by Steve Deeks
“He’s drunk and doesn’t know what he’s doing. Plus he’s English, you know what they’re like,” Ben, attempting to calm things, was more than likely saying.
“He does anything else then I will kill him. And then once he’s dead I will eat the flesh off his body and throw his carcass into the ocean,” the angry German probably warned.
“Ok fair enough,” Ben agreed, before ushering his apoplectic countryman away to safety.
After a few hairy minutes of us wondering if the German would give in to his obvious desire of savaging Mark, he somehow managed to restrain himself and strode past with his entourage, offering only a murderous glance on his way to bed. “Those fucking Germans can’t take a joke can they?” Mark exasperatedly declared, before realising he had put his foot in it. “Oh sorry Ben, didn’t mean you mate.”
“That’s ok, but you know he wanted to kill you,” Ben said, appearing as though he was telling the truth.
“I don’t think they appreciated you jumping on their goon sacks and spraying them,” Sam added, with masterful understatement.
“Typical Mark, always being a retard,” Simon joyfully remarked.
Mark paused before attempting to defend himself, “Hang on a minute, you lot were all encouraging me.”
Simon shook his head. “Yes that’s right Mark: just blame everyone else for your mistakes.”
Sam laughed, before adding, “You were lucky he didn’t eat you.”
“Typical Swedes: running away at the first sign of trouble, just like in the war,” Mark fired back, before trying to point the finger at me for not stepping in.
“I was on a diplomatic mission apologising to the other Germans for your behaviour,” I replied, palming off the allegations. As poor Mark was left shaking his head in confusion that we had all blamed him for the conflict, we unleashed the customary pee off the boat and called it a night.
The next morning I eventually climbed from my bed gingerly, feeling as though someone had been pounding my head in my sleep – I suspected the German but concluded it was probably the drink – went upstairs and knocked back several strong cups of sweet coffee. The rest of the group were up there, apart from Mark. Word had spread around the boat of the previous night’s incident and there was no mistaking the icy atmosphere on the boat. “I heard World War Three nearly broke out last night,” an English backpacker remarked.
“We’ll take them down again if needs be,” another added. It seemed the whole event – not something that you would normally expect to happen on a pleasure cruise – had served to create a real camaraderie amongst the English, while deepening the divide with the Germans.
We reflected with genuine fondness on the enjoyable night we had all had, while pointing and sniggering whenever the brooding presence of the angry German came into our view from across the boat. “I think Mark needs to keep away from him today,” Ben observed.
“Typical Mark, always hiding away from a problem,” Simon said, as we all enjoyably began to mock our friend, the only person still asleep downstairs, who was conspicuous by his absence. As men frequently do on such occasions we took the opportunity to do something childish in honour of Mark’s performance and elected to write in large block capital letters on the white board adjacent to the lower deck stairs and kitchen area, which no one could miss, that “MARK IS SORRY”. This provided great amusement to us all, not least because it highlighted the whole sordid episode to everyone on board, who if they hadn’t heard the story by now – or even if they had for that matter – we would then inform them with graphic relish, letting them know exactly who Mark was and what a disgusting individual he was for his despicable behaviour.
Following a lengthy period of time our friend finally showed his face upstairs, where he was met with a healthy sarcastic cheer, before he quickly ducked out and went to the toilet having barely uttered a word. He remained elusive for a while after that, perhaps wanting to keep a low profile following his shameful actions. A short while later, though, we had our diving expedition and those who were going deep sea diving, as opposed to snorkelling, had to go to the back of the boat. Only a handful of people had chosen this option, including Mark, giving him a chance to escape the heat he was facing and no doubt reflect underneath the tranquil ocean of his misdemeanours.
Fortunately for him only one German was going down, though I did warn my friend that he should keep an eye out just in case his nemesis attempted to sabotage the air supply by passing on orders to his compatriot. I wished Mark all the best and said it had been interesting knowing him before heading to the front of the boat where I joined up with everyone else who was snorkelling.
Once again we had to pull on the wetsuits – which I kept the wrong way round as before – and made our way by dingy to a small corner of beach from which point we would be making our way into the sea. A large area had been marked out by buoys where we could explore the glorious Great Barrier Reef underwater tropical life. With some of the tales from Popeye about shark attacks still ringing in my ears I was hardly a bundle of joy, thanks to my recurring thoughts of being eaten alive. After all, I could be the “unlucky one” Popeye referred to, who just so happened “to be in the wrong place at the wrong time”. I vowed never to get friendly with staff on such voyages again, as you only get to hear things you don’t want to, and by the very nature of these people they enjoy nothing more than adding a rather large bucketful of fantasy to their nautical adventure tales. Sadly these cannot be disproved either, therefore leaving you with the lingering suspicion that it may actually be true.
Nonetheless, I sought pointless reassurance this was a safe area once again, to which, unsurprisingly, this was confirmed. “Safe as anywhere. You’ll be good,” came the less than emphatic response. We got to the beach where it emerged that I faced another obstacle: working the snorkel correctly. After being told how to use the device, with a couple of demonstrations thrown in for good measure, everyone was enthusiastically off into the ocean and almost out of sight while I struggled to get my breathing apparatus functioning.
Fortunately, to spare my blushes, there was another group on the beach, which saved me from looking like the only one marooned ashore. Trying to pretend I knew what I was doing, in case anyone was watching me, I fiddled about agitatedly, before somehow finally strapping it onto my head and dunking my head under the shallow surface. Things had gone well for about three seconds when I came up spluttering with a mouthful of vile salty water. After several more hideous gulps, and just as it appeared everything was finally in working order, water began seeping in through the goggles, which in any case had about the same visibility as a frosty car windscreen, thus defeating the whole purpose of risking my life to go snorkelling anyway. Recalling the advice we had been given I spat several times into the goggles, which to my shock helped clear some of the fog, and then to my own incredulity, I was off scouring the depths of this magnificent ocean. It was a truly odd yet bizarrely liberating experience as I bobbed along the water surface like a toad.
Not wanting to be alone and exposed, though, in case a shark was lurking nearby, I quickly headed for the nearest group, so at least my chances of being ripped apart were diminished by the presence of others, of whom hopefully one would bare the brunt of any possible attack rather than myself. I felt an enormous sense of relief when I finally pulled-up alongside the collection of strangers and began to marvel at some of the sights beneath me. Lots of bright coloured fish - all shapes and sizes - of which I, of course, had no clue of their name, swimming freely just feet from us.
Once I came up above the surface, someone was frantically gesticulating to look below. Although he looked like he had overdosed on caffeine, it wasn’t a petrified signal so I remained relatively relaxed and went under the water where I saw one of the ugliest creatures you could hope to see – and it wasn’t one of the Germans. It had an angry look on its face – the type I guess you would inevitably get if yo
u too had no choice but to spend your entire existence on your own swimming around a giant ocean aimlessly, forgetting what happened more than seven seconds ago. With a flat face and scary kind of gaze it clearly wasn’t the kind of fish to take any prisoners and despite being half my body size I miraculously didn’t feel threatened and clearly neither did he. Then again, I was hardly a picture of menace with my flippers on my feet and my geeky goggles on my head, while flapping about like a fish out of water.
I continued to drift through the deep ocean, staring at the strange selection of fish while always ensuring I was close-by to others. Glancing out to sea I noticed the occasional idiot floating nowhere near to anyone else. Such recklessness deserved a limb to be removed by a hungry shark, I thought. I continued along the water surface in a trance-like state, occasionally spotting the Swedes or Ben, offering each other a single finger salute or some other gesticulation as a pleasantry while motioning past on my one-man odyssey through the waters.
After some more time staring in morbid curiosity at the sea creatures beneath me and sensing my luck would inevitably run out on the shark front, I decided to make for the shore, glancing behind me and to either side just to make absolutely certain I wasn’t being stalked by a Great White, before propelling myself forward without daring to look back.
When getting back on the boat I removed my straitjacket of a wetsuit and caught some sun in a bid to help dry myself and get my wrinkly skin, that bore the appearance of a 95 year old, back to normal as I soaked up the remainder of the voyage on route back to Airlie Beach.
The eerie tension on the boat, suggesting World War Three may yet have broken out following the previous night’s escapades, helped to brighten my mood, especially as Mark was at the centre of the drama. As we pulled into shore people got their belongings and scrambled to get off the boat as quickly as possible, with many of the Germans exhibiting signs of severe mental torture – a refreshing change from history, some would argue.
We had all been informed of an after party at a bar on the main strip in the evening which appealed to the Swedes and myself as we would once again be able to take the opportunity to ridicule Mark in public. Naturally, we had provisionally told everyone we would be there but after finally climbing off the boat and locating Mark, who had skulked off shamefully to avoid any further public repercussions from his drunken antics, he insisted we hit the road that afternoon or be in danger of missing our next adventure tour further down the east coast three days later. His mind, it seemed, had also been made up after he confessed in privacy to me about receiving a blow job from one of the German ladies on board – if indeed she was a female, with her bearing the striking resemblance of a man. Naturally, I passed on the information to the Swedes, whose faces lit up at the revelation.
Despite none of us believing Mark’s excuse for wanting to leave and knowing the truth that he merely wanted to avoid further humiliation, we quickly became aware that our friend would not be joining us under any circumstances. Added to this we were all feeling about as life-like as a corpse following our heavy drinking sessions and, for once, weren’t too bothered about another night drinking.
Chapter 3 – Behind the wheel
After an eventful boat trip we were once more back on the open road making our way down Queensland. We had barely been driving for half an hour when Mark, looking close to falling asleep, asked if I could take the wheel. Feeling tired, I politely declined his invitation and let him continue having sole responsibility for all our lives. Conversation was at a premium too with nobody having enough energy to mutter more than a few words at a time. Thankfully, though, we had the music to occupy us, which included the Bay Watch theme tune, which I had on repeat until the others finally noticed after half an hour.
Following less than two hours driving, Mark announced he could go no further and pulled into a shopping centre car park in Mackay to get some food and replenishments. We wearily made our way up the escalator and stumbled about before coming across a greasy fast food chicken place, which had to rank among the worst food in Australia. We sluggishly dropped by a supermarket before heading back to the car.
By now Mark was pleading with me to do some of the driving and noticing just how gaunt he was looking I found a sense of empathy for him and reluctantly accepted the invitation. “Just don’t kill us all,” came the helpful confidence booster from Simon in the back.
“Yes…I have much more drinking to do in my life before I die,” Sam added. I assured them they were in safe hands before momentarily going the wrong way down a one-way street.
Having successfully navigated my way through the town centre and a myriad of traffic lights and roundabouts, we were once again making our way through the bush. I grew into my role as driver and apart from when heading down hill, always made sure I had my foot to the floor as we meandered through a series of winding steep roads at the 130kmh speed limit. We would have had to offload a fair chunk of luggage and perhaps some of the passengers to be able to break the speed limit in this piece of crap machinery.
A short time after giving myself a metaphorical pat on the back for doing such a fine job by slowly but surely heading towards our destination, while keeping everyone alive, I noticed the thermometer gage had suddenly turned to red. Thinking it was better to keep this to myself I motored ahead, hoping the problem would resolve itself. My feet were beginning to feel hot from the engine and I began to suspect the problem wouldn’t go away before my worse fears were confirmed as smoke started flooding out of the engine.
“I think we better pull over, “ I mumbled softly to the rest of the car, who had been in ignorant bliss while either snoring heavily or in a zombie hangover world of their own. “What the fuck have you done?” Mark, looking up to see a cloud of smoke, barked dismissively, as if it was my fault.
“I think you’ll find the problems lie with your shit car rather than my perfectly good driving,” I hit back righteously.
Mark shook his head, “Funny how we never had this problem when I was driving.”
“That’s because you drive like a girl.”
“You look like a girl with your red shirt on.”
“Better than looking like you with your one-brow.” And with that I pulled over into a lay-by with thick smoke smog now preventing me from seeing the road ahead.
After pulling up Mark opened the bonnet with a gust of warm smoke nearly throwing him to the floor like he had been caught up in a hurricane. I stood slightly back, offering an intense look of concern while offering the false demeanour of someone who may be of some use in our crisis. Rubbing my chin thoughtfully, as if to be devising a plan of action, I then walked off and urinated on a tree. Before long everyone had gathered away from the car in an area looking down on a large mountainous landscape as Mark waited for the car to cool while attempting to wave down any vehicles that might come by.
Twilight was beginning to set in and a degree of anxiety was in the air, as reality kicked in that we may be stuck in the wilderness for the night with nothing more than deadly Australian wildlife to keep us company. Just when I had mentally prepared myself for a night in the car, a lorry, as if my miracle, suddenly appeared from nowhere and pulled over. A bearded fellow climbed out and gave Mark some water to hydrate the engine with, as well as offering an unusual solution to the problem that involved egg yoke. “Works every time,” the man said confidently, before winking and climbing back in his lorry. The engine then remarkably began to function again.
We were soon on our way again. “Best if you leave the driving to me now,” Mark announced with a large hint that the breakdown had been my fault.
“I think this is a good idea,” Sam, twisting the knife in further, added. And so my driving down the east coast of Australia with the wind in my hair and sun on my driving arm had come to an abrupt halt - lasting all of two hours. But at least one day I could tell my grandchildren that I had done it.
We made o
ff with me now relegated to the back seats, as if to keep me as far away from the wheel as possible, while also serving as a kind of slap in the face for allegedly causing the vehicle to go up in smoke. As I climbed into the back seat I was met with playful patronising looks as I was offered false sympathy for my apparent part in the car breaking down. “It’s going to be really dark now by the time we find a campsite tonight, if we are lucky enough, but I don’t want you blaming yourself Steve ok?” came the overly sarcastic voice of Simon, before he gently patted my shoulder as a show of mock solidarity. Even Julie, now in the front, muttered something in her thick Scottish accent before laughing. Naturally none of us understood it.
To add to my woes it began to rain – pretty heavily – which only served to pour petrol on a burning fire as far as the car-blaming incident went. “Look what you’ve done now Steve. It’s dark, it’s wet and we still have no place to stay,” Simon continued, his humour revealing a genuine tiredness at endless driving, hoping we would triumph and miraculously find a campsite somewhere. Even the map appeared to be letting us down, with it showing the symbol for various sites, which never materialised on the road. Vision wasn’t great by this point either, with Mark now having the windscreen wipers on maximum. I was often surprised he could see at all with his giant bushy one-brow engulfing his forehead.
I had become the scapegoat in the car and the longer the search went on the worse and more frequent the abuse got towards me. “You know Steve that even if Mark breaks an arm and a leg then me and Sam will take the wheel before you from now on,” Simon, sticking the boot in further, added disparagingly.
“We will even let Julie drive the car before you,” Sam jested.
Mark, looking weary and serious, made his feelings clear, “I will need someone else to drive at some point so it will have to be Julie, as she’s got a UK licence.”