“I am over on the Island. Are you able to get over here and finish our bishness?” That is the reason for me being 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 17’ Seamaster for the two-hour run down the McArthur River and across to Vanderlin Island. Leo, a senior Yanyuwa man has an island shack and is forever finding reasons to be out, ‘on-country’, fishing. Council Presidential duties can always be relegated down the priority listing when the Threadfin salmon are running! He wants to discuss his ideas for opening a tourist camp on the island.
The incoming tide is no match for Steve’s 45hp 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; we see a couple in the water and the Barramundi are jumping at the low-flying insects. We pass by the Garawan community of Dinny McDinny, another local wanting to discuss ideas for tourism – in his case, the idea of horseback trail rides along the river. He is casting for Barra, and waves, as we pass.
Steve has a line and is suggesting we ease the throttle back and troll for a bit, too. I scotch the idea, reminding him Vanderlin is my focus.
Three hours later, and our discussions conclude, the paperwork is inked. I find Steve casting his lure off the beach, and eight salmon already fileted and cooling in his esky!
As we depart, Steve offers knowledge of a shortcut around the bottom of South West Island. “It will save us 30 minutes on the run back up to Borroloola, but.” “OK. You’re the skipper.”
The ebb tide is starting to gather momentum as we enter the channel below the island. Sandy, shallow patches appear, 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 distant water, on either side of the bar is provocatively rushing off towards the Gulf of Carpentaria.
“Fucking great short-cut, Steve”, I proffer! It is about one in the afternoon, the temperature has got to be 50 degrees, we’re in full sun and stuck here until the tide turns, in about six hours! Shit. “Maybe we can get some shade by turning the boat over,” he suggests “and prop it, using the oar.” We grunt and strain and eventually overturn 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 shit! Its snout, those teeth, connected to a gently swaying tail. The yellow eyes are unblinking, calculating, doing the maths. Gesu mio!
I nudge Steve’s foot and point. I heard 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 eyes. What does it see – are we a welcome snack, a diversion in an otherwise humdrum day, a threat, an intruder in his watery world?
I mentally scroll through what I know about Crocodylos porosus. It was not a lot; limited in the main to salacious newspaper reports of human interactions. I did 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 filets 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 filets 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, adrenalin 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 defense.
“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 am already sunburnt, thirsty and I am a bit surprised to realise I am also 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 rope, with an anchor attached, a couple of old plastic buckets, a boat hook, a bottle of brown liquid, and lastly, he pulls out a two-litre water bottle, half full!
“That’s brown vinegar, but, in case of sea-wasp stings,” he explains. I look over the gunwale 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 filets – raw fish, a Japanese delicacy. But that vinegar. Pickled fish would be more appetising! 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 … as I drop it back onto the deck. I rip up two of the remaining filets 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. It must be almost the length of the boat.
A couple more nudges around the hull and the animal is deciding that the metal is inedible. It lumbers awkwardly, but meaningfully back towards the water, slides in and disappears. We look at each other, mixed emotions pass between us – relief, hope, eventual thirst and hunger resurface.
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 nodded off, stretching out on the deck. 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 into the quiet evening sky. There is a 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, focussed. They are keeping pace with the tide, moving closer as the tide 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 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 travel up to the Rocky Creek landing, just below Borroloola.
Twenty minutes later we pull up outside 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 were biting sumptin fierce, but!”