STRANDED

STRANDED.

Alicia and her girlfriends had been planning to do an outward bound course as part of their Northern rivers holiday, but romantic diversions had scattered them in all directions along the way.  We bumped into Carl and Lily one night at ‘The Collective Unconscious Cafe’ and Lil told us the other girls had gone back to Sydney to resume work at their various jobs.  Lily still wanted to do the youth adventure course but Alicia said that she was getting all the great outdoors training she needed just hanging around with me on the houseboat.  The couple came out and stayed with us for a couple of days on the river and the whole time Carl was raving about how he was going to build a floating home as well.  Like most of my friends who had seen the vessel he was inspired by my exotic, free rental accommodation but to this day not one of them has made the first move to live out on the water. At the peak of the holiday season the waterways police are kept extra busy contending with a flotilla of drunk and reckless holiday makers, so I decided to get a little more daring with the places we dropped anchor. Alicia performed in her usual helpful way as we towed the houseboat with the outgoing tide and as we putted along I could see why she was so attracted to the idea of an outward bound training course.  Working the anchor and poling off from the banks became second nature to her as did operating the outboard motor and most of our other river dwelling procedures.  At the first of our downstream moves we putted along at the speed of the tidal flow and it was no easy task as we had to avoid time sharpened, dead branches that were protruding into our path on the bends.  The wind came up as we were halfway through the move and it started to prove very difficult to manoeuvre through each new twist and turn.  As we cleared the last dangerous obstacle before our destination the majestic crescendo to the ‘Silk Road’ by Kitaro was blasting out of my JBL speakers.   We came to a stop and tied up to a submerged log on a farming property just past the caravan park on the way to Mullumbimbi.  Through the trees and hanging vines we could see the goings on in the van park, but the only people who knew we were there were the passing boaties and hiking wetland anglers.  A herd of curious cattle stood at the top of the slope observing our mooring procedure but they soon scattered when I fired up the outboard motor to drain it.  The sun had finally come out after a week of driving rain which held promise there might be some magic mushies sprouting around the cowflops in the paddock. 

As we were soon to discover there were goldtops growing in clusters all over the place, so we collected a few and spread them out on a blanket to dry in the sun.  The bank came off the water in a gradual grassy incline which was well suited to the drying of the mushrooms and our drip moistened bedding as well.  There was one remaining leak in the lower roofing tarp that I couldn’t get at without removing all of the underlining bamboo slats, so we just hung a bucket from the overhead beam and endured an awful persistent drip.   As you might have guessed the bucket filled up while we were sleeping and water drenched our bed right down to the mattress in the middle of a thundering storm.  Alicia seemed to take domestic discomforts such as this in her stride while I uttered unthinkable curses that can not be found in any Hungarian dictionary.  Even when her camera filled with irreplaceable river journey snaps fell in the drink she just laughed it off and said,“I can get a new camera anytime and lots more good shit is gonna happen”.  I chopped some of the sun dried mushrooms into a tasty fish and crab soup and we dined by firelight as a full yellow moon rose above the mangroves.  Only three of the mushies made it into the soup as they were fairly large and I didn’t know how potent they would be.  All of our past tripping experiences had happened at dance parties where there was little chance of exploring each others minds among the high energy music and frenzied crowds.  By the time the moon had taken center stage in the star studded sky we were comparing the fuckedness of our respective childhoods and laughing at the absurd similarities.  We stretched out on a blanket by the fire so as to better scrutinize the evening starscape and gently conversed about the wonders of life in the cosmos.  Every now and again I got up to change the music and our conversation continued amid a backdrop of my most treasured original songs. 

Sometimes Alicia would make me rewind the tape so she could better digest the meaning behind the words.  Her mind displayed the same sponge like quality I had known myself when I first started tripping in the company of older people.  The night passed into morning and we fell asleep intellectually fatigued, but touched by a mutual sense of connectedness.  Having been up gasbagging all night we slept in a bit longer than usual, but the blinding morning sun forced us up by about ten.  We were picking up our bedding from the riverbank when a group of startled cattle came running down the track.  Between the hides of the cattle and the foliage behind them I spotted the flash of a blue light and heard a short blast of a siren. Then the nose of a crawling squad car came around the bend.  By the time the slow moving vehicle had come to a stop in the clearing I was on the houseboat frantically hiding my pot and the mushies in the first available stash spot.  I was reasonably confident the cops hadn't seen me jumping on board, because when they were pulling up I just happened to be throwing blankets and pillows in a rear facing window, which meant I was mostly obscured from their view.  The officers were greeted by Alicia in her usual, chirpy way as I jumped off the log we were moored to and casually strolled over to join them.  There was a stumpy, little sergeant and a tall, footy player looking rookie walking towards the houseboat and I could hear that Alicia was delivering a bullshit story about how we were collecting water samples for the university.  She spoke loud enough so I could catch the drift of what was being said and by the time I joined in the conversation our solidarity was complete.  My outward bound young adventurer was so in command of the situation that the cops just went along with whatever she said.  After she had concluded her rave the old serge explained in a forced, grumpy manner that we were camping on private property and the local farming community “didn’t want to get invaded by freaks” the same way they had in Byron and Nimbin.  Alicia and I had recently placed sealed 44 gallon drums between the outer pontoons of the houseboat to stop the corners from sagging everytime we stepped on board.  I was yet to acquire any seatbelts to fasten them on properly so the water pushing them into the timber frame was all that held them in place.  The police sergent struggled to maintain his balance on the narrow mooring log as I attempted to inform him that the houseboat wasn't fully constructed, but it appeared he had his mind set on investigating our home.  At the precise moment I was telling the chief to watch his step he placed his finely polished policeman’s boot on one of the untethered drums and down it went.  He was very lucky the water pressure from below didn’t pop it back into position or it could very well have taken his leg off.  Instead it just banged out from under the pontoon and rolled away into the flow of the out going tide.  The overweight copper was submerged to his waist like the proverbial pig in the poke and I distinctly heard the dying crackle of his police radio as he fell in.  I noticed his rookie assistant having a private little chuckle as he pussy footed around on the log trying to lend a hand.  I was closer so I reached down into the cavity and hauled the cursing sergeant out.  As he and his  secretly amused lieutenant departed for the squad car the sergent could be heard bellowing,“Five o’clock that’s all you’ve got or I’ll bust you both for trespass”.  Within three hours of our untimely visit by the law the houseboat was concealed at a new location far from the scrutiny of the local farmers or anyone else.  The new inlet we found was so far upstream and remote that it could only be reached by a dingy on the highest point of the tide.   Our new campsite was separated from the rest of the world by a thick jungle on either bank and a series of shallow channels which were bordered by oyster covered rocks.  The pontoons scraped and snarled as we passed over the jagged, below surface terrain and in the process I shredded three of the seatbelts that secured them. 

Alicia poled us through the narrow, razor sharp canals and I had to wrestle with the outboard motor the whole time to keep the propeller clear of the rocks.  We eventually tied up next to a cluster of tall pandanus palms which were rooted to a mound of gigantic boulders at the foot of a rainforest slope.  As soon as the houseboat was tied up at the new mooring we dingyed back onto the main river and rode against the tide to pick up my trailbike.  Alicia dropping me off at the bikes hiding spot then she took the boat back to our new mooring, as I scrambled through the wetlands trying to find a passable track in. Things began to get a little too crowded out on the river with the start of the summer holiday season and some of the more enthusiastic boaties had even managed to inch their way into our hazard filled inlet.  After just a couple of days at the new mooring I proposed to Alicia that we should camouflage the houseboat so it wouldn't be spotted by any other river users and then split the scene for a while.  Quite amicably she agreed with a happy little “A change is as good as a holiday” thrown in so we started making plans about what we should do until things quietened down. 

Some time earlier I had mentioned a pot growing scam that involved a trip to South Australia and a camping treckabout along the mighty River Murray.  Alicia was keen on the idea and as we spoke she suddenly got the bright idea to use the money she had saved by not doing the Outward Bound course and buy a Landrover for the trip.  A plan to hit the road the following day was now in place and every moment from then on was spent preparing for our departure.  With much scratching and cursing of the swarming mosquitoes the houseboat was skillfully concealed among overhanging rainforest foliage where a large sheltered cavity had formed through the aeons.  The natural waterside enclosure was pretty well hidden from view by a curtain of downhanging vines and creepers which almost touched the surface of the water.  Alicia parted the living rainforest curtain as she stood upright in the dingy and the two tangled drapes were tied back out of the way with ropes.  The houseboat passed through the opening with only inches to spare on either side and once it was positioned in the shelter it blended in nicely with the leafy, river bank setting.  I camouflaged the bike in a separate location about fifty feet away in the bush and covered it with vines.  I was quietly confident that my home was well hidden from any potential intruders but there was no point in leaving anything of value around.  My portable recording gear and the computer were ferried to a bush track clearing in the dingy where they were tarped over, along with some of my other stuff.  We putted out of our secret mooring for the last time but I did a couple of final passes in front of the vines just to be absolutely certain that the houseboat couldn't be seen from the water.  A temporary camp was established in the clearing where our belongings had earlier been stashed and we slept under the upturned dingy, supported by an oar.  The next morning after putting out the fire and camouflaging the tarp we motored into Brunswick heads and I left the boat chained up to a post directly in front of the pub.  Then we set off on the first available tour coach that was heading for Brisbane so we could track down the right vehicle for our South Australian, pot growing adventure.  It took us three days of hunting and bargaining with greedy car salesmen but eventually Alicia was the proud owner of a preloved, yellow Landrover.  It looked like it had been to hell and back but there were no oil leaks and everything seemed to work fine.  The vehicle ended up costing about five thousand dollars including on road expenses, but compared to what else was around it was a pretty good deal.  Alicia had about four grand left in her savings after the vehicle was acquired so she decided to buy some grass that we could sell to help finance the trip.  We made a stop in Mullumbimbi on the way back to Brunswick heads and Bill fixed us up with a pound of heads that smelt so strong I had to cover it with half a roll of cling wrap to conceal the odor.  We partied most of the night away with the dropout crew and my young sweetheart was initiated into the clan with music, dance and merry abandon. 

On our return to Brunswick Heads we loaded the boat onto the sturdy roofracks of the car with the outboard motor strapped neatly underneath it.  The Landrover was one of those models with a longer than usual body but it still represented a fair challenge to fit our combined belongings into it.   As things turned out we managed to fit everything in and what didn't fit in the cabin was stored under the boat with the outboard.  As something of a parting ritual I secured my bamboo flagpole from the houseboat onto the bullbar and the global rainbow emblem caught the breeze just like the sail of a pioneering clipper that was reaching out to explore new horizons.  We inched out of the sandy riverside clearing in four wheel drive mode and the back shockers were bottoming out on every mound or hollow we crossed.  When we eventually hit the bitumen the suspension still banged and crunched and it came as a welcome relief when our load was lightened by many kilos in Byron Bay.  I stored most of my un-needed gear at the Epicenter with Danny which made room in the back for a double mattress and a gas cooker.  Because Alicia only had her backpack to find room for there was ample room beside the mattress for my four track recorder and a milk crate full of master tapes. The portable computer fitted nicely under the front, passenger seat, and a newly aquired solar panel was permanently secured to the roof.  I was really looking forward to our time on the open road as it meant an opportunity to catch up on my creative pursuits and resume work on the sadly neglected script for' Once upon a planet'.   Wanting everything to be perfect for our forthcoming journey of discovery I proposed that a dog was the only thing missing to make the adventure complete.  It just so happened one of the bitches at Quick Bucks Wrecking Yard had recently dropped a litter so we agreed to take a short trip to Port Stephens in the hope of scoring a fluffy little travelling pal.  When we got there the litter was eventually located right at the back of the wrecking yard among racks of old tires and rusting car bodies.  We both fell instantly in love with the dejected runt of the litter which had slipped in a sump oil pan and looked like an otter washed up in a coastal spill.  We cleaned him down with soap and warm water and afterwards he bounced out into the sunshine to romp with his siblings for the last time. The standard fee for any of Buck’s pups was twenty dollars and the money was handed over gladly for our new mascot.  Buck’s dogs were leftovers from when he had tried his hand at serious breeding and most of them were descended from pure strains.  Our pup was half rottweiler, half long haired German shepherd and both of his parents had papers to verify their breed.  After some smoochy, coochy persuasion I got to name the dog 'Rufus' which was inspired by a Chukka Khan album title from the seventies.  Alicia loved the pup to death and it seemed like the only time I got to hold him was when she was at the wheel.  The rest of the time they were inseparable and you would think she was nursing her own child. 

'EEEK!

By the time we got to the Hay plain midway through our hot and dusty road journey we had settled into a reasonably comfortable travelling routine.  Alicia was at the helm driving most of the time and I was lost in the world of literary imaginings with my laptop in the passenger seat.  Little Rufus had the run of the cabin to burn up his playful puppy energy and when it was time to sleep he just flopped out on our bed in the back.  Learning to anticipate his next toilet stop became a shared art and it helped to keep us alert on the vast desert highway.  If ever we spotted a recent roadkill we made a point of stopping to check out the carcass.  I allowed Rufus to smell the dead snakes and lizards we came across to prepare him for the natural surprises that might lie ahead.  Just as his nose touched the sun dried scales of the reptile I made a sharp hissing noise and clapped my hands loudly.  Within two days of travelling he started avoiding the dead snakes we found and he would only investigate things like roos or birds and the like.  Any recently hit kangaroo we came upon was given a partial roadside butchering and often we dined on char grilled roo steaks under golden desert sunsets. 

We arrived on the River Murray at the peak of the fruit harvest season and our waterside campsites were often shared with a jolly band of fruitpickers.  Some of them played banjos and guitars which meant that fireside singalongs were a regular feature around the camp.  I was able to sing my heart out every evening after the pickers had finished work and were letting off some steam.  Knowing they had also picked fruit for a living I mentioned my friends from the chicken farm back in my hometown of Owen. To my surprise the whole clan knew Stan and Calypso and they all spoke highly of them. It was often the case that the local rangers would get wind of where the fruitpickers were camping and midnight convoys would be formed as they had to migrate to a new location.  Alicia loved the cat and mouse games we were playing with the authorities and she said it made her feel like a “true Gypsy” for the first time in her life.  Those fruit pickers really are Gypsies and nomads at heart, like carnival folk and rodeo clowns.   In each new campsite we established with the fruitpickers water access and shade were the most essential requirements.  As soon as a suitable location was found somewhere down by the river tarps were stretched between the trees to shelter the vehicles from the blistering riverland sun.  When the worst heat of the day had passed Alicia and I would often take the dingy out to explore the area and search for fossils in the looming sandstone cliffs.  Rufus was a fearless little nipper from the word go and he soon learned how to stand on the point of the bow in true mascot fashion.  On one of our fossil hunting expeditions I found the complete inside of a nautilus shell that had existed in some long dead ocean.   Fossils of plants were common and Alicia dug out a time blackened tooth that might have belonged to a pre-historic shark. 

The spot where I decided to attempt my crop was a few miles up the river from Renmark in a billabong which was bordered by large hanging willows.  Our newly germinated seeds turned into delicate upward moving sprouts in the southern sun and as they did we had to rough it in the wilds more than at any other stage of the journey.   When the seedlings were about three inches high we moved them out of the shadecloth nursery into new containers.  These were foam broccoli boxes that we had gathered from various shopping centres in the area and they were filled with a blend of the local riverland soil and potting mix.  Each seedling was sheltered from insects and the like by a wire cage which supported a shadecloth cover.  There were twenty containers in all and each held a sturdy survivor from the germination of more than a hundred seeds.  The seedlings were placed in the most sunny locations we could find between the hanging willows and the soil filled containers floated perfectly, just as we hoped they would.  Each plant occupied box was fastened to a log or a root at the waters edge and the white polystyrene was disguised by dead branches and leaves.

 Any boating enthusiast who entered the lagoon would have to get through a propeller busting maze of submerged logs and other snags to detect our floating crop and they would have to be anchored less than a foot from each plant to work out what it was.  Once our babies were secured in their new homes I did a test run to see how my watering system was going to work.  Alicia stood knee deep by each container to watch the result as I motored by at half throttle.  The bow waves that I created as I passed, gently ended their journey towards the river bank in little splashes, which spilled just a few drops into the waiting containers of soil.  The system worked so well that the plants didn't even topple over when speedboats and paddle steamers made their way past the entrance of the lagoon. With the seedlings growing merrily away in their self watering habitats Alicia and I had all but completed our pot growing mission.  Now all there was to do was wait for the plants to mature and hope that no inquisitive river users stumbled upon our crop.   We moved to a new campsite on the other side of Renmark and I got back to work on my art.   As well as further developing the script I started cataloging all of my four track recordings into some kind of comprehensible order.  This meant long hours in headphones playing and replaying studio dubs trying to find the closest generation to the master.   When I was busy with my work Alicia used to occupy herself with long bush walks around the riverland in search of fossils and bones.  Rufus was her constant guard and companion as they explored the drought stricken flood plain in search of natural wonders.  She would often drag me away from my work to see something she had just discovered. We shared a healthy fascination for all that existed in our red dirt, mallee scrub domain.   Rufus had grown to a solidly built three month old river dog and he got his first real taste of hunting action when a large goanna broke it’s camouflage and ran up a nearby tree.  My young hound was so quick off the mark that he was able to snap at the creatures hind quarters as it scrambled up the trunk.  The lizard broke free of his jaws and made it to the crown fork with a trail of blood marking it’s accent.  Rufus barked and bounced around the tree for ages expecting his prey to come back down, but it just looked down at him wounded, but happy I would imagine to still be breathing.  The goanna left the tree sometime in the night and early the next morning Rufus followed his scent to the base of a distant, long dead gumtree.  The corpse was covered in ants and flies but the air born scavengers had not as yet arrived.  Part of the lizards intestines were protruding from a gash that was inflicted in it’s underbelly.  My young pal had grabbed him so firmly that one of the back legs was broken and the white of a bone was showing through.  Rufus was so excited that he snapped wildly at the carcass as I held it up by the tail.  A quick dunk in the water scattered the swarming ants and flies then I threw it over my shoulder just like a bonified, dog running hunter who was going home with a kill.  I fired up the smoldering embers of the fire and removed the animals insides.  Then I threw it onto the rising flames with the skin still on, the same way the natives have done for countless generations.  Each time I turned the lizard over Rufus gave another barking and bouncing performance and while it cooked away he crouched with his chin on his front paws, drooling.  I removed the best cuts of meat from the blackened, smoky carcass, then threw the smoldering remains into the shallows.  Rufus dragged the steaming skeleton out of the water and he made short work of it once it had cooled down.  That evening Alicia and I dined on goanna portions cooked in a white wine sauce with garlic and green peppercorns. We washed it down with some high quality but inexpensive burgundy that we had picked up from the local cellars. 

 “Here’s to our dog Rufus!”

Being the natural showpony I am, I’ve always had the problem of women feeling that they were living in my shadow and with Alicia the same old curse began to rear it’s ugly head.  When we were living on the houseboat it was accepted in an unspoken kind of way that I was the Captain of the vessel and to balance things out Alicia took on the role of Supreme Commander when it came to anything to do with the Landrover.   With each passing day it started to go a little bit further past a joke and in the end I had to tell her to stop ordering me around.  I was more than capable of changing an oil filter or a spark plug without her constant interference, but she persisted in using the car maintenance thing as a platform for other underlining gripes.  The pot she bought for the trip had started raising the levels on the tension meter as well and I was regularly scolded for smoking too much.  At the first opportunity I sold what remained of the pound to the fruit pickers and from then on I fueled my daily habit from other sources.  The battle of wills that was emerging between us became unbearable and one stinking hot day we had and all out screaming battle on the shores of Lake Bonney in the township of Barmera.  In the heat of the moment we agreed to go our separate ways and I set about unloading my gear out of her precious frigging bomb of a car.  When we attempted to debate who should take the dog the screaming resumed to even greater heights, until I just picked up Rufus in my arms and said goodbye, sounding more like an angry father than a jilted lover.  Alicia drove off in a billowing plume of red dust and I was left standing amid piles of hastily scattered belongings.  In those final moments of our unfriendly separation the impact of my middle aged, romantic fling hit home and it impacted with the soul crushing weight of a million half ripe, riverland plums.  I knew the girl was too young from the word go but as any horny old fool will tell you, ‘An erect penis has no conscience’.

I sat on a log in the carpark where I had been abandoned and just wrestled with the dog for a while, as I puffed on a scoob and pondered my next move.  As chance would have it the first potential storage area I spotted was a weather beaten, tin garden shed which sat at the rear of the local scouthall, about sixty feet from where I was sitting.   Some sort of event was taking place in the hall and the arriving scouts were being greeted by officials at the door.  I wandered over to the scouthall and said a friendly “Hello” to a bloke who looked like the most senior looking Scoutmaster among them.  Early in the conversation I made mention of my uncle Ainslie who’s fine reputation in the scout movement they all would have known.  I endeavored to explain my predicament to the door posted officials and inquired about the use of the old tin shed out the back. When I mentioned that my girlfriend and I had parted company and I was left stranded they all had a healthy chuckle and said, “Yea!, we heard the whole thing”.  The Senior Official said that I could use the shed for a week if I fixed up the wind battered door and left the place as clean as I had found it.  In humbled gratitude I agreed to the request and left a twenty dollar donation in the scout troupes fund raising tin.  In the following hours my golf buggy was used to cart gear from the dusty carpark to the shed.  By sundown my belongings were all safely locked away and I was setting up camp in a circle of spindly salt bush at the waters edge.  Rufus sensed that an important change had taken place and he moped by the fireside as I polished off a bottle of Wild Turkey. I took comfort from Leonard Cohen in the loveless delirium of a humid night and vowed to pursue the affections of females closer to my own age in future. 

With the dawn my canine buddy and I rose to the sight of pelicans wading in the reeds less than ten feet from my bedroll.  Rufous sprung into action and chased the intruders from our midst with not an inkling of the previous days dramas.  I allowed myself to tune into his happy doggies mood and before long I was rationalizing how doomed my relationship with Alicia had been, before it even got started. Our affair I reasoned was nothing more than a stupid fling that I was clutching to in my pathetic middle aged, sexual decline.  I had been some kind of Tarzan or Jungle Jim fantasy figure in her great outdoors adventure and when our true identities emerged, the illusion died like a mud bogged carp in a dried out lagoon.  Rufus and I left the campsite after breakfast and wandered into the small township of Barmera.  I loaded the golf buggy up with fuel and supplies while we were there and one of the local aboriginals supplied me with some filthy red dirt marijuana.  As the dog and I were walking back down to the river past the Barmera sailing club I spotted a couple of fibreglass catamaran pontoons leaning against a side wall.   A sign was attached to the old floats giving their sale price and there was a number attached that I could call.  I got straight on the phone to the owner of the pontoons and after lunch he drove down to the river to meet me. I ended up paying the old bloke sixty dollars for the pontoons and he threw in a length of rope so I could drag them through the water to my camp. The pontoons had metal bolt plates molded into the upper surfaces which were rusted with time, but still promised to support a timber frame. On one of my little walks around the neighborhood I discovered that they were demolishing the old folks home just across from the recreation park where I was camped.  I used the buggy by moonlight to gather a supply of the discarded hardwood planks and the next day I started work on the frame.  I spent the next week or so designing and constructing a duel hulled, cabin mounted vessel that was intended to carry my doggy and I out of lake Bonney and onto the Lower River Murray.  The catamaran pontoons were joined by a sturdy timber bolted frame and I made a floor out of apricot crates I gathered from the rear of the local grocery store.  On top of the splintery, flooring slats I erected a wind facing triangular cabin frame using two inch PVC piping and plastic molded joints.  The frame was sealed with my usual method of placing tarps over shadecloth and by the time I was finished it was like being inside of a sturdy, floating tent.

The outboard motor was mounted on an extra thick hardwood transom that I fitted into the flooring frame and this allowed me to control the throttle from an insect protected position in the cabin.  The days were dry and still as I put my new watercraft together but the wind came up in the final stages of construction and it blew hard for six days.  It was white capping out on the water the whole time and I just had to sit it out with my dog under the upturned dingy.  There was too much sand blowing to risk switching on the laptop so I just read some Wilbur Smith novels and drank like a marooned sailor.  My camp was right next to some waterfront acreage that was being landscaped and decorated with sculptures by the local kids in a council funded scheme.  They were a cool young crew of creative but wayward teenagers who would often pop in to say hi and have a smoke by the campfire. The wind eventually eased back to a mild flatland breeze so I packed up my load and set out across Lake Bonney. 

The dingy was towed along behind the vessel and it served as a storage area for the least used of my belongings.  I had more than enough fuel stored inside it so Rufus and I did a slow circle of the lake before passing under the high roadbridge and entering the backwaters of the Murray floodplain.  The previous day while I was in Barmera buying supplies I came in contact with the local Kayak instructor and he described the route I should follow out of the lake.   He told me how to get to the main arm of the river but the situation in which we met was a somewhat drunk and stoned singalong with the local Aboriginals.   I was so confident I had the directions in my head I didn’t even bother to mark a course on the map.  At the time we were conversing the Coories were belting out a passion filled version of ‘The Witchita Lineman’ and all I really wanted to do was sing along with them.  The impact of my poor travel preparations came thundering home two days after I set out when I discovered that my vessel was badly bogged in the blistering sun. I had not yet completed a journey that should only have taken half a day and there I was going nowhere.  I managed to get the raft free of the bog after hours of levering it with a branch and once it was settled in deeper water all I could do was collapse with exhaustion.  A severe case of delirium had set in and I was too fucked out to contemplate motoring off, so I just flopped out and drank myself to sleep with a Berrie Estates wine cask.  The next morning I woke up sore, hungover and extremely irritable at having stuffed up the directions.  My back was hurting too much to even think about maneuvering though unfamiliar territory so I decided to cast my handlines in the shade of a willow and let the day pass by without me.  The midday sun was directly overhead and I was gutting a big fat carp when I heard what sounded like a kid laughing off in the distance.   A short time later I spotted a group of Kayaks passing in front of a reedy inlet about a hundred feet away and I started shouting for them to come over to where I was moored.  As luck would have it the group of kayakers were being escorted through the shallow, backwater delta by the canoe instructor I had met at the singalong.  After he and the kids had a good chuckle at my predicament a map was produced and the exact location of the swampland exit was conveyed.  The inlet I was supposed to enter was the one I had seen the kayak enthusiasts passing in front of but it looked so much like all of the others I had no way of knowing in my sun struck and delirious state. The kayakers rowed off, still giggling and I tapped into a a new source of enthusiasm as I prepared to leave the boggy lagoon.  Once motoring I was able to negotiate the narrow channel that led out of the swamp but I still had to putt along between endless reed banks, keeping an eye open for the main arm of river.   A flock of swallows followed my trail and hovered inquisitively outside of the shadecloth just inches from my face.  Rufus wasn’t long to spot them and even though he barked madly they still hung around diving and swooping in fantastic aerial displays.  Our free entertainment from the natural kingdom was interrupted when the upper deck of a houseboat came into view from behind a tall cluster of reeds.  This assured me that I had located the main body of water and I had a private chuckle at my own stupidity in getting lost.  We made it to the Overland Corner settlement on the third day after setting out and were greeted on our arrival by some fruit pickers who were camping high on the gum rooted banks.  I knew some of them from previous campsites I had stayed at with Alicia and they sang broken hearted laments when they found out that my young sort had run home to mummy.  We yodeled sad, ancient folk songs by firelight and Rufus got his first taste of hard core dog fighting with their mangy, river dwelling mutts.  After three days of partying with the fruit pickers I decided to move on down the river towards Blanchetown which was my much anticipated destination. I passed through a number of locks and weirs as I moved between charming riverside, shack towns and at each I had to give the Lockmaster the name of my vessel.   The best name I could come up with was ‘The Starlight Express’ but it didn’t receive the slightest response from any of those country bumpkin, waterways officials.  I guess those blokes have seen it all in their time.   I did however receive a positive reaction to my cabin mounted cat when I pulled into the township of Waikerie.  There was a young reporter from the local gazette waiting on the neatly trimmed grass as I dropped anchor.  Apparently someone down river had alerted the newspaper that a raft bearing a ‘Greenie’ flag was heading their way.  The theme of my interview was naturally environmental and I focused on rising salt levels and the misappropriation of water as the prime concern for the riverland communities.  The article appeared in the local rag two days later and it featured a striking picture of Rufus and I standing on the pontoons looking up at the flag.   I bought a little glass picture frame at the local Saint Vincent’s store and hung the newspaper clipping up in the cabin.  That event lifted my spirits immensely and it reinforced my pledge to pursue the higher calling instead of unsustainable, time wasting affairs with the fairer sex.  I got more work done on the laptop as I putted along between those riverland townships than I had at any stage since I first started writing.  After I had located a mooring in each new town the first thing I would do was find a compatible computer and download text from a disk to hard copy.  The script was almost two thirds complete and my riverland adventure inspired the story to epic new heights.  I was treated to a diverse range of environmental perspective’s by a host of authentic, down home characters and this gave the unfolding tale a true grass roots feel.

My arrival in the township of Morgan was the most memorable of my mooring tales because it’s closely associated to a special dream.  In the dream I was swimming with Rufus in the green waters of the Murray and we were suddenly swept into a raging torrent that dragged us towards cascading falls.   I clutched desperately at some gigantic marijuana plants that were floating all around us and somewhere between the topmost point of the falls and the rocks below I snapped out of the dream.  I had fallen asleep exhausted after a stinking hot run between towns and my vessel was moored where the River Princess paddle steamer is generally tied up.  The sound of fifty million angels trumpets filled my ears and I woke to the vision of an enormous revolving paddle wheel and fairy lights on a polished, colonial gangway.  The passengers were hanging over the railings getting pissed and laughing their heads off as I frantically pulled up anchor and moved to an unoccupied wharf.  The reason the dream was so significant is because it was almost a psychic premonition of things to come. 

When the harvest season arrived I started going out of my head wondering if my long neglected, floating marijuana crop had survived. I made arrangements to leave Rufus with some fellow dog lovers who ran  horses on the edge of town and he was secured with food and water in a disused bird avery.  I was on a bus bound for Renmark within the hour so I could get out to the lagoon and satisfy my curiosity once and for all.  From the bus depot I hitched a ride out to our old camping site track then I walked about four miles to a clearing across from the lagoon.  The first half of my river crossing  went fine but after a while I started developing a nagging cramp in my left leg.  The current was strongest right where it hit and it took all of the strength I could muster to get to the other side. I was sure that I was going to sink and die but my dog paddling strategy eventually paid off when the first handfuls of mud squooshed between my fingers.  I laid in the shallows for about half an hour just regaining my breath and thanking my lucky stars that I was still around.  In the moments where my physical strength had started to abandon me I was on the edge of panic and it felt like I was back inside the dream.  After a sufficient rest on the muddy bank I picked myself up dog weary and started looking for the crop. Much to my dismay I discovered that only one plant out of the whole twenty had survived and the pitiful cluster of heads I harvested was less than would fill a matchbox.  I placed the under matured buds in the snap seal bag I had brought along as I contemplated the most practical way to get back to the other side without swimming.  A short walk along the bank revealed a moored houseboat with a dingy tied up at the rear.  The middle aged couple who owned the houseboat gave their teenage son the job of ferrying me across to the other side and I waved the good folk farewell amid warnings about those treacherous currents on the bends.  The young bloke dropped me off where I had left my jeans and a half consumed bottle of Coopers ale and he waved me a cheery goodbye.  The beer I had left sitting there had become warm enough to cook an egg in but my newfound gratitude for existence made it taste sweeter than the nectar of life itself.  As I moistened my lips on the warm beer I made an inner pledge to put an end to all life threatening delinquent stunts that might see me perished and forgotten in some unholy backwater cesspool. 

Rufus coped well with the overnight incarceration and his doggy sitters said he was no trouble to them at all.  Our dog and master bond increased noticeably after the separation and from then on his canine intelligence increased by the day.  We arrived in Blanchetown at the peak of the silly season with Christmas just a little over a week away.  I moored the Starlight express out the front of my uncle Ainslie’s shack and tied up at the submerged log where I had my first near drowning experience as a kid.  My journey down the River Murray had come to an official end with my arrival at that old log and it was here that the passing of time hit home with a sobering impact.  Since last I was in Blanchetown the log had been covered by a small metal and timber jetty which had buckled to the elements in the time that had passed.  All that remained was the crumpled frame and a couple of splintery boards.

‘Time, ... The  enemy  of  all  who  walk  the  earth  through  the ages’

My childhood, holiday shanty town was much the same as I had last seen it except for the fast food joint on the corner and the new bottle barn that was attached to the back of the pub.  That hotel sits fondly in my memories as it was the place where I celebrated my first steps without the aid of crutches.  I was driving the backup vehicle on one of the Owen farmboys trailbike runs and I skidded into a large mound of red sand.  My crutches were of no use in the pile of fine dust and with the encouragement of my mates I managed to hobble out of the car to firm ground.  I got blind stinking drunk to celebrate my accomplishment and the lads had to carry me out of the pub to sleep it off under a gum tree.  Some of the locals I met in the front bar this time around knew my uncle and auntie before they sold the shack.  They were a friendly bunch of beer swilling punters who made me feel welcomed every time I walked in the door.  I got speaking to a couple of blokes at the bar one afternoon who were opal miners and they said they knew my old man when he lived in Andamooka.  Stories came out about what a wild spirited bastard he was in his prime and that's how the conversation swung around to my trip down the river.  The publican along with most of the other people at the bar was in on our boisterous, beer swilling chatter and when he heard that I needed a lift to Adelaide he was quick to propose a plan.  It seemed that one of his employee's was driving down to Adelaide in two days time with an empty truck to pick up the Christmas booze.   The publican said if I helped his driver pack the beer at the other end I would be able to catch a ride with all my gear and the boat. 

'Bang!  ... What a fantastic  stroke  of  luck and  the  timing   was immaculate' 

The driver who I had already met in the poolroom was a fellow jester, who bore the name of Bagsy.  Over a friendly pint of ale we reached an agreement that he would he pick me and my gear up near the boatramp at sunrise in two mornings hence and before we left I had to give him forty bucks to help with the fuel.  He said he could drop me off at West Beach later in the evening after I had helped him to load up the grog and that I replied was an offer I did not intend to refuse.  I plonked my empty beer glass down on the bar and wished the Blanchetown crew a good evening, then I stumbled back to my camp with Rufus bouncing along beside.  The next day was spent dismantling the cabin area of my trusty flatwater vessel and sorting out what I would need for the trip.  I decided to leave the timber joined pontoons as a swimming platform for the local kids so they might remember me with good feeling when I was gone.  Bagsy pulled up in the dawn light of the second morning.  I had managed to reduced my load to the absolute bare essentials and the council dumpster near the boatramp was filled to the lids with unwanted stuff.  We loaded the boat into the rear of the old Bedford truck and it was strapped upright with my other gear between it and the wall.  After the long hot drive we had to wait in line at the West End brewery while other loads were dispatched.  By seven o’clock in the evening we had all of the Christmas booze stacked neatly around the dingy and we were making our way out to West Beach amid drink driving holiday revelers and wheel spinning hoons.  Bagsy gladly accepted the extra twenty bucks I threw in and we wished each other a merry Christmas as he putted off back to Blanchetown.  

Life passes by ... like the view out on the freeway

the past has been and gone, ... and the future starts today.