(Or the sinking of the good ship Cloud 9)
Like any pub, the Sandy Straits region at the back of Fraser Island is up there with one of the most exceptional parts of the world.
Fraser Island is named after Eliza Fraser, who took an enforced holiday after she was shipwrecked near the joint, hooked up with a couple of natives and had a dingo as a watchdog. We’ll call that a Nick-a-pedia entry . . .
Anyhow, a few years back, me and my brothers had been pestering the old man about going on a houseboat tour around the area when he finally gave in.
We set sail at Carlo Point at Rainbow Beach, and with rods, reels, tackle and bait in hand, we oozed confidence. Why not? Between us and the old man’s mates, we knew boats. And we knew fish. What we didn’t know was how little fish we’d actually catch. It quickly became evident that the food committee had failed miserably in its job, the flawed thinking being that we’d catch heaps of fish. But we’ll get to that later. Because on the other hand, the booze committee had excelled – we’d have ourselves one helluva trip yet.
So, as we roared up the straits the rules were being laid down – everyone has a turn at driving and no weird behaviour after dark. I felt like I’d be targeted.
I took along a fox fur hat that I had got for my birthday and it was decided the hat had to be worn when driving. So when it was your turn you simply said, ‘Where’s the fox hat?’ You might have noticed by now that we Cummins’ have an unusual affinity for obscure hats. I don’t why.
And taking the piss is genetic. Even my granddad, Billy, wasn’t safe on this trip. We set the tone early on.
Burning along the water and me at the wheel, we came to an area where three beacons were fairly close together. Now, old Billy was on the top deck trolling a lure with his beach rod, which was long enough to bridge the gap back to the mainland. But with the beacons nearing, I couldn’t resist a bit of Formula One in-and-out of the beacons. Suffice to say, old Billy didn’t take kindly to that and began screaming from the top deck: ‘I’m snagged, you bastards. Stop the boat!’
I love the bloke but to me those cries meant only one thing – go faster. Which made Billy only get angrier. He started making the kind of threats that he would not be capable of carrying out and would also require a taxidermist, no matter the outcome. He was filthy.
With the throttle all but flat-out, Dad came racing up to me and I braced for a serve. But like any good father, he just offered encouragement. So I pushed her into top speed. We must have been doing at least six knots!
A beer or two in the sun later, Billy was fast asleep and we came to our resting spot and anchored up for the day.
Steve and Scotty took the tinny to check on the crab pots – which was interesting, because I didn’t remember putting any out. While the boys were away, Des O’Reilly (former Roosters legend) suggested some skiing behind the houseboat.
Great idea, but we didn’t have any skis. No problem. The boys duct-taped two esky lids to my feet and I was carefully lowered out the side. Now, these lids were approximately the same size as my feet and therefore this was my chance to make history!
With the old man at the helm and the order given, we were full steam ahead. I rose out of the water like a dog in a bathtub and it was tricky. You had to angle slightly because of the squarish front of the esky lids and just like that, I did it! The crowd roared their approval, both of them, as I burned across the water like a floatplane about to take off. This was living!
But trouble lay ahead and I quickly discovered not to take a ripple for granted because it only takes a little one to throw you. So head over biscuit I went. And let me tell you, trying to get your melon to the surface with two lids on your feet is hard going. I felt like a dog riding a tennis ball.
Steve and the boys in the tinny soon arrived to pick me up, remove the duct tape and pat me on the back. Dad was stoked – the next Olympic sport!
Now, we were starving due to a mistake with provisions and the fact we’d snapped the line of the only bloke willing to throw in a line – Billy. The old fella had brought enough sausages to service The Biggest Loser house twice over, but not much else. We’d caught bugger-all fish and were about two hours from a scurvy outbreak. Sausages it was.
From there on in, it was a tame trip by our standards. So the decision was made to beach the boat. Technically, that was not the right thing to do and strictly prohibited. But hell, I was just a passenger and what could possibly go wrong? John O’Shea, Dad’s only mate with brains, sensed an impending calamity and paddled to shore on Dad’s surf ski. He brought it ‘in case of disaster’. It was needed.
The houseboat slid smoothly onto the Fraser Island sand followed by high fives and old blokes telling each other how good they were. It was a sad sight.
But we were cooking with gas, and we were having a helluva time playing cricket and enjoying a few refreshments. Then, crunch! It sounded like false teeth biting down on a Jatz cracker – not good.
Turns out, we’d beached the boat on a submerged pier and the tide was receding. Now was the time to panic! Frantically, we tried to push the houseboat off the post, but to no avail. And worse was yet to come as the weight of the boat pushed the large timber post up into the hull – God help us!
The brains trust called for an emergency meeting and demanded four things: clean the boat, remove the empties, ring the houseboat company and plead ignorance, and then, pray.
The old bloke stepped up to the plate and radioed the houseboat company. The convo went a little something like this:
Dad – ‘Mate, this is Cloud 9, we have a small problem. A crack in the boat.’
Company – ‘No problem, just use a towel with pressure and the pump will handle it.’
Dad – ‘Mate, it’s more of a hole . . .’
Company – ‘No probs. Use the timber square and prop to seal it and the pump will sort it.’
Dad – ‘Mate, the hole is too big for the timber square . . .’
Company – (voice now heightened) ‘How big is it!?’
Dad – ‘About a metre square I’d say.’
Company – ‘What the bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! We can’t fix that!’
Dad – ‘Not with that attitude.’
Help on its way, Dad addressed his shipwrecked crew, in a similar fashion to what the captain of the Costa Concordia would have done – ‘Gentlemen, we are in deep shit!’
The Coast Guard and various other boats arrived in the next few hours as the tide slowly but surely made its way in. A large group of people worked feverishly to keep the boat afloat while we watched from the shore in admiration.
Finally, with several pumps working frantically, we began our return journey to Carlo Point. And no skiing this time.
The trip back was hairier than the old man’s back, too. The wind and rain were up and it made life pretty difficult. It was all hands to the pumps and buckets as we arrived at our mooring just before midnight.
The owner came on board and, suffice to say, was filthy.
He looked like he’d just consumed a fish milkshake and didn’t want to say much. We tied up to a mooring buoy and he then left us with these fateful words – ‘Keep the pumps going.’
‘No worries,’ we said, our eyes refusing to meet his.
Problem was, said pumps were hand operated. And though we tried desperately to stay awake and do the right thing, it wasn’t going to happen. I woke up with that strange feeling of water lapping at my feet. During the night we had gone down stern first.
I woke up the troops, who were snoring away and in various stages of decomposition. People moved frantically and without purpose, like you’d see in a disaster movie.
Dad called for calm. He always seemed to have a solution. And he was the one who’d got us into this mess. ‘Right, boys. Let’s start the BBQ and finish the tucker!’ So many sausages.
First of all, we had to reposition the BBQ as it was on the bow and at a strange angle. The fridge was still above water, and the old fellas consumed its contents.
Everything was fine again – a good feed, a few beers and the sun coming up. Then the owner arrived. You could see the death in his eyes as he sped towards the now-submarine in his small tinny. His eyes were like dinner plates and he was dirty. He would have rammed a bus-load of orphans in the mood he was in.
We quickly packed up and were removed from our watery prison as the big wheels discussed the situation in the manager’s office and Dad motioned us to pack the car for a hasty retreat. Following a quick whip-around, we gathered enough for the insurance excess and fled like criminals in the night. Everyone makes mistakes. To err is human.
Along the highway at the back of Noosa on the road home, an old bloke was parked on the side of the road and his trailer had a flat tyre. Dad and I jumped out and offered our assistance. But as we’re taking a look, the bloke calls, ‘Snake!’ Sure enough, we looked down to see a large snake on the ground. The old fella said it looked like a tiger, but I was quick to correct him – ‘No, it’s definitely a snake.’ The old bloke just looked at us as we drove off into the distance.
I’m a big advocate of responsible drinking and therefore not drinking like a fish. But it seems even fish aren’t immune to the lure of an ice-cold beer . . .
Four men. One fish. The Kimberley knows how to show a bloke a good time. But four fish would’ve been better.