Kevin: King of the Air Surf Guitar – Mike Davis

TEXT EXCERT

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

My name is Kevin.

My Uncle Robert says I was so skinny at birth – my eyes were single file. He’s a fisherman down at Summercloud Bay, chest and shoulders like a buffalo, big, warm eyes too. I love the way he always ruffles my hair, like he does his dogs ears, ‘nen he hugs me, squares me up and gives me a good once-over‘n whispers, “Definitely, still the runt of the litter.”

Not only am I skinny but my arms and feet are way to big for my scrawny body which makes me look like a chimpanzee when I run – Wimpy chest poked out, clawing at the air while the rest of me (each foot having a complete life and mind of its own) trying to keep up however it can as I seem to ricochet off in whichever direction my head’s pointed at the time. At least that’s how it feels to me. And when the older boys choose players for cricket or footie; they leave me out or make me the ref – The one with no authority, whose every call is ignored and whose real duty is to chase bad kicks into the bush.

Later on, I’d learn that that was OK too – Way better than getting my arms and legs ripped off in some of those gawd awfull frays that always seem to continue on for a long time after some of the more brutal tackles. Sometimes, I think there’s more goin’ on than footie.

Guess that’s why I never really bothered to learn the art of that ‘bowl ‘em over’, bully-boy, physical stuff that the older boys flaunt every chance they get. I’ve learned to sit back and nut things out: Be like electricity and take the course of the least resistance, like I’d seen in that Discovery Channel Documentary at school.

Auntie Rose was heard to say once;  how much she loves my gentleness and that I’ve developed, “a certain subtleness or sensitivity even, which’ll be handy to navigate these strange new times.” To which, Reggie, one of the older boys in our clan, rolled his eyes and sneered, “Auntie Rose obviously ain’t dealin’ with a full-deck,” whatever that means.

I know what it was though: I’m the smallest frog in the tiniest puddle; so I have to leave as little wake as possible or get inhaled.

And Kevin, what’na hell kinda name is Kevin anyway? Why couldn’t I’ve had a real man’s name like ‘Reggie’. Reggie’s the best damn goanna catcher in the whole of the Shoalhaven – Leastwise in our clan. Or Clive? Don’t you reckon Clive has a certain strength to it. Robert, Colin, Jim, Tom, Fergal or Steve; now those are real names. But Kevin – What is that? I wouldn’t name a dog Kevin.

But that’s me, Kevin, Kevin Cousins and I live with my mum – Jilly, sister – Amber and my ‘getting-on there’ grandmother, on a little settlement on the Shoalhaven River – South of Sydney they say. I dunno – Never been there – Only to school in Nowra. Gotta few cousins in Port Kembla who call round some weekends and of course Uncle Robert, the fisherman.

I spend most of my time with my little sister, Amber. So much so that she acquired the nickname, Pookie; after my favourite cartoon character, Garfield’s teddy bear – Perfect for her. And she was beautiful beyond description – Hazel eyed, fresh as a frangipani and bright as the evening star – Fun, vibrant and charged – Just so much energy. But, man, does she put me through hell – Constantly – Just because she can. And as much as I’d like to return the favour, I can’t. Instead, I’d do anything to make her smile; to which I always get the same (as Auntie Rose says) imperious arch of the eyebrows (double-barrelled no less) which coupled with her narrowed eyes with the quivering evil-eye, right eyelid which is downright scary. She’d keep it up until my whipped-dog expression would suddenly make her laugh and then I’d have to laugh too. We do everything together.

It was a pretty usual Saturday morning – Started out normal enough anyway. Mum was giving Gran a bath and Amber and I were just hanging around the yard in the sun, keeping warm.

Amber’s twelve, three years younger than me and pretty good company too – Especially when the older guys never choose me to be anything but the butt of all their jokes.

At the first clack or of Reggie sharpening his spear on our picket fence; I duck abd cringe. Pulling one’s head in is a reflex from years of dodging his so-called ‘love taps’, ‘slaps’ or ‘bips’ (as he calls ‘em) to the back of my head. Despite my head being withdrawn, like a turtle; as far into my chest cavity as possible, I copped the usual whack. Only this time instead of running off, leavin’ me flinching and wincing, he stopped.

 “Comin’ huntin’ with us, Kevin?”

I eyed him suspiciously. The last time I’d gone with them, they ditched me, just before dark and then laid in ambush for me on the trail home. When they jumped out of the bushes and grabbed me – It scared the bejeezus out of me! Swore I’d never let that happen again.

But I wanted to go – I really did. So, heart pounding ten-to-the-dozen, I locked eyes with him, hopeful that it wasn’t just another one of his cruel jokes. His scornful glance at Amber, standing behind me, knocked whatever expectations I had right down. I sagged, eyes pleading to be included. My shoulders slumped further when he turned to Jimmy and Clive, who in turn, looked at us like something nasty they’d accidentally stepped in. To my surprise; Clive nodded to me, “C’mon ‘nen – You too, Tida.”

I grabbed, a now beaming, Amber’s hand and ran after Reggie because Clive and Jimmy’d already disappeared around the corner towards the bush and the river beyond.

“What’re we after?” I asked breathlessly with Amber bouncing along

“Goanna, roo, turtles, fish – Whatever we find,” Reggie replied, striding effortlessly along at a good clip. He didn’t say anything else until we were out of earshot of the settlement, when, “Fer crissakes, Kevin, see if you can move a little more quietly. You sound like a plane crash!”

He’d know too. He’s seen more’n one trainer from the Naval Air Station plough into the bush not far from here. Amber looked at me with scoldin’ eyes, hopin’ that my clumsiness wouldn’t, again, ruin her chances of a big adventure. We pushed on, a couple or kilometres or more when Clive and Jimmy ducked‘n motioned us to duck too. Runnin’ low, like a dingo, Reg caught up with them‘n ducked joined ‘em studyin’ a tidal wetland.

“What is it?” Reg whispered, duckin’ down next to ‘em.

Jimmy pointed to a big thicket of tall grass‘n reeds. It only took a second for Reggie’s brows to arch an’ his gaze to sharpen.

“PIG!” Clive hissed as a large flash of brown blitzed through the tall grass in the distance. Eyes popping wide, Reggie blurts, “Big ‘un’ too,” unable to hide his awe. The boys put their heads together for a minute then broke off; Jimmy duckin’ away to the left‘n Clive skulkin’ off to the right, while Reggie scrabbled around in the dirt for a minute until he had a handful of rocks‘n dirt clods. Placin’ ‘em in our hands, he pulled us close’n whispered, “Watch for my signal,” and then pointin’ towards the patch of tall grass, “run towards them weeds’n make as much noise as you can. Then throw these rocks in there ‘nen follow ‘em in’n stomp around a lot. Got that? Sound BIG! Big as you can.”

We both swallowed hard and nodded. I turned to my baby sister, hopin’ it wouldn’t be too dangerous for her. She just grinned up at me’n yo-yo’d her eyebrows up and down.

I chuckled – I love it when she does that.

After a minute or so, Reggie directed us to move in quietly with hand‘n arm signals. Amber‘n I crept towards the thicket’n waited for Reggie’s hand signal. When Jimmy and Clive were in place; Reggie waved us in.

Amber shot past me like an owl on the hunt; screaming and stomping, throwing andn dropping stones, stopping to pick them up and throwing some more and then running and dropping and throwing some more. We paused for a second and then followed our last volley into the weeds, bold as brass.

Just ahead we could hear the crashing of reeds as the startled boar took off. When the crashing stopped suddenly, I knew that he’d broken out of the thicket. Coupla’ seconds later, I heard Reggie, Clive and Jimmy’s ambush somewhere out there‘n the open.

We’d just arrived at the far side of that patch of weeds and long grass, puffed; when to my horror – I see the boar bounding right back at us; with Reggie, Clive and Jimmy in hot pursuit, yelling and screaming and and flinging spears at him. All of which miss.

BOAR! And getting bigger by the second. I take one look at those evil, yellow tusks‘n grabbed Amber’s now limp hand and bolted. I don’t how long it took us to crash all the way back through that damned patch of weeds and out the other side – And we didn’t stop there either. I could almost feel that boar’s hot breath on my neck like a scalding stain and  he was closing fast.

Seeing a nearby stand of gum saplings, I run to it – Boost Amber up – A thnen’ scramble up behind her, hopin’ we’re high enough to be out of his reach. I nearly pissed myself as he streaked past and off into the bush.

In the distance, we can hear the boys swearin’n retrievin’ their spears.

“Damn!” Reggie cursed after they’d retrieved ‘them and came looking for us as a kind of afterthought.

We must’ve been a sight, still clinging to our little ‘possie’ in the sapling. And man were we relieved when the boys showed up. I waved sheepishly.

“Zat a koala up there?” Jimmy asked, pointin’ up at us.

“Where?” asked Clive, pretendin’ he hadn’t noticed us yet.

“Up there,” he snapped, pointin’ us out again.

“Yeah! I reckon it is,” Clive replied after sizin’ us up. “Skinniest one I ever saw, though.”

“More’n one I reckon,” added Jimmy.

“Ya think?”

“I’m not so sure,” added Reggie. “Looks to me like two, but the little one musta run up that lil’ tree‘n stopped real fast‘n the big one ran right up ‘iz arse.”  Laughing heartily before he’d even finished ‘arrrrse’.

“Either that or the little one has a really ugly growth on ‘er bum,” giggled Clive, revelling in my discomfort. There’s no way I’d ever live this one down. Clinging to that sapling in the failing light; I wished with all my might that I was anywhere but where I was.

It was well and truly dark by the time we arrived home. Lookin’ back; those in-built alarm bells we’re all supposed to have should’ve rang out when I first noticed all the activity around our place. But they didn’t. It wasn’t until we got inside’n Auntie Rose shot me that; I don’t quite know how to tell you this look that she’d had when she told me that my father’d been killed in a truck crash up on the Hume, that I realised that somethin’ bad had happened – Real bad.

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🧭 400-Word Precis

Kevin: King of the Air Surf Guitar is a coming-of-age tale steeped in the salt, soul, and sunburnt sand of the Australian coast. Set against the backdrop of 1970s and ’80s coastal New South Wales, it follows Kevin Cousins, a skinny, self-effacing Koori teenager whose life changes forever when he discovers surfing — and himself — through the mentorship of a rugged ex-surfer, Old Mick, and the friendship of Angus, a natural wave rider.

Born to a working-class Indigenous family on the Shoalhaven River, Kevin has always been an outsider — too quiet, too gentle, too thoughtful for the rough-and-tumble world around him. His sister Amber is his only real ally: smart, fiery, and endlessly loyal. When tragedy strikes their family — first their father’s death, then their grandmother’s — the siblings are uprooted from their country home and thrust into the “Big Smoke” of Maroubra.

There, they find solace in the ocean’s rhythm and a surrogate family in the surf community. Kevin’s journey becomes one of identity, courage, and belonging as he learns the sacred flow of the sea from those who’ve lived it — men who bridge Indigenous culture, surf counterculture, and working-class wisdom. But when Amber’s life takes a tragic turn, Kevin must paddle out over the ledge — literally and figuratively — to find the strength to continue.

Told with warmth, humour, and deep respect for Koori culture and Australian surf heritage, Davis captures the heartbeat of coastal youth, the kinship of the waves, and the bittersweet ride of growing up. Kevin’s story is as much about resilience and reconciliation as it is about surfing — a lyrical celebration of belonging, loss, and the human spirit’s relentless search for connection.

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📈 Keywords

Koori fiction, Indigenous Australia novel, coming-of-age surf story, Australian coastal fiction, Maroubra surf culture, Aboriginal identity novel, 1970s Australian fiction, Mike Davis author, surfing novel, youth and belonging, family and loss fiction, beach coming-of-age, First Nations literature, Australian youth fiction, surf guitar.

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🏷️ Amazon KDP Metadata

Title: Kevin: King of the Air Surf Guitar
Subtitle: It’s About Belonging
Author: Mike Davis
Series: The Medford Haley Series (Book 4, thematic continuation)
ISBN: 9781673821505
Language: English
Word Count: ~88,000
Trim Size: 5 x 8 inches
Genre: Fiction / Coming of Age / Cultural Heritage

BISAC Categories:

• FIC coming of age (FIC043000)
• FIC Indigenous (FIC059000)
• FIC cultural heritage (FIC014000)
• FIC family life (FIC045000)
• FIC literary (FIC019000)

Suggested KDP Keywords:

Surf fiction, Aboriginal Australia, Indigenous youth novel, coastal coming-of-age, Australian surf culture, 1970s NSW fiction, brothers and sisters story, grief and resilience, surfing lifestyle novel, Mike Davis Medford Haley series.

Short Description (Amazon):

From the author of the Medford Haley series comes a heart-stirring surf odyssey of belonging and discovery. Set on the NSW coast and the urban beaches of Maroubra, Kevin Cousins — a gentle Koori teen — learns the language of the waves, the rhythm of resilience, and the bittersweet harmony of family, loss, and identity. A luminous story of hope, courage, and finding one’s place in the world.

Long Description (Goodreads / Amazon):

In Kevin: King of the Air Surf Guitar, Mike Davis crafts a soulful, surf-soaked portrait of an Indigenous boy’s journey from isolation to belonging. When Kevin and his sister Amber are uprooted from their Shoalhaven home, the ocean becomes their sanctuary. Guided by an old surf legend and buoyed by the rhythms of the sea, Kevin learns to navigate not only the waves but the complexities of growing up between cultures, tragedy, and dreams. Blending humour, heartbreak, and the poetry of the Australian coast, Kevin celebrates spirit, salt, and song in equal measure — a modern classic of heart and surf.

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