SCHOOL WAS FINISHED for the year, and only two days into the holidays we had the makings of a raft. Tin drums rolled like thunder down the street as we chased after them. They sounded like giants laughing, so happy they could burst. Like us. Summer sun scorched the back of our T-shirts and we all had sweat and dirt necklaces and black creases in our elbows as we tumbled the drums the rest of the way back to the cubby.

Weeks earlier we’d found a huge old door at the dump and balanced it on our heads all the way home. We tried floating it by itself but ended up scrambling in mud up to our shorts trying to save the door from getting sucked under. Jacko said, ‘I told ya so,’ but I swear it was his idea in the first place. He was in grade nine then and already the coolest kid around. He had a leather jacket his Dad gave him that made him look like he could ride a Harley or something. He was the leader of our gang. I was the next boss, then Russ – my mate from down the road – then Douggie and his friend Steve. The Oxley Creek Boys.