Wednesday, 21 November 2012

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




Ivy and clown fish
 After 5 days in Townsville with the highlight being Oli bagging his 300th 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

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