Category: Animals

“Jees did you see that?” I was staring in disbelief, out in front of the boat. What on earth is it? My brother turns, and looks at me blankly, his fifth beer chugged hurriedly as his line screeches into action, his focus immediately shifts onto the fish launching dramatically into the air fifty metres behind the boat. “Wadidya say?”

Two hours earlier the sandflies are swarming, biting voraciously on any exposed flesh. The chill of an early morning start, this desolate mangrove enshrouded creek and my brother is repeatedly and ineffectually pulling on the outboard motor’s starter chord.

Verumpah, verumpah stokes his growing frustrations at our expedition’s delay. It has been against my better judgement to join him: he knew I didn’t share his enthusiasm for these outings. But my enjoyment was his company; childhood memories of Port Phillip Bay fishing expeditions with him and Dad resurface, the endless haul of flathead. But I had lost my enthusiasm: happy to eat, but not to catch fish!

He had the engine’s cowling off, the spark plug out and spraying some magical elixir into the engine. With the next pull, the motor roars into life, a cloud of toxic exhaust challenges the insects. We are away. I am instructed to take the tiller as he replaces the cover, broaches his first beer, and we move out of the creek into the open waters of Shoal Bay, east of Darwin.

“Righto, now for some fun”, he proffers as we skim across the flat waters. The sun is finally seeing off the morning chill, and his next beer helps steady the ship. He takes the tiller, slows the motor and the mackerel are put on notice that we were ‘on the hunt.’

The tide is on the turn, and three hundred metres ahead we can see wavelets breaking over one of the shoals. “The fish will be feeding just off those rocks. We’ll troll past a few times and see if we can hook up”, he said. I dutifully play out my line, the red and yellow lure bouncing on the surface, before settling a foot below the water. Back and forwards, a couple of kilometres or so, on each sweep.

I am already bored, my couple of ginger beers no match against his remarkable capacities for beer consumption! I am looking towards the shoreline, mangroves and behind them, what I know to be the communication towers on the nearby military reserve. A dark shape surfaces 50 metres off to the right.

I gawk, huge, shiny scales, successive, arched sections of its snake-like body appearing above the water, a pythonesque head, a wake streaming out behind. A few seconds, and it is gone!

I yell again for my brother to look. He is still battling his fish, and possibly well on the way to being drunk. He loses the fish and turns towards me, annoyance writ large, “Yep, whatsup?”

Not even a ripple remains. Nessie, or whatever, never reappears. I hold my own counsel.

We are all keyed up, flying from Alice, stopping in Adelaide before the haul across to Perth. There are six of us, two taxis depositing us at our rented premises, our home, five bedrooms and a couch for the next four days.

The National Folk Festival starts tomorrow, and despite the long flights, nobody wants to down tools – we are keen to see the venue, the staging, if possible, to test the acoustics – gain a sense of ‘the vibe’. We drop our bags and are off.

It is early evening when we get back to the rental; time to collect bags from the heap on the loungeroom floor, identify bedrooms, the possibility of a shower, dinner. I have drawn the short-straw – the couch is my home-from-home.

I am the first to notice the unusual wallpaper, small black intermittent, heart-shaped motifs against a crème background. Not unpleasant, just unusual. Pizzas are ordered, a few beers chugged and we are into bed early.

Our first concert is in the late morning, taxis get us there by ten. Our hour-long workshop focuses on the 1830s, NSW’s early penal settlement at Emu Plains. It is well received. It will be repeated tomorrow afternoon, and we are now free to catch other workshops, network with other Folkie-mates, and, when ready, make our own way back to the rental.

Bob and I both need a break and are home by three. I have had a few beers and fall onto the couch. I scrunch around inside the sleeping bag, getting comfy. I glance at the wallpaper. Something is changing – the design looks to pulse, the heart-shaped motifs are actually alive, moving. I call Bob to come into the lounge.

The whole wall, in fact all the walls, are moving! In all directions, a noticeable drift, and I have a really close look. “Oh hell, the dots are bloody ticks, millions of the buggers,” I scream. I manically throw off the sleeping bag, I look at the carpet. Oh Jesus, they are crawling there, too! We are both dancing around, lifting bags, finding them already crawling on and into everything.

We start throwing the luggage out onto the lawn. I have an absolute hatred of ticks; and leeches, lice, mossies and any other bastard that wants to drink my vital forces.  I am hopping around, not sure where to prop: Bob swears loudly and I notice he is performing quite a theatrical war dance.

Outside, we inspect each other closely. He finds a couple of the buggers on my back, otherwise we are both ‘clean.’  We go back inside, grabbing the remaining gear from the bedrooms. I alert the others, still at the show, and we are lucky to find two equipped tents at the Festival’s campground.

We all spend an hour on the front lawn, unpacking, closely inspecting, occasionally removing unwanted nasties. The Estate Agent isn’t overly concerned by our outrage but promises a refund.

I have ticks on my brain for days.

It’s strange how quickly some relationships develop. Claude and I had only met about three weeks ago. He was scurrying across the workshop, carrying some edible titbits: he later explained – the ‘elevenses’ for the crew. And me? Well I was a recent transferee from another part of the factory, an involuntary refugee, moved as part of a reorganisation of the workshop floor.

But we quickly bonded, finding common ground in our love of flying, our svelte, dark uniforms that we wore ‘on the wing’, meal preferences and humour. We quickly realised that we were also neighbours, living only a few crevices apart. How had we never crossed paths before?

We lived in the wonderfully aromatic darkness of the workshop’s cellar, with plenty of space to fulfill an adventurous existence. Above us, when the light was strong, the Big Ones trod; backwards and forwards, their never-ending movements raining dusty motes down across our space. We didn’t mind, as the vibrations often brought down edible scrapes.

Our style of humour, some might say ‘gutter-humour’ brought both of us near to tears. A whispered scenario, usually coming from Claude’s over-active imagination, would see us corralled in some dark corner, hushed discussions, giggling and a final agreement on an approach to our latest foray. It sometimes involved interaction with those above –these were far more dangerous escapades. But most times, we just did things to annoy our brethren.

There was a popular light-time resting hole that many of the crew liked to use. Claude, again, came up with a plan. Above the entrance to the space was a paper box. He and I secretly worked on that box for several days, nibbling and excavating one side of the box. We unbalanced it, and while the crew were at rest, we managed to send the box down across the entrance, trapping our colleagues. We thought it a hilarious joke, while angry, hungry and thirsty friends finally chewed their way out at the end of the dark time.

There was this huge jar of sweet sticky stuff, sometimes left open on the counter at the back of the crib room above. In the quiet of the night, Claude and I would crawl through the cracks in the floor above, then launch ourselves up and onto that jar. Care was needed to avoid the semi-hard blobs on the neck of the container – Claude once got his wings caught on the jar’s neck and spent an uncomfortable and anxious night attached. By nibbling the edges of the sticky stuff, I was eventually able to free him, just as the morning light arrived.

Another upstairs foray, again heading for the jar. This time our timing was bad. We had just launched ourselves when a Big One started yelling, a wad of paper swatted furiously. A lucky blow caught Claude and knocked him for a six. As I flew into the darkness, I had a fleeting glimpse of Claude impaled, needled and the Big One heard to curse “Bloody cockroaches.”

How often do you see a sign advertising Cockroach racing? I reread the aging, fly-spotted notice. Half of it is missing but still advises ‘Thoroughbred Cockroach racing … BYO ‘roaches. $1,000 prize pool. If interested, call this numb…’

It is dark, late Autumn and I’m being kicked out of the Empress of India for pissing against the bar. OK, yer, not nice, but in the crowded space, we frontline ‘bar-props’ are loath to vacate for the dunnies. We all do it occasionally, more so as the clock ticks towards six. We no longer think it is controversial or unusual!

Flo’s professionalism barely misses a beat as she plonks six pots down onto the bar in front of Bluey, Billy and Gerry. She glares momentarily at me and then orders me out! I reckon she has seen my telltale arm movements, wrestling with the bloody buttons of my fly!

Tongues click in sympathy as I’m unceremoniously ejected from the warm, fuggy space. “Bugger it”, as I realise I’m goin’ to miss my final couple of pots.

I stumble along Scotchmer Street; not my usual route home. The missus is gonna be surprised to see me home early. The ‘roach racing idea swirls. I could certainly use the cash! I wonder what’s involved in training a cockroach?

I’ve a dodgy prostate: I desperately need another leak. It’s dark and I smile as my bladder drains. I nimbly sidestep the slipstream off the wall and circuitously continue towards our cottage, tucker and bed.

Enormous cockroaches swarm. I’m in the maw of a monster and with a single swipe, it has my entrails strewn across the pavement — the bedside clock’s alarm erupts.

Over breakfast, I’m thinking about that $1,000. The factory crawls with ‘roaches – any stray scuttling sees lethal footwork! I’m wondering about what I do after I catch one, how will I train it?

It’s Saturday morning, with meat, veg and groceries straining the trusty old shopping cart. The café provides our usual tea and scones, and I casually scan the nearby Community notice board. Here it is again: ‘Cockroach Racing Saturday 24th, Flemington, BYO cockroaches. That’s it. I’m in. I’ll have three weeks to whip a winner into shape.

On Monday I snare a beauty – about an inch and a half long, sleek blackness, feelers another inch, at least. If I could find a small saddle I’d have a Melbourne Cup starter. I place ‘Claude’ into an Old Holborn tobacco tin and add a few crumbs. They’re gone when I let him out for a run later on. He has cake for dinner.

Over the next three weeks, he eats regularly, and richly. Leftovers off my plate, snacks from the ice chest, lunch crumbs. He continues to impress, every inch a winner. Svelte condition, I reckon; no excess baggage, muscles toned and ready to fly.

Saturday 24th and we’re at Flemington. I’m pumped. We’re at the Mounting Enclosure, I open his tin and he is away. I never see Claude again!

“I’m over on the Island. Are you able to get over here and finish our bishness?” The telephone line goes dead: George assumes I will come over to his island shack.

His assumption is why I am in this bloody predicament: a rushing, outgoing tide, our boat stuck on an ever-widening sandbar, and a monster, my nemesis, nearby!

I charter Steve and his seventeen-foot Seamaster for the run down the Kulumburru River and across to Lewis Island. George, a senior Pela man, has an island shack and forever finds reasons to be out ‘on-country’, fishing. Shire Council duties can always be relegated down the priority listing when the Threadfin salmon are running! He wants to discuss ideas for opening a fishing camp on the island.

The incoming tide is no match for Steve’s forty-five horsepower motor. We glide down the waterway, the wake splitting the river gently, patches of last night’s dewy mist battling a new day. The trip is uneventful. There are a few saltwater crocodiles on the banks, recharging their batteries in the warming sun. A few others are cruising guilelessly in the water. The Barramundi are jumping at low-flying insects.

Steve has a hand line and lure at the ready, and suggests we ease back the throttle and troll for a bit. I scotch the idea, reminding him Lewis Island is our focus.

George and I are on the beach below the shack, he’s casting a line, while I pose questions about his ideas for the fishing camp. He ‘hooks up, a brief battle, and he lands a beauty, maybe fifteen kilos of silvery, slivering salmon.

Our discussions finish. I wander off to look for Steve and eventually find him further along the beach. He has eight salmon already filleted and cooling in his esky! As we depart, Steve offers knowledge of a shortcut around the bottom of the island. “It will save us thirty minutes on the run back up the river to town, but.”

“OK. You’re the skipper, Steve.”

The ebb tide is gathering momentum as we head towards the channel adjacent to the island. We enter the river’s estuary where high muddy banks are crusting in the midday sun. A few mud crabs are feeding, one or two crocs in evidence, and a colony of flying foxes noisily acknowledge our passage. Golden, sandy shallows appear beneath the boat, and there are a couple of scrapes with the outboard. But Steve is finding the deeper channels. We are making headway: that is, until we run aground. We get out of the boat and desperately drag and push, trying to beat the outgoing tide.

Ten minutes of this and the tide finally has us. The little remaining water drains away. The sandbar grows inexorably, and we sit, stranded, about a metre above the river, on a bare islet, two hundred metres long, fifty metres wide and growing. The water on either side of the sandbar is provocatively rushing off towards the Timor Sea.

“Bloody great shortcut, Steve”, I proffer! It is about one o’clock, the temperature has got to be 40 degrees in the shade, but we’re in the full sun, and stuck until the tide turns, in about six hours! Bloody hell. “Maybe we can get some shade by turning the boat over, but,” he suggests, “and prop it, using the oars.” We grunt and strain, eventually overturning the craft with the two oars deputising as verandah posts.

As I settle in the shade, I am mentally writing up my report, listing the qualities that will ensure I and/or my colleagues never engage Steve’s services again. I don’t think things can get any worse. Then the sandflies arrive, clouds of them, delivering bites to every exposed bit of skin.

My eyes register a movement. As I turn, my blood runs cold, my sphincter contracts tightly, and I confront my worst imaginable fear.

I know we are now in deep poo! Its snout, those teeth, connected to a gently swaying tail. The yellow eyes are unblinking, emotionless, calculating. Gesu mio!

I nudge Steve’s foot and point. I hear his sharp intake of breath and he leans in and whispers “This could be tricky, but!” An understatement, as I wonder if I can outstare those piercing, yellow orbs. What does it see – are we a welcome snack, a diversion in an otherwise humdrum day, a threat, an intruder in its watery world?

I think about what I know of Crocodylus porosus. It’s not a lot: limited to salacious newspaper reports of human interactions. I do remember that several people had disentangled themselves from those enormous jaws by poking fingers into the croc’s eyes!

Steve whispers again. He is wondering about the efficacy of kicking the oars out from under, with us underneath the boat! Mmm, I consider the weight, the difficulty we had in turning the bloody thing over, and I visualise an alternative to the croc’s attack: us pinned underneath, while the tide returns and drowns us!

The croc is motionless, unblinking, continuing to concentrate on the unusual something on the sandbar in front of it. We quietly discuss our options. Are the fish fillets a temptation? I wonder if their smell makes us more of a target and whether or not we might use them as a distraction.

Steve heaves six of the fillets in a low arc, dropping them at the water’s edge downriver from us. The animal’s attention finally shifts. With surprising speed, it is up on all fours, moving down the sand away from us. We’re up, adrenaline pumping and flip the boat back upright. It jiggles a bit, from side to side along the keel, as we clamber over the gunwale, but we immediately draw comfort from our metre-high defence.

“Did you see that bastard move? It must be four or five metres long. So bloody fast, but!” Steve whispers.

Only five hours or so until the tide returns – I reckon about sunset. It’s going to be a long, anxious day, and I am already sunburnt, thirsty and hungry.

From the tumble of things still held under the bow, Steve starts to untangle our survival gear. There is an old blue plastic sheet, a length of rope, with an anchor attached, a couple of old plastic buckets, a boat hook, a half-full, two-litre water bottle, and finally, a bottle of brown liquid.

“That’s brown vinegar, in case of sea-wasp stings, but,” he explains. I look over towards the water’s edge and realise our two oars are still out on the sand, croc-side of the boat. The beastie is still snacking as I jump overboard and retrieve them.

We settle and start to consider things. We jury-rig the blue tarp. It flaps a bit, but we have shade, and we both take a slug at the water bottle.

My belly starts to direct its attention to the remaining fish fillets – raw fish, a Japanese delicacy. The vinegar will pickle the fish! Namas, it will be basic, no limes, oranges or onions to sweeten the brew, but yep, it will work. Steve is keen. I pick up the smaller of the two buckets. “Not that one, but” Steve insists, “that’s me piss bucket!”

‘Gordon bloody Bennett!’ I drop it back onto the deck. I rip up four of the remaining fillets into bite-size chunks and drop them into the other bucket, having been assured it was just used for sluicing water. I pour a goodly measure of the rather rank vinegar over the fish. “Dinner in an hour,” I declare.

A sudden, substantial bump on the hull brings us instantly back to the here and now. The bloody croc has wandered over and is investigating the boat. We tense and wait. It is a monster … and it smells of rotting grunge. It must be almost the length of the boat.

A couple more nudges around the hull, and the animal decides the metal is inedible. It lumbers awkwardly, but meaningfully, back towards the water. It slides in and disappears. We look at each other. Both register relief, but our thirst and hunger return with a vengeance.

We settle in for a wait. It is only another four and a half hours!

The pickled fish was edible and appreciated. Our last water went with four hours still to wait. Steve nods off, along the bottom of the boat. I maintain a watchful presence, but eventually, I too nod off.

The sun is low in the west, and the sandflies are making way for the mosquitoes. There is a glow through the eastern trees, as the forecast full moon starts its climb up into the quiet evening sky. There is a noticeable reduction in the size of our sandbar, and as we watch, the water continues to edge up our beach at a surprising rate.

But there are now two crocs at the water’s edge, watching the boat, unblinking, focused. They are keeping pace with the tide, moving closer as the water advances.

The water is only twenty metres from the boat: the crocs are fifteen! Water: ten metres; crocs: five. We feel and hear the wavelets licking the boat’s keel. Ten minutes later, and the boat starts to swing with the tide, the crocs maintain their watchful presence, albeit not coming any closer.

Another ten minutes and we are definitely floating and being pushed upstream with the flow. Steve tentatively lowers the motor back into the water. The last of the sun’s rays competes with the advancing moonlight, the motor roars into life, and we have an hour of very careful motoring up to the landing, just below town.

We have the boat secured on the trailer and drive up to the pub. Steve’s brother Joel greets us. He looks like he is midway through a session. “Where ya been, Bro?”

“We’ve just been down to the Island. Jees, the salmon was biting sumpin fierce, but!”

We had been planning our visit to the Lower Glenelg National Park for weeks with texts, emails and calls zipping between us. We had two sites booked at the Forest North campsite, and arrived mid-afternoon, keen to settle in, set up camp and relax for the next four days. Tents were efficiently erected, gear unloaded, the billy boiled, and a cuppa consolidating our arrival!

We were contemplating a dinner menu when we were surprised at the arrival of a rather scruffy old guy at the site. He just appeared and sauntered up. I must have been busy and missed any introductions but his appearance reminded me of Norman Gunston, minus the cigarette papers. He had cuts and scrapes everywhere around his shoulders, neck and face, but seemingly oblivious of his wounds.

‘Norman’ wandered around the site, inspecting our efforts but offered no assessment. He sat companionably for half an hour or so, and then disappeared, as inexplicably as his arrival!

“Did you see that red neck” I proffered. “Looks like a loser from the Coliseum”, somebody quipped. We decided his Alpha Male status had been effectively overturned and an ex-communication dictating a lonely existence!

We busied ourselves with the evening meal, a warm Chickpea salad, to be followed by stewed blood plums, custard and chocolate chips. Shadows lengthened, another cuppa was brewing and again we had visitors, unannounced, unnoticed, just there, in front of us!

The party was being led by this quite burly little bloke, sporting an unmissable, almost cobalt blue vest. He had four girls with him but had perched himself on a pole near the fireplace, the elevated stature achieving some dominance over the rest of his mob. There was some banter, some etiquette being established as ‘Blue Vest’ hopped down from the pole, and directed the group to tidy up the area where the breadboard had been wiped down.

It was hard to ignore their antics. Blue Vest appeared to have a favourite from his concubine, and they never strayed far from each other. At first, it appeared as though he was tempting her with titbits, but as we watched, we saw them all finding and feeding each other from the detritus of our dining table.

Breakfast the following morning was a busy affair. Norman joined us early and found a pear from a bag on the tailgate to munch, while Blue Vest and the girls found the toast crusts particularly appealing. The meal was interrupted by the arrival of a larger, Yellow-breasted Robin, who without much ado, muscled in on the feast. In the trees overhead, ‘Arrk, Arrk’ announced an interest in proceedings and the call had all on the ground, instantly alert. A “Murder” noisily flapped past as we tidied the site in preparation for the day’s outing. On the drive out, we narrowly missed a close encounter with a mob of striding, gawking emu!

It was all a-twitching on the Glenelg!

It’s early, forecast heat still behind the dawn. Daylights’ dissolving darkness. Branches move, as the breeze plays along the street. Tweeting amplifies the quiet, my new day shared.

Blackbird’s gardening, raking, stepping back, probing … breakfast. Galahs above, pass noisily. Off somewhere, kookaburras laugh, apparently signalling rain: I wish. Crows share my scepticism as two maggies swing through close, chortling as I duck, a bloody cat skives across the road, “innocent, your honour, just out for a poo!” The wires above host Mynahs; pointy, shiny, black evilness.

Four thousand steps. Now five. The home straight, and a long-black reward beckoning.

“Look at those monsters”, an awe-struck Thomas said. We were lying down on the lawn using the new, hand-held magnifying glass I had bought, looking at what lurked beneath. Thomas saw a small ant busily racing along a pathway. Several more passed, all intent on ‘something ahead’. Thomas suggested that if we could see their faces, they would probably have a ‘worried look’. “Why do you say that”, and he replied, “Look at the way they are hurrying. It must be because they are late for something.” A considered, 5-year-old observation.

One of the ants found a crumbly bit of pastry from the pie we had shared for morning tea. We watched. It didn’t like the tomato sauce splodge, but there were tentative, exploratory nibbles, on one side, around to the other, back to the original side and then away it ran. We decided it was off to spread the word about the pastry.

Sure enough, there were now three of the little blokes working the crust. They cut it up, each holding some, before, on some unheard instruction, trundling off along their highway, crumb fragments held high. Thomas thought they were going to be a huge birthday party, at a friend’s place.

We saw several slaters mooching along, much slower than the ants, lots of legs frantically working, feelers twitching, some going in one direction, others just milling around. There was a shiny trail on the grass near the ant-path. A small snail slowly slithered along.

“Yuck” said Thomas. “Mum doesn’t like them, ‘cos they eat the veggies”, he declared.

We rolled over onto our backs. The dampness seeping into our clothes could be felt – but the sunshine was far too enjoyable to worry about wet clobber. Our eyes were scrunched tightly shut against the brightness. Tom had the magnifying glass up to his face and I could see enormous eyes through the glass. I put the glass to my face. We both giggled.

We heard a nearby buzzing. We peaked around but couldn’t see the bees. There were several large, flat rocks forming a garden edge. As we looked, we could see several small black shapes flying into a dark crevice, beneath one of the stones. We established that actually, there was a lot of insects flying to, landing on and then walking underneath the stone. We looked closer.

They were dark with lighter stripes on their bums. Little native bees. We watched them, noting patches of yellow ‘gold’ on their hind legs as they approached the entrance. It was gone when they flew off. There was a constant flow of traffic and Thomas again passed one of his delightfully observant comments about an airport! He wondered where the flight controller sat. I suggested maybe in one of the nearby plants. For my troubles I received a withering look of disdain.

I pondered briefly of telling him about my adventures with native bees and their ‘sugar bag’ produce when I lived and worked in Arnhem Land. He postured that the bee-bank must be chock-a-block full of gold, and they needed to be careful in case people tried to steal it. I kept my lips buttoned, content within my memory of that thin, sweet, syrupy gold, oft times collected by the bucketful.

It was one of those oft-repeated family stories that just wouldn’t go away. My parents loved me dearly, but did they have to tell the neighbours, repetitiously, at every opportunity? “Moloch is so clever”, “Moloch never misses his classes”, Moloch this, Moloch that, blah. It was an embarrassment and as I got older, I took on the added baggage of my surname. Moloch Horridus, it was like I was carrying an extra tonne on my back.

We lived in the Outback desert, 600 kilometres northwest of Alice Springs. The days were warm to hot, nights usually cool, although when the sun was away off in the north, things changed dramatically. The ground would freeze overnight and the family usually spent long periods in our underground cave, avoiding the worst of the weather. We even retreated there on the hottest summer days. It was like the family was embalmed – we all just slowed things down, hunkered, and waited for things to moderate!

I had a couple of friends to play with, we took lessons together every day of those first few months. But one of my mates, the guy sometimes called a rogue by the elders, suddenly disappeared. One moment we were in class, the next, there was a great commotion, a big black presence swooped, and he was gone!

You might think drinking water would be a problem in the desert, but the family had developed tricks. Generations of my forebears had learnt to harvest the dew, dew settling on the plants, even dew that condensed on our skin, with a method honed over the millennia, of increasing the water’s viscosity, so enabling it to be channelled, without loss, towards our mouths – problem solved.

We learnt how to avoid potential enemies. There were several elements to learn, my mate had been too smart to learn them! They were clever. I was taught to inflate my body to look bigger, also to duck my head down between my front legs, exposing a headlike bump on my neck, as a decoy.

Then there was the trick of changing my skin colour. This was the one I liked best, surreptitiously watching the look of irritation on the faces of my attacker. One moment a light yellowy-orange, then with a flick of a switch, I could change to dark greeny-grey. While my nemesis was contemplating the camouflage, I was slipping away! I learnt that we borrowed this trick ages ago, from our distant cousins, still living in South America.

Hang on. There’s more. I also learnt to adopt a staggered gait. If threatened, I was to walk slowly, stopping often, swaying back and forth and again, creating bewilderment, as the cover for flight. Easy peasy.

And tucker – mobs of it. I was taught to plant myself adjacent to an ant trail – they were everywhere – extend my sticky tongue, and hey presto, thousands of ants, every day, just for the taking.

For a Thorny, problems were a distant consideration. If lessons are followed, life’s good.

“Turbulence! Did you say turbulence, young fella? By God, I’ll tell you about a turbulence that’ll have your scales standing upside down and turning white at the tips!” Mmph. A phlemy expectoration, she used a subtle, sideways slip to steady a sudden, slight instability. “Where was I, ah, yes – there we were, our tightly assembled three hundred and forty thousand, facing an enormous abyss.” Rheumy eyes took on that scrunched, semi-closed disposition, and peeked back through the watery past.

“Our school had only recently drawn together. Discipline dictated our survival, and our every movement, our ordering, our turns, left or right, up or down, from the front, at the rear, or resting in the mid-sections practiced, over and over. We were uniformly sized, kitted and experienced.”

“Training was a series of endless drills. The Drill Sergeant was a mean Spratt, brooking no dissension. Over the generations, instruction had been reduced to jargon, scarcely understood through the junior ranks, mostly non-verbal signs that had the school moving en masse, this way, and that, one moment a silver phalanx, dense, solid, immense and in the flick of a fin, gone! On and on we practiced! Moving at ‘operational’ speed and in one flick, a turn and in that same instance, effectively achieving ‘escape’ speed. Wonderful!

“A manoeuvre that I took personal delight in, occurred when the school was moving northward, a bitterly cold, sparklingly blue above. For the trick to work, there needed to be shafts of silvery wonder coming down and through the school. With conditions aligning, the Maestro would give the signal, a sharp left-hand turn and we entirely disappeared. My God, I just loved it, and I chortled, bubbling as I pictured the rows of hungry, expectant mouths snapping shut, mostly empty!

“But the endless training paid off. We were a disciplined pack, and I participated and survived many potential devastations.  I remember one time when our navigational leaders miscalculated. Instead of the open world, we were in contained, deep but narrow confines. Deputations of senior members sought manual observation to correct our navigational snafu. It meant moving up to where the silvery shafts appear. I was a member of one of those teams, and vividly recall the green steepness on either side. Everything tasted different too, things were warmer, stiller.

“And I saw them too. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, maybe they were ducks, in a row, and in the instance that our team members saw them, they saw us too. They rose as one, squawking in an echoey chorus. They wielded, dove, sploosh, beaks at the ready, following our panicked escape down into the darkness.

“We mostly survived. The turbulent energy generated as we turned and fled provided a safety shield, a barrier that both confused the birds and provided a slipstream for the school to ride into the depths.

A few months after the birds, the school was moving south, away from the world of ice. Warmer climes, plankton, better pickings. The school relaxed somewhat, maybe our guard slipped a notch, too! One moment we were cruising, the next there were beaked mouths at every turn, snapping, grabbing at the flanks of the school with frenzied success. There were turtles (or were they tortoises) coming at us from below, launching into our junior, central ranks from above, so many that our flight-turns were ineffective. Surface turbulence was attracting giant Pacific gulls and albatross. And when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, up from the deep arrived a pod of Blue whales. Talk about turbulence! They circled, tail-slapped, breached and scooped, baleen filters guiding thousands of my comrades into those dark vortexes.

Attempts to regroup were being tried, largely unsuccessfully until I noticed what I thought was a fixed, dark recess coming up from the watery depths. Assuming leadership, I gave the signal, our depleted force moved left suddenly, right and down maximising our collective forces and swiftly entered the cave.

The beaks continued for a while, snapping, some successful attacks. But with our rear and flanks largely protected, we were able to mount our own forward actions, collective and sustained nipping at flippers, eyes, legs. They wearied and retreated, while the whales were left to move over the battlefield, scooping up the remains of dead and broken bodies.

That was my last battle. When the school moved on, I decided to stay in the cave, moving out occasionally when hunger dictated. I had eggs to lay, youngsters to raise, a new generation of anchovy to nurture.

Maintaining the wet-season grass on our five-acre Darwin block was a constant battle. It grew a metre per month, so it was akin to painting the Sydney Harbour bridge. It was mid-December, the humidity outrageous, rivulets of sweat and me hanging on for dear life, behind our huge, self-drive mower. It dragged me around shrubs and trees, below overhanging branches and overexposed roots and rocks. I tried to avoid the worst of the paperbark wasps.

I launched the mower towards a high pile of mixed grass and old branches. At the last moment, I desperately hauled left, but too late to avoid a large head that had suddenly appeared. “Oh shit, oh hell, nooo!” I cried, as I killed the mower and dragged it off the pile to reveal the headless, quivering body of a huge, beautiful, Olive python. She lay, her coils still surrounding a clutch of eggs. My emotions were in turmoil, I whimpered, as the tragedy sank in.

I rushed into the house; a glass of water bought me time to think. There was nothing to be done for her, but I started to wonder about her eggs. I gathered an old pillow slip and a box from the laundry and went back. I gathered her heavy coils, apologising and sniffling, as I slid her into the sack. I then picked up the soft, slightly sticky eggs and with some material in and around the clutch, put the box on the lounge room table.

Practical thinking returned. I gathered the pillowslip and went to see friends from Maningrida, who were temporarily living in town, away from their central Arnhem Land home. “Gidday Balang, Gamak?” “Ma-a, gamak” but my voice broke as I lifted the grim parcel and explained what had happened! Wamud looked inside, and a wide grin split his face. “Bush tucker, ma-a! No worries, she’ll be right.” We exchanged a few pleasantries, but … but, I had to retreat before my mind’s eye detailed the evening repast, in too much detail.

In the following days, most of the eggs turned blue and cold, but on January 2^nd, out popped Olive, a 12” long, wriggling mass! Parental instincts dictated nurture but Google was still 30 years away! I rang the Wildlife Park, and they suggested mincemeat; I was thinking milk! I compromised with a saucer of mince, Weet-bix and milk. She never looked back!

Over the months her saucer was replaced with an old camp oven. But the menu has pretty much stayed the same. Birthdays included additional Weet-bix (a whole box) and a haunch of buffalo, or wallaby. A vet check-up meant that Olive became Oliver, but gender reassignment wasn’t about to become an issue in our family.

There were minor adjustments to be made too; rules about who slept outside on their custom-made wooden frame and not in the bedrooms, toileting and the number of coils allowed when cuddling. But generally, we all just happily hung out together.

Tomorrow is the best day. She doesn’t go off in the car early. We get to sleep in, and if I am extra careful, I can sneak up onto the bed and cuddle up against her back! It is not like other days when I am rudely woken, pushed out the door, usually spending the rest of the day asleep on the old couch in the courtyard. Yes, it is dry, but I’m lonely, and the cold wind sometimes sneaks in around the corners!

Tomorrow starts late, and there are lots of chin scratches and smooching. I love it when she idly tickles my head, we laze there, blankets rumpled, the warm fuggy smell of the room.

When we are both up, I get weet-bix and hot milk for breakfast! Sometimes there is a dollop of golden syrup. And there is no rushing around. We plan our day together, and we always include the park!

One glitch might be the hose! It was just lying on the ground yesterday. That orange, hard bit at the end was too tempting, and yes, I admit, I did just give it a bit of a chew! I wonder if she will notice it?

My Great, great, great – a lot of ‘greats’ – Grandpa, Emperor Marinus arrived in Australia in 1935, following the decision by North Queensland cane growers to engage his expertise and experience with the Cane Scarab beetle. I think it was seven generations ago that Great Granpa participated in the trial.

He received a one-way ticket on a tramp-steamer, travelling from Hawaii to Cairns. He recorded that it was top shelf travel all the way, plenty to eat and drink, and although not seen, he noted the unmistakable odour of females, also on the boat! He was travelling with two other guys, each selected for their strength and agility, good looks and anticipated breeding prowess!

He used to laugh at this lastly-listed selection criteria, quietly revealing to subsequent family members that he was a virgin when he boarded that boat! But upon arrival, his capacities were quickly engaged. He met thirty young breeding females.

His first offspring arrived on cue. He was then kept in isolation from his fellow male travellers, while one of the guys was selected and encouraged to mate with the emerging second generation of his offspring.

Emperor related in some detail those early days in Far North Queensland. Each of the three males arriving from Hawaii was manipulated, in terms of access to the female offspring. He thought it might be to do with jealousies between the males, but he was never able to pin this down.

Within a year, they moved, one to Innisfail, another quartered at a Gordonvale cane farm, while he went to Ayr. There was a bevy of females stationed with the guys, he thought about forty in Ayr. You can imagine the goings-on!

The chronicles noted that Emperor had died, but that his Grandson, Caesar Marinus was now primarily outside of the ‘program’, free to wander into the creek systems off the Great Divide. Caesar recorded that by 1955, he and his harem had conquered the mountains, adapting diets to forage the drier tablelands better. He chronicled the delights of gorging on dung beetles, on good days sometimes eating hundreds at a sitting.

He and the family also learnt to adapt their defences, noting the insects and animals that would be poisoned by their toxins, educating younger family members about the pesky meat ant colonies immune to their poison. He also noted that they were growing much bigger and stronger than their earlier kin!

The onset of the rainy season was a time for moving forward to new estates. It was Caesar’s great-grandson who crossed into the Northern Territory, at Wollogorang. Tsar Marinus reported a young station boy with a penchant for using a golf stick! Thwack, thwack, thwack – a nasty ending for some!

Tsar continued to chronicle the family’s travels as the hugely expanded empire moved up along the Gulf. Moving forward was no longer a simple logistical instruction, but dependent upon scouting parties out ahead, bringing seasonal intelligence back on terrain, water and food resources.

The delights of the Roper, the rocky uplands of Arnhem Land, the raging wet season torrents and the myriad shelters with the ochred walls of other occupiers. Rex Marinus recalled contemptuously efforts to build an “exclusion-wall” across the Cobourg Peninsula. Rex was the first to broach that barrier.

The many branches of the family were now unstoppable. They crossed the coastal wetlands adjacent to the Arafura Sea. They moved past Darwin in a couple of wet seasons, continuing to devastate wildlife as they moved down around the Bonaparte Gulf.

My father, Premier Marinus took the army across into Western Australia. It was somewhere near Kununurra that I was born and later called to lead the nation. I, President Marinus led the horde magnificently into Broome.

The next forward movement will consolidate our position as the Greatest Blight of all time – “all hail, the greatest, ever President Marinus”. A rump sticker, emblazoned “the great President Marinus” has been printed and distribution continues.