen muirt sin ort'

And.

'Nil sen la'.

Hmm, maybe I remember more than I thought.

Later, we ended up sitting on the beach watching the sun go down. The surfcasters were out and a few groups were barbecuing sausages and steaks. The briny scent of the ocean was mixed with the smells of burning charcoal and burning meat. I knew I had to go back to the caravan, I was late for dinner and my parents would be out looking but I didn't want to go.

It was such a magical moment in time, the cooling sea breeze fanned my thin top, but I never felt cold. I can't remember him draping the jacket around my shoulders, only the smell of the leather and the faint whiff of old tobacco smoke. The cold zipper lay across my chest, right on my nipple in fact, making it tingle.

I felt his arm around me, nestling me against his shoulder. My hair mingled with his, now freshly combed. He laid his cheek on my head, his hand stroked the side of my face.

I didn't feel nervous at all, funny that, only contentment. He was so good to be with, so relaxed, charming and funny.

Just then I heard my father calling. I quickly shed the jacket and ran off towards the voice.

"Where the hell have you been, Sharon, we've been looking for you everywhere," he said angrily as I made some excuse and dumbly followed him back to the caravan.

After a cold dinner we watched the TV for a while. I was bored and restless. I could hear my destiny calling like some Ban Sibh from the hills. Drawing me by its unseen thread.

"I'm going for a walk along the beach," I announced.

"What! At this time," said dad.

"I just want to be alone for a while," I told him.

"Are you alright..." he started to say but mum shushed him.

"She's growing up dear," she said knowingly. Bless you mum.

I made my way straight for the tents. His Tilly shone through the tent's fabric so I knew he was still awake. I called softly and was answered by a shuffling movement inside.

Eventually the tent fly was unzipped and he poked his head outside. He pulled the flap aside to make room and I crawled inside.