34. On The Bridge Of The Rahtzen Vida; and Saluting The Flag
The answer came in the form of a sudden wind that gusted from the southern side of the valley. For most of the afternoon a large storm had been rumbling away there as it slowly moved toward us. We didn’t have a set of sails we could run-up to catch the breeze exactly, so we helped as much as we could by standing and holding our shirts open.
And this must have had some effect on matters, too, because after a while it seemed as if we were travelling closer to the northern side of the lagoon and the main through-current. Then, on slowly coming around at the upstream end of the eddy, it became obvious to us that we were now sailing a significantly different course.
Soon we were back in the Sherbert’s main stream and the HR Rahtzen Vida was moving along more quickly than it had done for most of the afternoon. Despite our loss of the Silastigatus, all hands were in high spirits again, and once more looking forward to arriving at the bridge and a successful outcome to our epic journey.
Brother SanSistez would be waiting there for us in the old ute. He would deliver us back to Gower Abbey in triumph, Glorious Heroes of our Rafting the Mighty Sherbert Expedition.
Fate and the wind had other ideas, however, though it took a while for us to realise exactly what was happening. It was this: as we sailed the lagoon’s through-current the southerly storm breeze continued to blow … and all the while was it was furtively easing us closer to the northern side of the channel.
In itself this wasn’t a problem; we still had two punting poles to keep ourselves out of trouble should we come too close to the river bank. But that same cool current of air which had delivered us from the lagoon was now setting us up for our adventure’s dramatic finale ... a finale exactly unlike that which we had envisaged.
Excitement levels on the bridge of the Rahtzen Vida following our escape from the backwater-gyre soon reverted to the general complacency which had prevailed on the lagoon: we just lay about half numb with boredom and drifted along. No one was actually watching where we were going. And we’d long since given up worrying about the direction our craft might be pointed. It didn’t make a lot of difference anyway.
Where we were going, unbeknown to us, was straight into the arms of an ancient rainforest giant – a great tree which had stood for centuries on the floodplain alongside the river and which, for some reason, had recently toppled. It now lay horizontal and partially uprooted, its branches draped out over the channel and into the water.
Rocky was the first one to notice our predicament. “Shipmates,” he announced in his best dramatic tones. “The time has come for us to ‘leaf’ the Rahtzen Vida. And without going too far out on a limb I’d urge a quick branching out ... if you twig to what I mean.”
Sash and I rolled onto an elbow each and stared at him dumbly.
“He’s taken ‘leaf’ of his senses,” muttered Doogle without looking up. “What are you raving on about now, Rocky?”
“Well, I just thought I might say, that while you bilge rats have been lounging around the foredeck, I have been on the bridge keeping watch. According to my calculations – should you be interested – holding our current bearing will soon have us in collision with a very large tree.”
We all sat up and gaped. There it lay like some great primeval predator, its impenetrable wall of foliage and flowers ready and set to snare boys passing by on rafts. There was nothing we could do and not a lot more we could say.
“I think,” continued Rocky – as the tree began looming over us – “that in the time honoured tradition of the sea I should now deliver those well known nautical words: ‘Abandon ship! Every man for hisself!’” ...as into the leaves, limbs and assorted staghorns of this mighty forest monarch we were irrevocably swept.
We were equal to the moment, however. When raft and rainforest delinquent made contact we threw ourselves into its branches and clambered to safety. But as the current pressed the Rahtzen Vida into a tightening mesh of sticks and limbs Doogle lost his footing, and before he could recover from it his ankle had become jammed in the crush.
“Ow! Shit! It’s got me! The tree monster’s got me!” he yelled. “Hey wait! Gis a hand! I can’t get me foot out! OWW!”
Like migrating monkeys we three dropped back through the foliage and set about freeing our trapped shipmate. And a surprising amount of effort was needed to spring the offending branches and pull him free.
His ankle had suffered some abrasion but there was no blood. Doog rubbed it vigorously for a moment to mitigate the pain.
“Gees mate are you right does it hurt much can you still walk?” we asked all at once.
Doogle grit his teeth and gave us a look of boundless stoicism in the face of incredible pain. “It’s nothin’,” he said grimly, “just a broken leg. I’ll be right.”
“But where’s your sense of nautical tradition?” enquired Rocky. “You should’ve shouted ‘Save yourselves, mateys. I’m done for!’”
“Yeah, but I had to sing out, ay – so I could save you blokes. You’d be flat out finding your way back to the river bank without me there to show you the right direction.”
Before abandoning ship for the second time I retrieved our ropes – mainly so I could string Doogle up on reaching dry land. At the same time Sash grabbed one of the punting poles.
“Don’t worry about that,” I advised. “It’s just rubbish now.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be needing it in a minute, Casey. There’s something I want to do.”
After climbing back up into the branches we worked our way along them until reaching the trunk, from where it was just a matter of walking along its mighty girth to the river bank. Sash’s punting pole made things a bit awkward for him but it was easy enough for the rest of us.
When close enough Sash threw the pole across the intervening gap, then climbed down via the exposed roots and picked it up again. He hadn’t told us what he intended doing and we knew not to ask. We also knew it wouldn’t be long before we found out, as he had a certain manner about him when his larrikin humour was becoming active.
Our expectations were quickly realised, too. Once clear of the tree he tied his raggedy handkerchief to one end of the pole and, after raising flag and flagpole to the vertical, he speared its bottom end into the leaf-litter. He then held the pole upright, adopted a dramatic pose and pronounced in a loud and official sort of voice, “In the name of Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, I hereby take possession of this land and all that sail in her. God Save The Queen!”
We all had a bit of a laugh at his little act, but it was the final scene which had us falling about the leaf-litter in a state of helpless, tears-in-the-eyes hysterics.
He let the flagpole go, took a smart backward step, snapped to attention and saluted.
The flagpole fell over.
“Bloody Pommy rubbish!” he barked, still at the salute.
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 33
