The Morning AfterI watched the sun rise behind the dense forest that surrounded me. The frogs stopped croaking, but the cane toads continued their rhythmic chirping. I had slept for about three hours. I could finally see the water level clearly; I had spent the night squinting through the dark in vain, straining to tell if the water level was rising or falling. I was overjoyed to discover that the water level had fallen and the rain had stopped. I knew we had a good change of leaving. Peter expressed his hesitation about driving out, knowing there must be some areas of the road still deep in water. However, John expressed his undying faith in “Supe,” his 1985 four-wheel-drive.
We decided to try it. We left the big, green GO BUSH trailer behind, loading all of the still-soaking bags, clothes, books, and other soggy belongings into the back of Supe, and John, Peter, and I climbed into the front seat. The front is meant to seat three, but Peter and John are not small men; I sat bitch. As we began to drive away from Harry’s Hut, I imagined that we were in the Amazon on some kind of safari. The sunlight that made it past the canopy caused the beige floodwater to sparkle. The first deep patch of water we hit, John drove SUpe right through, without getting out to check how deep it was. I held my breath as we slowed crawled through the water, its level rising higher and higher as we drove on. All my muscles were tensed as I watched the water come up to the car’s front grill, then inch up the hood as it reached the passenger and driver windows. If one of the doors was opened, we’d be swimming. But miraculously, we emerged on the other side of the pool un-drenched, with Supe’s motor still humming. I let out an audible sigh of relief; John chucked to himself.
For the next large pool we came to, Peter decided to get out of the car and check how deep it was. Peter waded through the football-field length expanse of floodwater around a bend in the road. I walked out halfway so that Peter could tell him if it was OK, and I could tell John, who was still in the driver’s seat of the Supe. Peter waited at the other end of the pool for John. I yelled to John, asking if I should walk back and get in the car before he drove off, but he yelled back, “Just jump on to the back of the car when I drive by!” Umm, OK…
I prepared myself, physically and mentally. I crouched, put both my hands up, and watched as Supe rolled towards me through the water, making waves in its wake. Right as the car passed me, I sprang for the cage on the roof of the car, misjudged how much the thigh-deep water would hold me back, and splashed face-first into the drink. Sputtering, I picked myself up in time to watch John drive slowly away from where I stood. I laughed aloud at the silliness of it all, and began trudging to where the car had stopped at the other end of the pool. “I missed,” I said. “Be more agile next time,” said John, as I sat in the front seat with a squelch.
The next time came shortly, and I leapt onto the back successfully. As I stood on the back bumper of the Supe, I smiled proudly to myself. Looking around at the trees and water, I felt as if I were in a boat, skimming along in the swamps of the Everglades.
The rest of our journey continued similarly. When we reached the road that had been overflowing with brackish water a day earlier, we found that it was completely dry. Sandwiched between Peter and John in the small front seat of Supe, my legs cramped us as we drove to Gympie to meet the rest of the group. At a gas station in Gympie, I shared brunch with my fellow shipmates and devoured a massive sandwich and order of chips in a matter of minutes; Peter treated. Dan and the rest of the crew arrived, and we went to meet them in the parking lot. I was so happy to see the smiling faces, and I gratefully received their warm hugs. When I sat down on the bus (everyone else had moved the wet gear from Supe to our bus), I sighed deeply and realized I had just spent the night in a public toilet, and that I had slept for about three hours after about five hours of hard, manual labor. I think I passed for most of the ride to Byron Bay.
I vaguely remember hearing “Byron by the Sea,” a recurring song in the trip. “Going back to Byron by the sea, by the sea…”
Reflections in the WaterI will always remember the flood incident as it was narrated by John Sinclair. Indeed, he did narrate events as they occurred in preparation for writing his grandchildren a story about it. John writes his grandchildren a short story after every adventure he has. I am proud to say that I appear in his latest story, “Flooded In and Washed Out,” forever immortalized in the realm of bedtime stories someone once told some grandkids of theirs. When I write my memoirs, this chapter will be called “He-Man and the Master of the Universe”; I am He-Man.
In the days following the flood, I thought about the events often, and they stressed me out. Peter had a psychologist come speak with the group about the incident, and I stayed after the session to ask him a couple of things. Turns out I didn’t have acute stress response, and I wouldn’t get post traumatic stress disorder; I just had a lot of thoughts. He said it would take a bit longer for me to sort out than the rest of the group. He was right. Eventually, I stopped reliving the scary moments. Now it remains a strong, vivid memory, but a memory nonetheless.
