GregOug

No. That was probably the only saving grace. I think we used a combination of dry and block ice in those days.

Thanks Kat.

Me either Hamish. Me either. Sigh

Thanks Hamish.

Do it. Okay. I'll start a new topic Copyright Greg Ouglitchinin North by North-West Mario, Vince and I were off to spend a week on a remote Barrier Reef atoll called North West Island, thinking that it would do us all the world of good. We had started preparations weeks before, making exhaustive lists of items to take, before realising that an ocean going liner couldn’t hold that much gear and stay afloat. We then crossed numerous items off, omitting many of the more non-essential items such as the complete Encyclopedia Britannica, beach umbrellas, ironing boards and pate knives, only to add most of them back on, figuring that they were all absolutely essential to the trip’s success. After much pushing and shoving, rearranging and even restarting, we finally managed to fit everything into the back of Vince’s old van. “Right boys, let’s go!” I exclaimed excitedly as I hopped into the driver’s seat. None of us are exactly small blokes and the saying “not so squeezy” came to mind as we turned the first corner and headed off on the eight-hour drive before us. I soon noticed that the steering felt decidedly light, probably because the front wheels were only occasionally touching the ground. I started to have slight misgivings that we may be somewhat overloaded. My apprehension increased some more when the van’s engine boiled about two hours into the trip, and then every hour or so thereafter, requiring constant halts to refill the radiator and let the engine cool. Luckily we had water packed. But then again what hadn’t we packed? Having packed too much was the cause of our troubles in the first place. Eventually, over two hours behind schedule, and rather too close for comfort to the actual departure time of the boat booked to take us out to our tropical paradise, we finally hissed our way into Gladstone, the gateway to the southern end of the Great Barrier Reef. Things started looking up. We were able to drive right down onto the wharf and unload directly from the back of the van, over the side of the boat, and into the waiting arms of the crew members. Our dinghy was placed on a pivoting arm and swung up high and dry on the stern. We were due to steam for most of the night, arriving at our destination at around nine o’clock the next morning. Having unloaded all our gear, we had a quick shower, changed our clothes and proceeded up to the bar for a quiet drink or two. We started talking to the crew, one drink led to another and before we knew it, midnight had arrived. Although, to tell you the truth, by that stage I’m not sure I could see the clock clearly enough to be absolutely sure it wasn’t later. Eventually, we crawled into bed, totally oblivious to the firmness of the mattresses, the smell of the diesel fumes and the rise and fall of the boat as it punched through the swell. We were awoken around eight a.m. by one of the crewmembers shouting that breakfast was on. Feeling rather seedy, we declined the opportunity to feast on greasy bacon and eggs, a decision we were later to regret. We dragged ourselves up onto the deck, our demeanour visibly improved as we noted the beautiful weather that awaited us. Look at that bombie down there! Shouted Vince. And the fish! Look at them, tons of them. I raced to the side of the boat and, sure enough, there were bombies everywhere, and as Vince had said, they were surrounded by fish, and not small ones either by the look of them. You beauty, shouted Mario. We can easily reach those in the dinghy. Looks like this could be a trip to remember. He wasn’t wrong there. We would remember it all right. The bombies, or coral bomboras to give them their correct name, looked promising, I had to admit. Although, as I glanced towards the distant line of breakers that marked the edge of the island’s surrounding reef, I thought that Mario might be being his normal over-optimistic, fearless self when it came to fishing. It looked a fair way to the island, and considering that we were some fifty miles out to sea in the open ocean, a trip this far from the island in a small dinghy looked like a challenging proposition, to say the least, even on a calm day like today. I glanced again towards the breakers. Something was nagging at me. Something didn’t feel quite right. What was it? It came to me then. Seems like a fairly large surf breaking over the reef’s edge, I said. That’s North-West, exclaimed one of the crew, looking a little too sprightly for my liking, considering he had been one of the main instigators of last night’s excessive drinking session. Yes, I know. But I would have thought it would be much calmer, I stated, Isn’t it supposed to be high tide? On calm days, the water over the reef surrounding coral atolls is always calmer on the high tide. This is because the lagoon becomes part of the surrounding sea as the tide rises. But as the tide falls, the water starts racing over the reef edge to escape, desperately trying to maintain the same level as the ocean itself. The reef’s edge then becomes a maelstrom, as the jagged bomboras and outcrops of coral interrupt the water’s flow. Breakers start building up as the ocean swells expend their energy on the reef edge. It is very preferable to approach a coral atoll on the high tide. High tide? No, it’s been going out for about three hours now, the crew member replied. But how are you going to land us on the beach then? Is there an entry through the reef to the lagoon? asked Mario. One of the other coral atolls that we had camped on in the past called Lady Musgrave Island has a passage through the reef that the Americans blasted during the Second World War to allow their boats to enter the safety of its coral-locked lagoon. I knew that Mario was remembering this as he asked the question. I felt my heart miss a beat as the reply came. No, you’ll just have to ferry your gear in on the dinghy. Uh oh. We looked despondently at each other, then sprang into action, starting to carry our gear up onto deck so that we could quickly throw it into the dinghy. All around us, other campers were doing likewise. Meanwhile, the captain eased the boat as near to the curling breakers as he dared. The crew started swinging the dinghies overboard, passing anchor ropes to eagerly waiting hands. As each dinghy was lashed to the boat’s side-rails, the relevant owners and their fellow campers started loading their dinghy with all alacrity. As luck would have it, ours was the last to be swung from the back deck, putting us behind all our other unfortunate fellow campers in the rush to shore. Finally, Mario and I sat precariously atop a greatly overloaded and unstable piece of aluminium, praying to the powers that be to protect us. Vince was staying on the big boat for the first trip in, tasked with carrying more of our gear up to the deck while we were gone. Mario gunned the motor and the dinghy limped forward, away from the yawing mothership. Gee, we must have some weight in here, Mario said. It’s hardly moving. Oh well, there’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s just get this first load to shore. It can’t be that bad, can it? I queried, unconvincingly. Mario turned the dinghy to face the surf surrounding the fringing reef. Waves approaching six feet in height were curling up, as if out of nowhere, as they felt the reef below, then surging into the lagoon behind. We sat there for a while, waiting to see if there was any pattern to them. Sometimes, every tenth wave or so, it appeared a bit less frightening, and eventually Mario said, Okay, this is it. Hold on. I’m going over. He turned the hand throttle on the outboard to maximum thrust, and we imperceptibly gathered speed. As we approached the reef’s edge, I felt the dinghy lift with the swell. I glanced over the side, just as we were on the crest of the wave, and was amazed to see the coral’s sharp teeth barely two feet below the bottom of the dinghy. Then we were over and into the safety of the lagoon. The lagoon wasn’t all that wide at the point we had approached the island from. Even so, it was a good couple of minutes before we were close enough to pick out individual features on the shore. Try and look for a good camping site, Mario called over the roar of the motor as we moved closer to shore. Aye Aye, Captain, I replied compliantly. I glanced over the side. Uh, Mario, there would be flat out being a foot of water beneath us, I said. What! But we must have at least three more loads to bring ashore yet. And the tides falling! We’ll never make it! Yes, it doesn’t look very promising, does it? We resumed scanning the shoreline. Look, over there, that break between those two large oak trees. That looks like a good campsite. Okay, it’ll have to do. Let’s go. We motored in until the dinghy’s keel kissed the sand. I jumped hastily overboard and began unloading as fast as I could. Mario started passing the heavier items to me and I struggled to lift them out of the water’s reach. When we had finally emptied the last of the load we quickly moved the gear a bit further up the beach. I don’t know why. The tide was going out! Just shows our state of mind by that stage, I suppose. We raced back to the dinghy and headed back out across the lagoon. With all the weight gone, she surged forward and we quickly gained planing speed. Clunk. What was that? I cried. I don’t know, Mario replied. Clunk, clunk. An even louder noise hit our ears. Oh, no! We’re hitting bottom, Mario shouted. He slowed the engine. We peered over the side and, sure enough, the jagged coral was barely inches below the rotating propeller. The tide was falling fast. Great! We won’t even make it to shore with the next load, I lamented. Let’s just hope we don’t do a shear pin or we’re really in trouble, Mario said. Outboard motors are deliberately designed with a weak point, in case the propeller should hit a solid object (such as the coral directly below us). Rather than have an expensive propeller (even the small ones can run to hundreds of dollars) smashed to pieces or badly damaged by rotating under power against an unyielding object, the propeller is mounted on a rubber base or copper shear pin. In the event of a collision, the base or shear pin gives way and the propeller stops rotating, no longer under the engine’s power. While this is great for protecting the prop from major damage, thus saving you money, the engine itself is also no longer under load. It revs, totally out of control, and usually blows up before you can reach for the throttle to lower the revs, or the kill switch to turn it off, thus costing you much more than the propeller this system was designed to protect in the first place. We knew that it didn’t take much of a touch from a coral bottom to break that shear pin either. We once broke three shear pins crossing a couple of hundred metres of water in the lagoon at Lady Musgrave! Once the shear pin has broken you are at the mercy of the ocean until you can replace it. To do this you have to tilt the motor, having first remembered to turn it off, of course. Don’t laugh. In the panic invariably associated with a broken shear pin, usually because you have gotten yourself into a situation any sane person wouldn’t, one is quite apt to forget to turn the engine off before raising it to hastily fix it. This is usually due to that large oil tanker bearing down on you because you were stupid enough to be crossing the shipping lane, directly in the tanker’s path, safe in the knowledge you could easily outrun it. Until you hit that half-submerged log. Or because you are rocking uncomfortably in the first swells from the dangerous bar crossing that you are now drifting swiftly towards. The same bar crossing that a moment before you were nonchalantly motoring through, until the prop hit something hard on that sandbank you didn’t see. Anyway, having tilted the motor, you have to find a pair of pliers and a spare shear pin, both usually buried under the anchor rope or in some inaccessible nook or cranny that you had completely forgotten even existed, remove the split pin from the centre of the propeller, straining to actually even reach the end of the motor leg where the propeller is located, all the while hanging precariously off the back of the boat in an angry, writhing sea. Then you have to struggle to remove the propeller itself. Once you have accomplished this feat, one that Harry Houdini himself would have been proud of, it is then simply a matter of carefully placing the spare shear pin into the hole in the shaft, holding it delicately in position while you replace the propeller, simultaneously fighting off the sharks that are now gathering for their afternoon snack, then re-inserting the split pin and bending it back into place. I kid you not, it would be easier, and more likely, for a one-year-old to reinvent the archimedian screw that the modern propeller is based on in the first place, than for someone to actually fit a spare shear pin at sea. Or, if you are unfortunate enough to have the newer kind of outboard, incorporating a rubber mounted propeller, you have to replace the whole propeller with a spare that you are required to lump around everywhere with you. The joke of this system is that you have to buy a second propeller to keep as the spare, costing as much as the original propeller you are trying to protect, and you still have to get the original prop repaired, which usually costs almost as much as a new propeller anyway. But I digress. Mario and I had more immediate problems to contend with. We motored along slowly, all the while watching for any pieces of coral an inch higher than the rest, until the water deepened somewhat, then Mario gunned the motor once more. As we approached the breakers, this time from the opposite direction, they looked even more menacing. We now had to break through the waves’ crests, rather than ride in on their back and it was lucky that we were no longer weighed down with gear. I closed my eyes as Mario approached the reef’s edge and we hit the first of the incoming walls of water. I felt us ride up and over the top then we were set upon by an even larger wave approaching behind the first. The dinghy rose precariously, tilted almost vertical, hung there for a second as if deciding whether to fall back down or just give up and succumb to the sea’s embrace, then finally, seemingly in slow motion, it fell back to meet the sea once again. We were over the edge! We had made it. I made a firm resolution at that point to stay on the mothership this time around and let Vince take the next trip in. As we motored up alongside, Mario called out to Vince, You better put your sandshoes on. It looks like we’re going to have to carry the rest ashore over the coral. Oh great, Vince replied. Coral viewing. I looove coral viewing. We reloaded the dinghy and they set off again. I waited on the boat, carrying more gear up and every so often glancing towards the island, wondering how the other two were getting on. Eventually, almost an hour later, they returned, looking totally despondent and decidedly weary. We had to leave the gear on the coral, a hundred yards or so from the beach. The tide’s almost out now. We found a narrow channel that goes part the way in but it peters out well before shore. And it’s a fair way up from where we dumped the first load, Mario gloomily informed me as we headed off on yet another trip in. Have you ever reached that point of sheer exhaustion where you feel as if you just can’t go on anymore? Where you just want to lie down and sleep? Or die! Even if it is on hard, razor-sharp coral tips. Mario, Vince and I had. About two hours ago. But still we carried. We carried eskys. We carried chairs. We carried fishing gear. We carried …. Well, you get the idea - we carried on. We carried every bit of our gear, onto the dinghy, off the dinghy, over the coral, up the beach and finally, to the spot Mario and I had selected earlier as the campsite. We were too tired to care if it was a good campsite anymore. Meaningless considerations such as those were long past. When we finally had all the gear in the one spot, we just collapsed on the sand in a comatose state. After a while we regained some small amount of energy. So we put it to good use. We argued. We argued about whose idea this trip was in the first place. We argued about whether we should bother putting the tent up or just lie there on the sand for the night. We argued about whose idea it was to skip breakfast, and more importantly, who had enough energy to actually go and try and find some food amongst the myriad piles of gear that now lay strewn about us in a fifty-metre radius. We would probably have lain there arguing until the barge came to take us home, a week hence. But two things broke us out of our reverie. The first was the spots of rain that began slamming into our faces, driven by strong gusts of wind, themselves driven by a fast approaching storm front. The second was Mario’s shout as he realised that the tide was coming back in and that the dinghy was already about a hundred yards out to sea, swaying from side to side as it tried to yank the anchor free from the coral. All hell broke loose. Mario jumped up, sprinted down the beach, then raced across the reef flats, in real danger of breaking an ankle on the uneven coral. If anyone could swim out to the dinghy, pull up the anchor in a gale and motor safely to shore, Mario was the man to do it. He was a strong swimmer, a good boatman and, if the worst came to the worst, a certified scuba diver. Not that that actually helps you much if you haven’t got any scuba gear. But still, better him than me. I would have needed to rest three times in attempting to swim from one end of the dinghy to the other. And it was only twelve feet long! I’m not a very good swimmer. Anyway, it was his boat. Not that I actually had time to dwell on all this at the time. Vince and I jumped up and began dragging any items together that looked as though they wouldn’t see out a thick mist, let alone a tropical downpour, and hastily threw a tarpaulin over the top of them. We weighed the tarp’s edges down with the eskys. After having had to carry those eskys across the coral and up the beach we knew that nothing short of a full-blown cyclone would budge them. They were that heavy that I honestly don’t know how only the two of us managed to lift them, let alone maneuver them into position. But we did. Then we attempted to erect the tent. I say attempted, because by this time the wind was gusting fifty knots. For those of you unfamiliar with wind speed, it is fairly easy to gauge when the wind has reached this speed. If you are just as concerned that that large tree towering over you will no longer require a chainsaw to turn it into a canoe as you are about the fact that the tent has just wrapped itself around the tree’s cousin a hundred yards away, you can safely assume that the wind is approaching gale force (over 33 knots). Other good telltales are if the birds are flying backwards, the raindrops are hitting your inner eardrums or you think your mate has just acquired rabies. Eventually, when he shows no signs of wanting to take a bite out of you, you realise that it’s just wind-driven sea-foam you can see around his mouth. All these things were currently happening around or to Vince and I as we raced to retrieve the tent before it became confetti, or worst still, remained in one piece, but then proceeded to blow out to sea. It was no trouble reaching the tent. We just stood up and the wind blew us there. It was an entirely different matter however, trying to bundle the damn thing back up and get it back to the campsite. We had just managed this seemingly impossible feat when Mario came rolling back up the beach, tumbleweed-like, from his attempts to secure the boat. In the end he had been forced to wrap the anchor around a huge lump of sun-bleached coral on shore and leave the dinghy to its own fate. If it was still there when the storm-cell blew over, we could organise a more normal anchoring system. With the three of us back together again, we could proceed to set up the campsite. I say could, because what we actually did was joined the gear we had placed under the tarp earlier. And there we stayed for an hour or so, waiting for the storm to blow over. When we finally realised that this wasn’t going to happen any time soon, we again set about trying to erect the tent. With three of us now available, we could at least allocate one person to drive in the tent pegs or tie the ropes to any trees close enough (and still standing) to act as an anchor point, while the other two held the tent poles against the tempest. After numerous abortive attempts the tent finally stood, albeit precariously, confronting the worst that the tempest could throw at it. By this time, it was getting difficult to see so we cast around and eventually found the gas light. We carried it into the tent; the only place protected enough to give a hope of lighting it. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, alternated with periods of waiting for any escaped gas to clear, we finally succeeded and a warm glow infused the campsite, cheering our spirits somewhat against the storm’s fury raging outside. We found our sleeping gear and set it up and even managed to grab a makeshift meal from the odd food items we were able to locate. We talked in a desultory fashion for a while before succumbing to weariness and retiring for the night, asleep almost before our heads hit the pillow. Plop. I stirred in my sleep. Plop, plop. What the? I sat up in the darkness, straining to hear a recurrence of the sound that had awakened me. I didn’t have to wait long. Plop. There it was again. Then I heard another sound. A scurrying sort of sound. Puzzled, I felt around for the flashlight. By this time Mario was awake as well. What’s that noise? He inquired. I don’t know, I replied, Wait a minute until I find the torch. Just then something crawled over my leg. Ugh! It’s not the nicest feeling having something crawl over your leg. Not when you don’t have the slightest idea what it is. And especially not when it occurs in total darkness. Something just touched my face! Mario exclaimed. Starting to panic now, I groped desperately for the torch. There it was again. It felt like little claws clambering at my leg. Where’s that torch! Mario cried. Whatever they are, they’re everywhere. My hands finally encountered the torch handle and I grabbed it, stabbing the darkness with its beam of light. Mice! Everywhere! Dozens of them. Crawling all over us! We both cried out, then jumped up as one, unzipped the doorway and escaped outside. How did they get in? Mario shouted. I zipped up the doorway before coming to bed! I don’t know, I replied. More importantly, how are we going to get rid of them? We thought for a minute. Vince slept on inside, oblivious to the happenings around him. His snores gave proof of that. I’ll grab a bucket and something to cover it with. You grab a stick or something to push them into the bucket with, I said. We both located our chosen weapons of eviction and reentered the tent. The torch revealed even more of the little, furry intruders than before. We tried to wake Vince but to no avail. He’s nothing if not a sound sleeper. Comes from years of being a night club manager, I suppose. Work long hours without sleep and then, when the opportunity finally presents itself, sleep like the dead. We commenced putting our plan into action. It worked reasonably well, but many more escaped the bucket than stayed in and it was ages before we had cast the majority out into the night. We were just starting to congratulate ourselves on a good job well done when we noticed still more mice dropping down from the roof. Plop. Plop. I shone the torch upwards and searched for their entry point. There! In the corner, Mario exclaimed. We moved closer and discovered how they were getting in. The tent poles sat inside the tent and exited through holes in the roof. Somehow the mice were climbing the ropes outside holding the tent poles in place, then squeezing through the small openings left for the poles, before dropping down upon us. As weary as we were, we needed to plug up their entries before we could finally resume our much-needed sleep. We cast around for any items of clothing, towels or anything else suitable and plugged up the holes. Vince slept on. We then continued employing our mousetrap (patent pending) until we had finally removed the last rodent. Gratefully, we lay back down and joined Vince in blissful oblivion. Crash. Bang. Clamber. Clamber. I awoke instantly, startled by the most dreadful racket outside the tent. Mario too. Even Vince woke. No one could have slept through the cacophony that beset our ears. Dawn was breaking as we leapt from the tent, intent on discovering the cause of the latest intrusion to our slumber. I noted wearily that the rain had abated to a steady downpour as I headed towards the rear of the tent, the obvious source of the commotion. I was dumbfounded by the sight that confronted me. Some type of large bird was scrambling madly, though in vain, to escape from the smooth-sided prison of a big, open, water-filled esky. To add to the chaos, that water was flying in every direction, thrown skywards by its beating wings. As if that wasn’t enough, it began squawking loudly. Grab it and save it before it has a heart attack, I cried. You grab it! Vince responded, I don’t like the look of that huge beak or those sharp claws. He was right. There was every likelihood of being cut to shreds if we went in unarmed. Mario grabbed a large beach towel and we approached it cautiously. I wouldn’t have thought it possible but the din increased even more. It obviously didn’t appreciate our attempts to save it. Mario threw the towel and, more by good luck than good judgement, managed to ensnare the bird within its folds. We grabbed it and proceeded down the beach, being careful to evade its madly flailing claws. When we judged we were a safe distance away from the tent we quickly unwrapped the towel and set it free. Expecting our feathered fugitive to instantly take flight we were bemused to see it plop down on the sand and stay there. That’s one weird bird, Mario remarked. You’re not wrong there, I replied, just as a fresh commotion started back at the tent. What now? We shouted in unison. We raced back up to the tent only to discover another captive. We repeated our previous actions, by now becoming experts at pest control. One of us had the sense to remove the esky this time before any more unwelcome visitors arrived. This bird proceeded to sit on the sand as well, just like its predecessor. More birds began to appear. We watched them carefully, intrigued. They would run through the bush behind the tent and, if they were fortunate enough to miss the tent, continue on down the beach, gathering speed all the while, before finally taking flight just before they reached the water’s edge. That was the ones that missed the tent! Many of them ploughed full speed into the back of the tent and commenced scrambling madly against its walls, trying to climb over it. They seemed to give no thought to actually taking a step sideways and going around the tent. The noise was deafening. We all grabbed towels or clothing and rescued them, one by one, as they imprisoned themselves. This seemed to go on for ages until the stampede reduced to a trickle, then finally, stopped. Weary beyond belief, we retreated once more to the tent to resume our slumber. Luckily, no more wildlife tried to share our tent for the next few hours and we were able to sleep in until around lunchtime. When we woke the rain was still falling, the wind was still blowing and surprise, surprise, the tent was still standing. We had breakfast, then set about establishing a more permanent camp. Everything was sorted, allocated a home and carried to its selected location. When everything was finally to our satisfaction we set about checking the dinghy. This was a fairly easy matter – we simply walked out to it. It was sitting high and dry because the low tide, which was the source of our trials and tribulations of yesterday, was upon us once more. The anchoring system based on wrapping the anchor around the lump of coral that Mario had employed yesterday seemed to work well so we stuck with it. The dinghy itself though was nearly full of water from the continual downpour that it had been subjected to so we set about bailing it out before the tide returned. When this task was finally completed we discussed what to do next. It was obvious we couldn’t go fishing. The huge seas breaking over the reef’s edge, stirred up by the relentless wind, put paid to that idea. We decided to circumnavigate the island. On foot. You can walk around most coral atoll islands in half an hour or so, or at least you can on all the ones I’ve visited. We sauntered along, saying hello to any fellow campers we chanced upon and discussing yesterday’s debacle, hoping to find out more about the strange birds. But no one seemed to know much about them. Disappointed, we decided to return to camp, sit down, make a cup of tea, and wait. We reasoned that, even though we were some fifty miles off the coast, on an almost deserted island, in the midst of a torrential downpour, it wouldn’t take long. And, sure enough, as they always seem to, a know-it-all soon turned up. He proceeded to enlighten us about our feathered intruders. After listening to him for a time, I wished he hadn’t. It seemed these birds basically owned the island. He told us that Mutton Birds, or Shearwaters to give them their correct name, live in burrows in the sand. When dawn breaks they all proceed to head for the beach along pre-determined paths. As they get closer they start running, before finally launching into flight just before they reach the coral at the edge of the beach. They then proceed to their favorite fishing grounds for a day of feasting on piscatorial delights. He was obviously some sort of authority on these birds and I started to lose interest as he droned on and on, extolling the birds’ virtues. I was day-dreaming when I my attention was suddenly restored by Mario’s cry of despair. You mean we have to move camp! But we only just finished setting it up! He lamented. Yup. Afraid so, the guy responded. What was this? Move camp! Whatever for? I wondered. You’ve obviously camped smack bang in the middle of one of their runways. They’ll keep running into your tent every morning until you move it. Not to mention when they return at night. Just how stupid are these birds, I pondered. Mutton-Headed birds, that’s what they should be called, I remember thinking. Just make sure there are no tracks where you set up your new camp, he continued. I don’t understand how you could have missed seeing their tracks yesterday. He doesn’t understand how we missed them yesterday! I fumed silently. How about the torrential downpour that was taking place at the time? Mr. Smarty-Pants. Or the hurricane winds. Or the fact that we had just finished the longest trek carrying gear since Hannibal crossed the Alps. Bloody hell man, we were flat out seeing the ends of our noses at the time, let alone notice some obscure dent in the sand. I was quite warming to the task of thinking up even more reasons why we didn’t notice his beloved birds’ path when he mumbled a “See you later” and departed. Vince and Mario headed into the tent and started packing gear. Hey! What are you doing? I cried. Packing up, Vince responded. To move camp. But why? It’ll take hours to move all our gear and set the tent up again. C’mon guys. Not again! You’re not going to listen to that guy, are you? He probably doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. Oh, I think he does, Vince replied. Why? Because he’s the National Park Ranger, Mario informed me. Oh. As we set about picking a new site I pondered what life would be like if my family hadn’t got me interested in fishing when I was young. Being on holiday, I would probably be sitting in a deck chair in some nice resort right now, sipping on a cocktail and enjoying the scenery, my greatest worry whether to have the seafood platter or the fillet steak at the restaurant this evening. Instead, here I was, down on all fours, casting about in the teeming rain trying to make sure there were no mutton bird tracks or burrows anywhere near our newly selected camping spot. Nothing over here, Vince called. Nor here, I cried. Okay, looks like this is the spot, Mario said. At least those birds won’t disturb us any more. A couple of days past. A couple of very boring days. Vince was happy enough. He just dozed on, waking occasionally to grab a bite to eat then it was back to lala land. Mario and I on the other hand were quickly going around the bend. Sitting under the tent flap watching the rain fall and the wind blow eventually got too much for us so we decided to meet our neighbours. We stocked the one esky capable of actually being carried by just the two of us, filled it with sufficient beer to last most people a month then proceeded to cart it along the beach until we encountered some other poor unfortunates like ourselves sitting in their tents. After we’d worn out our welcome at one camp site we proceeded to the next and so on. After a few such moves we noticed that the footsteps behind us were getting progressively more wandering in their nature, and that the guy at the next tent along looked strangely familiar. He should have done! It was Vince! In one of his brief waking moments. We had circumnavigated the island! In despair, we decided to head inland, not that that was likely to expand our circle of victims very much. The island was only a couple of hundred yards wide at its broadest. It was growing dark by this time and we fell into the occasional booby nest here and there, but pushed on determinedly. Eventually we espied a light not far off. We staggered along and came upon the strangest sight. It was a walk-in movie theatre! Well, not really. It so happened that our friend, the ranger, was showing slide shows on a portable projector screen he had erected. Half a dozen fellow campers sat around under a tarp watching the slide show and listening to him drone on about the wildlife. I noticed he gave Mario and I a rather surly look. It might have been due to our previous treatment of his feathered friends or it could possibly have been due to our knocking his projector flying as we stumbled into his camp. We offered him a beer in payment but he said he couldn’t drink on duty. We stayed a while but just weren’t feeling the love there so we staggered off again back to our camp to sleep. The next morning we awoke to find the wildlife was at it again. This time it was turtles. Baby turtles to be exact. They were digging themselves out of the sand in front of the tent and clambering as quick as their tiny flippers could take towards the water and safety. Not that many of them were actually making it that far. Most were being scooped up by assorted seagulls and other birds as a morning snack. We raced down the beach and began scooping as many as we could up in our hands and depositing them in the water, only to see most of these being gobbled up by a plethora of fish. Try as we might, we lost most of them. If reincarnation does exist, I certainly don’t want to come back as a turtle. When they all appeared to have either been eaten or swum away, we returned to our tent only to notice a further turtle emerging from under a corner of our tent floor. Oh no. Realising that it had to be done, we awoke Vince and starting pulling the tent down. I mean, we had obviously pitched our tent over a turtle nest this time and we couldn’t just leave them under the floor to perish. Our next shock was soon upon us. As we grabbed the corners of the tent floor to move it aside and rescue any stragglers, Vince gave a yelp of pain and dropped his corner. Something had bit him. Upon closer inspection we found to our disgust and horror several large centipedes, which had obviously taken up residence under the warm, dry, tent floor. These lovelies can apparently grow to over six inches long and I’d have sworn these were at least that big. Vince picked up a large stick with the hand that wasn’t throbbing and proceeded to use his improvised centipede buster (patent also pending) to turn those centipedes into millipedes. A couple more days past. The rain eased up a bit but the wind still blew. We had a new problem. We were running out of food! We had counted on supplementing our supplies with fresh fish, and given the weather up to that point, that just hadn’t been possible. It still wasn’t really. But we were desperate. And hungry! We surveyed the ocean and decided it might just be possible to fish from our dinghy if we stayed within the confines of the lagoon and only near high tide. It would still be rather hairy but if we stayed close to camp and did capsize, at least we could swim back to shore. Or least Vince and Mario could. I wasn’t so sure that my renowned swimming style would allow me to make it but I reasoned that if I wore a life jacket I had a 50/50 chance of drifting towards land. We basically had two choices, given the tides at that moment. We could either make an attempt on the morning high tide or the evening high tide. We decided on the evening tide because none of us liked the idea of getting up at sparrow fart with our usual squeamish stomachs brought on, no doubt, by our extended nightcaps of the evening before. We busied ourselves with preparations for an attempt that coming evening. We emptied the boat of rainwater, put most of our fishing gear in the dingy and dug through the eskys searching for bits of bait floating amongst the little remaining food, beer and other paraphernalia that had seemed to find its way there of its own accord. Rather skeptical that any sane fish would be interested in the motley, meagre collection of tit-bits that we did manage to scrape up, we waded out to the dinghy just as the tide was making and motored out as far as we dared before dropping anchor over a patch of weedy-looking bottom, which was the best we could hope for that close to shore. We daren’t go any further for fear of being swamped. We sat there for some time and finally caught a few small reef fish just on dark. Not nearly enough but something to help sate our ravenous appetite for meat. We were all sick to death of instant noodles, which is what we had been reduced to. Turn the light on, will you Vince? Mario exclaimed. I can’t see my hook to rebait. Where did you put it? he asked. Me, I thought you brought it. Greg, please tell me you put it in. No, not me, I croaked, I was looking after the beer. Sighing, Vince wound in his line and said, resignedly, Let’s go, I think I can still make out the campsite over there. Eventually, as it must, the last day of our island holiday dawned. Bright and clear, not a cloud in sight, the seas had abated and, ….. it was a glorious day. Of course. Did we finally get to go fishing for some decent fish? No, of course not. We had to pack up ready for the transfer back to the mainland. We never did get to sample North West’s fabled fishing delights. Oh Well.

Do it. Okay. I'll start a new topic

Well done Hamish! Congratulations!

Yeah. Me too! And not just for snapper.

I’ve been to both Lady Musgrave and North West but from memory the tide does drain almost totally from North West, unlike Lady Musgrave which has the huge lagoon. With the larger boat you would be very restricted to fishing only a couple of hours near high tide, waiting for the water to come back in. Even with the smaller tinnie you will have to drag it up the beach each night and down again next day. North West is very remote. We got bad weather for a week at North West and couldn’t fish at all except from a little sand spit on high tide. The coral is very jagged on those coral atolls and walking over it is near impossible, even with reef shoes on. I actually wrote a story about my North West adventure, which I could upload here, but it is pretty bloody long.

It is a gorgeous place. We didn’t make it to the western side because we were too busy showing my sons’ friend the eastern side! Next time will be an inside trip I think, probably using the boat.

Go for it!

Just saw this blog. May help someone. Me? I’m beyond help. Do You Know what Conditions Make Snapper Come on the Bite? Snapper can be found dwelling in and around shallow and deep reefs, with a particular liking to rubbly grounds, within the sheltered bays and also in the deeper offshore systems. A snapper’s diet consists of octopus, mussels, crustaceans, squid and small fish like bluebait, whitebait and pilchards. Additionally, Snapper have a special taste for prawn. This is a very inexpensive and accessible bait for all anglers around Australia. Snapper are a grazing fish and usually feed whilst they are on the move. This principle is true for both their feeding habits, snapper feed on the bottom for Octopus, crab and other crustaceans and will also feed mid column when hunting squid or small bait fish. Generally speaking, the first sign that a fisherman is engaged with a decent size snapper will be the running of your line, as it abruptly streams out through the rod runners. Ohh yeah what a feeling? Snapper will grab your bait and swim for some distance, before they stop and attempt to swallow a bait. When the run comes to a standstill, this is the optimal time to strike the fish. Now this technique is purely dependent upon the pattern of hook chosen. For example, if fishing with circle hooks, there is no need to strike the fish to ensure a good hook up. Experienced fishermen believe that the most important aspect of snapper fishing comes down to water temperature. The next aspect is the availability of food and also the reproducing nature of the fish. Snapper are sensitive to the variations in the water temperature. A good sounder will provide you with a good understanding of current water temperatures. There are a number of apps these days that will also assist in forecasting and issuing current water temperatures. When the wind is still, the higher body of water will become much warmer than the deeper layers. But once solid winds blow up this will help dispense the warmer water and mix in with the cooler water below. This is done as the waves churn up the water. This could also be a reason fishing for snapper tends to be good after a strong blow. When the water is calm, snapper tend not to come on the chew as frequently, this may be due to the sunlight penetrating the unbroken water, which allows the light to stream into the shallow and medium depth water. Given snapper can be a bit of a shy fish, perhaps they feel there is less cover on those calm sunny conditions? When the waters are on the rough side, snapper seem to come on the bite easily. It is often debated among anglers that it because snapper see better in less light? Or is it because the chopped up ocean has the opportunity to discharge food from the weed beds and push marine creatures out of the rocky outcrops and stir up the mud and sand which hide marine life, or is it a combination of all of the above? The truth is, that it is hard to know, exactly what cause snapper to come onto a hot bite, however, we definitely know that the above mentioned conditions are the ideal time to fish. Snapper bite better after dark, There is factual evidence that any type of fish which come on the bite well at dusk and dawn tend to bite very well throughout the night. Wind direction cannot be really applied to the logic of catching snapper as it would be dependent upon where you are fishing. For example, a westerly will have a different outcome to an angler fishing on the east side of Port Phillip Bay (PPB) than an angler fishing on the western side of PPB. However, from the many angling club members whom I discussed this concept with, the next paragraph covers the mainstream belief of those fishermen. The greatest wind for snapper fishing in Port Phillip Bay is one from the south- west. This is great if you are fishing at the top end of the bay (City end) along the southern coast the south wind is also the most productive. Along the east coast of Australia the nor easterly or sou easterly winds are best. As for rock fishing, the best wind is the one blowing onshore and its direction will of course depend on the direction the coast you are facing. Anglers must take care of large swell in these conditions, as rock fishing can be extremely dangerous to the novice and experienced, all the usual safety precautions should be adhered too. On the local piers around Melbourne, land based fishermen get their best results when the sea is full blown onshore. Which is also relevant to other parts of the country when snapper fishing.

I think we can fit him in. And I wouldn’t want to be towed on a kayak behind it!

Well done for trying Bro.

And I think we should bring @Kattoo. I promised her a trip. So you and Kat can come on my boat this time. And @Cavvytoo if he wants.

That would be good Hamish, although of course it will be dependent on weather etc.

My mat doesn’t smell at all.

When do school holidays start Hamish?

Go team!

I agree totally. We had a fantastic time. Spent a lot of the time exploring and gelling with my boys.

Well done! Good to see those Southsiders haven’t completely befuddled your mind Hamish.

Oh, that’s a real bream? Looks like it would eat you for breakfast. What a stonker!

Have to agree with you Sam. I thought a trip to Fraser at this time of year would have produced something decent. But between the bloody weed, the groups of twenty or more 4x4s parked bumper to bumper at any halfway decent looking gutter, the fact that I only saw two fish getting caught by the hundreds of fishermen I drove past and my absolutely pathetic fishing record of late I’m not really surprised I got nothing. For the record, my party caught one good sized whiting, one mediocre legal tailor and four good size dart and that was it for quite a few hours of fishing. Oh well, we still had a bloody great trip. I’d recommend it to anyone.

Well done!