by Steve Deeks
Umm. How I loved the reassuring Australian logic. It really didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was “unlucky” and in the “wrong place at the wrong time”. I could accept the “unlucky” argument to a point. But to use that as an explanation to reassure us felt like encouraging a friend to go on a date with an axe murderer – “Oh go on, he seems nice enough, he’s only killed two people that we know of” – and then turning around and saying she was a bit unlucky when found with an axe in her skull: “It’s a shame but she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” the friend would say afterwards, before adding, “Oh well, nothing we can do about it now.”
After downing a couple more beers in quick succession to numb the reality of the painful interlude with Popeye, I retreated to more normal surroundings at the front end, which by now was virtually empty with most people, surprisingly, calling it a night except the Swedes, Mark and Ben. Grasping the opportunity with both hands, we all took a liberated pee into the sea – causing a not insignificant level of splattering, such was the distance the urine travelled before splashing into the water – and retired to bed, not wanting to feel too ill for the next day’s activities.
When I woke up my cabin was empty. I had indulged myself with something of a sleep-in, but on climbing to the top deck, where there was an assortment of breakfast dishes appetisingly spread across the table, I discovered it was only 10am. I got a bacon roll and some coffee and went outside and found a spot. It was another scorching day, though the heat from the sun was not helping my dehydration levels. The Germans were congregated in the corner, all looking sprightly and ready for action after an early night to bed.
Then Mark appeared, looking every inch like a man who had consumed a healthy selection of beers and cheap wine the night before. “If I was you mate,” he announced, holding his stomach as I tucked into my juicy roll. “I wouldn’t go in the bog for a while. I don’t know what colour the stuff was that came out of my arse but it wasn’t pretty. And it fucking stinks in there.” Only half way through my roll and I’d suddenly lost my appetite.
“Well thanks mate for the heads-up, really appreciate that,” I replied with scathing sarcasm, suddenly getting an urge to projectile vomit in his face.
“Only good thing was the look on that fat German guy’s face when he opened the door. Never seen someone turn around so quickly.”
And with that delightful thought I went and got some water. We were on the move again and were speeding between the glorious Whitsundays islands, which were exotic and mysterious looking, the kind where you could imagine Lord of the Flies taking place – deserted landscapes untouched by human nature in the middle of the ocean. Some were tiny and bare, while others towered over us, taking a number of minutes to get from one end to the other, and had steep mountainous characteristics with trees bunched together.
After a while we stopped adjacent to one of the bigger islands where we were transported by dingy onto shore to do some exploring and check out the beaches, which we were told had the purest sand in the world. So good for you, in fact, that you could brush your teeth and wash your hair with it. I fully intended to test this theory out.
With the very real threat of deadly box jellyfish for the time of year, we all had to put a wetsuit on. I can’t say I was particularly delighted at having to wear a skin-tight outfit that would leave my manhood squashed. But the alternative of being stung by one of the world’s most venomous creatures and suffering an agonizing death left me with little choice. As another first for me, I unwittingly put it on the wrong way and before anyone noticed I was on the dingy making my way to the island. It meant that I had the zip on the front rather than the back, which I found far more beneficial because I could actually reach it there and do it up to the top, while the others wrestled with their hands over their shoulders trying to pull it up, or worse still, had to rely on someone else to do it for them.
To reinforce this point that I was right and they were all wrong, I pulled Mark’s zip down, sat back and watched him struggle to pull it up again in front of everyone, before he finally conceded and got someone else to do it (naturally I had refused his requests). “Does poor little Mark need some help doing his zip up? What a shame, maybe when you’re a big boy you’ll be able to do it all by yourself,” I told him, while rubbing his head gleefully.
I had also clocked on to the other benefits of having my wetsuit round the wrong way. With the zip easily accessible it allowed me to play with it in a seductive manner, as if cheekily about to strip-tease by slowly pulling the zip down, revealing my hairy nipples and bare flesh along the way. I resisted calls to go the whole way and peel off the lower half of my suit out of respect to the others, who I didn’t want to feel inferior.
When we arrived on the island and had removed our wetsuits we made our way up a pathway into the forest. Cautiously placing one foot in front of another in case a killer spider or snake jumped out from a bush, I did my best to absorb the natural habitat, noticing several lizards along the way while wondering what strange bird or reptile was making the incessant screeching noise coming from above me. After a time of walking around winding uphill pathways in the dark, we came out into the daylight where we encountered an incredible view from way up high overlooking miles of miniature islands made up of bright white sand. After the customary photo shoot at this idyllic lookout, we sauntered down wooden zig-zag paths onto the beach.
Following a quick jousting battle with some rather large planks of wood – England versus Sweden, in which the Swedes lost – we walked out to the spit and did our best to get in the background of some postcard standard photos that people were taking; many of which, unfortunately for those afflicted, would be tainted by a pair of pale buttocks or someone clasping a phallic shaped stick near their genitalia.
We continued along the beach before coming to the end of the spit where most of the others from our boat were either standing on the waters edge or knee high in the blue waters with wetsuits on. After forcing our straightjackets on we ambled into the sea. I decided now was the time to test out the cleansing qualities of this crystal white sand and grabbed a handful of wet slime, and then using my forefinger began vigorously rubbing my teeth. I was determined to capitalise on this wonderful opportunity to whiten my teeth - and all without having to pay a small fortune to do so.
The others soon saw the merits of my endeavour and joined in, scrubbing as hard as possible. I didn’t know if it was doing any good – and for all I knew the crew members may have been lying about its qualities – but I didn’t let that deter me and whacked a large dollop on my head and began working it into my scalp. I had that disgusting salty taste in my mouth and sand in my eyes, but it all felt worthwhile as I indulged myself in my bid for purification. I happened to glance over in the direction of the group and noticed many of the Germans casting quizzical looks in our direction, as if they were thinking it long overdue that the men in white coats take us away. “Those Germans sure know how to have fun,” I joked and offered them a thumbs-up, before continuing my luxurious lathering.
Bravely, we then ventured further out into the sea, going shoulder deep about 20 meters from shore – double the distance of anyone else in the water. I’m not sure what had come over me – perhaps the exhilaration of all that cleansing – but I had put any fearful thoughts of ocean monsters momentarily to the back of my mind as we fooled around in the sea. Coming on the blind side of Mark I pushed a tidal wave of water into his face, sparking a heated four-way water fight that quickly developed into a sand fight, which inevitably descended into a “who can lob wet sand on a German game and make it look like an accident”.
Suddenly there was a commotion coming from those at shore – and it was nothing to do with the blitzkrieg of sand bombs pummelling them. Stopping our game we looked at each other blankly. “Maybe they’re surrendering,” Sam noted. The shrieks were bordering on hysterical but it was hard to know why they were making
such a noise. I thought it was just native chatter, after all the Germans do sound like they are chewing on wasps when talking. And then came a deafening roar in my ear. “Shark…it’s a fucking shark,” Mark yelled, before making a beeline for the land with Sam.
“Typical Mark, always being a retard,” Simon shrugged, with his trademark shake of the head, as we both stubbornly stayed put not believing the hype. After all, no one was going to make us look stupid, least of all Mark – we’d never hear the end of it. “I’ve never seen him move that fluffy body so quickly,” I added, as we both chortled.
But then, looking out to sea, about 30 metres in front of us we spotted what appeared to be a rather large fin circulating in the choppy waters. We sharply looked at each other and back out to sea, catching a further glance of the fin shaped object before it unnervingly disappeared. “I think we need to go now man,” Simon said, his naturally unflustered voice sounding ever so slightly terrified. Adrenalin had kicked in. My heart was almost bursting out of my chest as I cut through the water faster than an Olympic swimmer; all the while hoping my legs weren’t suddenly yanked in agonising fashion from my torso, as I valiantly splashed my way to safety before collapsing out of breath on the sand like a hero.
“Alright gay boy,” Mark laughed, pointing at me from above. “You should have seen the look on your face.”
I took in a few deep breaths and gathered myself, “I seem to remember you screaming like a girl and being the first one out after shitting yourself.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. It was probably only a big fish. I don’t get scared anyway.”
“Why have you got a brown stain on your wetsuit then?”
“It’s probably from your arse.”
We gingerly trudged back through the forest and waited patiently for the dinghy to take us back to the boat. After the quickest of washes in the toilet-come-shower it was time to have a celebratory beer having made it back in one piece. As we kicked back inside the cabin near the kitchen area where Shane was cooking, he confirmed what we already knew. “Yeah I’m sure it was a shark,” he said casually, as he chopped some vegetables. “But I don’t reckon it would have attacked you guys – they’re quite shy really.” Once again there was that element of doubt in his remark, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. And knowing the ultra laid back Australian attitude – where they were almost blind to danger, with these hostile creatures a normal part of daily life - I translated his comments as meaning there was every chance of an attack, which in anyone’s book was not good odds when swimming with a man eating fish with long razor sharp fangs. On top of this, it was difficult to take a man’s word as wholly credible when he thought a proven vicious predator of the ocean was “shy”.
Once the munching of sausages, mash and vegetables for dinner was out the way, the real drinking started. Everyone was in good spirits – well, everyone apart from the Germans, who remained in the corner looking depressed – and with all the beers soon gone we moved onto the infamous goon. With everyone’s alcohol mixed into the same giant cool box, people had long given up trying to figure out which stuff was theirs. And with our group being the biggest drinkers on the boat there was a fairly good chance we had been helping ourselves to goods belonging to others.
With a shrug of the shoulders we opened another four-litre box of the cheap wine and started playing the “mine game”, whereby in the midst of normal conversation you were not allowed to say the word “mine”. If you did then you had to drop down and do ten or twenty press-ups, or whatever was agreed. And it didn’t matter where you were. One time when playing a particularly heated game in Sydney I had to drop and do twenty in thick rush hour traffic while crossing a busy road; only just about making the safety of the pavement after holding up angry drivers, who had no choice but to wait for me to finish, despite the traffic lights having already changed to green.
Nobody was exempt from playing either, which added to the excitement as you got people who’d just joined your conversation, with no inkling of the game, ending up looking at everyone like they were slightly odd before being bulldozed by a frenzy of drunken obnoxious behaviour to the floor in abject humiliation. It was considered more preferable to look like a jerk and get down in the puke-ridden gutters in the middle of a busy city than face relentless shouting and pointing from a large group casting collective chants about your sexuality or manhood size.
It was surprisingly easy to utter that simple word “mine” too - particularly when you were me. As hard as I tried not to say it, the word would just slip out as naturally as an insult about Mark’s gorilla-like appearance. Obviously people set each other up, but it was amazing how regularly you ended up looking like a fool, despite constant reminders to yourself not to use the word. The best technique in snaring someone was to go for his drink, provoking an indignant and wholly spontaneous response. “Hey fuck off, that’s mine,” they would say, kicking themselves in disgust as soon as they said it, before the customary mass ridicule and work out.
And so it proved on the boat as we took it in turns – some more than others admittedly – to drop and do the press-ups or comply with whatever was demanded, including walking up and asking the German women if they shave their armpits, for example. The more you drank the harder it got to avoid saying the dreaded word, as people’s brains became scrambled. Apart from the immense enjoyment of seeing the self-proclaimed expert Mark mess up, there was also the pleasure in catching out Sam, who it has to be admitted had a natural talent for the game, making him something of a prized target. With his mental faculties holding together better than others it became all too obvious on occasions that we were attempting to weed him out. On the fourth time of “accidentally” picking up his drink and offering a knowing wink to others in the group, Sam declared enough was enough. “Steve, that drink belongs to me. I know what you’re doing.”
“Oh Sorry Sam, I thought it was mine.” Doh. And down I went. Again. The perfect example of an own goal.
Sam’s unblemished record remained as all those around him were dropping like flies, with the Germans in the corner looking at us like we were somehow even bigger morons than even they had first thought. Spirits were getting increasingly high by now and with an abundance of goon sacks in the cooler box, which were clearly not going to be drunk before the end of the night, Mark took it upon himself to dig out a few. Then, as if a magical idea had just come across him, he got his willing accomplice Simon to hold up the sacks like a red rag to a bull. Following a pause, Mark unleashed a solid right fist on the bag, prompting an explosion of goon across the top deck of the boat, before sniggering like a schoolboy, followed by an animalistic roar. “Beautiful…BEEEAAAUUUTIFUL,” he yelled. And so was born his catchphrase – a gentle mock of Australians’ overuse of the word, and one that would be employed in almost every sentence from here on, thanks to its annoyingly contagious affect on the rest of us.
The fun continued despite the floor soaking and the evil looks we – well, mainly Mark - were getting from the Germans. The game evolved with our group of spectators now turning into a posse of cheerleaders, banging our feet and hands on the wooden floors as Mark built up to smashing open another goon bag that probably belonged to one of the disgruntled Germans. “One, two, three,” came the shouts, before a well-connected shot perfectly split the bag in two spraying the wine everywhere, much to the delight of everyone, who all embraced in triumphant high-fives.
Simon grabbed two more goon sacks from the cooler. “Hey man do this now,” he urged, placing one on top of the other, challenging Mark to step up his quest of destruction by jumping on two instead of a mere punch. Despite his clear hesitancy, peer pressure dictated that he could not shy away from the task in hand, as he reluctantly accepted. Severely intoxicated and struggling to keep his balance, Mark, like a ballerina psyching herself up for a final tilt at an Olympic gold medal, stood adjacent to the bags and lined up the jump, clearly concerned about his lan
ding position and the very real possibility he could end up on his backside.
After a few deep breaths and with everyone glued to watching this compelling drama, he sprung up into the air, as if in slow motion, before he came thudding down popping both bags - sounding like an explosive had just gone off - catapulting goon in every direction, and for some distance too. He let out another animalistic roar in sheer ecstasy at his feat. “It was never in doubt with your weight,” I said, as we all banged our cups together in celebration at this commendable act.
Although most people had long gone to bed this was the tipping point for some of the angry – and now noticeably wet – Germans. A particularly hostile one of their clan, who looked like a cage fighter, came storming over to Mark. “What the fuck you think you do?” came the robotic voice.
“What? Just having some fun mate,” Mark, a little taken aback by the sudden confrontation, said.
“We are not friends. You burst our drink and made us wet.
“Yeah sorry about that mate – collateral damage I’m afraid, just like in the war,” he giggled.
We all watched on with amusement as the German, who bore all the hallmarks of someone on steroids with eyes popping out of his head, looked like he was ready to kill Mark. “What did you say?” he said angrily, stepping into our friend’s personal space, while looking down his nose at him. “Don’t mention the war ok? You English are all the same.”
“Back off mate, just cos we beat you.” And just as Mark was about to get his head ripped off by the raging beefcake, Ben swung into action, standing as a physical barrier, before counselling his compatriot in their native tongue.
Although I only knew a handful of German words, it was quite clear to me what the general gist of the conversation was. “I’m going to kill that English wanker,” the angry German was saying, or words to that effect.