Magnetic Island Oct 13th

Gareth covered in mulch

We were feeling pretty good, buoyed with confidence after our time in Bowen. Our next contact was a fellow on Magnetic Island, across the water from Townsville, named George Hirst. We spoke to him early Tuesday morning, after breakfast with Gertrude Tissen and he assured us there would be enough for us to do, and, as he told us, as editor-in-chief of the island's newspaper, he could put the word out and try to find some interesting ways to raise some money too.

Our first sighting of a wild koala

There was just one problem - he couldn't organise a way for us to get over there, try as he might. There may be a friend of his, with a small fishing boat, which may be able to, but, maybe, and we'll see. That meant, of course, that we couldn't take the van, which is where we live and how people see us coming (they see us coming arite). We had no ideas how we were going to make it over, but George said he'd keep trying for us and so we blithely left it at that. Driving along, we were on the perimeter of Townsville before we decided to do anything about getting over to Magnetic Island.

It was late afternoon, and we stopped to drink some tea in the shade of a giant fig tree on a side-road beside the main road into town. We rang George, who said he still hadn't been able to arrange any way to get the van over for us, but that, if all else failed and we were stuck as stuck, he would call his mate, who would come out to pick us up. It was while idly flicking through the ferry timetable, eating a sandwich, to see if, at 5p.m, it was even feasible to get our van over anyway, that we noticed a glimmer of hope.

Our cunning plan to allow nature to take its course, and, well, assume everything would be alright, allowed us to find, at just the right time, the light at the end of the tunnel, to make it an adventure to attempt and a story to retell. Using both my eyes at the same time, together, looking at the same page, I noticed, with my ability to transfer into cognition that which I see, that the car ferry service fellas over to Magnetic Island were Fantasea - the very same Fantasea who took us to the Reef, and for whom we spent a day dressed up as Mermaids.

Hmm, I scratched my chin as the cunning plan rose like an apple in molasses to come triumphantly into fruition. "are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I asked Anne, who was looking furtive out the back of the van, "yes! it's unbelievable isn't it! I can't believe it! Buggers!" replied Anne, a little too keenly, before going on to bitterly refute the existence of all things that fly and bite, and leave her covered in blotches, reminiscent of a Judean Leper, into which she digs her nails, as if to teach those blotches a lesson. I left her to it as she cursed like a banshee, and consulted Phil, who saw what I was getting at - "do you want another cup of tea?" and that with some Anzac biscuits too.

We then rang Adrienne at Fantasea. She wasn't really sure what could be done, it was late on in the working day, and everyone may have gone home. But she would ring back in a few minutes to let us know anyway. We stopped biting our nails with another biscuit. She rang back, no luck, the office was empty, but there was one last chance, a maybe, a mere slip of a thing, probably not worth even mentioning, but she would try nonetheless. Five minutes later we were booked onto the last ferry to Magnetic Island at 6.05 p.m.

It was an incredible gesture by Adrienne, to put so much effort on our behalf. As far as we can make out, she must have rang the General Manager, Jason, who had finished work, at his home, to get the ok, then arrange it with the ferry office to book us in. This being after ringing round firstly to find this out. All it takes sometimes is for one person to take responsibility for getting something done, and it gets done. She's a doer is our Adrienne.

It took about half an hour to get over to the island. The sea was a little choppy, and the sky was bruised, but the breeze was warm. As we neared the island, we noticed in the local paper on the observation deck, that there was a croc on the loose, apparently in the bays around the island, not far from where we would be staying with George. We all laughed, but I could tell, the way Anne's been getting bitten so far by all the small buzzing biters, that she was secretly completely sure that if anyone was to get bitten, in their sleep, miles from water, by a large snapping biter then it would be her. We tried to assure her that, at worse, she'd only lose a couple of legs, but she was unimpressed.

On arrival, we rang George, who told us to drive to Nelly Bay, at the other end of the island, where he met us and then drove us to his home, a little way off the main road, down a dirt track. He introduced us to the missus, Pen, and we soon sat down to dinner. A very interesting couple, George runs the island paper, The Magnetic Times, Pen helps him and works part time as a nurse too. They have a beautiful property on the southern end of the island, surrounded by trees, and all the concomitant wildlife. George told us that he would waste no time in writing an article about us and what we are doing, and see if anyone would ring to offer us work, or donate to us.

In the meantime, we should relax, enjoy a glass of wine and make use of the house as a home.

Next day he took us on to a beach called Cockle Bay, where the croc had been spotted only the other ay! We all scanned the water as soon as we arrived, and saw sights to excite our interest and ignite our curiosity, but the elusive croc remained out of sight.

Magnetic Island, so named for its interference to Captain Cook's compass, has many secluded bays and beaches, and is almost constantly bathed in sunshine. It's a pretty popular little place, so, even in the off-season, there were trickles of activity, with various visitors on scooters, or these contraptions, likeelectric golf-buggies, called Moke mobiles, that backpackers zoomed around the island on. However, with the croc out and about, the beaches were a little bare.

What I found strange, was the general air of nonchalance regarding its presence. But, as a stranger in a strange town, I was willing to allow that the Aussies know what to do with this sort of thing. Asking George about it, I learned that, well, they don't really have a clue.

"Just yesterday, I had to wade into the water at Nelly Bay, up to my waist, to untangle the rope on my boat. Now the croc was seen there that morning, the authorities knew about it, and yet told no one. I run the paper, you'd think they'd bother telling me wouldn't you". He was understandably annoyed.

"So how is the croc being tracked", I asked him

"This one has been caught before, and fitted with a collar, that sends a satellite bearing once every three to five days"

"So you're telling me that this croc, one of the most efficient killing machines on earth, is prowling around the island, popping up various places each day, with no way to know exactly where, save by a signal twice a week, or by sight?" I was genuinely surprised.

"Yup. Insane isn't it."

Which was reassuring, as we walked along the beach, expecting at any moment for a ripple, a roar, a crunch and some missing limbs later us lying there, with George hovering over us, saying 'told you so!'

So we walked a little away from the water, and watched in tumultuous silence, as some visitors, heedless of the potential danger, casually waded in the wash, and picked up pebbles. Imagining at any moment to see a croc attack in motion, and while obviously not wishing upon anyone any harm, it was with bated breath that I imagined seeing it occur, the speed, the power, the ferocity, and, consoling myself that they were most likely Germans anyway, watched them for a while, expectantly.

When I saw a bobbing movement in the water, I thought, 'this is it, they're gonners', but the bobbing movement was moving with the current, away from the shore, away from the Germans, and hoping against reality that it was the croc, I had to eventually concede to the fact that this was, in fact, as George spotted immediately, two leatherback turtles having sex.

As lacadasical a hump as ever I did see, they just sort of floated; he, mounted, having a look around, she nose just above water, keeping fella's weight from pushing her under. There seemed to be no great rush, they were at it for the half hour we stayed, and just went with the current. We felt awkward after watching our live turtle-porn show, and as soon as I started imagining the croc leaping salmon-like through the air to swallow the lovers, I realised I needed to get out of the sun.

Back at George's house, we did some work for him, a little mulching, digging and gardening, as George got on with writing the article, to be put online that day. We found a spider under a large corrugated iron drum we were moving, that we thought was pretty impressive, and deduced it was a trapdoor spider, partly because it looked vaguely like a picture in our book, and partly because it made us feel brave to hang out with a potentially deadly spider. While watching it, we saw the ubiquitous cane toads too, to which Phil, as is the way over here, introduced to the sharp end of an axe. A few scuttling skinks and lizards came out of the scrub too, and we had, by now, identified our spider as conclusively a Trapdoor, a deadly poisonous fella, which made us all the more courageous for it, thank you.

Telling George later, he shook his head, and called it most likely a Huntsman, less deadly, and therefore less of a fuss, and thereby by association, making us little sissy boys for getting worked up over it, which we didn't like, so we nicknamed him Trapdoor, and order was restored, and chests repuffed we joined the world of men, and grunted our allegiance.

The next day we had work to do around the island, as set up by George and Pen, through the paper. We met Jan Perry, the island wildlife officer, who took us through the process of building Possom boxes, houses for lost, lone, or orphaned possoms, who are reared then freed back to the wild. It's a dogs life for a possom, as they're pretty territorial, and fight all the time, vicious battles that go on into the night, as they race over the roof.

After completing the boxes, Jan donated to the Book Aid pot, and we went to the next job, at Stephanie Chaffey's house, where we mulched her garden beds until we were covered in dirt, soil and sweat. The it was off to Lindell Vaudrey in Nelly Bay, who had some work for us clearing her yard, and taking it to the dump. We loaded the ute (I thought it a Germanic word pronounced 'oo-teh', and was treated like a chump for making the mistake of asking an Aussie what one was. "what do you want us to say? Bloody 'utility vehicle'?! It's a fuckin ute, mate") taking care to check for spiders, looking around to make sure no one was watching as we floundered, and boundered and shook our hands free of spider-like twigs and leaves.

It was a good days work, we made a bit of money for Book Aid and got our hands dirty in the process. Later on that evening, we were at the RSL Markets where we set up to collect some donations and meet the locals, sampling some of the island life, hearing some gossip and meeting some of the locals.

On the way home we met this fine fellow here

who was standing in the middle of the road, and climbing, ever so languidly, into a tree

and looked at us looking at him

We slam the brakes to avoid hitting this little fella drunk on eucalyptus


A termite mound
Gareth finds a green ant nest
Upturning things that have been lying around for a while is a scary task in the bush
A dump run


Our legs covered in mulch
Magnetic Island night market

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