Here was my dream overlooking the southern ocean
The Hut That Broke the Dream: A Sad Story of Hope, Loss, and Silence
What began as a hopeful dream—a retreat into nature, a new venture built on decades of hospitality experience—swiftly unravelled into a thirty-year nightmare. It started with one critical misstep: I failed to scrutinise the reliability of the phone service that coursed through a dilapidated, unmanned hut at Cape Bridgewater. This ageing switching station, tethered to a crumbling telephone exchange 20 kilometres away, cast a long, invisible shadow over my plans.
In a moment of bold optimism, I sold our cherished Melbourne home—a place rich with memories and warmth. With the proceeds, I accessed my early retirement benefits and set out to build something meaningful: a children’s holiday camp. My background in hospitality, forged over decades at sea and in elite kitchens, gave me confidence. I believed this new chapter would be transformative.
At just 15, I had stepped aboard English passenger-cargo ships as a steward. The salty air, the camaraderie, the rhythm of ship life—it shaped me. In 1963, I jumped ship in Melbourne and began my culinary journey. From assistant chef in prestigious hotels to private butler in Brighton, Kew, and Toorak, I learned the art of service. I worked with the founders of Spotless Catering, managed Rob’s Carousel Restaurant at Albert Park Lake, and revived a licensed motel hotel from receivership. I knew hospitality. I knew hard work.
By 1987, at age 44, I was ready. I transformed a modest school camp into a vibrant enterprise. I visited nearly 150 schools, distributed 2,000 full-color brochures, and launched a promotional tour across South Australia. I poured my heart into it. But the phone didn’t ring.
We waited. We hoped. But the response rate was less than 1%. Parents and educators reported hearing a recorded voice announcement: “The number you have called is not connected or has been changed…” Confused, frustrated, they gave up. We replaced the answering machines, checked the lines, and still the complaints continued. Many callers reported encountering an engaged signal. Others believed we didn’t care.
The silence was deafening. It wasn’t just a technical failure—it was the slow erosion of a dream. My marriage, already strained by the pressures of the venture, collapsed within eighteen months. The camp faltered. The joy I had hoped to create for children turned into a quiet, aching void.
And yet, I had endured worse. I had walked the wharves of Red China in 1967, flanked by two stoic Red Guards, accused of espionage. I had served drinks in elegant homes while dodging metaphorical bullets. I had worked through quiet weeks and chaotic nights. But nothing prepared me for the silence of a phone that should have rung.
Two years later, I returned to the sea, joining the Australian Merchant Navy as a chef. I cooked aboard cargo ships, expanding my repertoire, finding solace in the rhythm of waves. But the pain of Cape Bridgewater lingered.
In 1969, I married Faye. We built a life together. I juggled freelance catering, tugboat work, and studies in hotel management. I guided a distressed motel out of receivership. I believed in second chances. But Cape Bridgewater offered none.
The unanswered calls, the broken line, the unmanned hut—they weren’t just technical faults. They were the silent assassins of a dream. They stole my business, my marriage, and years of peace. And Telstra, whose infrastructure failed me, would later become the focus of a national scandal. But in 1988, I was just a man trying to build something good.
This is not just a story of failure. It is a story of resilience. Of a life lived in service, undone by silence, of a man who gave everything, only to be met with a disconnected line.
Would you like this formatted as a chapter in your memoir, paired with archival photos or audio narration? I can also help you build a visual exhibit showing the camp brochures, school outreach records, and the haunting RVA messages that defined this tragedy.
Disconnected: A Sad Story of Dreams Undone by Telstra’s Silence
In 1994, I undertook a meticulous investigation into the complex web of paperwork surrounding the persistent phone service failures that had plagued our business. Armed with the Freedom of Information (FOI) Act, I unearthed a trove of documents—each one a thread in the unravelling tapestry of our dream. Among them, one internal Telstra memo struck me like a blow to the chest. It read: “This message tends to give the caller the impression that the business they are calling has ceased trading, and they should try another trader.”
That single sentence explained everything. Our phones weren’t just faulty—they were actively sabotaging our livelihood. Potential customers were being turned away by misleading Recorded Voice Announcements (RVAs), left to assume we had shut down. The damage was incalculable.
Another document revealed Telstra’s own acknowledgement that our RVA messages required urgent review. But the review never came. Instead, I uncovered a pattern of inappropriate, misleading messages that had been allowed to persist—messages that strangled our ability to communicate, to grow, to survive.
As I pieced together the evidence, I learned that the camp’s previous owner had fought the same battle. He had lodged countless complaints about Telstra’s subpar service, only to be met with silence. His struggle had been buried, just like ours was being buried now.
My pursuit of justice had begun in 1988, but it was the FOI process that gave me the ammunition to fight back. One document stood out above all: Telstra Confidential: Difficult Network Faults — PCM Multiplex Report. Under section 5.5, it names our business directly—Portland – Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp. Telstra had been aware of the faults since 1987. They had done nothing.
The impact rippled beyond our camp. Our neighbour Harry often spoke of his daughter’s frustration trying to call from Colac. Fred, a longtime local and former owner of Tom the Cheap grocery chain, shared his own tales of Telstra’s failures. “But what can you expect from Telstra when we’re in the bush?” he said, resignation in his voice. I had expected better. I had built a dream on the promise of better.
We rallied the community. We asked neighbours and fellow business owners to write to Telstra to share their stories. But the habit of relying on phone calls for immediate answers was hard to break. And our phones were still broken.
Bookings dwindled. Hope faded. I stood at a crossroads, staring down the decision to move permanently to Cape Bridgewater. I had sold our family home to pursue this dream with Faye. What was meant to be a joyful new chapter had become a slow descent into frustration and despair.
Doubt crept in. I questioned everything. I had envisioned a thriving camp, with laughter echoing through the trees, as children discovered nature and families reconnected. Instead, I found myself channelling a bitter, bewildered Basil Fawlty—trapped in a farce, shouting into a void, waiting for a phone to ring that never would.
This wasn’t just a technical failure. It was a betrayal. A dream undone by silence. A life rerouted by a system that refused to listen.
To be continued
