FULL CIRCLE

FULL CIRCLE.

The trailer banged and bounced over countless muddy potholes as we exited the festival carpark but it settled down to a steady roll after we hit the bitumen road.  The thing was a vintage to say the least and the wheels were no bigger than those found on household wheelbarrows and the like.  Once on the highway Brian immediately took the ford up to over a hundred clicks an hour and I had to ask him to watch it with the race track accelerations.  He was a compulsive chatterbox even more chronic than myself and the worst thing of all was the fact he spoke with his hands most of the time.  In the end I had to plead with him to keep his hands on the wheel and from then on a detectable friction emerged between us.  Two hours into the trip the negative vibes were forgotten as an almighty bang came from the rear. Then the sickening crunch of a wheel hub was heard dragging along the tar.  One of the wheels had popped its nuts and was rolling off into a field.  The sparks that were created by the friction were flying well past the mudguards, but the load held stable as Brian applied the brakes.  We pulled over to examine the damage and were amazed at the smoldering mess we found.  The entire wheel hub was gone and the metal suspension springs were all that sat between the wooden boxboards of the trailer and the road.  The boards had actually started to burn and I had to splash a bottle of water around them to prevent the whole trailer going up in flames. 

Brian and I discussed the most practical thing to do and it was agreed I should abandon the trailer and stack my gear on the roof.  We unhooked the smoking wreck from the station wagon and hid it behind a cluster of bushes at the roadside. The boat was loaded onto the roofracks and the rest of my stuff was crammed in underneath it.  The nose of the dingy pointed skyward as we resumed our journey and the arse end was dragging so low on the shockers that it signaled a bust just waiting to happen.  Brian kept the speed to a minimum in the hours that followed as he was carrying an ounce of pot. This just added to our shared sense of paranoia.  Our conversation was soon to become more like a script rehearsal for the authorities than any kind of casual, driving chat.  We thought deep and hard about the problem and eventually it was agreed that we would act like spaced out cosmic star children if any cops should cross our path.  Brian said he had a doctors report to prove he was, “Not all there in the brain box” and it had got him out of trouble a few times in the past.  He said that country bumpkin policemen had no idea how to deal with North coast fliptops so they generally let them go rather than contend with all the paperwork and other complications.  I only hoped it was true because I hadn’t paid an outstanding dope fine and being pulled over could land my freewheeling, space cadets arse in the local lockup. 

Nutty as a Fruitcake

Sitting in this wonderful place 
I've come to understand

why they wanted to put me away 
I did get quite out of hand.

I told the priest who baptized me
 I thought I had been chosen

there was a mission incomplete
 from ignorance I had risen.

I told an officer of the law 
that I had walked the earth before

that I had traveled time and space 
and then I sang him Amazing grace.
He expressed how he thought me quite insane 
 too many drugs inside my brain

then he locked me behind steel bars 
and he paid no attention to my

ha! ... ha! ... haaa's!

Now the only person who listens to me 
is the little yellow bird

in the pyramid tree.

Yesterday they tried to feed me cake 
but that awful slice of poison

I just wouldn't take.

There were walnuts on the icing
 like a hundred little brains,

I can't eat them ... they're all insane ...

Ha! ... ha! ... ha! ... ha! ... haaaaaa!

Our dreaded encounter with the law came to fruition as we crossed a smalltown railway track after getting some fuel at the general store.  The cop was parked behind a wheat silo just waiting for his next victim and we didn’t see him until the blue flashing light came up from behind.  Brian was straight out of the car after we pulled over and he was chattering in the cops open window like a two bob watch.  From the reflection in the rear view mirror I could tell that the highway copper was a little freaked out by his latest customer and he made a distinct backing off motion as he listened to the rave.  Brian produced his licence and disability pension card with a deliberate shaking of the hands and I could hear him saying ,“I’m on largactol twice a day officer” and, ... “My Doctor says that I am manic depressive with delusions of grandeur. I am also prone to psychotic episodes if I run out of medicine”.   The cops face was noticeably whiter as he handed back the licence and let Brian off with a warning.  We laughed like fellow prankster, outlaws as we drove away up the highway bound for the Land of the Rainbows, rolling a big fat joint of his weed.  We had no more heart stopping encounters with the police and made it safely into Byron bay with the new days rising sun.  I gave Brian the eighty dollars we had agreed on and when I offered him a bit more money for his trouble he refused it by saying,“The journey was a real laugh man”.

As the sun rose over my old lagoon in the Belongil estuary we unloaded the car at the end of the boggy wetland track.   Brian stayed around for yet another celebratory smoke from his stash of Gippsland heads but he was keen to get out of Byron for fear of being tempted to eat some mushies.  His final destination was the Cedar Bay community in Far North Queensland where he planned to live as a breatharian and devote his life to the gentle art of meditation.  Based on what I knew of him it seemed like an absurd ambition because he was such a hyped up little character.  Then again you never can tell with some people and it might have been just the thing he needed to kick his tripping habit.  After the joint was finished Brian departed up the track with a somewhat lighter load and I commenced to set up camp in my old site.  A mood of intense satisfaction came with my return to the Byron shire but as the day progressed I found myself counting the moments until I could get to the houseboat and make the circle complete.  Baby mullet broke the surface of the lagoon and it was reassuring to know the wetland system had started to recover after the fishkill.  I landed a couple of good sized bream which gave me a healthy fight and they showed no sign of any toxic contamination.  One of my old crab pots was still sitting where I had left it in the mangroves, so I threw in some fish scraps and dropped it into the muddy water.  Some of the wire had rusted through but it still looked as if it would hold any big buck that climbed through the entry slot.  Within four hours of my arrival back on the estuary I had pulled in three big fat mudcrabs, two bream, a flathead and a giant Conga eel, which Rufus made short work of. 

After breakfast we walked along the beach into Byron and I drank in the new age, surf culture atmosphere of my favorite Australian town.  I reconnected with a battalion of old friends in cafe’s and other haunts, with welcome home bong sessions being the main activity of my day.  Around sunset as I was leaving to walk back up the beach I came upon a group of guitar strumming minstrels in the dunes.  They were playing ambient folk songs which complimented the mood I was in and provided the perfect tranquil atmosphere for days end.  My sense of calm was short lived because the following morning I was hit with yet another crisis to deal with.  I noticed as we were having breakfast that Rufus didn’t seem his normal, bouncy self.   He turned his nose up at a flathead frame I threw him and he wasn't interested in playing with his ball.   I assumed that he was still all pigged out on the eel and taking it easy, but I made a mental note to keep an eye on him anyway.   My first task of the day was to check the newly repaired crab pot I had dropped in the upper reaches of the estuary.  Rufus seemed ok getting into the boat but once at our destination he just sat in the bow licking his hind leg.  I immediately zoomed in on the spot he was licking and located a blood filled cattle tick which had dug in for a banquet.  Without even bothering to check the crabpot I fired up the outboard motor and gunned it towards the road bridge at top speed.  I had to lift my buddy out of the boat and hoist him all the way up the slope as his back legs were starting to buckle.  A kind lady driver spotted me hauling my dog along the roadside and she pulled over to lend us a hand.  The woman drove Rufus and I straight to the local vet where he was administered a life saving antidote.  I was between fortnightly payments and the vet made me sign a release form to certify that I would pay the bill when next I received a cheque. 

Once the form was signed the money grabbing deadshit emitted a self satisfied little smile before he inserted the needle.  Our mercy dash paid off and within three days Rufus was up and about back to his normal self.  To beat the tick problem I constructed a tarp and mosquito netting shelter on the riverbank and I checked him regularly for any blood suckers that might happen to get through.  The shelter was pretty big so he was quite content just hanging around inside it and he only went out to the toilet when he needed to.  I rigged up the dingy as my sleeping quarters with an extendable canopy I had recycled from an abandoned mini moke.  The installation of the new canopy setup meant the only ticks I had to worry about getting into my bedroll were any that might drop from the foliage above and penetrate the layers of insect protection. The underlining support for my bedroll was a six foot length of ply which was laid across the aluminium seats.  When I stretched out to sleep the nose of the boat was about ten inches from my pillow and my toes could just about touch the outboard motor.  Once the tarp and mosquito netting were strapped up around the canopy it could be laid flat on the bow while I was motoring along and if I was caught in a sudden shower the whole thing could be pulled into use with three easy strap connections.  The mosquito nets on the tinny were easily joined by octopus straps to the larger shelter at the waters edge which meant after I had moored the dingy for the night I could move between my easy chair on the bank and my floating bed without being eaten alive by mozzies.   When Rufus was fully recovered I left him to guard the camp and walked into the Epicenter to seek out my old mate out Danny.  The belongings I had left stored in his studio had to be transported to Brunswick Heads and as usual he was the best option I had of doing it.  I found Danny in his workshop frantically constructing a stage prop for a forthcoming music festival and as he worked to meet his deadline I gave him an update on my river dwelling adventures.  On hearing my needs Danny offered me his limited services which was greatly appreciated as the music festival started in just two days.  The next morning in a fit of rushed activity we loaded up his F 100 truck with my stuff and carted it to a storage facility not far from the North arm boatramp.  If no more cars were available as I was getting established I figured that I would be able to lug my gear from the depot down to the water using the buggy that Danny had so kindly help me make.  What a great bloke.  I didn’t put the boat and it’s associated gear into storage because I felt it would be a more majestic re-entry if I completed the last leg of the journey from open water.   The motor had not been used since the incident on the Murray so I had to pull it apart right down to the headbolts to get it going.  After much chord pulling, cursing and blasts of lubricant spray the thing finally fired up but it spluttered and smoked worse than I had ever seen it perform.  The engine settled into a more steady rhythm after a minute or so of sporadic revving so Rufus and I putted out of the lagoon and set up a new camp at the mouth of the estuary.  At our new campsite I had to sit and wait for a couple of days for the perfect ocean boating conditions to prevail.  I sat on the beach scrutinizing the sea and the sky until eventually the water became calm and flat as glass. The wind had dropped back considerably to a gentle coastal breeze.  The weatherman said that conditions were going to remain stable for three more days, so the following day we set out through the mouth of the estuary as the early tide came in.  I walked the boat through the shallow breakers with the engine putting just above idle and then jumped back on board when the water started to get a little deeper. I took the throttle up a couple of notches as we bounced over some small waves and then we were riding calm waters towards the Brunswick river. 

There was moonlight on the sea …

 and the band played deliver my soul to thee ...

fare thee well old titanic ... fare thee well.

                                                                                                                     

                                                                    Open water.

The conditions stayed relatively calm for most of the trip but as our destination came into view the wind began to increase.  As I approached the wave crashing bar in the distance I encountered strange movements in the current which caused the engine to struggle well beyond it’s 5hp capacity.  The sparkplug started misfiring like it was about to stall and it didn't feel like a good time to start fiddling around with my toolkit.  The Brunswick heads bar is one of the most dangerous on the Eastern sea board and I was suddenly struck by the revelation that I was to inexperienced to make it through with a failing engine.  The jagged rock walls of the narrow entrance were far less inviting than the flat sandy shoreline, so I opted for a beach landing directly in front of the surf rescue tower.  I was about a hundred feet from the churning waters of the mouth when I turned in a new direction back out to sea and away from the rock walls.  By this stage the erratic currents we causing the engine to surge and cavitate so badly that it stalled in a sickening, dying splutter. 

                                                                                                                                                                                           ' Fucking  Redneck!

In the time it took me to get positioned and start pulling the chord we had drifted about twenty feet in towards the bar.  The motor just didn’t want to respond and to attempt any mid sea repairs was out of the question.  I stood up and started waving to some elderly rock fishermen who were getting closer by the second.  One of them recognized my signs of distress and he started to put his fishing rod down.  He gave me a friendly little wave to acknowledge the situation and then started scrambling up the rocks.  The breeze was working against me as we drifted ever closer towards the land and it was time for some quick decisions.  The old guy was going to be much too slow to be of any use so we had no option but take our chances in the drink.  I had Rufus’s collar in my left hand and his underbelly in my right when the sound of a fast revving two stroke engine came as sweet music to my ears.  From a setting of imminent, sea faring tragedy it turned into an action packed rescue scene as a fast moving, surf rescue official shouted, “Here catch this” and threw me a line.  I wrapped the nylon rope in a handful of wet Tshirt material and held on for dear life as they towed me away to safety.  My stalled propeller couldn’t have been any more than ten feet from the rocks as we moved out of the bubble zone and into the flow of the river.  I tied up near a boat ramp about six hundred feet past the bar and thanked the two rescue guys from the bottom of my heart.  They said that I was very lucky anyone had seen me from the tower because one of the rescue volunteers had called in sick with the flu.  At the last minute he decided that he was well enough to do his shift and I was the lucky bastard he spotted heading for those treacherous rocks. 

                                                                                                                                         'Wonderful  people  those  rescue  guys.' 

I was pretty shaken by our close call on the bar and all I really wanted to do was set up camp in a quiet spot and go fishing.  Too much was happening far too quick for my liking and the slow meditation of the hunt is the best way I have found to gather scattered thoughts.  The unfolding events of my life were spiraling out of control and I seriously started to wonder if I had bitten off more than I could chew with my 'Huckleberry Finn' adventures.  The near drowning incident on the Murray was much closer to the great hereafter than I like to get and then straight on top of it I almost got myself washed into a friggin rock wall.  It’s as if the land and the river were telling me to slow down and just be grateful I was home and alive to enjoy it.  The next day the tide was high enough to carry the boat over the many snags and obstacles I had placed between my hidden houseboat mooring and the main arm of the river.  I dropped the throttle back to a low putt as I approached the hanging curtain of rainforest foliage and instantly I was alarmed.  The careful arrangement that Alicia and I left on our departure from the river had been disturbed by more than just a passing storm.  I moved the dingy in through the narrow opening and found to my absolute dismay the burnt out remains of my home.  The houseboat had been destroyed by fire and the scorched pontoons were the only part of the structure left afloat.  The overhanging rainforest branches were charred by the blaze and it still smelt relatively smoky.  My first imaginings of the culprits was a pack of those teenage fuckwits who hire dinghys in town and come up the river to get pissed and go fishing. 

As I might of expected the trailbike was nowhere to be found and it’s disappearance signalled the end of my river dwelling adventure on the old Bruns. The solemn words of Mr. Metaphysicus,”Non Attachment” echoed through my thoughts as I struggled to comprehend the magnitude of my situation.  The whole journey from the moment I left for South Australia now appeared like a supreme test of my ability to attain worldly detachment.  The spiritual revelations that manifested in those moments left little room for anger and instead I was touched by a mood of melancholy acceptance.  Rufus and I putted away from the wreck of my houseboat and headed back down the river.  I established a new camping location well away from the path of any vandals or thieves and just took it easy the way life had been telling me to from the moment I arrived.  For six days I spoke to no-one but my dog and that infernal chatterbox who lives inside my head.  I examined all of the available options and concluded that a rest from great outdoors adventuring was my most logical next step.  My creative projects had become more like a hobby as of late and all hope of a floating, solar powered recording studio had  gone up in smoke.  I was forced by circumstance to accept that I had to rent a space somewhere so I could get my dog and I into a safety zone and resume a more creative daily routine. 

The bait and tackle store that used to sit in the middle of Brunswick Heads was called ‘The Fishing Hole’ and it served as a local anglers hangout which stayed open late in the night during the summer months.  Alicia and I used to go into the shop quite often to hang out with the owners who were big city party animals in exile named Zee and Skunksy.  The pair had moved to the Northern rivers in a last desperate attempt to try and kick their smack habits.  Zee was the Owner of the shop and her aggressive little, toy boy lover was known by the Fishing Hole crew as ‘Skunk’.  He did all of the fishing rod repairs and pretty well kept the shop going while Zee mixed drinks for anyone who would listen to the sad details of her life.  A group of the younger anglers from the Fishing Hole clan had recently taken a lease on a two storey building up on the highway and there was a small room available on the lower ground level.  A weekly rent of forty dollars was agreed upon between drinks and exaggerated fishing stories and I moved into the place the following day.  The room was not much bigger than a bathroom but that didn’t matter because everything I needed was there.  Electricity from the grid which meant I could start multi-tasking with my musical equipment and an enclosed back yard so Rufus would be protected from the cars and semi-trailers on the Pacific highway.  There were a couple of  mean looking dogs living on the property belonging to the other tenants which meant vicious fighting unless they were kept well separated. 

Apart from the dog thing I didn’t have to think about too much at all and the place was a welcomed change from camping out in swamps and jungles.  Prior to the arrival of the anglers the building was a refuge for wayward youth.  It had been run by a kind soul called ‘Mo’ who was a pioneer crusader for homeless kids.  A large group of them walked from the North coast to Canberra promoting their cause and eventually they secured enough government funding to build a youth shelter in Brisbane.  It was not unusual to have young strangers just walk into the place at all hours of the day and night thinking that it was still a refuge for homeless kids.  One of the guys at the house had an old Morris van and he helped to get my stuff out of the storage facility just up the road.  After we had unloaded the gear onto an adjoining concrete driveway beside the house I established a music and writing studio beside my bedroll in the pokey little room.  Once comfortably settled into my new workstation I got started on the multitude of tasks I couldn’t get done with the limitations of twelve volt power.  From a life of fast moving outdoors adventure my days suddenly became a lot more routined and artistically disciplined.  The only time I went out fishing was when the lads came in with a large catch and I knew it would be worth the effort to unchain the boat.  The rest of the time I just got my nose down and steadily brought the script to completion.   Most of the writing was out of the way after just a couple of weeks, so I started to further develop the recordings for the musical soundtrack.  The bulk of my original master tapes were badly moisture damaged after their outdoors excursions and rust had started to form on the little casing screws.  Before I could even test them out on the four track I had to disassemble each of the tapes and get the spools moving with my fingers.  By this stage digital technology had superseded analogue as the dominant home studio format and my mission was to salvage the cassettes as best I could and transfer their contents to compact disk.  The other guys in the house left me pretty much to my own devices and we only connected to check out the days catch or smoke some bongs on the upstairs porch.  There was one among the group called Ed who fancied himself as a poet and he would often pop in at the worst possible moments to recite his latest, soulful lament.  The work was incoherent babble at best but I told him it was improving in leaps and bounds as I ushered him out the door.  The only other regular interruption to my creative endeavors was the sound of a terrible church choir every Sunday morning.  Our building sat adjacent to a little weatherboard church and sunday morning hangovers were made worse having to endure the faith inspired mumbling their way through one flat and passionless hymn after another.  I generally took these unholy awakenings as my cue to take Rufus for a walk and it was hard not to feel like a wretched sinner as I fled those awful gospel sounds.

With our arrival at the house Rufus went into a mode of sleeping most of the time and just waited around until it was time for his daily walk.  I became so engrossed in my work that I didn’t really think about him unless it was time for a feed or there was a dog fight to break up.  One morning after an all night studio workburst I went outside to stretch my legs and take in the quiet emergence of sunrise.  The back gate had been left open sometime during the night and all of the dogs were gone including Rufus.  Instantly I snapped out of my pre sleep stupor and jumped on the pushbike to find my dog.  I rode up and down the highway from the fisherman’s co-op to the bowling club on the edge of town, but I didn’t see a trace of him anywhere.  I spotted the other two dogs going through a garbage bin near the take away food shop and ordered them to go back home.  Three hours later I was still tearing about madly looking for Rufus and I even put the boat in the water to check along the banks.  There was not a sign of him anywhere.  By three in the afternoon I was making inquiries to all of the local Vets, Rangers and Police and with each call there came absolutely no cause to get excited. The very last vet on my list was the one in Byron Bay and he informed me that a dog fitting Rufus’s description had been brought in during the night.  When I asked if the dog was ok I received the heart stopping news that the poor creature had not made it through.  Further identifying features were conveyed as I held back a flood of tears and tried to keep a clear head.  The single spot of brown hair on his otherwise black fur coat was the unmistakable final confirmation that Rufus was gone.  The Police Officer who brought him in had apparently found him skittled on the highway about three streets up from our house.  Still holding back the tears I wrote down the officers contact number and thanked the vet for his help.  My call to the police was transferred from the station to a squad car where I received a first hand account of what had taken place.  The officer I spoke to let me know in his opening statement that he was a dog lover, then he went on to describe the Brunswick to Bryon mercy dash which ended with my faithful companion dying in his arms.  As is the case with all unregistered dogs who end their lives on the side of the road Rufus’s body was disposed of at the local tip.  By the time I got onto the garbage dump attendant the following afternoon he said that the previous days load had already been bulldozed into the landfill.  This brief conversation put a full stop on my experience with Rufus and I was left with a sense of barren desolation that held no chance of any real closure.  I thought about constructing a monument to my old pal somewhere out on the river but at every spot I passed I could see his eternal, puppy spirit running along the bank to keep up with the boat.  There was nowhere I could go without being reminded in some way of my buddy and it was still happening a week later if I stumbled upon one of his half chewed bones or tennis balls.  I made a decision to let the room go and split from the Brunswick River because without my dog around the adventure could never be the same.  I emptied the studio and stacked most of my belongings in an unused corner of the ground level storage area.  Even my boat and the outboard motor were tarped over with the rest of the gear as I needed a complete break from the river and all that reminded me of Rufus.  With just my bedroll and some basic travelling necessities strapped to the buggy I walked down to the bus stop and caught a coach to Byron. 

I camped in the sand dunes near the Epicenterfor about three days without speaking to a soul and just passed away the deep, reflective hours by fishing off the beach.  By the fourth day of my mourning the grief had settled down enough that I could face the thought of mingling with other people.  Those who knew Rufus inquired where he was and I had to go over the same horrible story three times, before I retreated to the shade of a secluded pandanus with a hip flask of rum.  Even though I had no particular interest in anything it came to my attention that a protest action was taking place on Stradbroke Island.  Apparently It was happening in support of the local Aborigines who were trying to put and end to sand mining operations. A group of activists were preparing to leave from the Environment Center that very afternoon so I threw my buggy in the back of a rainbow decorated ute and joined the northbound convoy.  Our first stop was a rally at the doors of the Environment Minister in Brisbane. Sand was dumped on the marble steps at the entrance and a corporate effigy was burned.  At events like this I am normally the guy with the megaphone who incites the protesting crowd, but my heart just wasn’t in it and I took a back seat from the action.  After the Rally our gaggle of adrenaline charged rebels and malcontents drove to the Cleveland warfs and caught a car ferry to North Stradbroke Island. 

It was well after dark when we arrived at the newly established basecamp, which was situated on a wooded patch of ground in view of the passing sand trucks.  Every second truck driver blasted his horn as they drove by the protest site and shouts of abuse were accompanied by insulting hand gestures through open cabin windows.  The fast moving routine of getting a campsite set up before the rain hits is the best thing to snap anyone out of the doldrums and connecting with the protest tribe further helped to get my head into gear.  On the frontline there’s an unspoken law that all personal problems are left at the entrance to protest sites, as the ordeals of the collective take priority over any individual.  I allowed my thoughts to remain focused on helping the crew to erect tents and my state of emotional numbness subsided with each new camping obstacle.  All of the shelters were secured in place just as the first sheets of driving rain began to fall.  I only had my bedroll and a small tarp with me so the people I drove in with let me have a corner of their four man tent.  Whizz! and Jenny were a couple of uni students from Woolongong who were madly in love and they spent every available moment smooching.  Jenny's older sister Margaret had decided to give up a skiing holiday to come to the protest and it was the very first time she had been to the frontline.  We got speaking as we cruised along on the car ferry and she jumped in the back of the ute with me to hear tales of past blockades.  The electricity was unmistakable between us and it came as no surprise when we ended up in the same corner of the tent getting as chummy as our giggling companions.  The next morning we rose to warming sunshine in an otherwise saturated camp.  As I walked into the daylight to take a piss the first thing I saw was a litter of happy, bouncing puppies who were chasing their mother and pestering her for a feed.  I was feeling a lot better after my slap and tickle therapy session with Margaret but the puppies were the best thing to assure me that life goes on regardless.  The highly strung little pups were just at that age where the first friendly pat brings a rolling and tumbling onslaught of affection.  I picked up an armful of the little dogs after I had been to the toilet and took them into the tent where Margaret and the others were still dozing.  Fun filled screams of joy greeted the puppies as they hopped all over a mountain of squirming sleeping bags.   They licked everyone’s abruptly woken faces and let out experimental little barks in their boundless and spirited excitement.  I escorted the litter back out of the tent to their mother who was waiting patiently by the door.  They suckled until they were full and then proceeded to follow me around as I went looking for some dry kindling for the fire.  In the sparkling light of the morning I got a better idea of where our camp was located in relation to the bitumen road and the sandmining operation.  The driveway into the excavation was directly across the road and the trucks had been going back and forth from the loading dock since well before dawn.  As I was pouring coffee for the crew a truck pulled out of the sandmine driveway and some less than friendly individual hung out of the window and shouted,”Wake up you lazy pack of  wankers”.  I shouted back, “Why don’t you get a proper job fuckhead?” to which he responded with a lame two fingered gesture and drove off.  Margaret wandered out of the tent to investigate the commotion and we sat on a log by the fire playing with the pups.  Other people started stirring at the smell of fresh coffee and before long the whole camp was up and about for breakfast.  There were thirty activists assembled at the blockade and more started arriving as the morning progressed. 

I recognized a couple of their faces from previous actions and rallies, but they were mostly young, first timers like Margaret.  It seemed strange that none of the regular strategists and other organizers were around and when I made inquiries about this I was told that the protest had not officially commenced.  It seemed the local Aborigines were still divided about the sand mining issue and some of them had called in the protesters prematurely.  The whole community was divided over the sand mining issue and a fair percentage of the local tribe wanted it to go ahead so they could scoop a share of the profits.  Two elderly Aboriginal women known as Carol and Donna were among the key inspiritors for the protest and they were firmly convinced they could rid their island of the CRL mining corporation.  They set up shelters in the growing tent village and were soon to become the fun loving matriarchs of our group.  No actual protest action could be sanctioned until the Aboriginals reached some common ground, so the setting up of the basecamp was as much as we could do.  Some of the more radical young guys were itching to sabotage the noisy sand trucks and mining equipment but with one word from the Coorie women they agreed to bide their time.  A tribal vote was scheduled for the following week but in the meantime we just had to sit tight and enjoy the view.  The basecamp was better equipped than many I have stayed at with a fully stocked food tent sufficient to keep us going for weeks.  There were full sacks of every imaginable bean, noodle or vegetable and I was quick to secure a position as one of the camps main chefs.  A large sheltered information stand was erected on the site and the artists got working on a number of impressive banners.  Margaret and I played key roles in the creation of the protest banners and it served as an ideal collaboration for our blossoming romance.  Once the site was fully operational it became something of an island holiday as everybody waited for the word to go into frontline action mode.  Margaret and I spent most of our time preparing food for the clan and when we weren’t doing that we were off in the tent getting stoned and making love.  We went fishing everyday and sometimes in the cool breeze of the evening.  The fishing on Stradbroke Island was better than any I had experienced in my travels and big golden trevally were the prize catch if my handlines didn’t snap at the hook or go flying off into the drink.  Much of what we caught was incorporated into the basecamp menu for those who liked fish and those who didn’t were treated to a host of vegetarian delights.  Donna’s nephew Dale had a fairly large wooden hulled dingy and when he saw how keen a fisherman I was he invited us out for a cruise.  Margaret caught the biggest bream I think I have ever seen and at days end our boating excursion was made perfect by a dugong swimming close to the bow.  I was taken by a sudden wave of emotion when I found myself imagining Rufus hanging off the bow and barking at the slow moving creature.  Knowing what had happened to my dog Margaret consoled me and Dale rolled a joint of filthy local weed that helped me to laugh it off as history. 

Like Whizz and Jenny many of the protest crew were university students who were into techno music and everything that goes with the culture.  In the evenings after dinner electronic sounds came blasting out of a car hi-fi systems and the clan would doof on till sunrise.  Sometimes guitars and other instruments were produced and we were treated to sweet rolling folk music.  At one of our nightly parties we were visited by en elder of the local tribe who had been invited by Donna and Carol.  When first he arrived he appeared the wise tribal leader, but after a few green ginger wines he babbled incoherently and drew obscure little pictures in the sand.  As the plonk took hold of his self composure the old guy summoned me to his side and pulled my head down close to his.  I thought I might have been in for a dose of sacred wisdom or the like, but instead he inquired if I could walk him across the road to take a crap.  It came as a great relief when the poor old drunk proved capable of wiping his own arse and I managed to deliver him back to the fire without us being squashed by a passing truck. Margaret and the others had to get back to Wollongong for a family wedding and I was invited to go along if I chose. 

I decided to let them go without me and stayed on at the base camp because it was predicted that a full blown blockade was going to unfold within the next couple of days.  Maggie and I parted after much smooching and extensive plan making which I knew in my deeper being would never come to fruition.  She was a lovely girl but the last thing I needed was emotional entanglements to further complicate my life.  I was still getting Alicia out of my system and on top of Rufus’s death I was not prepared to deal with any new complications.  The blockade never transpired as we had hoped because any attempt at negotiations saw one side or the other walking out of the tribal meetings.  Things started getting more heated between the protesters and the sand truck drivers until our first casualty came hobbling into the camp nursing a broken nose.  One of the truckies spat the dummy right in the middle of town and confronted a group of our people who had gone in to buy supplies. 

After punching out a skinny little, dreadlocked, peacenik the irate truck driver went after a couple of fast running females with a wheel wrench. The lack of protest action that was happening caused most of our troops to head back to the mainland until there was just myself and four other hardy souls left to keep the campaign going.  Our diminishing numbers did not go un-noticed by the sandmine supporters and in the dead of night as we were sleeping an earth shaking bang blasted the camp.  We woke to find that one of our two support vehicles was alight and sending a column of blue and orange fire into the starry night sky.  The fire was quickly extinguished with water from the kitchen and the car was abandoned along with our food tent and a heap of useful equipment.  We notified the local police of what had happened from the safety of the ferry terminal and our so called public protectors were nowhere to be seen as we drove onto the ramp.  The incident didn’t even make the local rag on the island and nine months later the owner of the burned out car was still fighting a losing battle in a sea of officially contrived red tape.