Four Men in a Boat

1 Innocence Lost 7am to 2pm

 

I was working at a new mining operation FIFO from Darwin when a supply business approached me, hoping to sell their products. Everything in the top end is expensive and all companies were looking for a discount or cheap supplier. I was interested, and it was acceptable back in the naughty nineties to be invited to functions or even a fully stocked fishing expedition. So it was that early one Saturday morning I left suburban Darwin where my wife and two children were still sound asleep.

 

The plan was to drive to Kakadu where the big barramundi live and are just waiting to get hooked. The new GXL Land Cruiser wagon was provided by the supply company and, a mate had loaned the 16 foot aluminium tinny with trailer and outboard. I was feeling elated when offered the plush front leather seat of a vehicle befitting an Executive Manager with a dedicated driver and two support staff in the rear. I had climbed in and, quite by reflex, grabbed the seat belt to hear the reassuring click of the buckle. So did they. In a few short seconds of silence I understood this would be a trip we were prepared to bend the rules and seat belts were viewed as an impediment.

 

About an hour or so later we pulled up at the Adelaide River, we had made good time on the wide bitumen road and the location was well frequented by tourists. A convenient concrete boat ramp allowed the driver to back in and three of us assisted with launching the boat into the brown shallow water. I felt obliged to keep my feet dry and held the bowline on shore, all the while reading the advertisement signs on the two story houseboat moored 50 metres away. It boasted two shows a day for crocodile feeding. Photo opportunities from the top deck were encouraged with images of headless chickens being snatched midair by self propelled reptiles able to leap 3-4 metres up from the water. Pretty much their full length.

 

I was relieved when all four of us were in the boat and heading upstream. As the sun rose overhead, the beer got hotter, the boat leaked and we didn’t catch any fish. After the first carton, the power of group thought was manifest. We all agreed the fish were at fault and we should decamp to another location. One should bear in mind the Adelaide River is big and there are plenty of locations along either bank with tens of kilometres of winding tributaries to wet a line. However, it was deemed necessary to reload the boat on the trailer and drive to another river, the Mary which was much bigger.

 

Having negotiated the retrieval of the boat onto the trailer without the loss of a chicken or a fisherman the foursome adopted their positions in the GXL and recommenced drinking.

 

Another 30 minutes along the Kakadu highway, an old sign pointed north to the Mary River some 15 kilometres. As we swung off the bitumen onto the dirt road the driver swerved to miss the “Road Closed” barrier, barely having enough room to get around it before shifting into 4wd. With the time well beyond midday and approaching 2 pm I had thought this a marvellous opportunity to take the one and half hour return trip to Darwin and lick our wounds. However, that did not rate a mention and instead, I heard the sound of tearing cardboard as the back seat opened another carton in case anyone was thirsty. The dirt road became a track strewn with mud filled potholes big enough to swallow the vehicle. At one stage the driver changed down a gear as a full grown bull water buffalo stood up in the road from where it was wallowing and ambled off.

 

The main channel of the Mary was about 200m wide. Its banks were not as organised as the Adelaide River. For a start the water’s edge, still brown and muddy, had overtopped another 100 metres across a cane grass flat. The cane grass was about 3 metres tall and extended in both directions up and down stream. The guide posts still stood partly submerged on the track ahead suggesting a depth of about a metre although when a post was missing it was not possible to know if it was submerged or simply not there. Surely I thought, we can’t walk this track to test for potholes given the reputation of even bigger and more abundant crocodiles, and hence we could now retreat homeward.

 

The driver’s response was to change from high range to low range 4wd and we entered the water.  I gazed through the front windscreen at half a dozen house boats moored together and marking the main channel that was now only 90m ahead. A grassy island offered the promise of a safe launch point for the boat, although my mind was having convulsions as I realised the river was tidal and didn’t know if it was coming in or out. 50m out and the bow wave from the bull bar washed over the running boards and surged behind the vehicle allowing the tinny to be both floating and towed at the same time. 40m out I allowed a sigh of relief which encouraged the driver to accelerate as if we could aqua plane the rest of the way. The vehicle nosedived into a creek bed some 3m deeper than the track. I looked up to see a windscreen obscured by muddy brown water all the way up to the rear vision mirror. The doors were not leaking but we sat parked at a steep forward sloping angle, the motor had stopped and for once the bravado chatter within the cabin was silenced.  We worked out that the doors were holding back the water and the best way out was to roll down the windows and climb up onto the roof. From there it was just a slide down into the murky water and swaying cane grass. The boat was now in its own environment and auto launched itself by floating over the trailer secured by the winch rope.

 

2 Up the creek with a paddle 2 pm to 4 pm

 

The landcruiser wagon tilted precipitously forward with the only visible part above the water line being the tail gate doors, facing skyward. The boat floated off the trailer and was bobbing around in the current held by the winch rope on the bow.  It was obvious to me that any approaching crocodiles could pick us off one by one unless we climbed back into the 4wd to await the advancing tide. A better option was to get all four of us into the boat and motor back the way we had come. This was howled down by the trio standing in the water.

 

“This is Shady Camp!” the driver retorted

“There will be someone around to give us a hand”

 

The driver was promoted to captain and with one of the crew on board, the duo disembarked for the half dozen house boats moored 200m downstream, on the other side of the earth barrage that formed the island.

 

Two of us sat on the trailer mudguards just out of the waterline, when a small croc began circling us. It was about a foot long and showed no ability to hurt us, however the circling motion was disconcerting, and I wondered if it presaged the arrival of a larger relative.

 

With the benefit of hindsight in 2025 I googled the Mary River to find a report;

“… it has the highest density of saltwater crocodiles on the planet. Averaging around 11 non-hatchlings per kilometre, they converge in even larger numbers at a place called Shady Camp. When the tide flows up and over the barrage large numbers of fish cross from one side to the other ……(there were) 40 large crocodiles within 800m of the barrage. They can swim at 28kms per hour and when they launch from the river’s edge they can cover the first six to seven metres in about a second.”

 

At this time the tinny puttered back with the sad news there was no one aboard the house boats. However, there was a satellite phone (there were no mobile phones at this time) on board that functioned and allowed one of my colleagues to phone his girlfriend in Darwin. Imagine my surprise when he had told her,

“Don’t hold dinner for me sweetie, I might be late”.

Then I spat the dummy.

 

“Guys” I started and they stopped to look at me

“It’s 3 pm, we are 100m from shore, at the end of a closed dirt track 15km from the highway. If we start walking now. We may get a lift by nightfall to a roadhouse. Phone Darwin. And get someone to make the 3 hour round trip to pick us up and go home. This vehicle is not going anywhere.”

 

I would not say they disagreed. It was just that another option presented itself.

 

“We could go fishing?” the captain suggested.

 

The statement was delivered fait accompli. With the tinny already floating it was simply a matter of topping up with another carton of beer from the submerged vehicle and stepping into the boat.

 

Another attempt at logic failed, but I gave it a shot.

 

“The law of bush survival is to stay with a broken-down vehicle. Drop me at the bank and I will stay there in case someone comes along”.

 

“I doubt it” one of them responded, forgetting the previous statement about the popularity of Shady Camp

“no one would drive down here when it has a road closed sign on it”.

 

“We did” I thought.

 

The brains trust were single tasking with the pull start motor. I whimsically considered my day job and the people I worked with who prided themselves on assessing every new piece of information to make safe and practical decisions. Obviously, that was not going to happen.

 

The motor roared into life and the captain at the tiller shouted at me where I stood in the river.

 

“No time to go back to the bank, we’re off!”

 

I don’t think it was a bluff, more like an expectation I would finally come to my senses. For what!!  I imagined running out of fuel in a tinny on a fast flowing gulf river and being swept out to sea or, on the bright side, returning in the pitch dark (there was no hope of a torch) to navigate the cane grass by the dubious light of Venus.

 

In exasperation I asked for protection, and they offered me an oar. This of course made their other oar useless, if they ran out of fuel, but by this stage I was out of patience. The boat roared off and I clutched my oar, eying the swaying grass forest with trepidation. The near 100m walk in thigh deep water back along the track was terrifying to say the least. I thought about shark stories and their sense of detecting panic in a fish or person. Could crocs do that? Would there be more crocs closer to the water’s edge or had we scared them off? All the more reason to keep walking before they come back. Should I splash with the oar? No that might attract them not frighten them.

 

Breath.

 

“Don’t forget to breath” I said

 

“Don’t run” I said

 

Every ten paces I turned full circle aiming the oar like an impotent rifle into the swaying grasses. Facing forward I counted another ten steps.

 

At last, I got to dry land and turning, saw no sign of my companions. The bush had returned to normal, after our noisy intrusion. Birds were singing. A light breeze was on the air and the baking afternoon sun was losing its sting. I walked another 50m or so away from the waterline, out of harm’s way and sat in the shade, on a tree root, at the base of a river gum with the trunk against my back. There was a clear view of anything that may approach and eat me. Satisfied, I relaxed for the first time in many hours and felt the adrenaline draining away. Alcohol muddied my mind but I was safe, after laying down my oar I slept; deeply.

 

3 Rescue 4pm to 7 pm

 

Stirring I noticed the afternoon shadows were lengthening, a prelude to dusk. A glance at my watch showed it was after 4pm and another glance revealed no hint of the fishing party’s return. My mind was clear for the first time that day, having slept off most of the impact of the morning alcohol. I had enough awareness to wonder if something had awoken me when to my joy I saw a tray back Toyota 4wd driving along the track towards the water’s edge. Even better, it had Queensland registration plates and, I reasoned, the chance the person driving had some knowledge of bush craft.

 

If so, how would they react if I stepped out to wave them down? A shoeless, sunburnt, staggering, incoherent vision may shock the driver into reverse so that he would roar off in fear of the mad hermit he had disturbed. I adopted a seated position beside the track pretending I was preoccupied with mending a make believe fishing line or net.

“Gidday mate” I called as the vehicle had already slowed at the water’s edge.

The motor died and I heard the wrench of the hand brake applied as both doors opened and two guys stepped out.

 

Grinning, one stuck out a hand giving me time to stand up.

“I’m Jim” he announced ‘’and this is Simon”

 

We all turned our attention to the river, taking in the foreground of swaying cane grass to the distant main channel with a tiny flotilla of house boats. I waited while their eyes picked up the trail of half submerged guide posts and followed them to the almost fully submerged GXL.

 

”My mates got bogged” I offered as an understatement. Not wanting to seem a complete fool I added,

“They are pretty keen on fishing so they took the boat and suggested I stay as a look out”

This gave credit for more than they were worth but I was concerned that the sight of three drunken lunatics may still scare the Queenslanders off. Up until now there were two of them and one of me, all sober. If the three stooges arrived back before sundown the balance of power and sensibility could change quickly.

 

“Do you reckon?”

I started and they did not flinch

“Since I know the water is only knee deep”

Jim nodded accepting a new piece of information unquestionably

“You could reverse out there and bring the trailer back in?”

He nodded again and said “Then what?”

“Well then we could hook up to the GXL and tow it back to dry land.”

 

Jim was no dill. He glanced at his watch and checked the sun’s position.

“Do you have to be anywhere soon” I asked.

“No, We are swagging on the back of the ute but……..’’ looking at Simon

‘’I don’t want to camp at the end of a dead end road like this.”

 

I was content to stay on the bank as the tray back reversed out to the trailer. As if on cue the sound of the outboard reverberated across the water and the fishing party arrived at the vehicle. I could not hear what was said but introductions appeared to be perfunctory with one of the boat crew slipping into the water to tie the tow hitches. Soon a Toyota GXL wagon was decanting river water out of all the drain holes available while the boat happily nestled into the old trailer and the three fisherman offered beers all round as we stood beside the track. The sun set over a marshy horizon and we all enjoyed the cool of the early night. I held my opened beer but could not bring myself to drink as I pondered the next stages of a recovery mission.

 

Firstly, there was the question of the GXL. Now that it was on dry land I perceived the trio were about to climb on board and drive home. I blurted out incredulously,

“Whatever you do, do not start that motor”

Since my knowledge of motors is minimal it was difficult to expand on the basic principles that a reciprocating series of pistons are designed to suck and compress a compressible gas before firing to repeat the process. The emphasis is on suck and when there is no gas the motor will drink as much of the Mary River which is not compressible. So, when I turned my back to pour out the beer, one of the three musketeers slipped into the cab, disengaged gears and turned the key.

 

Some sounds you will never forget, the sound of six pistons attempting to compress six cylinders of incompressible Mary water resulting in bending the con rods and cracking the top end of the motor, is one of those sounds. When it occurs after sunset at the end of a closed road half way to Arnhem land, it will leave an indelible mark and dent your faith in humanity.

 

Two conversations began, I was not invited into the one with the three stooges. The Queenslanders were plotting their departure until I demurely suggested that perhaps we could get a lift to the bitumen with them. The obvious calculations of space and loading occurred and due to the generosity of Queenslanders we soon headed off with the boat in tow, two of them in the cab, two of ours on the tray and two of us in the boat.

 

4 Disaster prevails 7pm till …….late

 

Around 7pm we pulled into the Highway Pub. It was a petrol pump and was called a roadhouse, but it’s patronage that evening were all fishermen on a mission to imbibe. After unhitching the trailer and waving the Queenslanders good-bye I was presented with a rum and coke.

“Enough beer for one day” was the retort as he headed back to the bar for a refill.

 

In between shouts I explained that my wife could drive a Pajero and it had a tow bar, she could pick us up in comfort within 2 hours. The vehicle had a spacious airconditioned interior with extra seats in the back for a total of six people. Unfortunately, a mood of good will and bonhomie settled upon the stooges, I don’t think they felt guilty, it was just that they liked control and did not want to leave the pub too early. We settled in our cups and soldiered on with promises of help about to arrive, via a chariot piloted by the very helpful girlfriend.

 

Just before ten o’clock a worried young lady came into the bar. Glancing around she headed for our table and the little wisp of a girl was grabbed around the waist with admonitions of

“What took you so long?”

Not to be out done she responded that she needed a drink and would not be driving home so one of us could do that.

“Oh well” I thought if we get pulled over for a breath test “it will read off the scale anyway”

 

Then things took a turn for the worse.

 

One of the stooges came back from the bar with five drinks and the damming news that the bar was closing in 10 minutes. In a panic, one of the others headed to the bar to get double shots all round. Finally, as the lights in the whole building went out, we returned to the car park and in the dark, attached the trailer. As the young lady threw the keys to her boyfriend she commented

“It’s out of fuel”

I rushed back to the pub to order fuel, but the door was bolted and there was no-one inside. A bedraggled sign on the fuel bowser advertised 7am opening. One of the stooges tore it off, twisted it into a cone, while another dispensed the contents of the outboard motor tank through the cone and into the vehicle tank. This was obviously not enough and, having found that all of the fishermen had locked their vehicle fuel caps we simply drained the two stroke fuel from all of the boats littered around the yard. Somewhere in that haze I recall the joyous news that the fishing trip that afternoon had been successful and returned with six impressive sized barramundi. Group thought had imposed itself and between 10:30 and 11pm we cleaned and gutted fish, before sacrificing the last of the beer on ice to chill the trophies on their way to Darwin. A magnanimous decision was made to refrain from drinking all round, in case the driver was over the limit.

 

There was one seat in the vehicle. A single bench with a gear shift operated by the girl in the middle so her boyfriend could drive and oldest member of the party could sleep comatose on the other side. Two of us were relegated to the rear tray where we sat shoulder to shoulder, against the headboard of the cab. I did not expect the tray would have any side boards and it didn’t. But there was a surprise in store.

 

The owner of this vehicle had recently “worked” the four cylinder engine, it may not have been a V8 but it sounded like one, replete with twin overhead exhaust stacks located at head height when one was sitting against the headboard. When the beast started I thought the demons from hell were venting, and by the time we reached full speed the 4 stroke engine was drinking 2 stroke fuel and belching as much oil as a small arabian state. There was no danger of any conversation as the vehicle rushed towards 130km per hour and the wind roared around us while exhaust stacks crackled like an F18 on the edge of the sound barrier.

 

It was after midnight when we pulled into a 24 hour roadhouse on the outskirts of Darwin to refuel. We were all relieved to get that far and did not expect the fishermen’s fuel to last much longer. At that time of night, the attendants would often come out to the pumps and help with refuelling. This guy’s face made me realise that something about our appearance shocked him. Glancing at my companion I realised the force of the wind had dried his hair vertically upwards. Raising my hand above my head I could brush the tips of my hair about 6 inches higher than usual. In addition to our general drunken demeanour, muddied clothing and lack of shoes I felt obliged to explain we were not criminals but simply good natured fishermen. His look of shock turned to horror as I addressed him in my most polite voice. I then continued the conversation with my colleague from the rear of the ute only to find the other three occupants of the vehicle stared at us in disbelief. It appears we were both deaf, rendered into a cone of silence by the bass emissions of the stereo exhaust stack. We continued screaming at each other until the others waved us down and then watched as their lips moved and no words came out.

 

After arriving home at 2am I stripped off and threw my clothes in the bin before slipping into the plunge pool and sleeping under a sheet on the couch. Next morning the family greeted me with demands of

“Where did you go?”

and

“What did you do?”

 

However, they got no response as I moved my lips but no words came out. It took a day for my voice to return and another month to recover and rebuild the GXL