It’s the yellow eyes my mind returns to. Nightmares feature those unblinking orbs, set high on its head, half a metre back from a snout, above a row of pearly whites. Even after all these years, a shiver works its way up my spine.
The family holiday, in Darwin. Someone suggests the visit to Crocodile Cove, the ‘ultimate Top End holiday challenge’.
We sit in the grandstand watching a squealing mob of kids take the plunge, four of them caged, snorkel-equipped and lowered slowly into the glass tank. The huge croc appears lazily disinterested, but my sphincter makes up for any apparent lack of activity. It’s working overtime!
My breath catches, and my heart rate accelerates. it’s so hot. I gotta get outta here. I sit on a bench outside in the street.
I’m back thirty years, a memory sparks of me, and a boat, stuck on a sandbar in a croc-infested, tidal river. I had chartered the skippered boat to visit a client living on an island in the Gulf, off the mouth of the river. The meeting finished, the skipper suggests a shortcut he knows. It’s going to take 30 minutes off the return trip.
Shallow, sunlit patches of sand pass close below, the outboard bumps a couple of times and before I know it, we’re caught on a sandbar. We jump out, desperate to get the boat back into deeper water.
The water abandons us faster than the proverbial ‘speeding bullet’. Ten minutes and we are high and dry, the ‘bar now half a metre above the water.
It’s midday, full sun, forty degrees, one hundred per cent humidity and four or five hours to wait before the tide turns. We make camp, a struggle but get the boat turned over, one side propped up on its oars, a makeshift shade. Then the sandflies arrive. It can’t get any worse!
A length of rope, attached to an anchor and a water bottle tumble out from the bow as the boat tips. I grab the bottle. It’s empty!
I see the hint of a browny-green rock at the edge of the water. Dios mio: my worst fear takes shape as the rock morphs into a snout and those black-pupiled, yellow eyes emerge. Jaws connect the eyes and snout, an enormous body, a gentle, swaying tale. It’s staring, motionless, us its total focus.
We have a whispered discussion and on the count of three, we run to the other side of the boat, heaving manically and right it. Inside, seated, some semblance of security settles.
The croc idly lumbers over for a closer look. It bumps the boat. It circles, slowly. We hold our collective breath. It slumps onto its stomach, along the length of the boat. Surely, it’s not going to sleep?
For two hours we sit, silent, motionless. For reasons best known to crocodiles, it then stands and moves back towards the water!
The kids are talking excitedly about the show. Those yellow eyes remain, etched, indelible.