Escape to the Jetty

Stacey Lee

IT’S A THURSDAY. THURSDAY, 9 JANUARY, TO BE EXACT. But days and dates mean little now. Time is elusive under these circumstances.

I have been working on Kangaroo Island with my colleague camera operator Trent Murphy for a number of days now, reporting on a relentless blaze that has been burning for 20 days straight. It’s already destroyed half of the island, ordinarily known for its pristine coastline and stunning national parks.

We’re tired.

But we’re nowhere near as exhausted as the locals and the selfless fire crews.

Hundreds of Kangaroo Islanders on the western side of the island are today packing up their belongings and fleeing to safer ground in the east. We’ve spent the day interviewing them. For many, this is the second or third time this summer they’ve had to do this: it’s a well-oiled machine, but that doesn’t make it any easier to leave their house or business to the mercy of the fires. Hard work and memories are being left behind, potentially turning to ashes before the day is out.

Fire crews tell us tonight will be ‘the big one’. A wind change is predicted that will push the fire east towards the so-far untouched, more-populated part of Kangaroo Island. There will be strong wind gusts to fan the flames. To fan disaster.

Trent and I have sent today’s story back to the ABC’s Adelaide office for the 7 pm news. We set up for live crosses at the airport, 14 kilometres east of Kingscote, the largest town on the island. The Country Fire Service (CFS) and the army are based here, and I ask the CFS boss to confirm the current situation, to ensure my reporting is up to date for the live cross. He points up at a cloud and tells me that it is their main concern. It’s a pyrocumulonimbus cloud. They’re the dangerous ones. They can create their own weather patterns. Anyone who’s ever worked on a fire ground will tell you that unpredictable and changing weather patterns are one of the biggest problems they face. It’s not looking good.

Then we notice the defence personnel packing up their tents and leaving the airport. Dozens of them had been camping in a grassy paddock alongside the runway for days, while they helped the fire crews. I ask them where they’re going and they tell me that, like the residents we’ve been following all day, they are heading east to Kingscote. The army has just been told that the airport is under threat. The very place housing the heroes working tirelessly to save lives and homes is now in the fire’s devastating path.

It’s going to be a long night.

Trent and I finish crossing live into the Adelaide, Sydney and national news bulletins and head back to Kingscote for our nightly debrief with our colleagues who’ve been working with us on the island over the past few days. We have dinner around 9 pm, discuss the day and head back to the two-bedroom apartment we’re sharing. We each take showers and lay out our fire gear so it can air overnight before we have to put it on again tomorrow. We’ve been wearing the heavy fire boots, pants and jacket for days, so by now the smell of smoke is embedded not just in the fabric but in my hair too. No matter how much shampoo I use, the ashy smell lingers. I usually wear contact lenses but my eyes are so irritated by the hazy air on the island that I’ve had to fish out my back-up pair of glasses from the bottom of my handbag. We turn the TV on and watch the news to catch up on what has happened throughout the day. Not much else it seems: it’s wall-to-wall fire coverage from almost every Australian state.

Around midnight, we decide it’s time for bed so we head into our separate rooms. As on previous nights, I can hear the CFS scanner still switched on in Trent’s room. He knows better than to turn it off. In hindsight, I don’t think he ever had any intention of sleeping. As well as being a full-time camera operator with the ABC in Adelaide, Trent is also a CFS volunteer. Over the past few days, his knowledge of fire grounds has been crucial. Even though the ABC has very strict protocols in place for heading into a fire ground, it can sometimes be daunting to drive into a dangerous situation when you see most other people driving away from it, escaping to safer areas. But with Trent as my work partner I have felt comfortable, confident and safe.

I have barely fallen asleep when Trent is opening my bedroom door and demanding that we leave. Now. The fire is approaching Kingscote and the whole town is under threat. I check the time: 1.30 am. Things have changed so much in just an hour and a half.

I quickly pull on my fire gear, which still reeks of smoke, grab my phone and glasses, and we jump in the car. We head west, towards the fire, aiming to get vision of it if we can. We’ve been told by our Adelaide-based boss not to go too far, to stay safe, to only get what we need to tell the story and then get to safer ground. But we can’t even get close. Police roadblocks are in place, keeping everyone in Kingscote.

Usually in this part of the world, thousands of bright, flickering stars fill the evening sky. Not tonight. Tonight, there’s a menacing orange glow overtaking the dark. It’s an unsettling sight.

Since we can’t get any closer to the front, Trent and I reassess and agree we should head back into town to see how people are coping. But we can’t find anyone. Lights are off in houses, and roads are empty. Is everyone asleep in bed, unaware that the fire is on their doorstep? Surely not.

We decide to head to the jetty.

It’s packed. It looks as if everyone on the island has gathered there. Cars are lined up for kilometres. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re all parking each other in; it’s clear no one’s going anywhere anytime soon. We pull over where we can find a spot and walk about a kilometre down to the jetty. The air is tense, yet the mood is calm. Some people are outside their cars talking and drinking with family, others are inside comforting their children. A rare few are sleeping, or trying to at least.

Trent and I recognise about a dozen people. Some we’d interviewed a couple of days ago, others we’d helped evacuate earlier today. One woman I remember from a Kingscote bar a few nights ago; she had thanked me, and the rest of the ABC, for being on the island and covering their stories.

We approach an older couple. I recognise the woman, but can’t place her right now. They’re standing arm in arm, alongside their dog, and agree to an interview. I ask them on camera how they’re feeling. The woman, Jeanene Ellson, replies in an upbeat voice, ‘We’re all pretty stressed but we think the safest place to be is near the sea, so that if you have to go in the water, you can.’ She says this in such a positive tone that I almost don’t register the seriousness of the statement. I don’t like guessing people’s ages, but I’d say she and her husband are in their seventies. To think that they are ready to jump in the water is gut-wrenching.

Camera operator Steve Opie films emergency workers clearing a road at Charleston, SA. (Stacey Lee/ABC)

I ask her husband, Peter, how he’s feeling. ‘I just can’t get my head around it,’ he replies. ‘It’s never happened in my whole life on the island, never happened like this.’ He seems anxious, and I’m conscious of not adding to the stress that these people are already dealing with, so we stop rolling. I thank them for their time and ask them if there’s anything we can do to help. Peter touches my arm, leans in and asks me if they are safe at the jetty. He’s not looking directly at me and it’s in that moment that I realise he’s blind and the dog with him is a guide dog. ‘It’s just that I can’t see,’ he explains. ‘I am meant to be the one looking after Jeanene, but instead I’m just following and I feel helpless. Please tell me we’re safe here?’

I’m lost for words. I think they’re in the right place, but these fires have been so unpredictable that anything might happen tonight. I don’t want to give him false hope, but I also don’t want to worry him even more. I tell him that he’s in the safest place he can be and that I haven’t seen a fire truck in the town at all, which is a good thing. It means the crews are still fighting the blaze outside of Kingscote and have, so far, stopped it reaching the town.

‘Thank you, thank you for that,’ he says as he lets go of my arm and searches for his wife’s hand to hold. I give them my number in case we can help with anything and then Trent and I leave them.

As soon as I am far enough away that I’m out of sight and earshot I burst into tears. I lose it completely. I’m not usually one to cry, particularly while on the job, but I just can’t control it this time. It’s such a helpless feeling to witness vulnerable people in an uncontrolled and unpredictable situation. I try to think of anything I can do to help, but short of getting on a fire truck, the best thing I can do is continue to get the public safety warnings out to the community.

I take a breath, wipe my face and we move on. We talk to a few other people and gather interviews and camera vision to be used in the news coverage. Then we head to Kingscote oval, which has been set up as a relief centre. Locals and holidaymakers displaced by the fire have been camping there and sleeping in their cars for some time. As we get in the car to leave the jetty, I remember where I recognise Jeanene from. She’s been volunteering her time at the relief centre, making sandwiches for people who have lost their homes and have nothing to eat. Thinking of her selflessness makes me tear up again. No one deserves to be in this situation. Ever.

—

That night, the fire almost reaches the airport. Crews manage to stop it about three kilometres out, but not before it burns through tens of thousands more hectares. Eventually around 210,000 hectares of Kangaroo Island are blackened in the blaze, which will not be officially declared ‘controlled’ until 21 January, over a month after it started. Two men have died while fighting this fire. Eighty-nine houses have been destroyed, along with almost 300 sheds, farmhouses and other outbuildings. For most, the scale of destruction and loss is immeasurable, and it will take years for the community of Kangaroo Island to rebuild.

Stacey Lee is the state political reporter in the ABC’s Adelaide newsroom