Chapter 34 The Ups and Downs of Paradise

                                          Chapter 34   The Ups and Downs of Paradise

Mum and Dad soon got used to negotiating the causeway under different conditions, but if the tide was on the turn the water was very deep and it was an arduous task to navigate the small, aluminium boat across. When the tide was coming in or running out, and the outboard motor was out of action, you were reduced to rowing, and it was a fight against the pulling current. Eventually, Dad bought a new tinny with an outboard.

    He and Mum returned from a foray into town and Dad was so proud of his new boat. "You'll be right now Mum; You won’t get wet feet now.”

     When he’d manhandled it into the water and got her settled on the seat with all their shopping around her, he assured her,"Now you just sit there and I'll get the motor going."

     The motor sputtered into life but as the little tinny left the shore Mum could feel water on her feet. "Alec, Alec! My feet are getting wet!"

    "Don't be bloody stupid woman -- how can your feet be getting wet?" Dad was insulted
.
    "I tell you my feet are getting wet!" Mum was getting agitated.

     Suddenly Dad saw the water increasing in the floor of the boat. "Jesus Christ!" 

    In a flash, realisation dawned and he started patting his pockets. By now his eyes were wild and sweat was beading on his face. He’d forgotten to replace the stopcock! An urgent scratch around located it -- in his pocket! Mum repeated the yarn over and over, laughing at his madness.

    We arrived again at the island one sunny day when Ashley was eight weeks old.  Cassie had lent me her sand-fly net for the carry basket because the causeway was notorious for swarms of sand flies. Fortunately that day there didn't seem to be any; maybe there was a breeze. We loaded the little tinny with our luggage, ourselves and Ashley in his basket enveloped in the sand-fly net. Oh, the confidence of the young! The mere thought of us loaded up with luggage and baby on that long trip across the choppy water horrifies me now. Stepping out of the boat on the Island side everything then had to be transferred to the waiting vehicle. Dad was there to meet us. He and Mum were overwhelmed that we ventured to bring our baby to such a wild place. Ashley thrived on the activity around him.

     On the far point of the island, the houses overlooked a beautiful, picturesque beach and sand dunes. Like many other visitors, we were always cared for by my mother, who lived in the larger of the two houses. Just like on the farm, my father waved his arms expansively and invited everyone to sit down to be waited on by Mum. It was easy to run down the hill, over the sand dunes, and splash into the water. On long walks along the deserted sand we picked up large bleached but often unbroken shells, and occasionally green or blue glass fishing buoys, sometimes covered in rope netting, which had probably broken away from a trawler's net. Pete and I found Suntory whisky bottles which had floated ashore. They conjured up an image of very merry Japanese fishermen tossing empties overboard and laughing heartily. We made a lamp-base out of a Suntory bottle, which is a great memento of Island days. The environment was a minor consideration in the 70’s.

     On our third visit, Dad decided he'd give me a personal guided tour of the mangroves and navigate the quiet side of the island. I was happy to go for a bit of a cruise, and Larry agreed to row around in the other boat with Pete. They were to follow the creek along the back of the island and meet us. Dad and I were about five minutes from the causeway in deep water when the motor stopped.

     Now I should probably explain that Dad was still wearing his baggy khaki long pants and shirt since moving to the island.They were particularly baggy around the fork. He was a modest man and I guess he liked them that way. Also, he never left the house without wearing his battered old felt hat, and he was rarely without a cigarette between his lips.

    Anyway, the motor had stopped. I was sitting at the front of the boat waiting for action when Dad decided to take the top of the engine off, exposing the motor and spark-plugs. Then he bent over peering in with a frown, trying to see something that might be amiss, something simple that he could fix, anyway. 

    He was standing up bending over the motor, legs spread apart to balance. While the boat was only rocking gently on small ripples, his weight was sinking it deeper into the water. Intent on finding the problem, he bent too low, overbalanced and went in head first--hat, cigarette and all. I was paralysed. All I could see was his two legs sticking straight up. What I didn't realise was that the pants and the sparkplugs had joined forces and Dad was suspended like a carcass from a meat hook. I could see by the way his legs were moving he was trying to get his head up, but having a lot of difficulty.

    My dad was in trouble and I had to go to his assistance, but you can picture in your mind the folly of leaving the other end of the boat and going to his aid. I took a few Russian dance steps towards him but the minute I moved forward the boat tipped up further, plunging him further in!

    At last, up came his head, the hat missing but a limp cigarette still clamped between his lips. Needing to get air quickly, he spat the soggy ciggy and took a few gasping breaths. Once again instinct overtook good sense and I made a move to help him.

    Down he went again, this time feet first, "Get back! Get back!" he squeaked In panic as the boat tipped precariously.

    I scrambled, much like a crab clawing its way up a rock, stretching for handholds back  to my perch, helplessly watching him in the water. Strangely, he made no move to get out and back in the boat.

     I started to get worried. "Are you okay Dad? Can you get back in?"

    "Yeah, I'll be all right in a minute. Just let me have a spell."
 
    But this was ridiculous; it had to be five minutes. What was he doing?  I wondered why he wouldn't get back into the boat.

    At last he put a leg up and rolled himself back on board, quickly turning his back to me and holding his fork. He sat up facing the motor, where he stayed for the rest of a subdued trip. Now in a position to fiddle with the motor, he soon got it started and we went on our way.

    We soon met up with Larry and Pete, both panting from a long, hard row, and they chorused, "Where have you been!?"

    Dad seemed to want to tell Larry about it in secret. 'God! Dad can be so strange!' I thought.

    Later, I talked to Mum, "Poor Dad was so embarrassed," she confided quietly.

    "Why?" I asked, puzzled.

    "Because when he fell, his pants ripped apart on the spark plugs and left a big hole in the front. It left everything exposed," she explained.

     I couldn't believe it. "But I wouldn't have worried. I'm a nurse!" I protested.

    "Well, you're also his daughter,” Mum said, "You know how Dad is.”

    Just then Dad came in and I asked sympathetically, "Are you okay, Dad?"

    "Course! It was nothing!" he replied, brushing me off. I went to the bedroom and buried my face in a pillow so that he couldn't hear me laughing.

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    Larry and Owen outfitted themselves with spear fishing gear and enjoyed a sport they'd never previously had a chance to practise; and on occasions when schools of fish could be seen in the water from the house, they nipped down and threw in a net. Frequent holidaymakers enjoyed tasty treats of succulent mud crab out of the thick mangroves. Wild bush lemons grew near the houses. Pete joined the men on mustering trips to round up cattle, and on fishing trips for deep sea fish and other trips to lift crab pots.

    On the point the wind blew ceaselessly, and they all endured their first cyclone, the terrifying details creating an image my mother will probably never forget. What spooked her  most was the quiet in the eye of the cyclone. The frightening wind blew in from the east, bending trees and hurtling rubbish missiles through the air. Then a deadly quiet descended. Everything was still and ominous.

    Eventually they heard the roar of the wind approaching again, this time from the west. It tore through the air, rattling the house boards and roofing iron for thirty minutes, and sent huge waves crashing against the sand dunes. Somehow both houses stayed intact.

    Unfortunately for Mum, she was the one stuck in the kitchen hammering away at crab shells and preparing meals, often cooking and preparing beds for visitors. She became tired and run down. The constant wind, never something my mother enjoyed, aggravated her health further.

          After 2 1/2 years, though she sensed her health was deteriorating, she had no choice but to focus her attention on Dad, who was becoming chronically depressed. A naturally gregarious nature, he greatly missed the busy life and excitement of the hotel.
   
    On top of everything else, Mum's brother, Bill, who lived in Brisbane, became ill. It was a sudden illness which ended with his death. She was not well enough to travel and was snowed under with work and visitors. Organising herself to go away would have been a nightmarish, logistical exercise, so her only brother was buried without his youngest sister at his graveside. Mum felt hurt and very distressed in her grief. 

    One day things just got too much for her body to cope with. She ran a high fever and vomited frequently. I was not even accessible by phone to talk to her as there was no phone on the island. Dad took her to the doctor in Gladstone, but of course she had first to endure a tortuous trip, starting with the car ride down to the causeway, then somehow getting into the little tinny with the outboard to cross a running tide. Once Dad got her into the dusty, cobweb covered Ford, she faced the last rough eleven miles before the relative comfort of the bitumen highway.

      An hour later she saw the doctor, who was horrified by her condition. Mum went to hospital with pneumonia where she remained for a week and a half. It left her with a weakened chest and from then on a common cold could often lead to complications, and sometimes even a stay in hospital.

    Mum often said if they had gone to the Island when they were a young couple they would have made a success of it. But going there in their sixties was just too late. One of the worst aspects of living there was the loneliness, isolation and inconvenience. Larry and Cassie felt it too, and their little daughter spent grade one doing correspondence classes. Fortunately, everything went well for Cassie’s third pregnancy and they made it to the hospital on time, though a doctor had to come by launch for her asthma attack.

    After three years they left the island to settle in the town where I’d done my training. Mum finally had the brick home she’d dreamed of all those years. It was a very ordinary three bedroom home but she loved it and found it easy to look after. Whenever we went there it was spotless; she vacuumed three times a week.