The next morning, actually it would be more correct to say several hours later, Rob, Jack and I found ourselves at the Mini Car Rentals shop.  We had agreed that Rachel and the three of us would head north of Cairns, to the picturesque region of Cape Tribulation.  However, given that Rachel, being a girl, was still busy packing, that Jack didn't have a driver's licence and that Rob, was in a less than fresh state, it was left to me to take the helm of our red Toyota something or other.  After spending a good half hour negotiating the matrix of roundabouts that guard the entry and exit roads to Cairns like a division of Panzer tanks, and after having finally come to terms with the workings of the vehicle (which happened to be an automatic), I relaxed my left foot, put the right one to the floor and hit the northbound highway.  With U2's new single "Beautiful Day" blaring out of the car's two overworked speakers, and a breathtaking coastline to follow, I truly felt thrilled to be on the road again.  North Queensland, with its tropical green rainforests that plunge down onto white sandy beaches, which in turn slowly glide below warm clear azure waters down to the coral reefs that hug the coast, is a photographer's dream.  We stopped occasionally to capture images of the stunning scenery in the hope of snatching a chance "Peter Lik moment". The car also ground to a halt for us to take pictures of the "Beware kangaroos crossing!" signs.  One particular stretch of road had two yellow signs adjacent to each other.  One was of a cassowary, the other of a speed bump.  Some insightful local had wittily scribbled "before and after" on the two signs!  Now either these warning signs are somewhat verging on the over-cautious or the drivers in North Queensland are very careless.  For we failed to see an exotic animal of any description attempting to cross the road.  But given that all four of us had also contrived to miss the one, well-signalled turning for Port Douglas, much to the amusement of the locals from whom we were later forced to ask directions, I suppose one should not altogether rule out the possibility that a panoply of highway traversing, migratory, antipodean wildlife does exist in these parts.

Anyway, by mid afternoon and 100 kilometres later, we arrived at the YHA Port O' Call hostel (AUS $19 a night) in our intended seaside hamlet.  Within minutes we were sunning ourselves on Port Douglas' famous 4 Mile Beach (or "6.4 Kilometre Beach" for those metric enthusiasts out there!), making sure that we didn't engage in any physical activity more exerting than the odd game of apathetic Frisbee.  More postcard buying followed in the ubiquitous local Peter Lik Gallery. The man seems to be everywhere!  Don't get me wrong. He has a keen eye.  He really does.  And he manages to produce some spectacular images.  It's just that beside each award winning snap, he insists on writing an over-the-top spiel on how he braved the harsh elements in order to capture such a unique moment, which, due to his kind philanthropic nature, he has chosen to share with us.  The guy needs a good slap before he disappears up his own behind, tripod and all.  Gerald Hoberman would never blather on in such a fashion.

The four of us spent a quiet evening and rose early to head further north to Cape Tribulation itself, "where the rainforest meets the reef."  We lodged at the quieter option, the Cape Trib Beach House, which is roughly four kms down the dirt track, which continues all the way up Cape York once the sealed road runs aground outside PK's hostel in Cape Trib (the nosier option).  The Beach House is pleasantly nestled along some pretty strands, but the less than friendly staff there compensate for this by charging visitors a princely sum of AUS $25 per person per night to be lodged in five man sweatboxes that would not look amiss on the set of Tenko.  As the poisonous stinger season had arrived in Queensland waters, which meant that swimming in the sea would prove a risky affair, Rob and I decided instead to remain relatively dry and teach Rachel and Jack the game of "Hearts", so we could wile away the sweaty hours playing cards and being bitten by horseflies.  But after the busy nocturnal weeks working at Scruffy's, such languid moments were a Godsend.  The next morning, I fell out of my bunk bed at 05h15 (06h15 Sydney time - Queensland is one hour behind New South Wales in summertime for reasons not to clear to any non-local as it borders the same lines of longitude) to capture the sunrise over an empty strand and to reel off more photos, which I neither have the time nor the money to develop.  But I enjoyed watching the dawn sky change colour and its increasing luminescence being reflected in the salty waters gently lapping the beach.  The sunlight also lit up the branches of the sparsely leafed trees that sprouted up from beneath the sand, like they had on Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe.  This was the first sunrise I had taken the trouble to witness since Lesotho and I have to admit that, even if I make a sorry morning person, they are peaceful junctures, which few in the busy industrial world have the freedom to absorb and appreciate.

Later that day on our way back south to Cairns, we took in a one-hour electric boat cruise through the mangroves of the Daintree River.  Given the impressive beauty of the mangrove forests, the wildlife that live therein (including a salt water crocodile we spotted doing a commendable impression of a log) and the juxtaposition of the winding river and the mountainous hinterland, resplendently lit by a setting sun, it was a tad unfortunate that my geriatric camera decided to usurp all the battery power and go on an unannounced strike.  I was close to throwing the damn thing overboard, but I didn't want to disturb the crocodile, which till then had blissfully ignored our presence. Over the quiet hum of the electric engine and the sweet songs of various strange birds, our guide explained to us how important the mangroves are.  Not only do they protect juvenile fauna among the roots of their trees until they mature, they also prevent too much plant nutrients and agricultural fertiliser from making its way to the sea, where it would promote exponential algal growth and ensure the slow death of the coral reefs.  After seeing some of the Australian countryside, it is understandable just why the locals value its uniqueness so much.  Queensland has pretty much everything any nature-loving traveller could want - red desert outback, tropical rainforests, pristine beaches, tranquil mangroves and of course the teeming coral reef.  Once safely back in Cairns, Rob and I decided that it would be to this latter wonder of nature, the Great Barrier Reef, that we would next turn our dual attention.  Having viewed its splendour from above, the moment had arrived to delve below its pacific depths and view the coral close up.  The time to dive had arrived.

Gav (4 November 2000)

Having shopped around at the various dive centres in Cairns, two thirds of the Dragoman Celtic fringe finally opted for a five-day PADI course with the Deep Sea Divers Den, one of the more pricey options.  Our reasoning was that the more expensive the cost, the more probable our safe return to terra firma.  The Open Water course, which consisted of two days in the pool and the classroom and three days and two nights at sea, came to roughly AUS $640, once the medical exam, textbook, dive tables and reef tax were included.  The next major obstacle to overcome was Rob's aquaphobia.  Less at ease in water than a one armed man wearing concrete slippers, I helped the Welshman review his treading water and front crawl skills, or lack thereof.  But fair dues to him, he managed the compulsory 200 metre swim and the ten minute bout of water treading, perhaps not with consummate ease, but without any panic attacks either.  So it was that he and I took our soggy seats in the diving classroom with a German and a British couple, three Dutch and one American.  In the next room were a large class of Japanese dive students.  The Deep Sea Divers Den gets so many German and Japanese students, that they run courses in these languages, not that you can tell differences in dialects at a depth of 30 metres.  Our teacher, Tom Orland, was a 19-year-old local with an approach to dive teaching somewhere between nonplussed and blasé.  I'd say that if a Great White shark swam by him, he'd probably betray no emotions and just explain casually that such hum-drum things happen on occasion.  However, in the pool, Tom knew exactly what he was at, and his calm quiet approach instilled confidence.  Once we had revised a certain amount of dive theory, the time drew near for us all to don our scuba gear - the Buoyancy Control Device (or BCD), weight belt, air tank, regulator, mask, snorkel and flippers and make our way to the pool.  Trying to walk with all this clobber on and with flippers on my feet proved a touch awkward.  I recalled how I had sniggered at the on land shuffle of the penguins in Simonstown in South Africa and felt ashamed.  My cumbersome waddle was far less graceful. Once in the pool, we practised taking our first sub aqua breaths.  It was very bizarre and even a bit disquieting to be inhaling air under water.  At first I had the urge to rise to the surface and remove my regulator.  But with time, we learned to remove our masks, regulators, signal that we were low on or out of air and to breathe from our buddy's alternate air source.  A buddy is the person with whom one teams up for one's dives.  Diving in pairs is much safer as one can each look out for the other person and for potential danger - one of which of course is running out of compressed air (a 79% nitrogen - 21% oxygen mix) under water.  After two days of study in the classroom and trial and error in the pool, we were deemed ready to board the Reef Quest and sail out to the Great Barrier Reef itself.

Rob and I had by now learnt a lot about the reef, the largest living organic structure on the planet - and apparently visible from the moon - as the previous evening we had attended "Reef Teach" on Spence Street (price AUS $13).  Hosted by marine biologist and scuba enthusiast, Paddy Colwell, who would be best described as a cross between Jacques Cousteau and Billy Connolly, "Reef Teach" consists of this mad Irishman whispering, shouting, waving his hands about and jumping around a stage for two and a quarter hours as he explains to an enthralled audience just what the coral reef is all about.  "Informative, interesting and simply great craic" was what I wrote in their comments book.  To learn so much about the hard and soft corals, plants, fish, molluscs, crustaceans, sea reptiles and mammals that make up this unique environment and the threat posed to it through human actions such as irresponsible tourism, dangerous fishing methods, such as dynamiting, and of course agricultural pollution, was both fascinating and eye-opening.  Paddy is an accomplished aquatic showman, but one with a very serious message.  So sufficiently armed with a new-found knowledge and respect for the reef, two plastic fish identification charts, two disposable underwater cameras and a sizeable stash of sun cream, we felt ready to take the salt water plunge.

After our first day of training in the open water, four of us and Tom were transferred to the Ocean Quest boat, where Rob and I sat our final exam.  With respective scores of 49 and 50 out of 50, we finished top of our class.  The next morning, Ciaran, the Kiwi cameraman, accompanied Tom, Pam (the American girl), Wytze (one of the Dutch guys), Rob and I on our final training dive, during which we were lucky enough to get very close to a large brown stingray, which now looks pretty damn wicked on our video.  It was during this dive (our fourth), just after we successfully completed our compass navigation, that Tom showed us a sign telling us that we were certified divers.  Lots of slow underwater high fives and "okay" hand signals followed.  Then we started sea horsing around, putting on sunglasses and pretending to drink a can of VB underwater.  It didn't improve the taste any!  Once we were certified, we continued to do five more dives, including a night dive.  As we got ready for the night dive, a group of Grey Whaler and Reef sharks started to circle our vessel much to Pam's dismay.  However, by the time all the divers took the giant leap into the water, the sharks, which are not harmful to humans, fled in terror.  Apparently only four species of shark are man eaters, and for every shark attack on a human, we kill hundreds of thousands of these ancient creatures.  "Jaws" has done the shark an enormous disservice.  Obviously during a night dive, visibility is severely reduced.  But as we sat motionless on the seabed and extinguished our torches, the glowing green bioluminescence in the water became visible with the mere wave of a hand.  This was rather special.

The next day, a group of dolphins swam by our vessel, though alas they were too quick for us to dive with. Nonetheless, through our nine dives, we saw a panoply of sea life including the following: sea cucumbers (which we were able to pick up and feel), clams, sea urchins, hermit and decorated crabs, Christmas Tree worms, many species of hard coral and soft anemones, two Bluespotted Lagoon Rays and one friendly giant Napoleon Maori Wrasse (known locally as "Wally").  We also swam in, around and through shoals of hundreds of fish such as Yellowtailed Fusiliers, Red Bass Snappers, Black and White Snappers, Black Damsels, Masked Bannerfish, Bicolour Angels, Longnosed Butterflies, Teardrop Butterflies, Yellow Boxfish, Moorish Idols, Longfin Batfish, Giant Trevally, the tiny Spinecheek and Clown Anemonefish, the amazing Bullethead and  Bridled Parrotfish, the bizarre Trumpetfish and the Guinness-like Chocolate Dips (my particular favourite).  Of all the activities I've done this year (white water rafting, bungi jumping, skydiving, quad biking, pony, camel and elephant riding), scuba diving has to win out.  For starters it lasts so much longer than anything else.  And while it cannot rival the adrenaline rush one gets when jumping off bridges or out of planes (unless one comes face to face with a Tiger Shark perhaps), it's pretty hard to match the sensation of floating weightless in the water as a whole ecosystem goes about its daily business, oblivious to your presence.  The whole experience was so uplifting that both Rob and I were a bit depressed upon returning to the mainland.  But we had our duty to do - get Tom wasted.  He had done such a good job with us, that Pam, the Germans (Alex and Katrin), Rob and I all headed to the Cock 'n' Bull pub in the evening to make sure Tom didn't retire to his bed sober.  Ciaran joined us for good measure, this time fortunately without his camera.  Several hours later, and after a pit stop or three in Paddy O'Briens and the Woolshed, Tom was less than his usual composed self, Ciaran had to retire early and Rob was engaging in some emergency buddy breathing with another diver (who shall of course remain nameless - suffice to say it wasn't Alex, Katrin or my good self).  A top end to a great five days, and in the word of Les Dawson, "Nobody leaves empty handed" as we all now have our PADI certificates.

Now Rob and I are staying at Beaches Backpackers in Airlie Beach, the nearest continental port to the Whitsunday Islands.  As we travelled down the east coast on Mc Cafferty's coaches (only AUS $203 from Cairns to Sydney), stopping en route in Maggie's Hostel in Horseshoe Bay on Magnetic Island for two overcast humid days, we decided that we should do another diving course.  So in two hours we set sail again, this time for three days with Reef Dive, in the hope of gaining our Advanced Open Water certificates and witnessing the coral spawning.  The "spawning" is not a disturbing Stephen King novel, but the one day a year when the coral reef reproduces.  Seeing it is apparently akin to being in an upside-down underwater snowstorm as the eggs and sperm rise from the coral and explode onto the ocean surface.  It occurs for one evening only in the week following the November full moon.  That was two days ago.  So we are hoping lady luck will shine and that the coral reef is feeling romantic enough to "get it on" while we're floating around.  Following that, a lazy four day cruise with Pro-Sail around the Whitsunday Islands is on the cards.  That should be a total blast.  The reason we're doing so many activities is that when we were in Cairns we had popped into the Backpackers Travel Centre to inquire about the time or some such trivial thing.  One hour later, thanks to the efforts of one Oliver Voss, a sales agent with the guile of a Moroccan carpetbagger, only nicer, we had purchased AUS $1,300 worth of hostel, safari and boating tour packages all the way down to Fraser Island.  Rob, as much in shock by our Bransonesque financial grandeur as I, asked if Olly woul  throw in a few postcards. "Maybe 40 or so?" I think were his words!  So the whole Aussie trip might be a lot shorter than either of us originally anticipated, but at least we're doing it in style.  I blame the nitrogen narcosis myself. Catch you again on the surface sometime.

Gav (14 November 2000)

By now Rob and myself were island-hopping with the gusto of American World War II GI's.  The Whitsunday Islands were firmly within our sights.  Given the enlightened state of nirvana we would reach by the time of our return to the mainland, I find it difficult to recall why I greeted our imminent nautical departure with such trepidation.  It now seems quite irrational, but given that I had spent the return journey from the Great Barrier Reef vomiting overboard to a chorus of rough Pacific swells, I suppose my fears were in some way understandable.

In order to obtain our Advanced Open Water PADI certificates, we had ventured out to sea with Reef Dive in Airlie Beach for three days and two nights. In that time we would complete another ten dives (making a grand total of 19), which tested our skills in compass navigation, night diving, underwater naturalism (i.e. ability to identify various species of coral and fish), entering the sea from a tender (a small dinghy) and deep diving (descending to 30 metres below with little sleep and a sore head).  Though the set up with Reef Dive was far less professional than with the Deep Sea Diver's Den in Cairns, and despite the fact that the coral refused to spawn while we were on the reef, the dive sites we visited on Knuckle Reef and Bait Reef were, in fairness, excellent.  Apart from the impressive array of old marine friends that we had already spotted on Saxon and Norman Reefs the previous week, new aquatic acquaintances such as the Yellow Boxfish, the Sealfaced Puffer, the huge Potato Cod, the colourful Regal and Blue Angels, the territorially aggressive White Damsel, the Picassoesque Blacksaddle Toby, the Chevron Barracuda, the Silver Unicornfish, the Harlequin Tuskfish Wrasse and the ingeniously named Oriental Sweetlips were made.  In addition to the abundance of fish, other new sightings from the deep included a Moray Eel, a Leopard Shark, a Sea Snake, two Spanish Dancer flatworms, some White Tipped Reef Sharks and a shoal of seven giant Manta Rays swimming in geese-like formation.  Still no bloody turtles though!  I'm beginning to believe that these sea reptiles are mythical creatures.  We've more chance of seeing a mermaid mating with a griffin at this rate!

On our deep dive, our class got to witness the effects of four atmospheres of pressure on an opened raw egg (which remained intact when handled), on a packet of pancake mix (which turned rock hard) and on self-induced red wine hangovers.  Indeed, headache or no, the best place to be in choppy seas is hovering in the calm well below the water's surface.  The reason for us being in a less than "fresh as a daisy" state was due to the crew of our boat, the Tropical Princess, having organised a toga party the previous evening.  Now, when I say toga, one imagines a flowing robe draped loosely over one shoulder, plummeting diagonally across one's torso to a knee-length height.  A garment that gives one a refined senatorial air. Thus had I dressed.  Not our Rob though.  He turned and twisted his blue bed sheet till it covered nothing but his nether regions, so that by the end of his contortions, he resembled something half way between an oversized baby and a Sumo wrestler.  As a coup de grace, he stuffed a pair of sports socks down his nappy and then hung as pair of shades over the subsequent protruding mound for that salacious Barry White effect.  So, thus classically dressed (or not as the case may be) and given the fact that several nationalities, including Aussies, Kiwis, English, French, German, Dutch, Israeli, Canadian and four blonde Swedes attended in the required Roman garb, this might sound like a dream occasion.  Would, as Tony our diving instructor kept repeating, "The luck o' the Irish" finally pay dividends?  Well, there was just one small drawback to the hedonistic re-enactment of the fall of the Roman Empire.  85% of the passengers, including 100% of the Scandinavians, were male.  The few females that were out on the high seas with us had faces that would not so much launch a thousand ships as force their crews overboard.  Not that this stopped our intrepid Welsh hero, who undertook his very own dive into the murky depths. I'll not beach this topic again, as I know he is extremely contrite for his inexcusable actions. Besides, he is my buddy and he makes me feel reassuringly selective in my choice of potential lady friends.  I'll just say that I'd sooner have bedded a Napoleon Maori Wrasse myself.  She was more Leonard McCoy than Helen of Troy really.  But poor old remorseful Rob pledged to turn over a new leaf and stay away from wanton strumpets for quite a while. And fair dues to him, his vow nearly lasted three days, only for his dutiful sense of competition (with me) to force him to abandon his newly-found chaste existence.  Mar sin scéal eile.  That's another story.

Anyway during the course of the toga party, Sean the captain of our vessel, taught us how to play two very entertaining games called "Little Pink Pig" and "Captain Cook" respectively, the losers of which had to swim naked around the boat between the shoals of Giant Trevally.  I, dear readers, remained mercifully dry and clothed.  Rob and I then tested the memory and tongue twisting skills of our fellow divers with a bout of "One Big Hen", the game that I learnt in Macadi Beach in Dar Es Salaam.  This resulted in Paula, our vivacious hostie, and Jenny, our on board cook, being dumped unceremoniously overboard.  What goes ar und, comes around - that's all I'll say.  The Swedish lads taught us how to sing and mime a popular Swedish party song called "Små Groderna" (Little Frog).  The words, first in Swedish, then a rough translation in English, go as follows:

Små groderna, små groderna, är lustiga att se, Små groderna, små groderna, är lustiga att se, Ej öron, ej öron, ej svansar hava de, Ej öron, ej öron, ej svansar hava de, Goachacha, Goachacha, Goachachachacha, Goachacha, Goachacha, Goachachachacha.

Little frog, little frog, he's funny to look at, Little frog, little frog, he's funny to look at, No ears, no ears, and no tails have they, No ears, no ears, and no tails have they, Ribbit ribbit, ribbit ribbit, ribbit ribbit ribbit, Ribbit ribbit, ribbit ribbit, ribbit ribbit ribbit.

Mmmm.  Yes indeed, it's more Chas 'n' Dave than Bob Dylan really.  Couple the less than profound lyrics with the Macarena-esque hand and body movements and it's safe to see why Swedish popular music never regained the dizzy heights of the late Abba years.  So I'll spare you the subsequent verses.  But trust me, if you're ever in Nordic waters - it's a great icebreaker.  Please excuse the pun.

Alas, my enjoyment of the three days was somewhat curtailed by being seriously seasick on the return journey from the reef through stormy waters.  Sitting listlessly at the boat's stern, plastic bag at the ready, staring at the rising and sinking horizon, dry retching, while all the time being soaked in salty sea spray, is not what I would consider an prime example of money well spent.  Fortunately Brett, a young Welsh guy who worked on the ship, gave me some travel sickness tablets that I managed somehow to keep down, and consequently, I was able to doze through the final leg of the journey past the Whitsundays.  Even when I returned to my dorm in Beaches Backpackers, I still felt as if the room was swaying to oceanic eddies and swirls, so Rob and I decided to spend a quiet night in watching "Goldeneye" on Foxtel.  It might, therefore, seem a tad odd that I was soon to be found heading seaward within 24 hours.  But there's not a helluva lot to do in Airlie Beach, especially when the weather is inclement, except e-mail and drink.  Neither of these options clearly appealed to me.  A bit like Bush and Gore really.

However, due to having booked such an ample amount of trips with Olly in Cairns, the two of us had been given a free day trip with On The Edge, a sizeable catamaran owned by the Prosail group.  Normally this trip would cost AUS $77.  The boat was captained by a large bearded Englishman called Wendy (yes, that's Wendy!), who was as funny as he was clinically insane - a unique combination obviously brought about by too much time at sea.  On The Edge, which is roughly 20 metres long, 13 metres wide and boasts a mast over 30 metres high, is the fastest commercial sailing catamaran in the world.  As we stretched out lazily on the string nets at the bow of the boat, trying to catch the infrequent shards of intermittent sunshine, we cut throu h the waves to Whitsunday Island itself, where we went snorkelling off a coral beach.  The huge number of fish and coral that we were able to see only five metres or less from the shoreline surprised me. It was also on board the catamaran that Rob and I met Renata, a friendly and attractive Dutch dental hygienist, who to our combined delight we discovered would be setting sail with Apollo (our vessel), the next day.  The glint in Mr. Hughes' eye was only outshone by my own, and an unofficial contest to, eh how shall I say this tactfully, "get to know" Renata better was underway.  It wasn't exactly gloves off stuff, but neither of us were open to stepping aside either.  Consequently, an evening of planning romantic strategies took place over a few jars in Paddy Shenanigans, the Irish pub next-door, by end of which, we had purchased two bottles of bubbly and four champagne flutes between us.  Maybe we've been watching too many Bond flics.  Though I wager that my latest courting opener or "Wow, you're slim - I'm Fat Boy - We should make music together!" probably falls rather short of the high standards of the Connery, Moore & Brosnan School of Bedding Par Excellence.

Day 1 - So it was on the morning of Monday, 20 November 2000, that we joined our 21 fellow passengers and four crew at Chute Harbour for the beginning of our seafaring odyssey.  Thankfully the bad weather had broken and clear blue skies prevailed once again. Apart from Renata (Plan A), there were four other Dutch on board - three lads Sonny, Martin and Jeroen, and the stunning Joirin (Plan B).  Like I said before, it's always good to have a Plan B, especially when Plan A is under siege from a hormonally hyperactive Welshman!  The trans-Rhine contingent included a Swiss guy whose name eludes me for the moment, and three Germans, Julian, Sabina and Francisca, the first two of whom were quite entertaining and humorous, something for which "ze Germanz" are not readily renown.  But this was probably down to the fact of them having lived in the States and in the UK respectively.  The only other Europeans aboard were all from the old sod.  Two lasses, Olive and Siobhán, and three hilarious lads, Ted, Padraig and Clement, who in true Irish style, were all seriously hung over.  When not groaning at the sway of the boat or at the pain in their heads, they kept themselves busy slagging each other over their latest suspect female conquests.  Apparently Clem's most recent "belle" had a face like Christy Browne, and Padraig continued to do a less than politically correct Daniel Day Lewis impression that he entitled "My Left Tit"!  Rob and I were in stitches, though I bet you that he was glad all the same that the lads had not been on the Tropical Princess, or they would have had a field day at his expense.  North America was represented by Tracey, a nice Canadian from English-speaking Quebec (more about her later) and three Texans, one of whom, Melissa, was friendly enough, though I don't think that two civil words passed between her two surly friends and the rest of us all trip.  Houston, they have a problem.  Tracey's pal, Geanette, hailed from South Africa and finally Eric "the Eel" from South Korea, completed our international line-up.  The only Australians on board were the crew - Peter the chatty captain, Ruth the on board chef who most of the guys, bar myself, fancied, and Christen and Alex, the deck hands, the former of whom was really sound, unlike the latter who was a moody egoist.  But, to misquote Meat Loaf, three out of four ain't bad.

The craft in which we were to journey and live for three days and two nights was called Apollo (the king of the gods).  Apollo sails on Mondays and Fridays and it is one of the four giant Maxi yachts that Prosail own - the others being Matador, Condor and Hammer. Apollo itself has won every major race on the East Coast of Australia, including the famous Sydney to Hobart challenge.  And while we only ventured up to ten knots (circa 20 km/p/h), when you're slicing through the waves with your sails filled with strong gusts, ten knots feels bloody fast, I'll tell you. Everybody, well those who volunteered at least, got to help with the sailing.  This principally involved manning the coffee grinders in order to hoist the two huge sails on the yacht and packing the sails away when the wind dropped.  Sometimes, when we were racing against another ship, as we successfully did against Matador on the third day, we were required to tack and gibe frequently.  This involves everybody on the boat running, crawling, shuffling or rolling from the high side of the yacht to the low side, which in turn becomes the high side once the sails catch the breeze from the opposite direction.  It sounds confusing, but it is actually great fun, providing you don't get hit by a swinging boom, fall down a stairwell or disappear overboard.

On the first afternoon, some of the gang went snorkelling and did introductory scuba dives.  I just chose to sunbathe on deck and practice my diving (aka falling) off the starboard side of the boat.  After a few minutes swimming against the current around Apollo, both Renata and I got bitten on our legs by sea lice.  I also got stung just above my left eye, so by the time Ruth applied crushed ice to numb the sting, I was hopping about the place like Long John Silver with only one eye visible in true pirate style.  By late afternoon the pain had subsided and most of the passengers had left for one of the islands for drinks and some beach volleyball.  As luck would have it, the tender broke down before all of us could be transferred to dry land.  So I was left on board with all the Irish and four eskies full of drink!  Just as it looked like a Celtic shindig of Titanic proportions might be under way, a replacement speedboat appeared on the scene to whisk us away from our icebox booty. By the time we had all safely returned to Apollo, the salt air and the sunshine had taken their toll. Lethargy increased further after a hearty dinner.  In fairness to Ruth, her meals were excellent, and when coupled with the wicked range of chill out music that was on board, it is perhaps understandable, if still inexcusable, why the passengers started dropping like flies after dusk.  Rob and myself nonetheless produced a bottle of champagne to see off the evening (Australian bubbly is surprisingly cheap and is well within the reach of the more gallant backpackers out there) and this made a favourable impression with the ladies.  Given that a brilliant starry sky devoid of light pollution hung overhead and that the twilight temperatures were still balmy, many people decided to sleep on deck and count shooting stars, rather than retire to the stifling confines below.  With the gentle breeze, the soothing sway of the yacht and the dazzling heavens, the moment was truly divine, like the evening I'd spent in Chollo's bar on the north coast of Zanzibar last May.  Except that this time the one element that had been missing then was now present - a charming young girl.  And so when at 5am droplets of rain started to fall on us and a swift exodus below decks occurred, Rob was surprised to see that he'd have to seriously consider Plan B.  For once, the Irish charm had won out over the Welsh, and I have to say that I felt as chuffed as he did gutted.

Day 2 - At daybreak we sailed to Whitehaven Beach, which is one of the most picturesque strands anywhere in the world.  While Renata and I went for a romantic stroll through the woods, Rob turned his attention to Joirin.  I could see, however, that this would be a difficult case to crack of Hardy Boys proportions. Once everyone had taken their panoramic photos from the lookout on high, our troop headed to the white sands below for some erratic Frisbee, hopeless volleyball and some kissing and cuddling.  Well, most of them had to settle for the first two activities. The lightly coloured sands of Whitehaven Beach are unique in the fact that when you tread upon them, they literally squeak!  Then of course they burn the skin of the soles of your feet if you're foolish enough to walk barefoot.  When we finally vacated our shore side idyll by late morning, our sails were unfurled and Apollo hit cruise mode.  Another lazy afternoon spent snorkelling and sunbathing ensued.  By dusk, all on board were up for a session, so Rob and I took it on ourselves to teach everyone "Little Pink Pig".  This is the sort of game that one can only play once with the same group of people, so I'll not lay out the rules here.  Suffice to say that neither Peter, our skipper, nor Eric the Korean will forget this night in a hurry!  It was during the subsequent game of "I have never" that a Plan C suddenly appeared on Rob's horizon.  "I have never" works thus: each person in turn declares something that they have never done - homework, shoplifting, carnal acts, whatever.  Then those who have actually done what the speaker has yet to do must stand up and take a drink.  So when Tracey announced that "she had never slept with a Welshman", Rob diverted his attention from Joirin to the Canadian, quicker than you can say "Pass the Dutchie on the left hand (port) side!"  So by night's end, I had suddenly turned from being "a total b*stard" into "ah, not such a bad guy after all".  "Men of Harlech, Rise to glory, Victory is hovering o'er we".  Yes indeed, Plan C had come home to roost.  So while Rob got jiggy jiggy, I stayed up into the wee hours discussing education, religion and politics with Julian, Melissa and Sonny.  Now you might wonder where the hell Renata was.  I know I did.  But my Dutch tulip abruptly underwent a cooling process the likes of which have not been seen since the last Ice Age. So by the time the heavens opened up again just before dawn, with the subsequent skedaddle to quarters below, the notion was beginning to brew in my subconscious that perhaps I should seriously consider Plan B - the Double Dutch option.

Day 3 - Today we made for One-Foot High Island, a large tropical sandbank that peeps out above the marine surface.  Ted spotted a turtle while snorkelling.  Needless to say, by the time Rob and I donned our flippers and masks and waddled waist high into the sea, the turtle was safely paddling around in waters the far side of Papua New Guinea.  Geanette even saw three of them while sunbathing.  But for Rob and myself these reptiles are proving as elusive as a leopard.  There's a reptilian conspiracy afoot I wager.  Having given up on the turtle search, Martin, Joirin and I sauntered around the island looking for exotic shells and taking a silly number of photographs.  I left Rob in the capable and willing hands of Tracey.  He didn't even put up a struggle. But none of us wanted to leave the island.  After all, it's not every day that you can sunbathe on clear soft sand while being surrounded on three sides by warm waters lapping your body.  But Christen finally insisted, so we all hopped back in the tender to the mother ship.  After another sumptuous lunch, we were back at the coffee grinders, pumping away and trying not to suffer from chronic indigestion.  Our consummate victory over Matador on the way back led to cries of "Who's your Daddy?!?" from our side.  It was pretty satisfying to beat them (even if most of the time this just entailed us sitting in a row placidly on one side of the boat dangling our legs overboard) as their yacht is even bigger than Apollo.  But before we could fully savour our triumph, the sails were dropped and the motor sped us back to a cloudy Chute Harbour.  Once again that depressing sensation of being back on shore hit home, as it had done in Cairns.  An unusual feeling for a landlubber like me I suppose.

On our final night together as a group, we went through the usual motions.  Beaches supplied free beer courtesy of Prosail, and Rob and I even took to the stage for a pathetic display of hula hooping.  My cred as a child of the seventies just took a dent. Otherwise, there were party games arranged such as "Knight, Mount, Cavalier" and the ever popular "Strip Musical Chairs" and we all danced around the floor like eejits to tunes like "Staying Alive" by the B-Gees and "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor.  Odd that this is the same very genre of music which used to drive me mad every night in Scruffy's, but I guess that's probably down to whether you're working your ass off or out to get loaded.  Once Joirin snook off early I knew that the game was up.  Obviously a Canadian in the hand is worth two Dutch in the bush. After a couple of final pints of stout with Padraig and Clem in Shenanigans the evening just fizzled out. But being back at Airlie Beach was always going to be a comedown, given how amazing our Whitsunday cruise was.  And like the maritime junkies that we are, we're now making for Fraser Island, where hopefully the gods, especially Apollo, will be smiling again. Anchors away!

Gav (24 November 2000)

In order to solve the riddle once and for all of whether turtles actually exist in our universe or just some parallel sea reptile dimension that every other scuba diver and snorkeller seems to inhabit, Rob and I next ventured to Bundaberg, home of the famous Bundi Rum distillery.  Bundaberg is also well known for being home to one of the two largest loggerhead turtle rookeries in the South Pacific region.  We had done our research and this time, we meant business.  We lodged at O'Kelly's Beach Resort in Bargara, roughly fifteen minutes drive from Bundaberg itself.  The drive goes past fields of billowing sugar cane in which hordes of tiny cane toads live.  Looking out over this rural scene as we sped by white wooden Queenslander homesteads, I felt as if I'd been transported to the Deep South of the United States. This region, with its croaking tree frogs, dry grasslands and humid temperatures, would make a suitable backdrop for a John Grisham novel.  It was certainly a relief to be away from the usual backpacker circuit and to see real people, locals going about their daily lives, oblivious to the alternative Australia of beach bumming, dive trips and cyber cafés.  O'Kelly's was easily the plushest resort we'd stayed in to date.  Tolerant of backpackers, but not dependent on them.  An old Dutch man in his seventies, who had emigrated to Queensland, lived in our room.  He'd a few hundred stories to ell from his travelling past.  Yarns that went back to pre-war times.  This certainly was a change.

By dusk we were both sufficiently rested to join the other turtle watchers and head to Mon Repos.  Mon Repos (French for My Rest) supports the largest concentration of nesting marine turtles on the eastern Australian coast.  Three types of turtle come ashore here to lay their eggs - the Loggerhead turtle (95%), the Flatback turtle (4%) and the Green turtle (1%). The nesting season is from mid-November to February, while the hatchling season runs from January through to March.  The whole conservation park uses dim lighting and low noise levels so as not to disturb the turtles.  Tall indigenous trees have been planted to supplement their seclusion.  Entrance to the park is AUS $5 (3 Euro) and for this price you may tour the visitors' centre exhibition and listen to various live and recorded presentations about the turtles.  As we arrived early in the evening we were put into the first band of 70 visitors.  So when two hours later word spread that a turtle had emerged from the water, our group was escorted down onto the beach.  There we waited in silence in a dark arboreal world lit only by a gibbous moon low in the southern sky.  Our victim, a Flatback turtle, was proving very particular about where in the high dry sand she dug her nest into which she would, in theory, lay anywhere up to 100 eggs.  So much so that after around twenty minutes of reverential parturitious silence or our part, she decided to return to the ocean, her eggs unlaid. Given that only one in a thousand hatchlings survive till adulthood due to the predatory actions of feral animals, dogs, fish, sharks and man, her fussiness at picking a safe site for her nesting ground is understandable.  Nonetheless, this was the moment when we quite literally pounced.  Following our rangers down along the remarkably visible turtle tracks, the 70 of us crowded around the poor creature.   While I fully understand the rangers' necessity to tag, measure and, when applicable, count the eggs, I cannot see why tourists (my good self included) are allowed to crowd around these marvellous animals and take countless photos with powerful flashes.  Short memories they might have, but you can't tell me that the turtles do not find all this sudden brouhaha distressing.  Her path to the sea blocked her eyes covered and a horde of marine paparazzi clicking away.  It would have been much simpler to have a selection of already prepared photos for sale in the souvenir shop and ban flashlight photography on the beach. Once the incessant camerawork finally ceased, it was amazing to watch this ancient beast crawl slowly through the darkness to the watery edge.  I got the feeling that her and her kind would still be performing this breeding ritual long after us humans have stopped breathing and our cameras have ceased working.  Providing that whether by accident, carelessness or intent, mankind doesn't kill them off first.  But with the help of those volunteers and employees who work at Mon Repos and their ilk, then perhaps the sea turtle might yet be brought back from the brink of extinction.  I would heartily recommend a visit to a turtle rookery, especially if there were a chance to see the tiny hatchlings scurrying over each other and the sand in a madcap headlong skidaddle for the sea.  Furthermore, a stop at Bargara makes a welcome break from the hedonistic tedium of the East Coast backpacking route.  And as with all wild animals, the only way to view such beasts is in their natural surroundings, not in a cage, not in a fish tank, and not in a zoo.

Thus, with a sense of mission accomplished, Rob and I left Bundaberg for Hervey Bay, gateway to Fraser Island.  Once again we were lodged in Beaches Backpackers, though the branch in Hervey Bay has a more personal feel than its sister hostel in Airlie Beach.  After a spot of lazing by the pool and watching the film "Human Traffic" on the VCR, the Welshman and myself were introduced to the other members of our group, with whom we would spend the next three days.  Once again, the Aussies were noticeable by their absence.  We had an all-European squad.  Apart from is there were two Swedes, Jenny and Åsa, a Hollandic German, Tobias, and a Germanic Dutchman, Koen, an Irish cailín, Michelle and an English lad, Paul.  Rob and I were put in charge of alcohol supplies, something which I found a tad ironic given that as we were the only two people who were both over 21 and had international driving licences, we would also be responsible for all the driving.  I discovered that I was the oldest of our entire group. Sign of the times I'm afraid.  Once the shopping has been done, we loaded up our vehicle, which was an 8-man four-wheel drive Toyota Landcruiser.  I had never driven a four-wheel drive vehicle before, especially on sand, but I just looked at it as adding another notch to my list of activity debuts in the year 2000.  The following morning we were given a run through of the dos and don'ts on Fraser Island.

Fraser Island, at 120 kilometres long and 15 kilometres wide is the world's largest sand island - no clay, no earth, just a collection of foliated sandbars.  It has been listed as a World Heritage site since 1993.  On it there are up to 200 crystal clear fresh water lakes in which one can swim, which is just as well as the surrounding seas are laden with poisonous jellyfish, man-eating sharks and lethal undertows.  Much of the island is densely forested with a shield of unique indigenous trees and plant life.  Reptiles and wild dingoes roam through the undergrowth, while an annoying number of March flies are constantly on the prowl for their next victim. After a short drive and ferry trip across to Wangoolba Creek, we set off down one of the sandy tracks which criss-cross the island to Eurong on the eastern side of Fraser.  Driving through the forest was comfortable enough for Rob and myself.  We had a clear view of the bumps and hollows and simply followed the grooves made in the sand by earlier travellers.  However, for the six guys in the back, sitting sideways in cramped conditions with a limited view of where we were heading, all the time listening to an erratic radio reception, the winding journeys through the wooded hinterland of the island were exercises in flexibility, tolerance and patience.  Like troops waiting to land on Omaha Beach, they bumped and bounced off kitchen utensils, slabs of beer, eskies and camping equipment like a half dozen rag dolls. Never have I been so glad for having persevered with those classes with the Irish School of Motoring.

Nonetheless, when we reached 75 Mile beach, the M1 of Fraser Island if you will, the real fun began.  We had planned our arrival for low tide, which meant that instead of chugging along at 30 kmph, we could up the ante to a tidy 80kmph and speed along the hard wet sand.  The only things we had to look out for were the ubiquitous fresh water creeks that flowed into the sea, and the horde of beached jellyfish who for some reason had failed to evacuate the land with the receding waters.  Our first major photo stop was at the Maheno shipwreck, a passenger liner that ran aground after a typhoon in 1935.  It reminded me of the Jacaranda, the wreck that I'd seen in the Transkei in August, though given the large number of tourists and day trippers surrounding this crumbling ruin, one could tell that the Maheno was much more accessible. With clear blue skies above, interspersed by sparse cirrus clouds, we continued north to Indian Head. While Rob and I went searching in the 4x4 for firewood, the others set up the tents.  Upon our return I hoisted the blue and yellow starred banner of Europe.  Camp Europa was ready for action.  As a set of three sandbanks cut off a section of salt water (and therefore the sharks) from the ocean, we all went for a refreshing dip, before climbing to the top of Indian Head itself for a spot of shark and dolphin spotting.  I don't know whether it was because we were a smaller bunch than on the Whitsundays or because we all had to chip in together for cooking and looking after the camp, but the group dynamics were excellent on Fraser from the word go.

After a nocturnal barbecue, we opened the iceboxes and started to party.  As usual I started a sing-a-long, only this time Michelle joined in.  She truly had a divine voice and gave an awesome rendition of "She Walked Through The Fair" (the lyrics for which are in the "Interests" section of my homepage).  With some coaxing and a spot of Red Bull courage, pretty much everyone belted out a tune of two around the campfire.  Jenny and Åsa, joined by a Swedish couple, Pia and Nicholas, blasted out a few Scandinavian ditties, including our favourite "Små Groderna".  Koen sang the Vengaboys, progenitors of the most heinous Dutch musical crimes since the heyday of 2 Unlimited.  I accompanied Tobias in a festive rendition of "Oh Tannenbaum" and "99 Luftballons".  They say that the Welsh have great voices.  And to be fair, they generally do.  I suppose Rob is just one of these exceptions that qualify the rule.  Still, what he lacked in tuning he made up for in arm swinging gusto as he sang "Men of Harlech" and "Bread of Heaven" as if a band of Zulus were closing in on his position. Just a shame it didn't bother the dingoes who began to encircle Camp Europa.  Paul, a fellow "gooner", stole the show however, when he finally remembered the words to "Jerusalem", which he subsequently taught to us:

Bring me my bow of burning gold Bring me my arrows of desire Bring me my spear, oh clouds unfold Bring me my chariots of fire

I shall not cease from mental strife Nor shall my sword sleep in my hands Till we have built Jerusalem On England's green and pleasant lands

Nice to hear an Englishman who can render a traditional tune that dates back further than "Love Me Do".  As an Irishman, I have to say that I like to meet English people who, like Paul, see themselves as English, not British.  I mean it's understandable given the rise of regionalism in the UK, the Scottish Parliament, the Welsh Assembly et al.  And after all, unlike the Union Jack, the cross of St. George is not tainted by association with the Empire, the War, Combat 18 and all that BNP nonsense.  Angry mindless skinheads beating up Asian and black kids and giving Hitler salutes is a long way from the glory days of the RAF.  So yes, I think it's a bloody good thing that the English are finally discovering their own country - cricket, warm ale, meat pies, and black cabs - rather than trying to impose some sort of antiquated form of Britishness on other cultures.  The British Isles would be an altogether happier place if therein existed four distinct political entities whose citizens, while conscious of their ethnic, religious and historical differences, could safely acknowledge what they have in common without fear of domination by the biggest section.  That's what Europe means for me anyway.  Acknowledging and celebrating commonalities while retaining distinctiveness.  After all, it worked for the French and the Germans, and nobody ever says, "Ah yes Paris, I once was at the Oktoberfest you know!"  Well maybe the odd Yank might say such nonsense, but I think you know what I'm getting at. So, safe in my Celtic skin, I did not balk at joining Rob in a rendition of "Swing Low Sweet Chariot", actions and all, in honour of Paul's effort.  Then after loudly humming Beethoven's 9th symphony "Ode to Joy" (the European anthem), it all got silly with tunes by Johnny Logan, Buck's Fizz, Abba, Bobbysox, Celine Dion (aaargghh!) and more Johnny Logan.  Ein bischen Frieden indeed.  We'd gone completely Eurovision.

By now I wager we were seriously bugging the other campers, well at least those who hadn't joined us around the campfire like moths to a flame.  So someone suggested a midnight swim and before you could say "What's that big black fin in the water?" we were all splashing around in the shallows naked as the day we were born.  Shocking behaviour I know, but once again the dingoes studiously ignored us.  Now frolicking around in the sea can stir the hormones, and if it doesn't then a spot of wrestling does the trick.  So when Åsa (who I soon discovered was actually a World Champion wrestler) pinned me to the sand with the help of Michelle, I struggled.  Not too hard mind as moments like these should be savoured in full. Speaking of frisky, Rob had earlier made his move on Jenny Lööf (aka Jenny "Love").  He just went for the kill.  Didn't even give me a chance to sing a romantic ballad.  But enough!  I promised not to write any more disparaging words about my travelling buddy.  Not out of any sense of nomadic loyalty or masculine fealty. It's just that he's now got some dirt on me.  So his actions on Fraser will go unannounced and unpunished. Ah, God bless his Welsh cotton socks!  Top guy.  Salt of the earth.  Eh, just don't let him enter Sweden or there'll be carnage and a stream of broken girlie hearts.  Oh bugger.  Something tells me that a nasty guestbook signing is on the way.

Now what I'm about to write is not to forestall any such vengeful web site entries.  But I'm gonna open up here (probably because I'm writing this paragraph on my third pint of stout in Séan's pub in Alice Springs).  Much and all that I love, nay adore women, my male relationships have always been crucial to me and to who I am.  Maybe it's because I never had a brother, but I've never shied away from male relationships (and no, I don't mean that in the Freddy Mercury/Oxford Street sense).  Looking back, John and Conor when I was in St. Fintan's, James Joyce - my mentor and guide in Belvedere, Paul Doyle, my opposing yet kindred spirit in Trinity, and in Turin, Andy for the music, Georgios for the footie and Dave for the craic.  I'd not swap any of those friendships for a fling.  And that's where Rob comes in I suppose.  I guess we just hit off each other like I did with Preben in Dakar.  Don't get me wrong, I can handle myself on my own.  West Africa proved that.  But I prefer bouncing off someone.  Stimulating, provoking, reacting.  Being kept on my toes.  And the cavalier Welshman is just the sort for that.  Without trying to sound like the old man of the hills, he's a bit like me when I lived in Brussels.  Before extra kilos, grey hair and inklings towards serious relationships and parenthood set in.  Jaysis, I think I might have watched "Jerry Maguire" once too often.

So suffice to say that some jiggy jiggy was had with the ladies that night on Fraser.  But I'll mention no names.  I feel, however, that I should apologise to Paul who had to rough it outside because his tent was "occupied".  Oh the irony of it all!  An Englishman evicted due to the actions of an Irishman.  The next morning Camp Europa looked like it had undergone a severe dose of Blitzkrieg.  The place looked ravaged. Even our flag hung limply at half-mast.  At first we thought that it was just down to our celebratory shenanigans of the previous evening.  But no.  The dingoes, stealthy canine fiends that they are, had paid us a visit.  Gone was our meat.  Gone was our chocolate.  Fortunately these adept wild dogs have yet to learn how to open a can of beer or a bottle of gin, so at least our stash of drink remained intact, if somewhat depleted.  As luck would have it, low tide wasn't till lunchtime, so we were afforded a much-needed lie in.  Once camp was raised, we promptly got bogged down in soft sand.  Things were going awry.  But we cared not a jot.  A spot of vegetarian lunch (courtesy of the dingoes) was had inland from Cathedral Beach and then it was off to Eli Creek, the largest river on the island.  Eli is a popular tourist haunt and it is easy to see why.  Just a few kilometres south of the Maheno, it flows from the wooded centre of Fraser into the Pacific.  As we waded upstream as far as the authorities would permit, we could really feel the undertow.  But once we lay back in its cool and thankfully salt-free waters it took control.  We didn't have to swim or paddle.  We just laid back and let the river take us seaward past the long green reeds and trees on its verges.  A true case of going with the flow if you will.  So there I was levitating in a liquid nirvana (ooh err Missus), when Rob commented that the whole floating business wasn't fair as Åsa was more buoyant than the rest of us.  In fairness he had a point.  I rolled over to look at our Nordic Yokozuna.  All of her body was submerged bar two voluptuous round mounds.  "Islands in the stream" was I believe how Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton put it.  It's hard to wonder at the riverside vegetation and arboreal wildlife once something like that catches your eye.  All I know is that I never felt like this watching Giant Haystacks grapple with Big Daddy on ITV all those Saturday afternoon ago.  Full Nelson?  Full Monty more like!  So we repeated our indolent river-run program twice more.

Then we hightailed it to Lake McKenzie.  While Koen and I scouted for a suitable lakeside party point, the other six set up camp again.  It has to be said that Australia can be quite a pedantic puritanical place at times.  Odd given the influence that the Irish have had on the place.  Therefore, despite the fact that no families with children resided in the vicinity (only randy backpackers), the signs exhorted campers not to make any noise after 21h00.  Well the signs actually stated 9pm as the Aussies don't seem to have grasped the concept of the 24 hour clock yet, except when it comes to tide times.  12am confuses me.  00h00 I can relate to.  Anyway spurned on by this early curfew, Michelle and I rustled up some traditional Irish fare - spaghetti bolognese sensa carne.  Maybe I spent too long in la bella Italia.  When I cook Italian, I always insist on adding tonnes of herbs and seasonings - onions, garlic (finely chopped not crushed), peppers, basil, oregano, sea salt and black pepper. But to date all reactions have been positive.  And I can't overstate this - the pasta must be al dente. Allora, once everybody had an elegant sufficiency (or is it a sufficient elegance?), Rob, the Bob Monkhouse of the backpacking world, introduced us to a game called "Favourite SP".  This entailed me sitting in a tent as one by one my companions deserted me to join the chorus of uproarious laughter outside the canvas. I contented myself by singing a melancholy refrain from "Dublin in the rare old times".  Outside they acted out their favoured sexual positions while I sang the Dubliners.  Christ, at times I can be a sad eejit!  Next came our regular bout of "I have never".  Rob lit up like a Christmas tree as Jenny "Love" and Åsa kept standing up and drinking when questions about threesomes were posed.  Well I suppose that the winters are very long and dark in their corner of the globe.  Paul brought us back to earth when he announced that he "had never slept with his girlfriend's mother!"  The group beside us was incredulous, until Paul clarified that he was technically on a break with his girlfriend at the time.  What a guy!  One-nil to the Arsenal, one-nil to the Arsenal.  Nine o' clock (aka pathetic hour) arrived not a moment too soon, so we shoved off to the white sands around Lake McKenzie.  The multitude of stars overhead reminded me of East Africa.  It was just as well we left our campsite really, as a very noisy game of "Yee haw!" ensued with Jenny "Love", Åsa, Paul, Koen, Tobias, Michelle, Pia, Nicholas, Rob and myself.  Pia nearly shattered our eardrums with her screeching "yee haws", while Michelle played the game with all the cadence of an unmindful dyslexic mute.  I dunno.  Maybe she just wanted to drink each round.  Shades of Macadi Beach in Dar Es Salaam, Melly Mel and her repetitious shrieks of "Oh, is it me?" All in all, I think we have safely won the award for the nosiest bunch on the island.

Our final day on Fraser was a tad silly in the most Eric Idle of senses.  The ten of us (we had adopted Pia and Nicholas by this stage) played catch, stuck in the mud (well, sand in our case) and British Bulldogs.  We even managed to coax Paul, sun-fearing albino that he is, to join in the lakeside Tomfoolery.  Then we thought it would be a top idea to construct a human pyramid.  Much to the amusement of the beach-bound onlookers, our attempts to recreate the great edifice of Cheops foundered abysmally.  I discovered that having the weight of three people on one's shoulders does little to ease the symptoms of sunburn.  But I blame our lack of success on the incessant attack of the irritating March flies.  The fresh waters of Lake McKenzie and Lake Birrabeen (to which we later journeyed) were as spectacular in their variety of colour as in their transparency.  Colours ranged all the way through the azure spectrum from light aquamarine at the water's edge to dark indigo in the deep centre of the lakes.  Tobias took a selection of underwater photos that will hopefully illustrate the translucent properties of the lakes.  We were urged not to use any soap, shampoo or sunscreen on the island, lest we pollute its naturally clear waterways.  As a result of this, we were pretty crispy, crusty and smelly by the time we began the return drive to Hervey Bay.  It was late afternoon when we finally arrived at the Wangoolba Creek ferry port after a total of 250 kilometres completed on the island, sometimes through very soft sand.  At times our engine was tested to its limits.  Michelle kindly lent me her Discman for the duration of the traversing to the mainland.  I was in 7th heaven.  I hadn't put headphones to my ears since I borrowed Rachel's Walkman one dawn in Cape Trib.  So as we crossed the Great Sandy Straight, leaving Fraser Island behind us, the Asian Dub Foundation rang through my head at loud volume.  I don't know why, but music offers me a certain clarity of thought.  Silence works for some. A round of golf for others.  For me its heavy basslines and a tripping beat.  So as I sat alone listening intently to some thought-provoking urban lyrics from a angry group of British-Indians, behind me the continentals were chatting amiably, while Rob was sandwiched between Jenny and Åsa (ever the hopeful lad, he).  I just continued to stare seaward as a red setting sun burnt my sandy face.  Such a wondrous sense of contentment with nature I had not felt since pony trekking on the mountain veldt in Lesotho.

Then came the last hurrah back in town.  Down by the sea, I introduced the gang to "One Big Hen" and despite the fact that Paul and Michelle are native English speakers, they did miserably.  Nul points. Toby could have excelled, but was having too much fun messing up the tongue-twisting attempts of the others.  Koen, au contraire, is Dustin Hoffman.  We christened him "Rain Man" due to his almost autistic ability to recite "Nine nude nymphs nibbling gnats, nuts and nicotine".  Let's not forget that he is a Hollander. When we eventually polished off our stash, we returned to Beaches.  Rob and Jenny "Love" were noticeable by the absence (ahem) and Joen retired early to practice his "One Big Hen" routine.  He probably already knows it backward in Dutch.  The rest of us partied with the other travelling revellers.  Paul and I pledged return visits to Highbury and Landsdowne Road.  I hastily bet him that if he sang "Jerusalem" at an Ireland versus England rugby match, I'd help him out.  That's the beauty about the oval ball game.  There's none of that sectarian violence or ill feeling towards other nationalities that plagues soccer.  The DJ in Beaches played a wicked set, including "Freestyler" by the Boomfunk MCs, "Hey Boy, Hey Girl" by the Chemical Brothers and "All The Small Things" by Blink 182.  So myself, Michelle, Paul, Nicholas, Pia, Åsa, Toby and a cute French barmaid I'd been chatting to got down on the dance floor (or up on the tables as the case may be).  It then dawned on me that for all the motivation training and team-building sessions I'd been through in work, one just can't buy group dynamics like this. Three days ago, before our Fraser Island adventures I didn't know any of these folk.  Now they were like brethren.  If only it could always be like this, dancing to the reel in the flickering light.

Gav (30 November 2000)