Murrumbidgee Boy

Patrick Bryon 1967 – 2024

Dear Patrick,

You first came into my life in the 1960s.

I was six and a little squawking baby arrived in the Bryon family. As I was not a resident of your house I can’t recall your behavior but assume there was only a minimum amount of naughtiness; your mother was a formidable woman who ran a tight ship.

Patrick, I regard you as my first male friend. I’d always hung out with girls up till that point.  

So, having you around helped me grow accustomed to the company of a bloke and the bloke’s point of view. Of course, I didn’t realise this at the time – I was only 7 years old. But because you were a happy go lucky kid and content to hang out with me you became a big part of my life — my little brother from another (scary)mother.

You had the knack of falling into a creek, a river, or the ocean. There was many a picnic shared with the Bryon family and it was a sure thing that you would find your way into the water for better or worse. I don’t know for sure but a change of clothes was probably a prerequisite for any outdoor outing for your Bryon family.

I have photos of us from the tennis in the 70s when we trawled around Kooyong Stadium trying to get autographs from tennis stars like Vitas Gerulaitis, Ken Rosewall and John Alexander. It was around about this time you picked up your passion for tennis- both playing and spectating and it never left you. But tennis was not the only thing, you were (and no doubt still are) a passionate supporter of Hawthorn. I remember going with you, to the 1978 Grand Final (Hawthorn v North Melbourne) and how thrilled you were to stand in the outer and cheer your team on to victory. As neither of us was very tall we stood on beer cans to see the action. And at the end, when I’d had enough, you very nobly suggested we could go home and miss the AFL Cup presentation. I was too selfish at the time to realise that this was very kind of you- and you were only 11.

Our families had many happy holidays up at Willowgrove in NSW. You’d follow our dads around as they went from one farm chore to another, always eager to hand over a hammer, fix the fences and potter around in the shed. And in the downtime, when my Dad hadn’t put you to work, you’d be happy sitting by the river with a makeshift fishing line waiting for the Murray Cod to bite. Or perched on the edge of a bull ant nest watching the ants go about their business.  Even at this young age, you liked to live dangerously. This is the era when the name Murrumbidgee Boy evolved. I don’t recall who made it up but it stuck and the memory of the little smile lighting up your dirty little three-year-old face whenever someone called, “Hey Bidgee Boy.”

Perhaps the long car trips up to this magical place in the outback gave to a taste for adventure, and the open road. Because there were trips with your parents; houseboat journeys up on the Murray (or maybe Eildon), road trips to Coffs Harbour and Paynesville. Later, in your twenties, the overseas trip was all going terribly well until you fell asleep on a park bench in Rome and your bags were stolen. I remember the rage-ridden letter you wrote to me after this event voicing your opinions about “thieving Italians, gypsies and bloody bastards.” This stands out as I think it was the only letter I ever got from you and it was a memorable one.

I think that with all this adventure and sport conventional life got in the way. Things like school which you regarded as a necessary evil when you trundled off to St Josephs and later on to Xavier. School was to be got through unless it was sport and I reckoned you enjoyed history. And it’s telling that you didn’t attend Xavier school reunions but went to De La Salle gatherings instead- because that’s where your mates were. That’s the maverick Patrick Bryon I know.

So, where all good mavericks go, you headed for the world of hospitality first at Kews and then at Max’s at the Hyatt. Working in these places gave you a mixture of the high life with the best food and wine mixed with the rough and tumble of the restaurant world. You’d relate tall tales (or I thought they were) of a chef threatening a restaurant manager with a knife, of patrons lighting hundred dollar bills that were rolled up like candles on a birthday cake and of celebrities who were rude and left no tip. Looking back, I believe your stories rivaled those of Anthony Bourdain. I don’t know what you’d think of that comparison but I’m sticking to it.

As we both moved into adulthood we lost sight of each other for a while living in different places, pursuing different things, and finding our feet in the world. But there was always enjoyment in catch-ups – usually around at the Sullivan household over a glass of good red wine, chewing the fat and putting the world in order till the late hours.

Just when I thought I knew everything about you- you started to take flying lessons. And this is where you find your happy place. Despite the challenges, you were at peace – in total control of your destiny and (literally) on top of the world. Flying made you stronger, bolder and surer of yourself.

So, now I’m writing you this letter that I know you’ll never read. But I like to think that you are in a good place, a safe place with the ones that you love and who loved you. You are with your parents, Maeve and John and my parents, Sylvia and Stan. Ron and Beata Hutchens and your childhood friend David are there. Scuppers sitting under your feet and your other dogs, Bosun and Skipper are all keeping watch. There are other friends, long departed, everyone is sitting around a table, there’s been good food and conversation and the best wine any of you have ever had.

As my Dad always said, “Be of good cheer and catch you down the track my friend, the Murrumbidgee Boy”