The Party’s O-wo-wo-ver!!

I can’t erase Megan Backhouse’ crackling voice from my head. “The party’s o-wo-wo-ver” she warbles incessantly. Our party’s not over, but it is heart breakingly close. Scoring a rodeo with a final throw of the dice underlined that our trip has only a couple of weeks to run. A brief stop with Tim and Pem (Mum’s brother and wife) and a bbq with cousins in Werri Beach south of Woollongong. As fun as that was, surely we could end this trip on a high.

 

True to form, pieces fell into place, and on the horizon there was a vision. “We must go there, it is our destiny” said the oracle in the back seat (Oliver). And so we pointed Priscilla towards our nation’s capital, a place that as Australians we should revere, but instead choose to mock. In keeping with this, we parked Kimmy in one of the dodgiest caravan parks we have ever stayed in. Home of the Fyshwick tavern, the “pub in the park” with its’ $10 Tuesday chicken schnitzel night. Lovely, what’s not to like? Well maybe management could have done something about the blokes drinking around the playground from 3 o’clock, and maybe they could have addressed the explicit language lessons our kids received as the permanents cased our caravans whilst carrying their six packs of premix back to their on-site dongas. We dealt with it, and buried our heads in the sand all day at the museums.

And they were fantastic, although Sara did fatigue early. Pick of the bunch, surprisingly, was the old Parliament House, Australia’s forbiddingly Sovietishly titled, Museum of Democracy. The kids do love a treasure hunt, and winning a magnet at the end, well, could it get any better? In six days we went almost everywhere. The Australia Museum was brilliant; we placed a poppy by Great Uncle Archie’s (see Darwin blog) name at the War Memorial, compared the movement patterns of Bracks’ pencils and dancers at the gallery, and pushed buttons at the Questacon. We didn’t see Julia or Tony, but the kids did engage in spirited debating on the hill behind the caravan the evening after our visit to Parliament House. I was tempted to stay another night, after all, every seventh night in Fyshwick is free, but Sara had had a gutful, so we left.

Our only problems were the bushfires. It had been obscenely hot, and we wanted to go to Kosciuszko National Park. No fires there, yet. Laughing in the face of sensibility, I had my way. We drove to the not much town of Bombala, in the rain. There, Sara established a relationship in the flesh with Dale, a man she had only experienced over the phone up until then. Safe to say, I’m still in the game, if only because I have never called Sara “love”, or “darl”, or “pet”. Poor old Dale. Tries so hard, but has so much against him. Despite remarkably ordinary dental hygiene, and over-hyped pride in his full head of non-dyed, Beatle-esque hair, Dale manages to run one of the cleanest and nicest parks we have been to. Fyshwick park persons take note.

We left Kimmy there, then drove into Kosciuszko, and camped at Thredbo Diggings, which was pretty busy. After a night interrupted by carousing neighbours, and snoring on a scale that we’ve never experienced, we drove into Thredbo, and climbed to the highest point in Australia. Sounds far more impressive than it was. A long walk sure, but mostly flat and apparently within the reach of every Australian be they fat or old or in a pram. Which is, actually, exactly the way it should be. The campsite itself was beautiful and overlooked the river. It became even more special, when we returned from our epic day to find that our rude neighbours had scuttled off at some stage during the day. We had an evening by the fire, we hiked in the early morning, lost Oli mid-morning, packed in the late morning, and left in the afternoon after coffee and a swim.

Dale wasn’t overjoyed to see us. I mean, he may have been, but he didn’t make himself known until later that evening. Leaving the van in Bombala was a sensible plan as the roads down to Pambula are horrid, and we wouldn’t have been able to afford to park Kimmy at the Holiday Hub for the three days we had prior to slumming it with Mum and Dad in their rental house. As it was, we scored another first, with the Holiday Hub becoming our most expensive stay at $123 a night for an unpowered tent site!! Lord knows how the bogans who stole Ned’s scooter afford to stay there. Maybe eBay has something to do with it. In any case, the kids had a ball what with activities and minigolf and Isabella and movies and a beach on their doorstep. I surfed every morning, and picked up the paper with an occasional doughnut on the way back. A lovely, lazy three days.

And then it ended. No more camping, no more Kimmy. We drove up to the house on Taleban Street and set up shop before Mum and Dad arrived. It was beautiful to see them. The kids were jumping out of their skins as the Subaru strained up the driveway. I’m sure I hugged Mum for half an hour. Family’s back. We leave in two days, and will tear Kimmy from Dale's loving embrace. We see Barney and our mates in two days. We’ll see Joc and Tony in three days. We have a place to live in Melbourne. Things are falling into place and it all seems perfect… except for that bloody song. She’s right of course, and not just because she’s my sister-in-law, but because she’s right...again. “The party’s o-wo-wo-ver”.

H

A Hop, a Skip, a Bang and a Bump!

Pete silenced the massive engine of the SS Thimble, Jo dropped the anchor, and we settled down to wait for midnight. The kids had been well prepped to lie down on the boats' floor in order to avoid catching the ever watchful eye of the maritime police for the vessel was overloaded by one person. Jo, surprise, surprise, did have an argument ready in that the total weight of all passengers combined was well under the legal limit. Luckily for the maritime policeman, he was too busy sorting out drunks in twin engined monsters to have to worry about us.

It was a quiet wait too after a bumpy voyage across the heads from Roseville. The SS Thimble had a bucket for a toilet, which dampened any desire to drink beer. The kids fell asleep, followed closely by Sara, again no surprises there. Midnight came around quickly though, with a bang as it were, and we were smack in the middle of it. Fireworks, oohs and ahhs, but the countdown and Kylie got washed away somewhere. In spite of that, it was a great show. As soon as the "waterfall" over the bridge had finished the anchor was up and Pete steered the SS Thimble through the black water and the chop of everyone else who was racing to get back to the boat ramp. A long night, but a night to remember.

It wasn't what we'd expected either, having come off a very relaxing few days on Uncle Alan and Auntie Helens' farm south of Port Macquarie. There we'd been flat out drinking cups of tea, browsing through the book shop (shed), eating cake, and introducing the kids to white Christmas slice. Luckily Alans' helicopter was having repairs thus keeping their sugar highs under control as now they had to do all the mustering on foot. The Austin 7 and the Triumph Stag were working well, and I got to drive both. As I thundered into town in the Stag to pick up the paper, I was thankful to Alan for ensuring he'd left his Sinatra tape in the car providing a perfect sound track. All I lacked was a pork pie hat. Santa, I know what I want next year.

Leaving the farm with full bellies and clean clothes, Sara proved yet again to be a worthwhile navigator, guiding Kimmy into Sydney and the suburb of Davidson where we would be staying with Pete, Jo, Summer, and Ciara. We saw all the sights, got drenched on the Manly ferry, payed outrageous sums just to park the car in a region similar to the one we actually wanted to visit, and got dragged by Pete behind the SS Thimble all over Pittwater in a bombie. Marcos, Raegan and their 4 girls were in town from NYC, so we had an afternoon of fish and chips and catching up with them on Balmoral beach.

Sydney struck me as a very "look at me, look at me" sort of a place. There was none of  Melbournes' reticence to flaunt your wealth here. Massive, lonely yachts floating at their moorings, waiting for a chance to do more than just bob; I wonder if they ever do? Mansions stretching up the cliffs, straining for a glimpse of blue water whilst others sprawled possessively over their patch of beach. Lots of tatts, lots of surf wear, and lots of glitz. However, every so often, in the middle of all of that nonsense, there'd be a classic old dark brown brick block of flats just quietly watching ferries chug by, and I'd think, "that'd do us... just as long as it had it's own private jetty and boat house!"

With the kids throwing up every possible reason to stay, we reluctantly left the Leonards, Fudge the cat, Stormy the dog, Boo Boo the guinea pig, Chick and Chook (guess), the fish, the nerf guns and the pool just as the last of its' algae died. We had to leave, because it was rodeo time in Picton, 83 kilometres south of Sydney. Travelled 45,000+, and finally found a rodeo 800k's from home!

The friendly man at the information centre told us about a disused carpark we could stay in overnight. He didn't mention that the carpark was next to a graveyard, and that the graveyard was haunted. We found out the former ourselves, but a tattooed bloke in a blue singlet with a decided slur to his diction told us the latter. He also said that Picton began life as a jail town; it's quite possible he knew more than he let on.

The rodeo was hot, stinking hot. No shade, and grumpy old blokes in ten gallon hats stopping us from putting up a sun shelter to sit under. We found a spot by the fence next to a lonely looking fellow in a big chair. I'll call this bloke Hoppin Skippin, because that's all he seemed to say, apart from a diatribe I received on the unsatisfactory telecasting of rodeo events by OneHD. The fascinating thing about Hoppin Skippin, was that he had a different cap for every event. One for the steer wrestling that said "STEER WRESTLING". Another for the barrel races that said "BARREL RACING". Another for the bull riding that said, well if you don't get the picture by now, forget it.

The event itself was a lot of fun. Oli wants to be a bull rider now too. We gave him a go on the mechanical one, and he did last longer than 8 seconds so he might be a show. The riders had some amazing skills, we saw a cowboy bootscooting, and a cowgirl doing the worm. Big Al the rodeo clown controlled things pretty well, and no one got hurt, although one horse almost crashed through the barrier onto us. Didn't faze Hoppin Skippin though. He just put his "BARE BACK BRONC" cap back into its' hermetically sealed plastic bag, and pulled out the one that said "SEE YOU NEXT WEEK".

H

PS Trying to get photos in but "Blogger" not being helpful. Will post photos later.

Lucky Kids

We shared a look, Sara and I. The kids were nattering away, having Santa hat drawing competitions on the pvc tablecloth bought especially for that purpose. They’d already made a mess of the anti-pasto type Christmas lunch, and as they ignored Vivaldi’s “Gloria” playing in the background, they leapt onto their second bottle of Bundaberg’s finest ginger beer. As they guzzled and giggled, we shared a look because we know we are lucky kids.

Sara, kids and chair



Oli, out squatting in his (in torrential rain)

Kimmy, oustanding in her field

 

Ivy at Raspberry Hill lookout

We have been on the road for 365 days. Tomorrow will mark a year since we hooked up Kimmy for the first time and made the torturous journey down to Barwon Heads from Melbourne. An hour and a half of pure terror. I’ll never forget the look of relief on Sara’s face when she saw Sal there to greet her with a glass of wine, and Jacko met me with advice and common sense. So long ago.

 

3 little reindeer

At that time we had planned to be home for Christmas. It was an Anderson Christmas this year, so the call to Mum to tell her we wouldn’t be back in time wasn’t easy. Instead, we are on the banks of the Mann River, 70 kilometres west of Grafton, staying on some blokes’ farm. Incredibly, this farm is not far from the property that was settled by Mum’s family back in the 1800’s. The property where my Grandmother was born. Funny how things work out. It’s conceivable that I could have still lived there. Unlikely given my complete lack of farm skills, but conceivable. Ramornie is no longer in my family, but I am drawn to this country.

 

Getting ready for a feast

The debate once we were certain we were not coming home was where Christmas should be. Cousins, Aunts, and friends all asked us to stay but we decided that it should just be us. Beach or bush? Caravan park or national park? In the end, Rorys’ offer of his mates’ farm was perfect. A friendly river at the bottom of the hill, lush green hills in the distance, and a flat, accessible caravan friendly site with only the occasional happy cowboy churning past in a Toyota ute for company. The boys elected to set up the tents they found by the
bins in Yamba; Sara, Ivy and I were in the van.

 

Santa sacks

Christmas morning and not too early a start. Santa had managed to find us, spilt his milk, probably in disgust, while the reindeer made a mess of their carrots as per usual. Pressie highlights were a sundress for Ivy, lollies for Ned, old Nat Geos for Oli, and a new camp throne with chiller box that can hold up to 130kgs for Sara. Two of her could sit in it! Pancakes followed pressies, and adventure followed pancakes!

 

 

The fantastic four arrive home safe...and late

Sara dropped us off about 6 -8 k’s upstream with a canoe and two tyres. Several mini-rapids were negotiated without incident but a lot of laughter, at least until Ned bruised his bum. Panic only set in when we realised we were going to miss the return deadline we had set with Sara. The thought of her sitting on the bank, torn between looking at her watch, and looking for us through the binoculars put an end to a leisurely float. We powered down the river, towing Oli in his tyre, going backwards down the final set of rapids not because it was more fun, but because I had completely lost control of the canoe by that point. It was more fun though. Two and a half hours after saying goodbye to Sara, we saw her again just as it began to rain and just before she asked the happy cowboy for help. Home safe to Kimmy and our Christmas lunch. Sara and I shared a look and had a sip. We are lucky kids. Merry Christmas and thank you to my family for this special year.

 

H

Boundary Creek Falls

Just One of the Crowd

Ned at the Big (tired) Pineapple

In 1988, two mates of mine, Shane and David gave me the unfortunate nickname of "Petrol" when they needed financial assistance on a roadtrip to Surfers Paradise. It has been 24 years since then, and if I'm there within another 24, it'll be too soon. Oh the horror of all that concrete and prefabricated glitz. But I was back because we were staying in Brisbane, and when I stay in Brisbane, there is nothing I like better than to drive for an hour to get to a theme park so that I can stand in line with people with regrettable tattoos and loud voices.
















Boys and chooks

We stayed with cousin Sam and her partner Mark, dogs Dom and Moe`, blind Geoffrey the pigeon, 4 chooks, and 2 cockateels. Not sure where the time went, but there was plenty of Chrissie shopping, and 4 trips down the highway for theme parks and a forgettable time share briefing. Ned and I returned to Cooloola Cove to pick up Kimmy, and made sure we ticked off some big things and Hungry Jacks on the way.

Ned and crab, plenty more on ice!

The theme parks were fun, but so crowded that it wasn't unusual to wait 45 minutes in line for a 2 minute ride. "Wet and Wild" was particularly bad, with dozens of school groups "Oh my Godding" all over the place. Still, the kids had a ball, as did we once we were out of the queue. Sara did well, tearing herself from her book to brave a couple of rides including one roller coaster! Oli ticked everything off including a 53 metre bungee swing with me. Why I let him have control of the rip cord I'll never know. Mohammed went on that ride before us. His pregnant wife wasn't able to do anything in the park, but was insistent that he did so that he would get over his fear of heights before the birth of his son. Poor, sweaty, jiggly, chatty Mohammed was just hoping he'd get to meet the boy! Immersion theory at it's finest.

Cute contest, Dom the wimpy mutt vs Pip the kelpie

A girl and her pony (horse) called Honeybuzz, of course!

We left Brisbane with an esky full of blue swimmer (sand) crabs, having helped Mark haul in his crab pots the day before. The next stop was Toowoomba and Angus and Bidge McDowall's farm. Whilst this visit was never part of our original plans, it was lovely. I had a taste of farm life growing up, but the kids haven't had  joy of watching a sheep dog do it's job. Angus breeds kelpies. The kids fed the puppies, rode in the ute, rode a horse bareback, did farm chores, and almost got to see how foals are made. All in all a very exciting couple of days.

Lamington National Park

We then took the most direct route into Lamington National Park, but were told on arrival that Kimmy was too big. We drove back down the too curly and too steep mountain and into Nerang, setting up in a caravan park that was chock a block with permanent residents and was easilly the most depressing and poverty stricken park we have stayed in. Everyone seemed to have some sort of affliction or disability. Even the park manager was in a coma, but that wasn't funny because it was true. We went hiking in the park the next day and had a long walk, made slow because the kids were spotting wildlife everywhere. Home for a bbq, DVD's for the kids and "Skyfall" at the Nerang cinema across the road for Sara and me. So ended a world class day!

Western (almost), Northern, Eastern: tick!

Almost a decade ago, friends from Melbourne, Phil and Nikki left on a trip like ours with their 4 kids. Van first, then boat. On returning to Melbourne, they packed up and left to live in Mullumbimby outside of Byron Bay. They now live on the top floor of a former convent complete with a confessional, and a statue of Mary in the garden. It was fascinating comparing journies, as well as seeing their kids for the first time in ages. They almost convinced us to stay on for Christmas, there certainly is something addictive in the area, and it wasn't just Phil's hugs.

Fireworks at Brunswick Heads

I'm not talking about Nimbin, that was pretty sad really. Kind of like an evil Disneyland throw back to the sixties. However the hinterland country side is lush and inviting, the Japanese cafe in Federal was a surprise, and the fish tacos in Byron almost demmand you hang around permanently. The beach at Byron was everything I'd heard about, with Hamish friendly surf on tap even if the Pass wasn't working perfectly. But the crowds were massive. Traffic everywhere, and a busy shopping centre that made Sorrento in mid-summer seem quiet. Wish I'd gone to Byron 24 years ago instead of Surfer's; it's certainly not what it apparently was.

Christmas is rapidly approaching, with only 4 days to go as I write. Thanks to Rory McDowall who was over for dinner last night, we look like we'll be camping by the Clarence river on the day. A quiet, family Christmas, just us, cheese, ham, pudding, ginger beer and wine. Perfect. Speak to you then.

H

Searching for a Real Man

Kids at the Maheno wreck

I would never be considered to be a poster boy for the alpha male set. Skinny and bookish me. Whilst I am resigned to my lot, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little inadequate at times. Still, no man likes to have their own perceived masculine inadequacies rubbed in. However, just before I lined the Disco up for a third crack at the sand dune leading up to Indian Head on Fraser Island, I asked my ever supportive spouse if she was nervous. “Well” muttered she, “I wouldn’t be if you were Bill Fry.”

Alpha male food; Spam, Deb mashed potato,
rehydrated peas and carrots, YUM

Now Bill Fry is one of my brother in laws, and I consider him a good mate. He is without question an alpha male. But Sara wasn’t sitting beside Bill, she was sitting beside Hamish, and crikey, didn’t Hamish give the Disco some curry after that! Summited without a problem, and drove hard from then on. Got mildly bogged once. When Bill was on Fraser, he got bogged so badly he came within 15 minutes of losing his Landrover to the tide. But of course, that's a small detail Sara had decided to overlook! We spent 4 days on Fraser, and did a lot of driving. Camped on the beach and in the forest. Watched backpackers cavorting in the shallows of Lake Mackenzie and dodged dingos on the beach whilst trying to text friends at a Christmas dinner in Melbourne. Ned and I did a great hike up to Basin Lake, and I finally came through on my promise to cook old fashioned camping food, ie Spam and Deb and dried peas with canned plum pudding and custard for dessert! The boys loved it, Sara had tofu. Despite the fun and games, we won't be back though unless we develop a desire to fish and 4WD with passion.
 

Sandblow

Before we'd left for Fraser, the van had got itself caught on the Disco's over engineered towball hitch, destroyed that and fallen off the back of the disco in the caravan park. The park manager and his tractor saw us right, then suggested that Wayne of "Rainbow Wreckers" might be the person to speak to regarding fixing the twisted hitch. Wayne is an alpha male of a different sort. Short, with thinning hair and questionable dental hygiene, he is a wizard with all things mechanical. Wayne has at various times in his life created a 4WD Rolls Royce, a 6WD Cadillac, a hovercraft / fan boat among other bizarre crafts. He also has the Fraser Island transport contract which makes him a very wealthy man.
 

Wayne must have seen something in me, something in my desperation, that made his alpha tendencies go a bit beta. "I can fix that" he pronounced and took the hitch off my hands. Less than a day later, we'd managed to fit it into the Disco again, caravan ready. All for the cost of a case of XXXXGold. In the meantime, the electronic latch on the rear door failed. We left for Fraser anyway, but bumped into Wayne while de-salting the car after Fraser. "Did you fix the back door?" he demanded; "I can do it at 3:30 after I drop this load of cement off". He fixed the door latch, we hitched the van up, and left Rainbow Beach late on Tuesday evening. That's when Wayne's reputation got sullied.




Ivy running into Lake Wabby

The road out of Rainbow Beach is hilly and twisty. At 90kph, coming down one of the hills, Wayne's handiwork came undone and the hitch fell out of the car again, dropping the caravan onto the highway held only by the safety chains. A thump, sparks, and the screaming of metal. The road was straight and I was able to slow down gradually to a stop. If we'd been going around a corner, things would have been horribly different and the inertia of the van would have dictated where we ended up. Have been trying not to think about that.

Landrover hitch after being dragged for 100m's. Quality steel at least!

On the side of the highway, Sara corralled the kids whilst calling for help on a phone with a failing battery. Cars raced by in the darkness, then one stopped. Chris and Lyn stepped out of their Landrover and walked across the road to survey the situation. We got the van jacked up, and reconnected the hitch, and then decided not to use it. Wise. Instead, Chris and Lyn towed us back to their house, parked the van in the yard next door, made sure we had everything we needed, and left to go fishing, again. An alpha male and a good Samaritan in one neat package.




Backsons and Irwins

Still shell shocked the next morning, we said good bye to Chris, Lyn and Kimmy, and headed down the road towards Brisbane and the Australia Zoo. Was Steve Irwin an alpha male? You'd be hard pressed to argue that a bloke who could wrestle crocs, catch snakes, surf, live in pretty forbidding country and establish a multi-million dollar business wasn't. So in keeping with the theme of the past week, we dropped into his zoo to pay our respects, and I got all teary.

Alpha males in training

Australia Zoo is a massive operation. Clean as a whistle and co-ordinated to a fault. Not much in the way of animals we hadn't seen, but some nice shows, and plenty of room. Poor dead Steve is all over the place. Grinning from every available vantage point, he's screaming "crikey" from every screen and every sign. The problem though, is that because this particular alpha male jumped on the back of a sting ray, he's no longer here, and I can't help feeling that because of that, the Irwin empire is running out of time no matter how many crop tops Bindi sells. For as much as he made me cringe, I could never fault his ethics and his desire to improve our world. I miss you Steve, and if tearing up as I admit that disqualifies me from alpha status, I can deal with that. I still have my family. 


H






 

A Stranger is Just a Friend We Haven't Met!!

How to torture your child in a fun way.

Visiting people our parents know that to us are total strangers? No, haven't done too much of that on this trip. Mum was not to be denied however. Shona McDowal was Mum's best friend, and a very regular visitor to my home growing up. Mum insisted in the nicest possible way that we get in touch with Shona's nephew Wal, and his wife Rach in Emerald. We hadn't planned on touring anymore mining towns in outback Queensland, but then Mum had suggested we should, and so we did.

Impressive, old school form

 

"How do you want to start?" asked Rach. "Wine, beer, bubbles, or would you prefer to park the van now?" Dad's old idiom "first things first" came to mind, and the van was backed into the yard without delay. It became obvious rapidly that Rach's enthusiasm for a drink was equalled only by her enthusiasm for a chat. In half an hour, it became even more obvious that she and Wal were a match made in heaven and this visiting thing was off to a fabulous start.
















The next four days were a blur of water skiing, flying, swimming, loud talking, drinking and touring. We all went water skiing on the dam, Sara unable to resume her glory days on a single ski off a long rope but was a star on the short rope. Wal took myself and the kids for a tour of the area in his plane, possibly getting a little close to one of the local coal mines. Their kids, Georgie and William, although littler than ours, were great fun, as was Crinkles the dog.





Cotton circles from the sky

On the last night, we went out to Rob's shed. Rob's shed is the reason so few of the local farmers go to the local pubs. They can store their beer in his shed, and drop by whenever they want to drink it with people they actually want to drink with. A simple concept, but one that works nicely. On the night we went, Rob even put on a "son et lumiere" for us. A massive storm front pushed through just to our north bringing lightning and a bit of rain. Rob, Wal, Ryano, Bob, Glenn, Danni and Scott huddled around their iPhones, studying the radar just like their cotton farming fathers did in years gone by...or didn't as the case maybe. Cityboy Hamish got a good talking to re the future of farming (crap), government (crap), American government (crap), global warming (crap), and Brazilian cotton farmers (really crap), and mostly kept his mouth shut until Wal fell asleep and Cityboy had to fend for himself deferentially. After all, I was a guest in Rob's shed, and Rob is a big unit at 6'8".





Kids, Wal, and his toy (almost paid for)

We dragged ourselves away the next morning and headed gradually to the coast. The gradual thing was through no fault of our own, it's just that in Queensland, it appears to be against the law to drive on a road that is not being worked on. Back to the coast, Yeppoon (waterslide in the park), 1770 (surfing again!!!), Bundaberg (turtle laying eggs that needed relocating), and Rainbow Beach where the towball fell off the back of the Disco as I was perfecting yet another reverse park. No matter, money and time and a very dodgy bloke from Rainbow Wreckers who drives a Jaguar will have a crack at repairing it on Saturday. We'll be on Fraser Island.




The GT Hoses gang (William and Georgie on the right and Crinks in the middle)

 

H

Castaways on the Island of Death...(not really)



Ivy and clown fish

 After 5 days in Townsville with the highlight being Oli bagging his 300^th bird we were all desperate for some action. Sara and Oli had scoured the towns op shops to find sufficiently ugly anti-stinger wear and I’m really not sure what happened to the other 2 days. We moved from one Townsville caravan park which wouldn’t store our van, to another which would. The car was packed with supplies for six nights and we returned to Lucinda to await the boat to Orpheus Island. We had no idea what to expect; this could either go brilliantly, or it could be a complete disaster.

 



 

 

 

 



Kids on the boat heading over to the island...of terror

Orpheus Island; there was something sinister about the name that reminded me of the movie “Jurassic Park”. It is a scientific research station after all and so my over indulged brain slipped into Hollywood screen writer mode. Enter stage left, Ian; the talkative, nut brown boat driver, with his sun and salt bleached mullet. As you looked into his eyes, you knew you were only ever going to get half of his story; that the bits he would tell were only hints of something far more interesting. From stage right, stepping out of a taxi, comes Marta, a young Brazilian woman who was about to start work on the island. And there was us, a young family of three blonde excited children, and two haggard parents looking for an escape from the real world. It was late when this motley crew left the shadow of Hinchinbrook, and as darkness fell over our shoulders like an inky, damp shroud , Ian steered us out into the channel.

 



 

 

 



Looking towards Hinchinbrook Island at sunset

The lights of the manager’s cottage appeared over the blue bruised swell. Ian cut the engines and squeezed the Challenger 2 across the jagged reef. Our gear was transferred into the basket on a forklift, and we stepped onto the beach. Haley, the island’s manager, welcomed us with a grin, showed us our accommodation, and in her soft Kiwi accent, suggested we meet for the induction tomorrow morning at 7:30.

 

We were on time. Even Oliver had sprung out of his bunk bed in anticipation. Haley’s soft accent told us about the island and with the briefly mentioned menace of 4 hours of work from each of us hanging over our heads, we signed forms releasing James Cook University from any responsibility for our death or disfigurement, then returned to our quarters for a cup of coffee. Enter the mad and hairy English scientist. Professor David Bellwood. The scene was complete. Cue thunderstorm. Cue greedy, disgruntled employee. Release the mutant man eating fish.



Giant clam garden

Coral and fish, coral and fish, coral and fish etc

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Walking on the beach at low tide

None of that happened. Haley the Betadine Queen didn’t abduct us and sentence us to a lifetime of slave labour. Instead she gave assignments to the kids including coral, fish, and bird identification projects, with only brief periods of toilet cleansing. Ian’s stories never became menacing; only more amusing as the week went on. Marta wasn’t the first to be eaten by the mutant fish monster, but she did introduce us to the local black tip reef shark population, her babies! And the mad scientist popped in for a chat and promptly told Oli to become a marine biologist for work and an ornithologist in his spare time. As we stood around the fish tank he taught the kids and us a lot of things about fish that we’d never thought we needed to know, in a sing song voice that meant you were never sure as to whether he was telling the truth, or just making stuff up.

 

Coral and fish, coral and fish, coral and fish etc

We walked over to the other side of the island and weren’t trapped in the massive webs of the golden orbed spider. We swum over the reef and weren’t stabbed by coral spears, or eaten by a giant clam. The seven nights we had planned to stay turned into fourteen. Haley provided food including a leg of lamb until I was able to head back into town with Rhonda and Terry for supplies. Again the film script threatened to rear its predictable head. Rhonda had never piloted a motor boat back across the channel alone. Now she had to do it against a savage outgoing tide and increasing 18 – 20 knot winds, with the most inexperienced first mate in the world. My time on a Dutch barge in France counted for little apparently! We’d only gone 200 metres when she suggested Plan B might be returning to the dock, and settling down in the pub. But she pushed on and got back me and my bruised bum back in time for sunset with prawns and beer and wine, just as Terry said she would.

 

Boris the Green Tree Frog in the sink

It was a remarkably quick 11 days and became the longest we have stayed in one place to date. The kids revelled in an environment that revered knowledge of all things natural, not to mention one that supplied as much white bread as you could eat. We snorkeled and paddled and read and hiked in as beautiful a place as we’ve been. Who knows, we may just return to Orpheus, for if nothing else, it has ensured our children will never clean toilets for a career!

 

 

H