by Nikki Buick
The river was a sea of chocolate brown. Flat and wide. The crocodile warning signs were all over the place. Pippa was busting out of her sneakers with excitement.
‘Will we really see them, Mum?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s nearly breeding season, so chances are pretty good.’
There were plenty of signs telling us to be ‘casso-wary’ … on the lookout for the rare but sometimes violent cassowary – a big colourful bird like a rainbow emu. There had been signs in Cairns as well but no-one we spoke to had ever seen one in the wild. I would have liked to spot one of those elusive creatures.
The jetty was busy with tourists. Various boats were moored there. The sun was hot and a trickle of sweat tickled my forehead around the rim of my cap. Only this far north could you melt in late August. Step went to investigate the options and came back with tickets so we all pushed onto the nearest boat and took seats up the front. An old sailor stood at the wheel, his loud voice booming a welcome to everyone.
‘Step right up folks! Get ready for the ride of your life. Crocs. Snakes. Birds. We’ve got it all.’
The boat operator came over to Pippa and me and gave a toothless grin. ‘Hey kids,’ he gave a throaty whisper. ‘Wanna see something great? Looky here.’ He leaned over the edge of the boat and rubbed his fingers together. ‘See them fishies,’ he nodded to the water below and I bent down to see a couple of big fish cruising beside the boat that were about the size of your average mullet. ‘Watch this,’ he gave us a hairy wink and then whistled to the fish.
One lifted its head to the surface of the water and, sploosh, sent a jet stream of water from its mouth that hit the old guy in the eye. Pippa and I got such a surprise we jumped backwards.
‘Archerfish,’ the sailor explained. ‘Good spitters, hey?’
Pippa and I shoved each other aside, trying to get a better look and have a go.
‘Move over,’ I complained.
‘You,’ she snapped, pushing me hard with her shoulder.
‘Settle down, you two, or you’ll knock each other off the boat,’ Mum said sternly, giving us the evil eye.
Ranger turned his head and gave us a toothy smile that ended with a dribble of saliva over his chin.
‘I’ll go first,’ I told Pippa how it was going to be.
‘Whatever.’
She sighed and sat back as I wiggled my fingers and whistled down to the archerfish. One came straight to the surface, pursed his little fish lips and let me have it. Swoosh – straight into my eye. He was a good shot. We both laughed. Step leaned over behind us both and had a chuckle.
‘That’s quite a trick,’ he said and gave a whistle himself, receiving a shot straight to the eye as well.
I smiled to myself thinking how much I’d like to spit in Step’s eye. Lucky archerfish!
The boat chugged away from the embankment and eased out into the Daintree River. Tangled mangroves twisted about the shores of an island in the middle of the water.
‘Where are the crocs?’ Pippa screeched.
‘Settle down and shut up,’ I said. ‘You’ll scare them off with that voice.’
‘Kids!’ Mum warned.
We sat through a boring, rehearsed infomercial about various birds. Kingfishers. Honeyeaters. Cuckoos. Finches. I wasn’t a big one for birds. We slid into a marsh and saw a green tree snake coiled around the branch of a tree. It was thick and brilliant emerald. I would have liked to see it move but it just sat there. Presumably asleep. The sailor pointed out some mud slides along the banks.
‘Them there is crocodile slides. That’s a big one that’s been there. These buggers get so big they pick off the cows. Crocs like a good feed of beef.’
It was all very good of him to tell us that the crocs had been here. But where was the show? I wanted to see the big reptiles actually wrestling the cows into the water. That would be getting our money’s worth.
‘Look over there folks. That’s a genuine Ulysses butterfly.’
Woohoo. A butterfly. I was just about to throw Pippa into the water as bait to attract a big croc when the sailor killed the motor and went into a silent glide. He whispered like he was sharing a secret, ‘Look. Just on the bank there. A nice big fella.’
Everyone crowded to the side of the boat. I hoped it wouldn’t tip. There on the muddy slope was a fat grey crocodile. His four squat legs were splayed out on either side and his snout was resting right near the water’s edge. The fangs were jutting out the side of his mouth, like last night’s leftovers. Crocodiles really did look like they were smiling. Or smirking. An evil, knowing kind of smile. Pippa started bouncing up and down and I grabbed the back of her shirt.
‘Watch out, stupid, you’ll end up being his lunch.’
‘Don’t call your sister stupid!’ Mum hissed.
Geez, she was so sensitive. I didn’t mean it like in the literal sense. It was a word that wasn’t in any way connected to her personally. It was a generic term of light abuse that I’d fling at anyone. It wasn’t like I was cracking retard jokes, like I’d heard some of the arseholes in the playground doing.
‘It was a term of endearment,’ I said to Mum and watched her roll her eyes.
The whirr of camera shutters filled the air and a couple nearby sounded like they’d just won lotto. Mum was pointing out the crocodile to Ranger and doing some weird biting thing with her teeth. The kid clearly had no idea what was going on. Step joined the paparazzi and clicked about a hundred photos. The crocodile just lay there, sunning himself like some lazy celebrity. We all waited for something to happen but nothing did. He didn’t even move his eyelids.
‘Can’t someone throw a stick at him or something?’ I said more to myself than to anyone else. ‘Make him do something?’
The thought occurred to me that the beast was stuffed or fake. Maybe these boat-tour people stuck a model of a crocodile on the banks in case no real ones appeared. Just so no-one asked for their money back.
The engine started again and even that didn’t disturb the sleeping monster. We puttered off down the brown river, looking at more tiny blue-flecked birds and butterflies. Eventually the boat pulled into a swampy crush of mangroves, all twisted and sludgy. The smell of rotten wood and fishy slop wafted over the passengers.
‘There,’ the boat operator pointed and rubbed his bristly white eyebrows. ‘See?’
We all bent down and peered into the mess of vines and slimy branches to see two smaller crocodiles cuddled up to one another.
‘They’re just starting to contemplate the breeding season and I think these lovebirds are planning on a bit of hanky-panky.’ The sailor gave us a wink.
Pippa jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow and I knew what was coming.
‘Hunter and Sophie sitting in a tree—’
I pinched her so hard on the leg that she squealed and one of the crocodiles wriggled further up into the trees.
Mum turned and gave us her over-the-sunglasses glare. I smiled sweetly and shrugged as if to say it wasn’t me. After she turned back around I motioned a beheading to Pippa, letting her know that I would literally kill her if she came out with another Sophie dig. A hand chop across the throat. Slice.
I was not in love. Love was sappy and pathetic. I liked Sophie as a friend. Maybe a bit more. Maybe a lot more. I’d entertained some thoughts. It was a holiday crush. There was no point looking at it as more than that. She lived a million miles from Brisbane and we had two more years of school to go. It was a holiday romance. Well … ‘romance’ was a stupid chick flick word. I didn’t even know if Sophie liked me back. She probably thought I was a gangly dork who was all soft and cried like a baby. She probably saw me as a brotherly mate. I wasn’t as physical and loud as her other male friends. Friends. Yeah. That was all.
Pippa was being an idiot but she’d clearly picked up on my Sophie distraction. Even though it was just a bit
of vacation fancy, if and when I did find a serious girlfriend, I might consider someone like Sophie. She was very, very pretty. And funny. And awesome. And the thought of kissing her made my belly sag. I was hoping that Sophie might be a Miss Right Now but I was not in love. Definitely not. Not even a little bit. Well, not very much at all. Maybe just a little.
SNAPPER ISLAND
Sophie lived about 15 minutes north of Mossman, at Wonga Beach. Her dad invited me to go out fishing with them one morning. Mum was happy to let me go because Pippa and I were beginning to drive each other and everyone around us completely bonkers. Step was buried deep in his studies, desperately trying to get two assignments finished to send back to his university for grading. He was distracted and that was good because he was leaving me alone to work on my own schoolwork, which was coming along at a snail’s pace.
Sophie and her crew and I were catching up most days after school and spinning a soccer ball or racing each other in the pool. My hair had gone from a light burgundy to a chestnut, with the chlorine and sunshine, and my skin was a burnished copper. I was seriously starting to look like some Californian surfer dude. I was a bona fide ranga with a tan – a freak of nature!
‘So, you’ll really let me go? Out on a boat? I might catch some fish for dinner,’ I said, pleased that Mum was lightening up.
‘Well, I’ve met Barney and he seems like a nice fellow. He’s a ranger so he must be responsible.’
‘Great! He’s picking me up at ten,’ I announced.
Mum was most definitely chilling out a lot. There was less tension in her face and she was looking prettier and younger. It made me so happy that she was moving on and getting stronger. This trip really had done her some good. I was pleased to be getting away from the tent and the family for a whole day though. I was definitely going stir crazy in Mossman.
Barney was on time. Mum gave people points for punctuality. Barney arrived just as Step was returning from the library. She and Step put on the nicest-parents-in-the-world act. The big hairy man didn’t say much. He spoke in one-word sentences and said hmmm a lot. Mum tried not to stare at the tattoos peeking out from his bristly forearms. They’d been covered up out at the Gorge.
‘You be good now, Hunter,’ she said giving me an embarrassing hug.
‘I’ll keep a good eye on your young fella,’ Barney half-grunted.
That was all Mum would have wanted to hear.
Barney had a small boat with an outboard motor. It wasn’t small like a tinny. It had a little cabin tucked under the driver’s seat. He hooked it up on a trailer behind the truck and he and Sophie and I drove down to the mouth of the Daintree River, the sweet smell of cut cane coating the air like cinnamon on a donut.
‘Watch out for crocs. They love this spot where the river meets the sea,’ Barney warned. His voice seemed to harmonise in on itself like two or three gravelly folk singers.
A fishy, marshy stench blew up from the deep brown water. Fishing rigs clanged and buckets banged together as other hopeful anglers geared up and herded their boats toward the river.
Sophie and I helped her dad pull the boat down the ramp backwards and with a quick dip and splash we pushed it into the water. I had eyes darting about looking for any sudden flicks of a giant green tail and I jumped when a goanna or monitor lizard or something waddled out of the bushes and then hurried back the way it came when it saw us.
‘Snapper Island’s not far offshore,’ Barney said, throwing his hand out past the mangroves. ‘You could swim it if you were game enough to brave the stingers, crocs and sharks. I know a fella who did it once.’
‘Mad Mick,’ Sophie laughed. ‘He’s a crazy mate of Dad’s. Lost three fingers to a croc once and another to a cat.’ Her brown eyes caught the sun and looked like they were laughing too.
‘A cat? What, like a tiger?’ I looked confused.
‘Nah … like a little kitty cat. Fluffy.’ Sophie blew a strand of honey hair out of her eyes and a cheeky smile curled up one corner of her lips.
‘A cat bit his finger off?’ I was amazed, not really believing her. She must have been having me on! Even Barney snorted under his breath. I knew there was some ‘secret’ joke simmering between them.
‘Nah. It bit him and it got infected and went black … and the doctors cut it off.’ Her laugh was like fairy floss. ‘Mick’s fun,’ she said. ‘A bit of an idiot sometimes but he makes you laugh. You’ll like him.’
I gave her a quizzical look and fiddled with my cap.
‘He’s coming with us today,’ she announced.
Mick was a giant. Nearly seven foot and his skin was as leathery as the hide of a big saltwater crocodile. The crooked teeth and slightly wonky eyes left me feeling that he was some odd hybrid of a man and a giant reptile.
‘Gidday, this your boyfriend, eh, Soph?’ he chuckled.
Sophie and I both dropped our chins and mumbled something about being just friends. It was uncomfortable and I couldn’t look her in the eye until the conversation swerved away from the subject.
‘Now, no horsing around today, Mick, alright?’ Barney growled gruffly. ‘We got company. A city boy.’
‘A bloody city kid, eh,’ Mick laughed good-naturedly. ‘A raw one. We’ll toughen him up … throw him to the sharks, what do ya reckon?’
‘He’s kidding,’ Sophie mumbled into my shoulder.
I tried not to stare but my eyes immediately sought out his cat wound. Mick’s right hand looked like a penguin paw, or claw. Three of his fingers were missing, including the thumb, and in their place was a roadmap of angry pink scars.
‘Shark once stole a fish … lovely sweetlip … right off me line.’ Mick sidled up beside me. ‘Well, I jumped in after him and ripped that fish right out of his gullet.’ His eyes were wild.
I gave him an awkward nod and a lame-almost-terrified laugh. The guy was a bit of a psycho.
‘You’ll get a few shark tales from Mick,’ Barney barked, hauling the buckets and tackle up into the back of the boat. ‘Don’t believe none of them. Sophie’s already told the boy about the cat, Mick!’
That shut the reptilian giant up for a moment – but not any longer.
‘Yeah, well … did she tell you about the croc? I lost these three to a croc, you know? True!’ Mick waved his stumpy fist at me.
‘Yeah, Mick,’ Sophie giggled, ‘but don’t forget to tell Hunter that “The Croc” was the nickname for the machine that crushes cane at the mill. It always used to jam and snap and well—’
‘Was nastier than a real live crocodile.’ The big man pouted like a sulky kid.
Mick was lost in thought for a few seconds and then gave a sudden snort and snapped his two good fingers together like a pair of fleshy jaws. ‘Snappety snap. Let’s head out to Snapper!’
The men helped Sophie and me into the boat and with a puff of dark petrol smoke and a sick-sounding clatter, the motor spluttered into action. Barney steered us slowly up the river and out toward the Coral Sea. The brown water moved like chocolate cake mix beneath a beater, folding over and in on itself. The stretch of water that marked the dividing line between the ocean and the river chopped about and as we surfed up over the bumps and landed with a thud, my stomach battered my ribs. After a while we hit open sea and putted out at a good few knots.
Snapper Island loomed like the arc of a fish rising out of the water. The salty spray whipped my face and my hair trailed behind my head like a flag. Sophie and I sat up front, legs draped over the side and clinging to the metal bar that circumnavigated the vessel.
‘Fun, eh?’ Sophie yelled at me.
I nodded. It was hard to hear her over the sound of the motor and the slap of water against the hull. Froth churned alongside the boat as we skimmed through the small waves toward the island that seemed to grow before my eyes, like it was rearing up ready to clear the water.
As Snapper Island turned from bein
g a grey whale to a land mass with visible vegetation, Barney dropped the motor down to a purr and we cruised toward a sheltered area where other boats had come to rest. The water was a brilliant shade of blue and the trees fringing the bay swayed like grass skirts in the light breeze.
‘Let’s chuck a line or two in, eh?’ said Mick standing and fiddling with the tackle, while Barney dropped the anchor. He passed a couple of handlines to Sophie and me and a small lidded bucket.
I’d gone fishing plenty of times with Dad and I preferred a proper rod and reel but wasn’t about to complain. Inside the plastic bucket were small live fish. I’d only ever used dead bait – worms, squid, yabbies. Dad would buy them in frozen packets from the service station. I wasn’t sure how to wedge a little wriggling whiting on the hook. I watched Sophie, who was clearly more used to this sort of thing. It was weirdly awkward to jam a sharp hook into a wet mouth that was puckering up for a kiss. Someone once told me that fish didn’t have feelings. I reckon that was crap because when I pierced the flesh of this slippery creature it put up some resistance. There was clearly some discomfort involved.
I dropped my line over the side of the boat just after Sophie and we sat there, our fingers slipping along the nylon, waiting for a bite. The men threw their own lines with a whirr and a plop off the back of the boat and sat on two portable chairs, a stubby of beer in each left hand.
‘You go fishing much?’ Sophie asked.
‘A bit. Used to go with Dad out to Stradbroke.’
‘You miss your dad,’ she nodded. It was more of a comment than a question.
I nodded and that old familiar lump in my throat popped up.
‘You visit him much?’
I shook my head.
‘Too far away?’
Again I shook my head. Dad was in a jail in Brisbane. I lived in Brisbane. Once I’d googled the jail and learned that it was only about 20 minutes on the bus from my place.
‘Mum won’t let me.’
