The East Coast Road Trip

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The East Coast Road Trip Page 2

by Steve Deeks


  After that joyful episode and doing the necessary paperwork we went on our search for a nearby campsite. Fortunately there was one just down the road, so after paying for just two people - after all five of us pitched up – we saved ourselves $9, an increase of $1 from the previous site. The management had a man driving around in a buggy so the Swedes ended up doing laps, walking on past our spot pretending they were not with us, until the coast was finally clear.

  Once we’d eaten our sausages and burgers on the electric barbeques we got changed and went back to the main strip to celebrate our arrival with a few jugs of beer at Magnums Hotel, the epicentre of socialising, judging by its appearance, where there was a collection of adjoining bars. With drinks going down rather well, we concluded it was only fair we did rounds – excluding Julie, who did her own thing.

  As things naturally became more raucous a friendly English – Swedish rivalry broke out about who had the best country. “What’s Sweden ever done?” Mark asked cuttingly.

  “No come on be fair, they have got Ikea,” I interjected mockingly. Sam smiled indifferently, while Simon shook his head in complete disbelief, a tad irked at this ambush against his homeland before striking back.

  “In Sweden we have a saying after a night out where we ask, ‘Did you get with an English girl?’ It means did you get with an ugly girl who’s easy, because that’s how we see your women.”

  Sam chuckled before adding, “You do have some pigs.”

  It was an interesting line of attack but sadly one for them that had no impact. “Yeah we know, we do live there,” Mark replied, disarming their line of attack. “Anyway I think you’ll find Mark is the expert on ‘English girls’,” I added. The conversation then quickly turned to Mark and his unrelenting efforts to “get laid”. We revelled with great delight at his preoccupation to chase anything in a skirt as I recalled the period in Sydney when he would come to me for daily talks having hit a deep depression after staggeringly not engaging in full-blown intercourse with anyone for a whole month. “I’ve completely lost my confidence mate,” he would confide in me, back in those dark days with the look of a man with the world on his shoulders. “I managed to get a finger up her but she wouldn’t let me go any further. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

  His pain was genuine but I like to think I did my bit to counsel him through his weeks of paucity and rejection by bolstering his confidence with football analogies. “You’re getting yourself in the right areas so I’m sure it won’t be long before you smash one home,” I said with a reassuring rub on his shoulder. “You’re on a losing streak but one good result and everything changes,” I added emphatically, hoping I could somehow get through to him in this bleak, lonely place he found himself. Hard as I tried, though, it felt like he was unreachable. In the end a change was what he needed to restore his mojo and after leaving Sydney - very much in the form of a man on an epic quest to rediscover himself - and going to Darwin and Cairns, it wasn’t long before he was once again penetrating anything that would let him.

  “I’m just so glad we can sit here now you’ve come out the other side and talk about your nightmare as nothing more than a distant memory,” I said to him, with a gentle pat on his back.

  “We’re all with you man,” Simon said comfortingly.

  “Judging from what you were doing in Cairns, your nightmare is well behind you,” added Sam, winking his eye.

  His humiliation was all but complete when a loutish Aussie sitting nearby, who judging by his demeanour, had been drinking for several hours in the baking sun, had happened to overhear some of our conversation and decided to thrust his wisely opinion into the ring. “You having some probs getting laid mate?” he shouted from across the table, sparking a flurry of interest from those sitting on adjoining benches, who now had their eyes firmly fixed on our friend. “Nah it’s not like that mate…” Mark began.

  “He tries but just has no luck,” Sam, cutting in, helpfully responded. The Aussie, not realising it was all a bit of banter, continued forthrightly. “Don’t worry mate, there’s plenty of Sheila’s about, I’m sure one will give you a go.” And with that he began surveying the bar area for possible targets. “That one there,” he said, failing in his attempt to point discreetly at her. “Reckon she could be a bit of a goer. Get your nuts in there mate.”

  While the rest of us held back laughter and encouraged this wise Aussie, Mark bore the resemblance of someone who would rather have been anywhere else on earth at that moment in time. “They’re all just fooling around,” Mark said, getting to his feet and walking briskly to the toilet area.

  “A bit sensitive isn’t he,” the man said, frowning in shock.

  “Wouldn’t you be if you were in his shoes,” I replied sympathetically.

  “Too bloody right mate,” he laughed.

  And so we had all bonded; with a key aspect of our group’s humour now irreversibly set-up to mock Mark and all his shortcomings. We went to another bar down the road after he returned from the toilet, his reputation battered in the most public of ways. The anti-social behaviour continued as the Swedes began hurling one of my trainers across the bar area to each other after I had momentarily got some air to my feet when foolishly looking the other way. Just like with the game: “Piggy in the Middle,” I spent several minutes lunging from one table to another in a desperate attempt to reclaim my shoe after some incessant teasing. “Don’t you won’t your shoe man,” Simon kept saying. I took revenge by grabbing a half full jug of beer and spraying it in their general direction, leaving them soaked. “That should cool you down,” I said triumphantly, and turned to make my escape, only to realise the only way out was to go back past them. Nonetheless, I made a run for it but felt a collective splash of beer strike my back and head as I attempted to flee.

  We called a truce, with it being an honourable draw of sorts, before we were ushered away from the place by security. Apparently there had been several complaints following the inevitable collateral damage; with various women’s immaculate outfits ruined by a sea of errant beer landing on them, leaving their hair drenched, with make-up running down their faces and dresses now so wet they wouldn’t have looked out of place at a backpackers wet t-shirt competition.

  Walking down the road to the campsite everyone remained in high spirits. The Swedes decided to honour the night by strolling back with their bottoms out in full view, while singing some strange songs in their native language. Mark and myself entered the spirit by doing a straightforward rendition of the classic football anthem, “England, England, England…England, England, Engerlaaand…England, England, England… England…Engerlaaand…” And so on for the 20-minute walk back to the campsite where I crashed to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 2 – The boat trip

  Despite my banging head following events of the previous night I was full of anticipation for our Whitsunday boat tour. After several cups of coffee I laboriously started the painful process of selecting what to pack in my bag for the trip.

  After that chore was out the way came the most important aspect of our preparations: buying the alcohol. We had been told that we could only bring a couple of items each due to the shortage of space on board. Following some intense discussions about how to maximise our alcohol content we opted for a group strategy which covered all bases: three four litre goon boxes, three ten packs of Tooheys New, a one litre bottle of Bacardi and one litre of vodka, just in case we were running short. Julie did her own thing, as was generally becoming the pattern now, but if for any reason we got into trouble for exceeding the alcohol allowance we had instructed her to claim some of our goods as hers. “So you getting everyone’s drink for a party then?” the friendly shop assistant enquired. “No that’s for us,” Sam replied matter-of-factly.

  After parking Stevo in a safe place nearby, we staggered over to the boat cruise reception by the harbour. A small gathering of anxious looking
people barely uttering a single word had congregated close to the pontoon from where we would be leaving. Their nervousness seemed to exacerbate when we rocked up looking every inch the reprobates with our healthy supply of booze and dishevelled manner.

  Once everyone had arrived - about 30 in total - we were allowed to finally climb aboard the boat where we were introduced to the various professionals who we had entrusted with our lives: the skipper, chef, diving expert and some other bloke with no apparent expertise, who was tagging along probably because he was mates with the others.

  Looking around at the people I would be intimately spending the next 48 hours or so of my life with, stranded on a tightly contained vessel in the Great Barrier Reef, I observed that around a third of the group were English, with perhaps another third German, while the rest was a mixture of mainly European nationalities.

  The chef – otherwise known as Shane, who also appeared to be the spokesman for the crew – had also picked up on this. “I see there’s a lot of Germans on board so let me make this very clear: on this boat we all speak in one language...and that is English ok?” he said emphatically. “We’ve had situations before where you guys only speak in German and end up being isolated from the group. It’s arrogant, it’s rude so let’s keep it in English ok?” From my point of view it seemed a completely reasonable request for the integration of this eclectic group of strangers – mainly between the age of 18 – 40 I would guess. Basking in the sunshine at the very outset of our journey I couldn’t help but smile at the Germans being singled out.

  Nor was I alone in my thinking. A Scouser nearby must have seen my smirk or read my mind. “Maybe we should make them walk the plank blindfolded if they speak German,” he suggested cheekily.

  “Yes but let’s wait until it’s dark,” I responded enthusiastically. An English couple standing nearby looked amused by our impromptu mocking. “Better not mention the war,” the vested individual added playfully. It had long been a favourite English past time to tease the Germans – something which was, let’s face it, not difficult to do – and would no doubt have happened anyway on this cruise, but with the ever popular Shane singling them out so publicly it had only served to encourage a free-for-all in our baiting. I sensed it could be an interesting journey.

  With an American woman standing nearby as well, it all proved too much for the Liverpudlian and myself, as we were inevitably drawn into a discussion about the Second World War. “And as for the Yanks,” the Scouser continued after a healthy rant against the Germans and “surrender monkey” French, “all they did was come in and throw a few punches when the Germans were down on the floor and try and take all the credit.”

  “Yeah and wasn’t the war from 1941 – 1945?” I added with a large dollop of sarcasm, referring to the Americans warped view of when the conflict started as opposed to when it actually began in 1939.

  After some more war banter it was time to dump my luggage. I had been assigned a bed in the “singles room” on the lower deck, which meant walking through the “couples room”, banging my head on the low ceiling several times and narrowly avoiding bumping into people stood around deciding which bed to have. After choosing a top bunk bed, I climbed back up to the top deck, where there was a small kitchen area with an adjacent circular table that was the main inside sitting area. Most people were gathered outside at the front of the boat, with a scattering of others at the back where the boat crew were hanging out smoking roll-ups. Everyone’s booze had been stuffed into a large ice cooler at the front, which presented the obvious problem of knowing what stuff belonged to whom, particularly as almost everyone had bought the same four litre goon boxes and beer packs of Tooheys New. As if things weren’t already on a knife-edge with so many English and Germans on board, there was now further potential for conflict.

  With real concerns among Mark, the Swedes and myself about losing out on our precious alcohol, we decided the best way to overcome our fear was by beginning drinking immediately, after all the sun was out, it was approaching mid-afternoon and we weren’t doing an activity until tomorrow so it seemed like the right time to start refreshing ourselves. With that happy thought we sparked open our cans, accidentally spraying those nearby, and toasted our journey as we cruised out to sea bypassing some of the 74 Whitsundays islands over the largest coral reef on earth.

  There was a real buzz of excitement on board; a feeling of total freedom as we ploughed through the ocean with the wind and warm sun on our faces while knocking back cans of beer. The initial awkwardness of being on a vessel with total strangers had begun to subside and we had added a handful of recruits to our Anglo-Scandinavian axis: all were English, apart from one person, Ben, who was German. With a wrestler-type build, he was friendly and clearly liked a joke. But what really endeared us to him was the fact he had disowned the majority of Germans on board, particularly as they had not heeded Shane’s warning and were now sitting in a clique in the corner. “I talk to German people anytime but not now,” Ben announced firmly, casting a dismissive tone at his countrymen.

  It was interesting listening to this loquacious but laid back beefy individual, seemingly on a one man effort to put his country in a good light after the anti-social behaviour of the rest on board. I found out things I never knew about Germany, like that it’s illegal to praise or support Hitler, or use such phrases as “Seig Heil”, as well as doing the salutations with the outstretched arm. Naturally at this point we egged him on to do the Nazi salute – “Go on Ben just once for us?” – but he wouldn’t budge and just smiled the requests off. I realised then how strongly they feel on the subject. Sam and Simon, feeling the affects of the beer, decided to re-enact the salute anyhow.

  Soon, though, it was their turn to be abused. “Look at the great Swedish war fighters, who love to sit on the fence,” I said mockingly following Sweden’s neutrality in the Second World War.

  “At least we fight,” Ben added scathingly, before turning on England. “You know mate, your football team is really bad.” It was a fair observation, though I felt obliged at this point to highlight that we had beaten them in a World Cup final and two World Wars. “You have a very strange country – schizophrenic I would say - full of posh people and also those who like to fight all the time,” Sam mocked.

  “And you have an old lady running your country who does nothing. What a strange, strange country you come from,” Simon added, shaking his head with disbelief.

  “Just remember you’re in a country now where the Queen is still head of state,” I hit back. “I suppose you have lots of countries around the world where your Queen is head of their country too? Does most of the world speak Swedish and German too?” Of course they had no answer to this.

  Mark was unusually quiet and it soon became clear why: he had spotted a cruise ship nearby and had decided to entertain himself by pulling his shorts down, revealing his hairy backside to them. “We’ve got a full moon today,” he sniggered like a teenager sticking his bum out the window of a school coach at passing motorists. It wasn’t long before there was a row of white buttocks reflecting in the late afternoon sunshine, ruining the delightful voyage of the passengers across the water.

  Things continued in the same vein as light turned to darkness. I went to the back of the boat – which was now quiet after the engine had been turned off – and began mingling with the some of the crew, sharing a few beers. As I listened to the skipper – a rosy-cheeked bearded man of a discerning age who was constantly rolling up joints and recalling tales from yesteryear - I suddenly felt like I was in the Jaws film when they got drunk and started singing that crap song about wanting to “go home”. The boat was swaying ever so slightly from side to side in a rhythmical motion, adding to the serenity of the moment, as everyone kicked back and listened to Popeye, or whatever the skipper’s name was. All that we needed now was for a giant shark to appear from the blackness below and start munching on innocent victims – preferably a few of th
e Germans, after all, no one would have missed them.

  Not one to ever feel completely safe from the wildlife in Australia, I asked Popeye – the name I had now officially assigned him – if he knew of many shark attacks on humans in the area. As soon as I asked the question I regretted it, especially as we were going snorkelling the following day. “The most recent one,” he began. It was not the opening I had hoped for, with the seeming implication that ferocious shark attacks were a run of the mill thing in these parts that no one batted an eyelid over. I could hardly say I was surprised, just disappointed to know the truth, as where possible I like to employ the tactic of burying my head in the sand.

  “Yeah so the shark took her under and had a real go at her,” Popeye continued, with a kind of disturbed relish, as he stared menacingly into my eyes. “But she started punching it, over and over again until it gave up and swam off. She was lucky. Some woman though.”

  Too right, I thought. “She must have been the bionic woman,” I said, still slightly dazed from learning of the incident.

  “Oh yeah she was a feisty one.”

  “But it didn’t happen near here did it?” I asked more in hope than expectation.

  “Wasn’t far away at all, as it goes. But you’ll be all good…we don’t normally get that many attacks, not considering how many sharks we have out here anyway.”

  I paused momentarily, confused at what he meant. “So you don’t normally have many incidents but you do sometimes? Is that what you’re saying?” I’ve never been a fan of the word “normally” and none more so than at that precise moment in time.

  He sucked in some smoke and turned towards me. “Well you can never be sure but even the rescue guys said she was unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time.”

 

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