Whitsunday Water Torture
Well, our ship-mum was wrong.
I woke up when one of the drops, which occasionally seep through the latch during rain, landed squarely on my nose—a bit like Chinese Water Torture. It was about 6 a.m. I turned over, out of the drops’ way, and went back to sleep.
At eight, it was still raining. There was one piece of toast left and no more fruit juice. I made a cup of coffee and took it to the cabin, but John just grunted and turned over. We were still anchored in Raven’s Cove, where the instructors had spent yesterday afternoon moonlighting by offering try-dives to passengers from other boats. That had been the last of the reasonable weather. Now we were marooned off Hook island by rough seas.
Today was going to be a shitty day.
Did I mention the flies? They look a bit like oversized, squat houseflies from hell, and they will bite whenever the rain and wind gives them a chance. Luckily, they are amazingly stupid and try to bite everything indiscriminately, although they seem to have a propensity for dark and smelly things. Our discarded wetsuits and flip-flops can divert them for a while, however there are literally hundreds of them descending in dense clouds whenever we make landfall. And they bite effortlessly through our 3mm wetsuits.
I have no idea what these things evolved to feed on originally—there isn’t much large animal life around here—but now they are specialist predators on passengers and crew. Fly-swatting quickly became our favourite pastime whenever the rain stopped or the wind slowed down. It feels oddly satisfying to kill something in a national park.
“Don’t go there!”
Doug the skipper’s shout from his perch at the helm stopped me dead before I could set foot on deck, on my way to the cabins. A smattering of dully gleaming shards was scattered all over the grip paint.
“Safety lamp,” he explained, sheepishly pointing at one of the spot lights overhead which was now hanging askew. “Fly.”
“Did you get it?”
“No.”
After the mess was cleared up, which involved chasing tiny shards of glass on hands and knees after the entire deck was swept twice, then hoovered, I went to fetch the insect repellent.
The rain had cleared, but we were surrounded by a ring of ominous clouds. We had been here so long, it really did feel as if we were marooned. All the other boats had left, distant sails dotting the horizon. But we were going to visit Hook Island, and with the wind dying down, the flies were back.
For a moment, things didn’t look too bad. The diffuse light filtering through the clouds turned the sea luminous, with the dark islands and boiling sky forming a dramatic backdrop. Perhaps it would be alright.
But I could not allow myself to think like that. Not on this day. When I emerged from below deck with a mug of tea, the rain hit me squarely in the head, as if a shower had been turned on to my face. The bug repellent washed into my eyes, stinging like mad. The sea still looked luminous, but its surface was now pockmarked with silver droplets. Thanks, but no thanks.
But what’d you know? As soon as we entered the Nara inlet, it was like sailing into paradise. The light danced on dramatic sandstone formations which formed sculptures against the verdant background on the shore. And with the sun dim in the sky, going onshore felt like entering some primordial jungle. We were castaways in another time and space.
Denni