25th August 1829
It was 25 August 1829, and the Swan River Colony was barely more than a few tents, a couple of half–built shacks, and a mob of settlers who were already whingeing about the flies.
Captain Charles Fremantle stood on the beach, puffing his chest out like he’d just invented Vegemite. He reckoned he’d done a top job “claiming” this bit of land for the Crown, even though the Noongar people had been looking after it for about 40,000 years.
“Righto,” he declared, dusting the sand off his boots, “my work here is done. I’ve planted the flag, written my diary, and pinched enough kangaroo steaks to feed the crew back to England. Time for me to shove off.”
Governor Stirling, who was stuck running the joint, gave him a look that said thanks, mate, you’ve left me with all the hard yakka.
“Freo, you can’t just leave now,” Stirling said.
“Why not?” Fremantle grinned. “The place practically runs itself!”
Behind them, three settlers were already arguing about who stole whose billy can, and someone had dropped a jar of rum into the river.
Before boarding his ship, Fremantle turned back dramatically.
“By the way, I’m naming this place after me,” he said smugly.
“You what?” asked Stirling.
“Yeah—Fremantle. Rolls off the tongue better than ‘Stirling’s Port.’”
Stirling looked unimpressed, but he let it go. He figured one day there’d be a decent footy team named after it, so why not?
And so it was. Fremantle got his name slapped on the port city without lifting much more than a finger.
As the ship pulled away, Fremantle shouted:
“Don’t forget me! I’ll be famous one day!”
The settlers waved half-heartedly. One bloke muttered:
“Good riddance. Bet he couldn’t even gut a mullet if his life depended on it.”
Meanwhile, Stirling sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got back to the slog of actually running the colony, while the mozzies feasted on his ankles.
* as depicted by AI - may not factually be correct