John Stapleton

Newspapers are collaborative efforts – journalists, editors, layout people, printers, distributors, the office manager, all combine to produce order out of the chaos of daily life.

And every now and then, the universe decides to collaborate as well, in a fine confluence of circumstances, the result being a front page story. 

Such was the case in The Bugle’s front page story headed Jamberoo Flood Hero, which was runner up in the recent NSW Country Press Awards.

The judges described it as “a great human-interest story that had judges captivated from the opening line. Reporter John Stapleton captured the essence of the dramatic scene and the humility of the hero in this lovely piece.” 

I must admit I was chuffed. Just as chuffed as I was with my first front page almost 40 years ago.

The dramatic story of a flash flood in Jamberoo last April and the local resident who saved a man’s life was one of those rare moments in journalism when everything falls into place.

Family man, tradie Mitch Rosser, has a reputation as a man of few words. But on this occasion he opened up, telling the entire story of a man who, in a torrential downpour, was driving past his front door after a night shift. 

As I wrote back then: “On inspection, it’s very hard to see how the man survived at all. In the pitch dark, the flood water running over the paddocks picked up his car and smashed it through an iron gate on Jamberoo Road, just out of town near Turpentine Creek.”

And as Mitch told the story: 

“I yelled to my wife, get me a torch. I could hear him screaming for help. I ran along the back fence, trying to find his voice. I was yelling, where are you? He shouted back, I am over here, help me, the water is rising.” Mitch says the only reason he saw him was because he had a reflective strip on his work shirt. 

“He just had one arm hanging on to a branch, and water was up to his chest. He was grabbing stuff, and it was belting down. I told him, hold on. He was in the bushes. Í could see where he was but the water was smashing through. I couldn’t reach him.

“I ran to my shed, looking for a power cord, something, anything he could hold on to. I got the pole for the pool scoop. I tried to pull him out through the scrub. Eventually we locked arms, and managed to get him out.

“He was shaken, rattled, and then hugged me. You saved my life, he said. “If we hadn’t heard him, he was gone. He’s the luckiest man alive. It gives me chills even to think about it. I just keep hearing him screaming.” 

My first front page story, on The Sydney Morning Herald, back in the 1980s, would never normally have made it to Page Zed, much less the front. I was working casual ships, hoping against hope for a full time job. The Herald at the time was not just the Bible of the chattering classes, it was regularly listed as one of the Top 20 best newspapers in the world.

There’s a register for women in unorthodox jobs,” the Chief of Staff said. “Their funding has run out and they’re whinging for more. We’re desperate for pic stories tomorrow, see what you can get. Try and find some cute young woman carpenter, covered in sawdust, or a mechanic, grease streaking her face. Just make sure they’re cute, we don’t want some bull dyke.”

Political correctness hadn’t yet seeped into the newsrooms of the day. So I headed off to the meeting in inner-city Surry Hills with the most foul-mouthed of all the SMH photographers. Like an early Chef Ramsay, he found it virtually impossible to utter a single sentence without using the “f” word.

The room was full of the righteous anger of 300 or more women crammed into a tiny space.  We were the only media outlet which had shown up. We sat cross-legged on the floor; completely surrounded, the only men. Speaker after speaker portrayed the government’s failure to continue to fund the directory of women in unorthodox jobs as not just a slight against all working women, but yet another blow by a patriarchy determined to keep the sisters in the kitchen.

“There’s no f’n picture here,” the photographer whispered, loud enough for a dozen of the sisterhood to overhear. “Just look at them. None of them make a f’n picture mate. I’m out of here. I’m going to find something else.”

“I’ve got to stay and listen,” I whispered back.

“Well I don’t, I’m f’n gone,” he said, standing up and elbowing his way through the crowd of hostile women.

I sat there, very uncomfortably, knowing full well the women around me had heard every last word the photographer had said.

By the time I got back to the office that day I had interviewed a woman carpenter, plumber and electrician as well as the organisers. I wrote up the story on the antiquated computer system, made it as interesting as possible, assuming as my fingers rattled across the keyboard that it would never get a run.

The next day, the story was on the front page, my very first front page story, accompanied by a large photograph, run wide and deep, of a drop-dead gorgeous young woman carrying a ladder, with the Opera House in the background, her white overalls stained delicately with paint. I never got a thank you from the organisers of the Women in Unorthodox Jobs Directory. But later that same day the Chief of Staff leaned across the desk and shook my hand.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve got the job.”

It was the proudest day of my life.

There’s an old saying, journalism is a young man’s sandpit and an old man’s quicksand. But every now and then something happens to defy that old truism. And I must admit I was just as chuffed with the front page story in The Bugle as I was as a young reporter, all those years ago, on The Sydney Morning Herald.