Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles

by Lindsay Johannsen

CHAPTER 32

  The Four-Gallon Tins; and The Chief Inspector

  Apart for just the one tiny detail, everything was perfect. Four boys on a raft, a lazy section of the river, the benign warmth of the late afternoon sun and a gentle breeze drifting up the valley. It truly was an idyllic experience.

  We were now totally relaxed. The two schoolbags of sandwiches, fruit and cordial drinks that Mrs Finnegan had insisted we bring were gone and we were just lying back, watching clouds drift across the sky and an occasional bird flying at the edge of the rainforest canopy.

  And all the while our raft slowly and relentlessly circumnavigated the gently-moving gyre of Petermann’s Lagoon.

  Our adventure had begun well enough – on our two rafts. Doogle and Sash had launched first, moments in front of Rocky and I. This gave them a handy lead, but it wasn’t a race and even out in the main current we’d remained within easy shouting distance of each other.

  Petermann’s Lagoon lies about nine kilometres down-river from the school, on a long south-curving reach where the Sherbert widens fourfold. There the water slows markedly, with the through-current holding close by the northern bank and the broader backwater forming a return eddy.

  Navigating that far had taken us over an hour, and once in the lagoon the two rafts had settled close enough to throw a rope across. And nothing had seemed amiss; the water we were in was by every appearance part of the through-current. In point of fact, though, we were in the lagoon’s countercurrent and, while we were concentrating on lashing our two vessels together, it had gently eased us about and set us drifting homeward. Yet even had we been aware of this there was little we could have done about it.

  Blissfully unaware of our new circumstances we finished making the joined vessels shipshape then took some observations of a navigational nature. And there soon arose among us elements of doubt and confusion, for our heading seemed contrary to expectations. We eventually worked out what had happened but it took us a while: we were now in the backwater, drifting upstream and firmly embedded in the gyre.

  Rafting the Sherbert River was Doogle’s idea. In fact he’d been half obsessed with the idea since his very first day at Gower Abbey. And then, one warm Tuesday afternoon a few weeks prior to our adventure, a means of achieving his dream had unexpectedly appeared in front of him.

  A day earlier Father O’Long had conscripted him and Rocky to go into Ingham with Angus Cross, “...to help load his truck,” he’d said, “and make yourselves useful generally.”

  Going to town in Angus’ old Blitz wagon was a highly regarded prize, despite having to be ready and waiting at the front gate by daybreak. The main reason for this was Angus’ habit of claiming that his crook shoulder was playing up – or his arthritis or something – following which he’d insist that one of his helpers should drive for a while, meaning right to the outskirts of Ingham.

  The same would occur on the return journey. This was always a much slower affair, as Angus wouldn’t consider making the trip until he thought it worthwhile. As a result the fuel, stock-feed, fencing gear and cement etc, plus the second-hand timber and steel he’d have found somewhere would keep him going for months. And, because of this, much gear-changing experience would be gained by the driver, with the engine labouring against its burden and the springs creaking – and all aboard hoping its baldy old tyres would make it home.

  On this occasion the load was topped off with two dozen 20 litre kerosene tins that a friend of Angus’ had accumulated – the light-gauge, square type containers common at that time.

  “I dunno...” Angus had said when they were offered to him. “You boys got any use for ‘em?”

  Refusing something like this was beyond Doogle. “Yeah, Mr Davis! Thanks!” he’d replied. “We can use ‘em for makin’ stuff at sheet metal class or something.” …though by the time they’d helped unload the truck and been dropped back to the school Doogle’s plans were of a substantially different nature.

  The cabin only had two seats and Doog had driven the inward leg, so the return trip from Ingham had seen him riding on top of the load. And there he was, reclining in no little comfort on some bags of chaff, when he suddenly realised: Empty tins! Flotation! He could use them to make a raft!

  “We’ll have to get it right,” I cautioned on his confiding the idea to us. “Plans on paper, I mean. Father will want to see proper designs and stuff – you know, like how we’re going to make it and everything.”

  “Yeah!” volunteered Sash. “It’s no good us just rushin’ around to his office and sayin’, ‘Gee Father, Mr Davis gave Doogle some kerosene tins. Can we have some of the battens and empty wheat bags so we can make a raft with ‘em and sail it down the river?’”

  Rocky had joined us. “Well boys,” he’d said, lowering his voice half an octave and doing his wicked Father O impersonation. “If your planning matched your enthusiasm I might have some means of assessing the project. I couldn’t agree to any proposal like this, though, without first seeing some good solid research and planning.”

  Sash and I had laughed but Doogle just faked amazement. “What; are you blokes stupid or something?” he’d said. “Of course we do research and planning. I’ll look after the raft; you can plan the trip.”

  “Yeah, like how far it is down to the bridge and how long we should take to get there and what we should take with us,” said Sash. “That sort of stuff.”

  In due course we presented Father O with our plans and made our proposal. To convince him we were abreast of the river’s navigational challenges Sash and I had created a large and elaborate chart based on the Ingham section of an old Shell road-map. Being from the valley Rocky then added what little he actually knew of the winding channel’s environs, following which we’d filled in the remaining gaps with good innovative detail.

  As for Doogle’s plans… Well, they were just brilliant. And he was able to answer every question put to him to Father’s complete satisfaction … except, that is, for the question as to why they were so much better than his usual schoolwork.

  “I can see you boys have put a lot of thought and effort into this project,” he’d said at the conclusion of our meeting, “and you have my permission to build the raft. But remember this. I’ll be giving it a thorough inspection before considering the next stage of your proposal ... and even then may not agree to your going.”

  According to Doogle’s plan, the raft would float on the kerosene tins. Two would to go endways in a hessian bag and a pair of them sewn together by their openings. The “bag-pairs” would then be fixed beneath the decking, an open-lattice of light batten attached to a timber frame. Timber was to come from Father’s stack of “odd job” sawmill rejects that he kept behind the presbytery garage.

  Oddly though, our nautical masterpiece unexpectedly ended up being two rafts, an option which had escaped our attention prior to its final joining-up behind the metalworking shed.

  “Will someone please explain why we’re turning two perfectly manageable rafts into a monstrosity as big as this?” asked Doogle.

  “You tell us,” demanded Sash. “You did the plans.”

  “Yeah,” added Rocks, “and they clearly state: ‘Join the two parts by inserting tab A into slot B and tab C into slot D then folding the tabs. Where’s your problem?”

  Doogle stalked into the shed, to the old sideboard we used as a paint and plans cupboard. After a short delay he returned with the main design page neatly folded in half.

  “Where does it say that?” he asked, handing it over.

  Sash went to open it but the plans came apart in his hands; Doogle had cut the sheet into two equal parts. In red pencil on one was scribbled “Plan 1”; on the other, “Plan 2”.

  Sash then pretended to study the drawings in a fussy and pedantic manner, rubbing his head and muttering to himself as he did. Eventually he looked up. “Yes. Yes yes yes. Yes, yes,” he waffled. “These documents would appear to be in order.”

  He took them back
into the shed, cleared a place on the sideboard and opened them out. Then, taking a pencil stump from his pocket, he carefully printed under the title details: “Final Inspection Certified by (flourishing signature) Ashley Saddlehead, Chief Inspector of Vessels Hulls and Banana-blight, District of Upper Central Sherbert, NQ”.

  Rocky followed him in and looked over his shoulder. “You’re the one that needs bloody certifying,” he muttered.

  33. The Naming Of Names; and The Ponkle-Punkling Sound

  In due course Father inspected our completed rafts. We followed him around, answering his questions with great enthusiasm and in the most glowing terms possible. Eventually, everything seemingly to his liking, the vessels were approved and negotiations for our proposed expedition were entered into.

  A few days later Doogle was called to Father’s office. There, after further reassurances, our plan received The Priestal Blessing.

  The following Saturday morning, with the help of half the school, we loaded our rafts onto the old ute one on top of the other and transported them down to the river – the four of us barely controlling our excitement.

  Several days of storms in the mountains had preceded this, so the water was higher than expected. A little unexpected high water was not going to interrupt our plans, though, not after Father had consented to our going. And of course, everyone who could manage it came to watch as we were launched into the (somewhat more turbulent than anticipated) waters of the mighty Sherbert.

  What occurred to none of us at the time, was that we were also launching ourselves into the undocumented chronicles of school history and legend. Many years were to pass before an adventure of this nature would be attempted again, though for no apparent reasons other than lack of means and opportunity.

  And giving us the final go-ahead was very much in line with Father’s philosophy of encouraging boys to be self-reliant, as, I believe, was keeping any misgivings to himself. Indeed, most of those present that day harboured mixed feelings about our project. For them the notion of a rafting adventure was certainly tempting, but the idea of being swept helplessly down the river was sobering enough to discourage any further applicants.

  Not so with Zack, however. His thoughts were clear. Father O’Long had refused him permission to join us right from the outset and despite his continued pleading Father had not relented. As we lifted the rafts from the ute and carried them to the waters’ edge Zack was watching from well to one side, smouldering fit to ignite the leaf-litter.

  Just then the dark cloud above us bellowed a warning and moments later a torrent was dumped on the proceedings. Typically, no one took the slightest notice; they just went on with the business of sliding our rafts into the water. Helpers held ropes as the four of us climbed aboard while others passed our provisions and punting poles.

  Doogle and Sash pushed out into the current as the rain began to ease, followed closely by Rocky and I. They were crewing the “Silastigatus” and we the “Rahtzen Vida” – as Doogle had earlier named them.

  Zack and I had discovered him at our shipyards one afternoon following their completion. He’d had a tin of white paint and a half-inch brush and was putting the finishing touches to something on one of the vessels – on the hessian just above the waterline.

  “‘HR Silastigatus’,” Zack read aloud as Doogle stood up to survey his handiwork. “…What’s a Silastigatus?”

  “It’s a raft called ‘Silastigatus’,” said Doogle without looking around. “What did you think it was?”

  This logic loop was too short for Zack to cope with. He wanted to ask another question but couldn’t see where to break in.

  “What’s ‘HR’ stand for?” I asked.

  “‘Helpless Raft’,” Doog replied.

  We went to the other one; “HR Rahtzen Vida”, proclaimed the rough lettering.

  “Let’s in on the secret, Doogle,” said Zack. “What do they mean?”

  “No secrets and no meanings. They’re nothin’, ay. Just names.”

  I couldn’t see the point. “Why bother?” I asked.

  “Well bloody hell, Casey! I mean, here we are, probably the first kids ever to raft down the Sherbert and... Mate, we gotta do it with a bit of style, ay.”

  “But ‘Rahtzen Vida’? ...‘Silastigatus’?”

  “…where you’d have preferred Popeye and Tootsie? Come on Casey, where’s your sense of posterity?”

  “Posterity?”

  “Yeah, posterity,” said Sash, who had just arrived. “From posterior, meaning ‘behind’. As in, ‘to posit a possible postulation from a posterior position in time’. …What are we talkin’ about, anyway?”

  He looked down at Doogle’s sign writing. “Hey! Great names! What do they mean?”

  “Don’t even ask,” I muttered as I walked away. “Don’t even ask.”

  Out in the main current we discovered the pace was really quite moderate, unlike the impression gained from watching the water rush past the launching point. We began to relax a little, too, gradually coming to realise we could drift along with the flow. In fact the only thing that needed doing to keep our craft in the main current was an occasional adjustment with a punting pole – having no fore and aft meaning it was not overly important which way the vessels were actually pointing.

  An hour or so later we reached Petermann’s Lagoon, where – as mentioned earlier – the current slowed considerably and also, that as the rafts drifted closer we decided on throwing a rope across. Once made fast the results were surveyed with satisfaction, too, as joining them had been part of the original plan and gave the advantage of a much larger platform.

  Then Doogle and Sash busied themselves with congratulating each other, while Rocky, after looking around in a puzzled fashion, ventured tentatively: “...I, erm … hate to interrupt, but I’ve the strangest feeling we are now heading back the way we came.”

  “Nah,” said Doogle. “It just seems that way ‘cos the rafts drifted around while we were lashing ‘em together.” He had a brief look about to get his bearings following which a puzzled expression came across his face.

  “Erm ... like I said, the rafts just seem to have drifted around while we were lashing ‘em together, because now we’re goin’ the wrong way. So what the hell’s goin on?

  “Stop the boat, men. Turn around.”

  Rocky suddenly yelped in terror. “There’s something ahead in the water! …NO!!! Full speed astern! Man the pumps! HELP!!!”

  Moments later a weird ponkle-punkling noise arose from beneath our feet. We’d heard it before to a lesser degree when moving around the deck, but on this occasion there was a certain terminal quality about it which really focused our attention.

  It was the unmistakable sound of light four-gallon kerosene tins failing under stresses they were never designed to withstand, as the branch of a submerged tree slowly and irrevocably skewered the Silastigatus through her vitals, dead centre. Strange things then began happening to her basic structure, as the pressure of the current slewed the joined vessels around. Soon a sort of equilibrium was reached.

  “We’ll have to cut ‘em apart!” shouted Sash, as he and Doogle abandoned their section. “Quick Doogle! Getcha knife! Cut the ropes!”

  I think Sash was worried that the pressure might cause the Rahtzen Vida to break up, but the stitching held and everything quickly stabilised so it was never an issue. One thing was certain, though. Having skewered the Silastigatus so perfectly, the snag’s branches would hold onto their prize until surrendering it to the next big flood.

  Again we set about the ropes, untying the lashings so recently made fast. The last one was locked tight, however, its tension holding the full strain of the current pulling against the Rahtzen Vida. Doogle then produced his famous pocket knife and severed it, allowing our half to drift free.

  We’d recovered Mrs Finnegan’s provisions, of course. There’d be no privation here, no starving shipwreckees lying about the deck moaning with hunger. In fact once we’d cleared
the Silastigatus and made ourselves comfortable in our reduced circumstances the situation didn’t seem particularly worrying at all – as long as we didn’t encounter another snag.

  After continuing our slow upstream beat for a time it was decided we should broach the refreshments. Later again we drifted languidly past the Silastigatus, our first full circuit of the lagoon.

  This went on for most of the afternoon, though initially we’d tried to free ourselves from the system by paddling with our poles. The only reference point we had, however, was the wreck itself. And so perfectly were we embedded in the recycling current that each time we went past the other raft we were but a few metres from our previous track.

  So much for our exciting and masterful navigation of the flooded Sherbert River, I thought, as we lay back contemplating the clouds. How are we going to get ourselves out of this predicament?