Memoir #3 – How to Get Eaten by Crocodiles

29 days shooting documentaries in the desert and tropics. We covered murders, deaths in custody, the stolen generation and politics. So when we had a chance to drive to the tip of the Northern Territory for a few hours of recreation, we took it, smoking and relaxing, enjoying the untouched wilderness.

Apparently the secret to working out whether your truck was about to sink in the swamp was for one person to walk ahead, so I plodded through the mud as my colleague drove. The logic was simple: if the guide sunk, the truck was about to sink.

We didn’t get far. I heard the car horn and looked back with a generous amount of terror at the prostrate truck, wheels well below the mud’s surface. My colleague was understandably panicking considering he’d borrowed the vehicle from the town mayor.

There were hopeless attempts to lever the truck out of the mud. At one stage we managed to make it leap out, only to see it dive back into the sludge like an ungainly whale. Finally we decided we were probably going to die. You might wonder why we didn’t just walk out of there. The issue was the crocodiles.

We could see their eyes in the dim twilight, like little lights being switched on and off randomly. The scene had been reduced to tones of black, grey and blue as nature added to the drama by using a horror movie palette. The water had reached the car doors. The crocs were giving the tide another thirty minutes, just to make sure their dinner was easily accessible. We were meals on sunken wheels.

Strangely enough, just when you’d logically think death by crocodile attack would be at the forefront of my mind, I was distracted by the converging fog of sandflies that arrived with the night. Here’s a little education about this particular variety of sandfly. They bite you, then they – wait for it – piss on the wound. I have to ask: on what fucking day did God create that?

So I was surrounded by hundreds of these diabolical tiny creatures, in such a tortured state that I welcomed the crocodiles. The water reached halfway up the doors. We were not long for this world. You could hear that sound from wildlife documentaries signalling the entry of a crocodile into water: a slurping muddy slither followed by a flat splash.

That’s when we heard voices. I assumed they were angels or demons coming to take me to judgement. Then I saw the white crescent smiles lighting up the pitch-black canvas. It was a visiting party of men from – ironically – Crocodile Island who’d arrived to attend a funeral. Thanks to them, the funeral procession would not be extended due to the untimely deaths of two idiot city slickers. They tried to save the truck but it was too late. They did something much better in my opinion: they saved us.

I was later hospitalised. God damn those sandflies.

Memoir #2: Age 14 is not the time to learn how to drive a tip truck

Woo, buddy!

That was the high-pitched warning my massive stepfather issued whenever I exceeded his unbelievably high threshold for danger. That same awkward squeak – an alien sound coming from a man with mitts like Thing – was usually associated with his stubborn attempts to teach me to master the control of cars, trucks, boats and planes when I was still a child.

When I was 13 years old I executed a perfect Hunter S Thompson-like four-lane drift across swerving traffic to make it to a freeway turn-off; accelerated a 42-foot fishing boat in high seas to temporarily enjoy the sensation of flight; and half sunk a utility by letting it roll down a boat ramp. Yet his squeak was identical every time – just a polite, cautionary understatement. Nothing fazed him.

To put things into perspective, I have to say that Dad didn’t mind a drink. This was evident the night I suddenly found myself packing at 3am to go on a road trip to Darwin to hunt wild crocodile. He also threatened to leave us stranded in the desert as a character building exercise.

In hindsight, alcohol may have inspired him to let me drive the six-wheel International tip-truck to Broadbeach Golf Club when I was 14. Somehow I cruised to the club in the massive vehicle without any major mishap. I played the back nine and sank a few brown cows. I may have snuck a couple of beers in as well. The old man was probably well over the limit, safe in the knowledge that he had a 14 year-old designated driver at his disposal.

On the return trip, running hot on a dangerous mixture of sarsaparilla cordial and alcohol, I got a bit overconfident and left it too late to negotiate a large roundabout. He issued his trademark ‘woo, buddy’ and reached for the steering wheel to make sure I didn’t attempt a late turn. Surprised (and I believe also impressed) he realised that I had no intention of turning: we were going directly through the island.

Over the brickwork and ornamental garden, the rattling, bouncing goliath carved an unapologetic line through the junction as I held the massive steering wheel in a death grip. As we dismounted the roundabout like an obese gymnast, the soil-coated wheels slid, we entered a graceful skid, fishtailed and spat out of the intersection back to the main road. As we regained traction, I looked down to see a stunned old man in a Corolla waiting for the hurricane to pass, eyes wide and jaw unhinged.

Neither of us spoke of the event as I drove home. It was in the past like the destroyed roundabout, stunned octogenarian and any hopes I had of a career as a truck driver.

Unperturbed by the near-death experience, Dad later suggested highly impractical character developments including teaching me how to pilot a single engine Cessna, full-scale glider and 72 foot yacht.