Life, Hanging By a Thread
By Michael Stride

We live in the Burrguk Aboriginal Community, a remote bush camp in the far north of Western Australia. It’s just us that live here: my mother, father, sister and myself. The aboriginal family that used to live here prefers the comfort of town life in Broome to the harshness of the outback. The salt marshland is a haven for swarms of mosquitos and sand-flies, and after being bitten so many times I’m developing an immunity; the bites barely itch or leave a mark on my skin anymore.

 

In an old tin shed, battered from years of wet season storms is a small tinny. Patrick Cox from Beagle Bay dropped it off last week and said we could use it if dad and I can fix the outboard motor. His family and numerous aboriginals from Beagle Bay stem from the stolen generation, a dark past of Australian history.   

 

After stripping the engine down, cleaning the spark plugs and removing the wasp nest blocking the cooling water outlet, dad fuels it up and we’re ready to hit the water. Gumbal from Steve Arrow’s Pearl Farm told us of a great fishing spot a fair way out to sea near the mouth of the Beagle Bay Creek. Tides here are among the largest in the world, running eleven metres plus, flowing into the creek with a rapid surge that grinds down mud banks and tears new channels every week.

 

Waking early and still dark. It’s hot and muggy in the build-up to the wet season: never an hour of day or night when sweat doesn’t leach from even the slightest exertion. Mosquitos scourge in huge wavering clouds, hunting for blood and following my every move. Molly lets out a sharp bark which echoes in the silent air of our wilderness camp. “It’s ok Molly, only me.” She wags her tail enthusiastically, knowing her guardian job is done. My sister Anya and my mother are sound asleep as we prepare for the trip down to the Landing.

 

I hooked up the rickety old trailer to my 4x4 Hilux, a faithful car we had acquired in a barter with Andrew from Pender Bay Community. In exchange for a freezer full of fish, he gleefully handed the keys over. He thought it was a great deal as the 4x4 was in poor shape, no brakes, busted suspension, a holed fuel tank and had more rust than paint. I slowly rebuilt it from parts scavenged at the Beagle Bay graveyard, even jury-rigging with parts from other makes and models.

 

After loading an esky full of ice, bait and Pepsi, we began running through a checklist of items in case of emergency: a couple of old wooden oars, two anchors and plenty of rope, twenty litres of water and basic tools.

 

Admiring the absolute beauty of our surroundings, the creek meanders from the ocean on the horizon past the camp and into the Beagle Bay Community, and a little beyond. Engulfed by deep muddy banks and dense mangroves hiding a menagerie of creatures and critters. Being too risky to reverse the trailer into the mud bank, we drag the boat off its trailer, sliding it ungraciously towards the water. Working fast, we agreed not to dally. “Not keen on meeting that croc we saw last week”, I said, keeping a watchful eye to the mangroves.

 

Soon we’re on our way, the tide at a low there’s barely a foot of brown silty water this far up the creek with the kilometer or so to the far bank a desert of mud flats.

Passing one of the side inlets, Gilunge Creek, a shoal of mullet spooked by our approach makes a dash for open water only to be hit by a waiting Barramundi in a violent clash of water. The Barra, a prized and much sort after fish in Australia, was not on our hit list today so I just sit back and watch the episodes of natural life perform.  

 

The tinny leaps into life as Dad opens up the throttle, the creek widens as we head off towards the horizon, bouncing off gentle waves of the incoming tide. As we pass Arrow’s pearl farm, I can just make out the decades old pearling sheds far on the bank. This is an indicator for us to start turning further right as we leave the relative safety of the creek into the open ocean.

 

Eleven kilometers from the landing is a small, yellow safe anchorage buoy. Despite being here twice before, it is almost impossible to spot until we are right upon it. The fishing spot is untouched - a gem of a place like the pearls from the wild oysters which, in years gone by, flooded the sea floor.

 

As we near the anchorage buoy, Dad cries out, “Damn! We have a problem.” The engine roars in a high-pitched scream and the nose of the tinny lowers to a stop. Opening the throttle, there is no thrust forwards. The outboard has spun a prop. I look at dad’s face, a good indicator of how bad this could be. He growls and swears at the motor, it’s dead to us. The bearing on the propeller shattered, and there is no way of fixing it.

 

“Bloody Patrick!” dad exclaims. With two hours before the tide turns, we must act fast - the sudden rush of outgoing water can sweep us away in minutes and out into the open ocean, and I doubt the anchor will hold the boat against the torrent of raging tidal water.  As we look to the shoreline, which is a good distance away and just a thin hazy contour, we gauge our options, there’s only one. We must try and reach the shore. The thought of us drifting powerlessly out into the unforgiving ocean is terrifying. There’s nothing here, no shipping, no sea rescue, nothing between us and the Indian Ocean. And reaching the shore our dilemma doesn’t end there, we’ll still have to trek through kilometers of dense mangroves, mud flats and cross smaller creeks and inlets all patrolled by crocs, snakes and spiders. This has become a nightmare. But we must get it done.

 

Rowing in synchronism we push hard, the tide now reaching its highest point. We have maybe two hours to get as close as we can to the shore before the calm water turns against us. My body aches with pain, the salt water continuously splashing my fingers grating against the oars. We’ve been rowing for an hour exactly, I’ve timed it, as I have with the impending alarm of the tide turning. The shoreline rests seemingly the same distance as an hour ago.

 

We pause for a moment, I’m sure we’re both thinking the same. “Michael, we need to push harder, let’s give it everything we’ve got, bloody everything.” My oar strikes the water, thoughts focused on the next stroke and the next. For another hour we push on without easing up and the mangroves that border the shore slowly develop from a distant mirage to the impenetrable forest of roots and dense leafy branches.

 

Finally, we’ve made it. I’m done, exhausted, my body a train wreck. Dad leans over resting his head and shoulders on his knees breathing heavily. It’s not over yet though, the boat sides against a fortress of mangroves in about a meter of crystal-clear water. I can see small fish darting around the mangrove roots and a large crab scurries down its mud hole. Dad figures we must be a couple of kilometers south of the Arrow Pearl farm and still several k’s from the Hilux. There’s a fair chance the Pearl farm will be abandoned at this time of the year so make the choice to row in the opposite direction towards the Hilux as far as we can before the tide, which is now gathering pace as it begins its journey back out to the ocean. We meander through less dense thickets of mangroves at the water’s edge surprisingly quickly as the tidal flow is stemmed from the vegetation. We’ve run out of time, the head water is just too strong to row against but manage to haul the tinny up on the muddy bank of a small inlet and tie it securely to a thick mangrove branch. Slogging a route barefoot through mud and mangroves is tough, young mangrove stems that carpet the ground are either soft and pliable or rigid and severe with painful stabs to the soles of my feet. It’s not long before we break through this coastal barrier as it opens onto sandy bush-land. Here we pick up on a well-used donkey track running parallel with the coast.

The Pepsi we finished long ago amid our insanely mad rowing effort, now what’s left of the twenty-liter container of water swills in a small gulp we both share. Three hours later, the sun baking our skin in 38-degree heat, our skin a battle of cuts and bruises we reach old faithful. On the rear seat is an esky of melted ice, and six warm mouth-watering cans of Pepsi.