by Matt Wright
I don’t look upon our early trials using the sling method on Milton’s station with much fondness. They were cowboy days. At the time we didn’t know any different – we were just trying to get the job done. Looking back, I can’t believe the risks we took. Now, I wouldn’t dream of operating how we did back then. Part of the problem was the lack of appropriate gear.
My good mate Jimmy and I routinely worked together. We were often slung under an R22. The 22 is a fantastic little machine – lightweight with great manoeuvrability and perfect for mustering. But with a load capacity barely above the weight of two adult males, it isn’t suitable for slinging an egg collector lugging a full crate of eggs.
The chopper pilot would drop me onto a nest. While I was collecting, the chopper would pick up Jimmy and put him on a nest. I’d call the chopper back when I was done. And on it went. We’d work on rotation like this until all of the nests were cleared. We only had one harness. That meant one of us had to make do with a makeshift swing made out of a wooden plank. The unlucky bastard who scored the plank was always in for a hairy ride. There aren’t too many experiences in life as terrifying as balancing on a piece of wood attached to a cable holding a full crate of eggs while a croc nips at your ankles.
But whether you were being slung on the plank or on the proper harness, the danger was ever present. I’ll never forget the day I was on a nest packing eggs as Jimmy was being dropped on a nest not too far away. Over the radio I heard him start to bellow.
‘Fuck me!’ he screamed. ‘Get me the fuck outta here!’
Jimmy had launched himself up in the air and started monkeying up the sling.
‘Fuck that nest!’ he shouted. ‘Time for lunch.’
His face was pale when I saw him. Over lunch he told me he’d been lowered into a spot with two dead crocodiles and a few upturned turtle shells floating around. Just as he was being set down on the nest, he saw a head emerging from the murky waters the size of a 44-gallon drum.
That was one of Jimmy’s close calls. We all have them. One constant element of collecting crocodile eggs is unpredictability. It doesn’t matter how much experience and knowledge you’ve built up, the risk is always extreme. In my time, I’ve had three close calls while collecting eggs. Each of them was memorable for different reasons.
The first happened a few years ago. The team went out to clear a whole batch of nests along the Daly River. At this stage, I was working for the Professor. The Professor is Mick Burns, another legend of the Territory. We call him the Professor because he’s one of the Darwin’s most astute businessmen. The Northern Territory News recently named Mick the most powerful man in the NT. He has a broad set of business interests that include property development and ventures in the liquor industry. But it’s the crocodile industry where he has really made his mark. He owns and operates one of the largest crocodile farms in the world. The 30-acre enclosure employs over 50 people and holds over 10 000 crocs.
Mick’s a mentor and a mate, and a person I trust completely. Having trust in your teammates is absolutely vital when you’re collecting. That’s particularly the case when collecting along the Daly River. For some reason the crocodiles out there are absolutely horrendous: the nastiest, crankiest and biggest bloody crocs in the country. Of the 30 nests we cleared on that day, Mick and I were attacked on 29 of them. Each croc seemed to be progressively more aggressive than the last.
It all came to a head at the end of the day. I was on the sling, being slowly lowered onto a nest completely hemmed in by cane grass. In the old days, these nests would be approached by land. Getting through the tall cane grass was a nightmare. There was no way through it other than by laying it down and moving over it. It was tough going and extremely dangerous. Being lowered in on a sling is a far better way to get to the nests.
I landed next to the nest. I had a stick in one hand and the crate in the other. I unhooked from the sling and gave the all clear to the chopper pilot. The chopper flew off and went scouting for another nest. The Professor, meanwhile, was slung in under another chopper to give me support.
Before I’d even set the crate down and inspected the eggs, this huge 13-foot female came thundering out of a tunnel she’d burrowed under the grass. I turned round to meet the attack with my stick. She was too quick for me. She got under the stick and knocked me back. I fell hard on my side against the cane grass. I was completely trapped. The croc lunged for me and I braced myself for the pain of being bitten. But nothing happened. The croc ended up resting her head next to my leg.
I looked skyward and immediately realised what was happening. The boom of the rotor wash coming from the hovering chopper had spooked the croc. I could hear the Professor instructing his pilot on the radio.
‘Get me down lower!’ he shouted. ‘Hold here!’
The Professor drew his nine-millimetre semi-automatic and was taking aim. There are two reasons why I have never liked bringing guns onto nests. Firstly, we are not there to kill or harm crocodiles. We are there to harvest their eggs. Secondly, introducing firearms to unpredictable situations tends to increase the danger rather than reduce it. There are many examples of this fact.
In 2008, two of my mates Jase and Zac were dropped off on a floating mat. Trees were in the way so they were dropped a little distance from the nest. Zac stayed back near the chopper because the floating mat would not support the both of them. He stood guard with his pistol to cover Jase as he made his way to the nest. As he began opening the nest, the croc launched out of the water and grabbed him on the arm. Zac instinctively drew his weapon and fired a couple of shots at the croc’s head to prevent Jase from being pulled under the mat. The animal was thrashing around so violently that the bullet missed its target. Instead, it hit Jase in the elbow. The croc let go and disappeared, unharmed. Jase on the other hand was left with his arm torn apart by a croc, his elbow shattered by the bullet. In the end, the bullet did more damage than the crocodile. He faced a long road to recovery.
This story was going through my mind as I looked up at the Professor wildly swaying back and forth on the sling, trying to take aim. For all his brilliance as a croc handler, the Professor is not known to be a crack shot with a gun.
‘Wait! Don’t shoot!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll handle it.’
The Professor nodded, but kept the gun handy. I edged my leg backwards to give myself room and gave the croc a quick sharp kick to the head. It was a huge gamble – the sort of move that just as easily could stir her into attacking me. This time, I got lucky. The croc was startled and scurried off.
I don’t want to downplay the seriousness of that moment. But even if that croc had grabbed hold of me, I stood a good chance of survival. The nest where I was attacked near Daly River was slightly unusual in that water wasn’t lapping against it. She would have had to drag me at least 10 metres to get me into the water. Whether I would have kept all my limbs is another story.
That was the first time a crocodile nearly got me. The second time was even closer. It happened on the Tiwi Islands. The Tiwis are a group of 11 islands, including Bathurst and Melville, located about 80 kilometres north of Darwin. This is a hot, humid and wild place. Nine of the islands are uninhabited and the total human population on the remaining two comes to 3000.
With little human interference, the Tiwi Islands have incredible biodiversity. A whole lot of weird creatures thrive there, including masked finches, canary white-eyes, Tiwi masked owls, olive ridley turtles, Tiwi hooded robins, Carpentarian dunnarts, crested terns, and many more. There are also a huge number of saltwater crocodiles. They clog up the islands’ coastal estuaries and rivers. Come the wet season, the Tiwis are fertile country to harvest croc eggs.
The Tiwis are usually one of the last stops of the egg-collecting season, as the land needs a lot of rainfall for the crocs to lay their eggs. I usually go out beforehand to spot nests before we collect them. I do this using an R22 and an iPad that gives GPS fixes on all the nests. Then using the data I’ve collected, the team and
I plan the best approach to clear the nests, taking into consideration the gnarly rains and storms that hit that area. It’s not uncommon for us to find ourselves collecting in a cyclone, which isn’t very fun. One particular time, we were on our last day of our last run for the season. The team consisted of Mick Burbidge, Mick Jakobi, Craig Moore (also known as Wolverine on account of his beard), the Professor, Andy McLymont and myself. The two Micks were doing the flying.
Provided the weather is clear, the Tiwis are generally an easy enough place to collect because it’s fairly dry and the crocs are small. The Professor and Wolverine were on a nest. Burbidge, meanwhile, was slinging me onto a nest close by. I unhooked and Burbidge flew off. I had a quick look around. It was dry shrubby country on one side with a waterhole on the other. Experience has taught me that a crocodile usually attacks from the water. So I set myself up accordingly.
I put the crate near the water, stick next to my leg and started to unfold the nest. It wasn’t that big and neither were the eggs. I knew the female wasn’t going be too much trouble. But the smaller the croc the more quick and cunning they are. For that reason, my hearing was strained and my eyes were intermittently scanning for slightest movements. I heard a couple of cracks come from the bush behind me. I paid no attention. I thought it was the shrubs rebounding after I stepped on them. I didn’t even bother turning around.
Mosquitos were buzzing in my ears, driving me mad. Sweat poured down my face like melting ice on a hot day. It was the end of the season. I was tired, fatigued and ready to head home. I had marked about 10 eggs and placed them in the crate when I heard another crack, this time louder than before. I turned around and still saw nothing.
I moved back around to grab another egg from the nest, when the bush behind me came alive as a croc exploded at me with its mouth open. I had committed the cardinal sin of egg collecting. I had made an assumption about where an attack might come from. When a collector makes assumptions, things tend to go wrong.
It all happened in slow motion. I fell backwards as the croc jumped up at me. I remember seeing her jaws wrap around my arm. I haven’t got the first clue how that croc didn’t take off my arm. I managed to grab the side of her head using my body weight to fling her away. But she came at me again straight away, pushing me closer to the water. I managed to kick the crate at her as I crawled back towards the water. I was hoping she would grab hold of the crate. No such luck. Turned out she had no interest in the crate. She was only interested in me.
The croc launched over the crate and came for me. I had just enough time to grab hold of the stick and wedge it into her mouth. Although not huge, the crocodile had tremendous power. She propelled backwards straight into the water. My concern wasn’t the croc on top of me. I knew I could tire her quickly. I was more worried about her mate lurking in the water behind me.
Luckily, the water was only waist deep. I eventually got my footing. I pushed her to the side and she realised she’d been beaten. She took off through the water like an arrow, disappearing out of sight. I crawled onto the nest, radioed Burbidge and told him to come and get me. With that, the season was officially over.
A big female croc preparing to attack as I’m being lowered to collect the eggs on her nest. (Martin Vivian Pearse)
17
The Ring
There had been a string of near misses and close calls. A feeling of doubt started to creep into the operation. If things didn’t change, someone was going to get killed. The Professor challenged us to come up with safer methods of collecting croc eggs. We got together and came up with the idea of a ring.
The ring is a lightweight fence encased in a thick, brightly coloured plastic sheet similar to canvas, with metal ribbing on the inside. The material is similar to an air-conditioning duct but on a larger scale. It’s about five feet high with a five-foot diameter – wide enough to fully enclose a nest – and attaches to the collector’s harness. It serves as a visual barrier between the collector and any crocodiles patrolling the nest. At first, it was a resounding success. The crocs didn’t know what to make of it. But just like every other invention devised to improve safety while collecting croc eggs, the ring doesn’t guarantee safety. I learnt that for myself out at the Arafura Swamp.
The Arafura Swamp is a massive inland wetland in the middle of Arnhem Land. Prior to helicopters, large sections of the swamp were totally inaccessible. Covering an area of 1300 kilometres at the peak of the wet season, the swamp is a jungle paradise where everything grows big, from the giant barramundi to massive spiders. But nothing comes bigger out here than the crocs. The Arafura Swamp has the largest population of breeding crocodiles in the world.
My mate Gecko was slinging me onto a nest in the middle of a large area of black water. This was a nasty job. With black water completely surrounding the nest, the attack could come from anywhere. Normally I’d have called up to Gecko and told him this one was no good. But the ring had me overly confident. I gave Gecko the all clear and down I went.
On landing I unclipped from the sling and unhooked myself from the ring. The moment you unclip yourself from the sling, your lifeline is gone. I did a full visual inspection and couldn’t see any croc activity. I extended the rod and checked the depth around the nest. The nest was built up on an old tree stump. From the edge of the nest, the water dropped straight down. The water was deep too, certainly over eight feet. That was bad. If a croc managed to pull me in, they would never find what was left of me. The question then was simple – where was the croc? Experience and instinct told me that she was lurking nearby.
‘Keep on the radio,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you back when I’m done.’
‘No worries,’ said Gecko.
Gecko took off while I knelt down and pulled off the reeds and leaf matter the croc had raked over the eggs to keep them out of the sun. I had a false sense of security in the ring and took my time collecting on the nest. When I finally got to the eggs I discovered the nest was a dud. Most of the eggs were rotten and cracked. This happens from time to time. This nest was probably flooded and the eggs were rolled around too much or they became waterlogged. I started collecting the eggs that were still intact, marking them before carefully placing them in the crate. Let me tell you a rotten nest enclosed in a ring is not a pleasant place to be.
I was all set to call Gecko back when something massive smashed into the side of the ring and knocked me on my arse. The croc had busted through the ring. Her snout was poking through and her teeth gripped onto the metal ribbing. I dug my feet into the ground and braced myself as she tried to pull the ring into the water. Even though I was unhooked from the ring, I was still trapped inside it. If the ring was going into that filthy black water then I was going in with it.
‘Gecko!’ I roared into the radio. ‘Get your arse back here, now!’
I kicked the croc through the plastic meshing, hitting her right on the snout. She was a tough old girl. Even the full force of my boot didn’t discourage her from getting the ring off the nest. Although these eggs would never hatch, a female doesn’t abandon the nest until the end of the wet season. At that point she will know the eggs are rotten. Until then, she will guard the nest with ferocious force.
With another heave, she managed to pull the ring further into the water. I estimated that a third of the ring was off the nest. I felt like I was on the edge of a precipice without a harness, literally inches from certain death. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed hold of the rod, which had fallen to the ground. Reaching over the edge of the ring, I whacked that crocodile in the head three times. On the third hit, she released. I quickly manoeuvred the ring back into the centre of the nest while the croc backed off.
Looking down at her properly for the first time, my guess was that she was about 11 feet long. That’s a good-sized croc. I’ve certainly encountered bigger in the wild, but never before had I been in a position of greater vulnerability.
The croc launched out of the water, brushing past my stick and snapping her jaws
a few inches from my face. I had never seen a crocodile move that quickly before. Half her body landed on the railing, collapsing one side of the ring. I reeled back, falling hard onto my side, ending up about three feet from her jaws. I crawled back to the edge of the ring, doing my best to remain out of her strike zone.
‘Gecko!’ I shouted. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Nearly there.’
Not good enough, I felt like saying. The crocodile tried to attack again, but as she pushed off in my direction her back legs slipped on the edge of the nest. She slid a few feet back into the water. That little stroke of luck probably saved my life, allowing me enough time to get to my feet and push her back into the water with my rod. I danced around on that nest, keeping her at bay with my rod. Every chance I got I gave her a whack on the head.
By the time I heard the sound of the chopper I was nearly spent. Luckily, the croc was exhausted too. Her body was half on the nest and she was completely still. Gecko reckoned it took him two minutes to reach me from the moment I first called him back. It felt like two hours.
As the chopper lowered the sling, the rotor wash scared the croc away. She slid off the nest and vanished in the black water. I clipped what was left of the ring onto my harness and stole a quick glance skyward to see how Gecko was getting on. I was lucky to have him flying the chopper that day. On his first pass, he put that sling straight into my hand. I hooked on and bellowed at him to take me up. I catapulted into the air, the twisted ring dangling around my feet.
My hands shook all the way back to our pad. The pad is our base of operations, where the crates are loaded into the choppers. Even after I’d safely landed, it took me several minutes for the adrenaline to seep out of me. The boys had heard me swearing away on the radio but they didn’t know the seriousness of it all until they saw me. I was ghostly white, my face and arms covered in mud.
