SANDFLY CITY AND ICE AINT NICE
SANDFLY CITY.
With my crew of one Husky dog sitting at the bow I
set out early, putting along with the aid of a two horsepower outboard I swapped for some pot at
the Tip shop. The bloody thing was so
deficient in power that even when it was running full stick I had to row as
hard as I could to make it around the rocky points and sandbars. It took about
three hours of constant motoring and rowing before I was finally able to tie
the dinghy up on a small palm lined beach inside of Cromitary Bay. Beyond a small park through palms and hanging
vines I could see luxury, beachfront homes but there were no people in my
immediate sight. I had ample time to lay
my bedroll and tarp it over before a guy walking a dog passed by. We exchanged friendly hellos and he didn’t
give my floating habitat a second glance.
I assumed the rich people in this neighbourhood might take exception to
a water gypsy camping in their midst, so I tried to keep my presence as low profile
as I could. The spot I had settled was
the best possible place I could as it was the start of a rocky outcrop which
was separated from the main beach by a fallen tree. The dog walkers and joggers
all seemed to have made the dead tree the point at which they turned back so
only those who went beyond the log knew we were there.
When the tide turned and the fish stopped biting I
left Hus to guard my camp and rode into the Little Salamander shopping centre
for supplies. I had to push the bike up
a couple of slopes but apart from that it was a relatively flat run. I completed the shopping run in about a third
of the time it normally took from Taylors beach which confirmed it was a better
location to be in. On the second day of
my scouting mission I motored out from the beach and circled the bay through
countless oyster racks in search of a deep, secluded inlet. There were a number of them around the place
but the one that most suited my needs was situated directly in front of a large
quarry. Even though it was very noisy
from the quarry operation I decided to make it my base as I further checked out
the territory as it offered the flattest and shortest possible bike run into
the shops. From the waterline I had to
walk the bike along a sandy, grassland track, but less than sixty feet from the
boat I was on the bitumen road at the rear of the industrial estate. I only got to stay in that area for one night
because in the morning two quarry workers walked into my camp accompanied by
Council Rangers. They said they were
preparing to blast the following day and they didn’t want anyone in the
area. The busty, young, female Ranger
was sporting a badge that read ‘Team Leader’ and she was quick to establish I
was sleeping in the dinghy. She declared that I was camping illegally and I
should count myself lucky I was getting off with a warning. I was quick to inform our sexy little Council
Ranger that the boat was in the water and I was out fishing which meant if anything
I was a Water Authorities or NSW Fisheries problem. The Team Leader was quite a babe about thirty
two years old and with my last remark the hint of an amused smile escaped her lips.
Before the officials had departed the scene I was moving out of the
inlet towards the mouth. I waved them a cheery farewell as I putted off
with imaginings of the female Ranger writhing naked on my bedroll. All wishful
thinking aside I was still concerned they might notify the water police so I
pulled into the mouth of the next inlet and went as far up it as I could. Where
I finally tied up was so far out of range of the large, twin hulled, police
boats they would need to mount a kayak expedition to find me.
On one of my daily beer runs I stopped to fill my
water bottle at a tap beside a plumbing shop. Just inside the roller door I
spotted a Honda motorbike sitting under a dusty old tarp and I wandered over to
make some enquiries. I was soon to
discover that the guys who ran the plumbing business were also keen power boat
enthusiasts. They were both bent over
the V8 engine of their boat with greasy hands when I walked into the showroom
but they were happy to carry on a conversation at the same time. As they worked Harry and Dan informed me the
bike had belonged to their ‘egg head’ nephew who filled the tank with the wrong
type of fuel. They said I could have it
for a hundred bucks and if I wanted to come back in a couple of days they would
see if they could get it going. Motorheads. Don’t you just love em? When I returned to
the plumbing depot as arranged the old posty bike was up and running with a new
tank of fuel, a new sparkplug and points. They guys received an extra thirty
bucks on top of the hundred for their trouble but it was well worth it in my
view. I was the proud owner of the kind
of bike you see in the trading post for six or seven hundred bucks at the very
least. After I had handed over the cash
I stashed my pushbike at the rear of their shop and rode the Honda back to my
camp. Husky was barking his head off as
I moved towards him and even after I had turned the engine off he was still
suspicious of the bike. He growled
around it sniffing the tyres and then he retreated to a safe distance. I had
scouted Cromitary Bay enough to know it was where I needed to be so I decided
to get back to where the yacht was moored and prepare for the next big move. My
main priority was to get the unregistered Honda out of public view so with the
dawn I bashed a track through the beach scrub and mangroves back to the yacht and chained the bike up inside the wood
tent. I had to walk the ten or so kilometres I had followed to get back to
Husky and the tinny. The next morning I
retrieved the pushbike and gave the plumbers a positive report on how the Honda
had performed in the mangrove mud. I
motored out of the entrance of the bay that afternoon and by sundown I was
sucking on a cold one on the deck of the yacht, having a private chuckle at my
good fortune. At great effort I was to perform a skilful balancing act which
saw the Honda being wheeled along a double strengthened gangplank and strapped
to the base of the mast. The wheels sat neatly in the pontoon docks and held it
in position. Another recent acquisition
from the recycle depot was a fully rigged catamaran that Dave let me have for a
mere hundred and fifty bucks. The
pontoons on the cat were eventually to be fitted to the tri maran but in the
meantime I intended to use it like a trailer for the yacht. The plastic dinghy
was tied to the upper deck and my new tinny was towed along behind the cat. My
plan was for a night run out through the mouth of the inlet on a high tide and
then by hugging the shoreline past Taylors Beach I would make it to Mud Point
before daylight. Just around the next bend after the Point is where Cromitary
Bay begins and on the scouting mission I had found a small beach with a grassy
clearing. This is where I intended to
establish my first campsite once I had the yacht in the area.
The sky was clear and a half moon reflected peacefully on flat water as I connected the battery terminals for a car headlight sitting halfway up the mast. Once ignited it lit up the mangroves for miles and the water came to life as schools of mullet and garfish were dazzled by sudden brightness. The tide was fast approaching the peak as I untied the mooring lines. I left the anchor in position where it sat and the boats all swung around in formation to settle on the opposite bank. When the tide started to turn my flotilla of watercraft was pulled into the middle of the estuary above the central channel and I was off. From the bow of the yacht I used the long, but very light aluminium mast from the catamaran to keep the boats away from protruding branches. I was moving out of the inlet at the very start of the turning tide so it was relatively easy going to manoeuvre through the mouth. Now over the sandbars near the estuary entrance I was able to climb into the water and take my position on the bowline. There were a number of submerged snags in the immediate area that could puncture the hull of the yacht so I walked the boats through rather than using the pole. I made it clear of the snag ridden mouth as the outgoing tide increased in velocity and pulled me away from the shore. The current started dragging me into deeper water towards the twinkling lights of Lemon Tree Passage and this was the wrong direction completely for where I needed to be. My original plan was to hug the shore until I was past the ramp and jetty area of Taylors Beach but the strong current and a sudden increase in wind speed were not going to allow it to happen.
With little time to think in the changing
conditions I quickly devised a plan ‘B’ and allowed the boats to be pulled into
the middle of the yachts and houseboats moored off Taylors Beach. I tied up at a frantic speed between two
large houseboats and once that was done my vessels were mostly out of view of
onlookers. Much to my relief the wind
swung around towards the shore as the kookaburras started to yodel and dawn
light lit up the morning sky. With the
wind conditions now working in my favour I attempted to get back to the beach
with the severely undersized motor running at full stick. When I was only halfway there it began to
smoke and splutter in a sickening, mortally wounded display then it died with a
horrible final cough. It was a good job I had decided to have the cat mast on
the tinny with me because without it I wouldn’t have been able to make it the
last ten or so meters to the shore. The
Taylors Beach boatramp was about one kilometre behind me and up ahead a further
two was the first available mangrove sheltered spot where I could conceal my
flotilla of boats. A number of watercraft were fishing the early tide and it
was only a matter of time before the water police did their morning patrol. After I had re attached the tinny to the rear
of the cat I walked the boats through small shoreline breakers until I reached
overhanging mangroves at a small, rocky cove.
I struggled to drag the yacht and all it was towing into the cove and
eventually I was able to tie up in shallow waters obscured from view by palms
and hanging foliage. I was on an open
stretch of beach wetting a line and throwing the stick for Husky when the water
police patrol came through. They stopped
alongside a couple of recreational fishing vessels for a short time and then
motored off in the opposite direction to where I had dropped anchor. Good stuff. They hadn’t spotted the boats
which gave me time to plan my next move. My trip to Cromitary Bay was based on the weather
reports I had been following closely and the window of clear skies they
promised was soon to be closed.
Thunderheads were gathering in the East and I had no option but to
batten down the hatches and sit out the blow.
Just after sunset the evening breeze picked up to become solid gusts and
by eleven o’clock the storm front was rocking the boats wildly. Deafening
thunder directly overhead and lightening strikes to match provided an ideal
backdrop as I sipped on a wee dram in the Captains cabin and contemplated my next
move when the weather settled down.
After two days of dirty conditions the sun shone
through and I made preparations to ship out.
A night run from the cove to little beach at the start of Cromitary Bay
was my planned objective and without the use of the outboard it was definitely
going to be a challenge. The night tide
came up and I hauled the boats out of their hiding place but when I got to the
sandbars bordering the cove I found the water was much too shallow. The bow of the yacht bogged deep into the
sand and while I was climbing on board to get my pole the wind picked up
swinging the boats around from the rear. The cat and the tinny were directly
above the sandbar and they were pulling the yacht backwards with them. Bastard. What an absolute fuck up. Once back in the water and straining over a
badly bogged bow nothing I could do with the pole was of any use. The sudden wind increase had swung the boats
around and it was just too strong to go against. I climbed back on the yacht
and dropped anchor, praying the wind
might shift direction and blow me off the sandbar but it didn’t happen. By sun up the tide had all but completely
receded and my convoy of pleasure craft was left sitting on an exposed sandbar
in open view of the bay. The yacht was sitting on its side resting on the drums
with the cat and the tinny tied on behind in a sad line of marooned
vessels. I knew it was only a matter of
time before I would have to deal with the authorities unless by some miracle of
fate they didn’t spot me. No such
luck. The morning patrol came powering
in from the direction of Nelson Bay and they cut the engines when my grounded,
side leaning yacht came into view. As
they approached the sandbar I walked towards them with Husky trying to appear
as casual as I could. The response I got to “Hi guys … What can I do for
you?” was “We’re here to piss you off”.
They were a couple of young, hard nosed, footy player types who had no interest
in light hearted chatter. The cops were only interested in informing me that I
had two days to get my piece of floating junk off the sandbar and remove it
from the bay. Along with my personal ID I had to show them proof of ownership
for all the boats, the outboard motor and the motorbike. They didn’t even
bother asking to see any kind of boat licence or registration and left
satisfied even though I had failed to show them any paperwork for the tinny. I
considered that I had got off lightly and now the only thing to do was work on
getting an extention to the two days deadline I had been given. That afternoon I made a call on my mobile
phone to office of the Water Police in Nelson Bay and spoke with a Chief
inspector Brown. Inspector Brown was far
more easy going than his over zealous rookies and when I explained that I
needed a one point eight tide at least to get clear of the sandbar he agreed to
an extension. He studied a tide chart as we conversed and worked out that I
could remain there for a further week and two days.
The conversation was so friendly and relaxed that
my final parting vocalizasion was a friendly little “Chow!” I was lying to the
Police Chief about the one point eight meters I would need and on the night
tide of the following evening I was able to wrestle the boats away from the
sandbar. I was blessed with a beautifully still night and flat water which
allowed me to make it around Mud Point before the sun rose. The mangrove lined beach I tied up at was
completely out of view of any police vessels and I imagined the only way they
would know my whereabouts was if some oyster farmer made a complaint. I had
dropped anchor in the most picturesque of sub tropical settings but by mid
morning something I had not bargained for made itself painfully known to
me. The area was so badly infested with
sandflies that Husky and I had to hide in the stinking hot cabin for most of
the day with the hatch closed tight. The
insufferable fumes of insect spray got so bad I eventually had to open the
hatch and in they came again. The swarm
was so thick that in the end all I could do was sit by my twelve volt powered
desk fan, fully clothed, with a scarf wrapped around my head.
With the new day I commenced work dressed in a
jumpsuit I created out of high quality, cotton mosquito netting. I applied roll on repellent through the weaved
cotton at regular intervals and it helped to give me fighting chance out in the
open. All of my most treasured
belongings were loaded out of the yacht and stacked on the catamaran in
readiness for the move back to Taylors Beach.
I had to leave the Honda where it was in the hope I might be able to
retrieve it on a later trip. The moment
I had finished securing the yacht and tarping it over I began the long row back
to the inlet where my ill fated journey had begun. Once past Mud Point I was able to ride the
incoming tide and a favorable back wind saw us back at home base by mid
afternoon. Exhausted as I was on our
arrival I had to unload my belongings off of the cat and stash them among the
palms. Another explosive summer storm was brewing as I raced time and fatigue
to erect a makeshift shelter before the rain came down. When the storm passed I got a fire going with
some half dry palm fronds and a whole can of outboard motor fuel. After a
superb meal of charcoal flathead and baked beans I knocked over the last of my
Johnnie Walkers and smoked a few well stacked joints. This was the first time I had been able to
properly relax since I left the very spot I was sitting and set off into the
bay. Constantly dodging the authorities
had taken it’s toll and my great outdoors boating adventure was now in a
serious state of review. If the whole area on the side of the bay where I
wanted to live was as badly infested then it meant the inlet I was planning to
settle in was not fit for human habitation.
In light of my Water Police and sandfly problems I
decided the best option was to return the yacht to my original inlet campsite
and then attempt to get it back to Hollywood.
Good old common sense had well and truly kicked in to rule my thoughts
and I figured the wisest thing I could do was work towards selling the
yacht. I had picked it up for a mere
three hundred bucks and lived on it for almost a year. I had saved hundreds of dollars in rental
costs and I got to have an experience that many only dream about or get to
enjoy after a life of hard labor. My hippy trail education had long since taught me
not to be attached to material objects as they will only bring misery, so even
if the cops impounded my vessel I would just laugh it off as experience. After
hearing of my ordeals Buck let me use the Ford a second time to transport my
stuff back to Hollywood. I set up a temporary land base in the old Bedford and
tinny was left chained upside down among the palms. Buck agreed to take the
yacht off my hands for what I had paid for it saying he would float it in the
new dam when it was finished. The big
question was would it still be there when next I returned to the area. I had it stashed under the cover of the
mangroves, but all it would take was a sharp eyed, police helicopter pilot and
the game would be well and truly over.
‘ICE’ AIN’T SO NICE.
The setting had altered dramatically on the slab
since last I was part of the Hollywood scene. All of the cars except for the
vintage classics had been stripped of their components and the rusting remains
were carted away for scrap metal. In
their place were six shipping containers filled with spare sparts and there
were countless metal racks around the property holding more of the same. This
was Bucks new strategy going into action to get the banks paid off and he had
ten full time workers on the payroll working day and night shifts.
A couple of days after my return to Hollywood I
locked the truck up and headed back to the tinny to continue my rescue mission
for the yacht. The run from the lot back out to Taylors beach was the first
real test of how Husky would perform pulling the bike with a fully loaded bike
trailer and he really lived up to his name.
A couple of times he stopped for a crap at the worst possible locations
but apart from that he did a commendable job.
The bike trailer had a five horsepower outboard on it I picked up cheap
from one of Bucks car part customers. When we got to the boat I unloaded the
motor and the supplies then I hid the bike and trailer among the palms. When the tinny was eventually floating in the
water it looked overloaded enough to attract the attention of the authorities
so another night run would be the best way to avoid their scrutiny. We arrived
at the beach near the fallen tree by cover of night and after the tide went out
I slept in the dinghy on the sand. At
first light I stashed the bulk of my stuff behind a patch of lantana and
motored out of the area. The tinny was
now far less weighed down and I was more than ready to attempt towing the yacht
if it was still there. I crossed the bay
and entered the Sandfly zone dressed in my mosquito netting jumpsuit and
heavily splashed down with citronella oil.
It wasn’t a pleasant trip at all because the oil soon mixed with my
sweat in the morning sun and it burned like melting wax into my eyes. Once in
the general area I had left the yacht I cut the engine beside some oyster racks
so I could splash my eyes with bottled water. As unimpaired vision returned I
scanned the mangrove lined bank and saw the flash of white hull between the
foliage. Good shit. The motorbike was as
I had left it and there were no signs that my belongings had been disturbed.
Once untied from it’s moorings the tri-maran
proved quite easy to tow with the five horsepower engine even against the
currents. I maneuvered the load through
an endless network of oyster racks on the highest point of the tide and dropped
anchor just off the beach where I had stashed my gear. After loading my camping gear onto the yacht I
left Cromitary Bay to the sandflies and putted away back towards Taylors
beach. No water police or other such
officials crossed our path along the way and by late afternoon the yacht was
sitting where it had been before the trouble started. The following day was spent detaching the
mast and laying it along the deck in readiness for road travel. I removed the steel drums from their
makeshift outriggers and stashed them in the palms with the intention of fitting
the catamaran pontoons once the yacht was on high ground. When next I returned to Hollywood Buck and I
agreed on a plan whereby I would tow the boat trailer to the ramp and get the
yacht in a ready position for the move.
It was to take place in two days time on the high tide and hopefully
before the cops spotted the yacht out in the open. I was three days over the absolute final
deadline as dictated by Inspector Brown, so if anything went wrong they would
surely impound it. I had completed my end of the agreement in the
specified time and the tide was approaching the peak when I checked in with
Buck at his office. The whole rowdy crew
were having their smoko break in there as they usually do and I had to wait
until a number of work related conversations had concluded before Buck was
ready to deal with me. He seemed far
more interested in blowing ice and smoking bongs with the lads than remembering
our plans and any attempt to talk about tide times fell on deaf ears. By the time we finally arrived at the ramp in
Bucks work ute the water had well and truly receded and the boat was on it’s
side. I suggested that he had left
things too late and we should do it the following day but he had other ideas. I knew it would be an exercise in futility to
even attempt what Buck was proposing but he was the new owner so I was forced
to view it as just more ice crazed entertainment for my memoirs.
After removing the motorbike from the deck I sat
on a rock and smoked a joint as Buck fired instructions at a couple of flunkies
he had recruited for the job. The boat
trailer was dragged down to the base of the ramp and a thick wire cable was
attached to a loop on the bow. Just as
I had imagined it would the loop snapped away at the first hint of pressure
leaving a gaping hole you could stick your head in. Still convinced he was going to be able to
drag the boat along the sand and onto the trailer Buck pulled out every
available length of stainless steel rope I had in the hatch. The cables were attached to the hull and
upper deck of the yacht at a number of points and the opposite ends were
shackled to the ute. Buck gunned the
engine of his utility up the slippery ramp in a skidding, cable snapping
display of hard headed defiance and I watched the badly stressed hull crack
open to expose my fiberglass repairs.
With his frantic efforts he had only managed to drag the boat about
three feet but he insisted he could get it with the next pull. I didn’t feel like watching my dreamboat
being destroyed any longer so I wished him luck with his new yacht and rode the
Honda back to Hollywood. At sundown
Bucks ute pulled into the yard and there was no boat in tow. That evening as
the crew listened in I had to endure yet another of his hair brained schemes
which involved a front end loader to pull the damaged boat off the sand. Not
wanting to appear a doubting Thomas in front of his workers I wished him luck
with the project in the most sincere vocal delivery I could fabricate. Things
had really hit rock bottom between us since he became enslaved by his ice
addiction and now I was saying things he wanted to hear just to keep the
peace. He was still my host so I had to
bite my tongue but I was counting the moments until I could split that
uncomfortable scene forever.
The Honda had been a prized acquisition to
compliment my life on a yacht lifestyle but with the unexpected changes it
became more of a burden than an asset. In an act of decisive spontaneity I rode
it into the local motorcycle dealer to see if I might sell it for what I had
paid and I was to receive a pleasant surprise.
The bloke said the motor sounded like it was in really good condition
and he offered me three hundred bucks cash for it on the spot. We shook on the deal
as the money was handed over and we both walked away happy with the
transaction. Letting the bike go meant
more to me than just losing a useful mode of transport. It was also the point
at which I made a conscious decision not to buy anymore motorbikes in the
future. Apart from the fact it made my
supply runs a lot easier I had been riding for the pure exhilaration and danger
that comes with bush bashing through the wetlands. In the time I owned it I had a number of
close calls the worst of which involved a speeding car and would qualify as a
near death experience. I had devised a
plan where I would ride sidesaddle in the grass at the side of the road
whenever I was traveling near bitumen.
If I was quick enough to spot any cop cars on the highway I could easily
start walking the bike with the engine running and they would be none the
wiser. It was a great strategy in theory
but in the early stages of learning how to travel sidesaddle at speed I almost
lost my life. I had been traveling on
the gravel shoulder of Taylors Beach Road for about two kilometers and
satisfied I had mastered the art I pulled out onto the paved road. I was concentrating on getting into the
normal riding position instead of paying attention to traffic coming the other
way and it almost got me killed. I
raised my eyes from the handlebar controls to see a speeding car with a teenage
chick at the wheel and she was less than six feet from impact. I jerked the bars hard to the left and missed
the front end of the speeding P plater by a gap so narrow I can’t begin to describe
it. The horrible feeling that lodged in the pit of my guts let me know exactly
how close I had come to a bloody and mangled end. It was a feeling I had experienced in times
past when I was a reckless, speeding teenager but back then it was just another
adrenaline blast. I had aged
considerably since and the feeling of having survived reactivated the self
preservation workshop in my head. Among
a million other considerations I started thinking about what would happen to
Husky if I was carted off in an ambulance. A new mode of parental
responsibility kicked in and I started consciously treasuring our every moment
together like it was the very last. Hus
and I did part company briefly one day when he wandered away from the camp on
the scent of an in season bitch. I woke
to find him gone and fresh tracks told me he had gone off in the direction of
Taylors beach. I fired up the Honda and rode into town as fast as I could,
scanning the terrain for my stupid mut.
As I neared the house where I suspected he might be there were a group
of people talking out the front. A
Council Ranger was among them and I could see Husky in the caged rear
compartment of his car. The people who owned
the female dog had called the council because Hus was being such a nuisance and
it took a whole lot of sweet talking before I got him back. The Ranger handed me an official warning
notice that said I had to get him registered and other than that no real harm
had been done. With the yacht and the motorbike gone I was left
with what amounted to a far more transportable load that would fit into a hired
trailer with the tinny strapped on top. If I scored the right ride I would be
able to cover far greater distances than I ever could as the captain of a
marooned sailboat and the possibility of getting back to the Northern rivers
was high on my agenda. The Port Stephens
area had been good to me through the years but circumstance was telling me it
was time to hit the road.
The vibe from Buck and his crew had become
downright heavy because I wasn’t part of their meth-amphetamine dependent
network and they had me targeted as an outsider. I had known some of those
deadbeat arseholes for more than twenty years. People hey! Why fucking
bother? My stay at Hollywood came to an
abrupt end when I returned to the truck and found the door had been forced and
my camp was violently ransacked. The
fishermen were the first possible culprits that came to mind when I spotted my
gutting knife dug deep into the pillow on my bedroll. Nothing had been stolen however which caused
me to wonder if it might have been someone else. The hired box trailer strategy got it’s first
official road test that very afternoon as I hastily emptied the truck of my
stuff. John Macauly a mate of mine who
worked at the local bottle department offered his assistance when I told him
about the knife in my pillow. There was
no sign of Buck or any of his crew as we packed the load and his phone was
still out of range by the time we left the lot.
John agreed to tow my load all the way to the Hunter river in Newcastle
where he would drop me off and then return with the car trailer to the Shell
garage. He wouldn’t take a red cent for
petrol or his help and said he was more than glad to help. I often wonder if John was a Christian. When
finally I made phone contact with Buck I was to discover it was in fact he who
had busted into the truck. After a
heated screaming match had subsided to more civil tones I was to hear how I had
caused two thousand dollars worth of frozen lobsters to go rotten by turning
off a fridge in the house. His cursing
accusations soon fell silent as I informed him of the squashed and burnt out
power cable I found under a recently installed spare parts rack. One of his workers had caused a short circuit
and not informed him and I get the blame with a gutting knife stuck in my
pillow. In my time I have heard some
grizzly tales about how ‘Ice’ can fuck your mind and my one time friend is evidence they are true. How does the most easy going and
admirable guy you know become the most highly strung arsehole you’ve ever met?
It just doesn’t make any sense.
Having fled the threat zone and happily camping on
the banks of the Hunter River with Hus I was inspired by the knowledge I had
survived to live another day. The
incident with Buck was caused by a simple lack of communication but the knife
in the pillow could very well have been a final warning from the stinky fishos.
This fact alone was enough to convince me I had acted wisely in leaving. My policy has always been to seek new
horizons if ever more than two threat factors share the same territory. I developed this strategy way back in my life
after I read the Magus by John Fowls. He describes in the book how two men are playing
dice and loser is required to swallow a lethal pill. One of the men throws the
losing dice and when he is offered the pill he refuses it. Instead of insisting he takes it the other
man commends his decision, claiming that cowardice is a mark of true intelligence. It wasn’t so much cowardice that made me flee
Port Stephens but the common sense knowledge I was out numbered by those who
wished me harm.
My campsite on the Hunter was situated at Sandgate
on an artificial embankment of hardened slag from the BHP steelworks. The local anglers said the slag was
originally put there to protect the mangroves but all it did was restrict the
flow of water into the wetlands. I
wouldn’t mind betting those who ordered the slag to be poured stand to gain a
fortune when the mangroves are all dead and the land is opened up for
development. Fishing from the bank
wasn’t as plentiful as it had been in Port Stephens but I was still able to
hook the odd catch if the line didn’t get severed by protruding fingers of
oyster covered slag. After the upheavals
I had gone through since losing the yacht I reveled in the simple, daily
delights of hunting for my dinner and exploring new territory. There were a couple of inlets just across the
river from my camp where mudcrabs could be trapped by those prepared to brave a
constant swarm of blood sucking mozzies.
I gave it my best shot in the terrible conditions but eventually I gave
up defeated. Just like the Sandflys in
Cromitary bay I left the insects to their domain and retreated to my fly
screened shelter. I’m getting too old
for this shit.
A short bike ride from the Sandgate boat ramp I
could connect with a main road that took me the twelve or so miles into
Newcastle. The closest place to pick up
supplies was the outer suburb of Mayfield and this is where more often than not
I was able to score some weed. On the
weekends if the mood took me I left Hus guard the camp and rode into Newcastle
to check out the many corner pubs along the way. I discovered a number of
unpretentious little drinking holes that had bands of my era playing in the
front bar and they were spurred along by rowdy weekend crowds. I discovered a
far better variety of nightlife options than I ever found in the Port Stephens
area and it was a nostalgic treat to throw coins in a buskers case late in the
evening. With each of the guitar strumming minstrels I encountered among the
closing time drunks of Newcastle the ache grew inside me to do the same.
The first time I spotted and old wino eating out
of a garbage can in the city center I had a nostalgic flutter back to the Kings
Cross days. My excitement at certain
details of city life came as a revelation about where this new leg of the
journey might be taking me. I had
replaced an up market coastal retreat, with the hard core reality of low
income, urban sprawl and I was digging it.
Life was telling me to snap out of my Mosquito Coast fantasies and get
as citified as I possibly could. But
why? The only thing I could come up with
was the idea that my boating adventures were something I had to get out of my
system so I could re-awaken the street performer within. What an inspiring but
truly daunting thought. The
practicalities of doing a show were outside the range of what my present
reality allowed but a plan to come out of retirement became my New Years
resolution as I partied with post punk groovers at the Cambridge hotel. They welcomed me into their fold with open arms
and I received friendly embraces as the midnight hour came around. I camped on the banks of the Hunter River
until I was adequately acclimatized to urbanity then I started making plans for
a move closer to Sydney. After studying
my tattered assortment of maps I concluded that the Central Coast was a good
option because it was reasonably close to the metropolitan area yet far enough
away to feel remote. The township of
Windsor on the Hawksbury River seemed like the best strategy I could pursue as
it sits on the upper reaches of the Hawksbury and the mouth is at the Central
Coast. If the river was unobstructed by man made barriers I might be able to
explore its entire length in search of a new home. A disused boatshed would be
the best thing I could possibly find but I was ready to settle for anything
close to a place I could perform.
Will Smith is the most consistent of all of the
old crew when it comes to staying in touch.
He calls me up out of the blue from time to time just to say hi and see
how I am doing. Often I have told him
how much I appreciate the calls as they provide a sense of belonging I would
not otherwise have. Right at the point
where I was getting removalist quotes and preparing to leave the Hunter Will
called and I gave him an earful about what I had been doing. He was angered to
hear the yacht had been confiscated by the authorities and truly mortified when
I told him I was driven out of the area by deranged fishermen. In his usual
concern for my well being Will offered to drive from the Blue Mountains with
his car trailer and take me to the boat ramp in Windsor. It was agreed that we would meet up at the
Sandgate ramp in three days hence where I would be fully packed and ready to
go.
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