One Night Stand

(Wrote with passion & alcohol/edited with clarity & reason)

Day1.
We were awoken by hugely enthuthisatic Canadian Shane, who seemed more excited about Fraser Island than us bleary eyed lot were. Fortunately we’d avoided the boring looking German participants (apologies for huge sweeping stereotype). So we met with the rest of the ‘A’ Team (der, der, der, doo, doo, doo, derladaderder etc – thats the tune by the way) and panicked massively when half of our booze order was missing!

All aboard and the first ring pull was snapped about 30 seconds later (which set the tone for the entire weekend), so crossing down the Rainbow Beach roads in convoy with six other groups were the ‘A’ Team. Ingo, Darragh, Joanna, Ashleigh, Lou, Carlene, Susanne, Becca, Steve, James and Keira.

The safe tarmac gave way to sand, wahey, sliding all over the place, then aboard a ferry where the first task was to pass around a joint (of beef, if you ever read this Mum!). In the purple haze the shore of Fraser loomed large, we barely heard the pep talk from our Maple Leaf Canadian friend.

“Have a sweet time on Fraser Island”

We had been set loose. Then click, click, click, click…great, the van was fecked. Quicker than you can say ‘breakdown’ we swopped vans and I took to the wheel.

Two false starts (outright stalls) later and we were off, hurtling down the sand, tunes blaring, manouvering through water streams with each success met with a mighty roar. Many, many beers and power hours (drink every minute for an hour!) were downed and adhered to.

Now we were heading inland, up and down, round and round and that was simply the contents of our beer addled stomachs. In time we landed upon the amazing azure lagoon of Lake McKenzie, enjoying the ‘fresh’ (in many shrivelling senses) water and absorbing the sunds rays as they flecked through the gum trees sheltering the cove.

Such beauty was then confounded by ‘Bad Luck No.2’ when Steve snapped our all purpose ignition and door key in the back door. The other groups watched on barely hiding their sniggers as Steve simply looked to the bush to hide.

After promising to return we were left alone in the confines of Lake MacKenzie Cr Park with the light morphing to gloom and the dingoes no doubt prowling. After many botched attempts the key was retrieved, albeit in two pieces. Lightbulbs flashed above heads and then fizzled to nothing as bras, t-shirts, snack bars and mosquito spray were all deemed useless in attempts at forging the key to a single specimin again. “We need a miracle” came one exasperrated sigh. ” We need bloody Superman” snapped one Gaelic voice. ” How about Superglue?” replied another. Tired and frustrated I nearly retorted until slowly but surely, ten lightbulbs lit up in unison.

Off again then, praising the wonders of strong adhesive with a newly formed key sitting snugly in the ignition, this was good reason to celebrate and consume countless beers, joints and squirts of goon (cheap & nasty boxed wine *) later and we trundled triumphantly into the Eurong camp area to the strains of the A Team theme, large mutters from the other groups rhyming with (sand)bankers were barely audible above our relief and exhilaration.

After setting up camp (tricky given everyones level of spohstication, apologies I mean innebriation) we set about tackling dinner. Half cooked steak and salad was washed down with Australias finest (or cheapest) Amber Necter.

Night fall now and the Irish contingent mixed readily with the other groups to the sounds of chilled classics floating from van windows as the goon flowed, encircling us with added warmth. Birthday girl Laura was seranaded with sparklers under the tarpaulin and stars as she celebrated her 25th.

The cold night accounted for many whilst the rest of ous ploughed on into the early hours of the morning. With a motley crue of lost souls remaining, Laura me and a fe wothers explored the black anonymous beach before one of the Irish lads produced a guitar and began to play as the ocean waves crept almost unnoticed up the shore.

I sat aside Laura spotting dingoes roaming inquisitively down the sands before becoming lost in the shadows of the dunes. As we kissed Irish folk songs could be heard on the cusp of the dusk winds. As we retreated, lost in a sea of canvas, we made makeshift reinforcements to our shelter before crashing alongside one another, as the curtain (drunken eyelids) fell on a wondrous first day on Fraser.

Day 2.
Awoken at a seemingly ridiculous hour, blurry eyed and mouth of fur, to a bustling campsite, freezing my nuts off, with my acquantance having stolen half my sleeping bag. After a good solid ten minutes of hangover grunts, groans and moans, I stole a glimpse into the daylight, every other van had disappeared. The A Team were in various states of drunken hungover mess/undress, wandering aimlessly to an object before forgetting why they’d mafde their journey and collapsing in self sympathy.
Incredible what a chewy bar, a glass of juice and some rigouros teeth scrubbing can do as we were all loaded and ready to rejoin the sandy trail of yesterday.

We set off in silence barely able to comprehend where we were or the names of those around us. Someone in their wisdom hit play on the stereo and upbeat tunes began to filter out of the speakers and into the soles of our feet, then the glimmer of a beer can played havoc with the mind, the body was saying no…….”ah bollocks, pass us a tinny will ya”! and so it began again. Much of the drinking semmed necessary with Louise at the helm as she sped into dunes and soft sand at monstrous speed, causing everyone to drink quicker, stare in marvel at the spraying particles of sand, shout slow down and grab whatever they could.

We (sand) plouged on down ’75 Mile Beach’ which guess what, was 75 miles long! As everyone began to shake their ill feelings from last night, the party was in full swing by the time we arrived at the shipwreck of the ‘S.S. Maheno’ which had runaground in 1935 due to an unseasonal winter cyclone.

The van was universally abandoned as we sprang out to explore the rusting hulk, marvelling at its size and isolation. Still no signs of (intelligent) life as we headed off towards ‘Indian Head’, as we traversed amonst the 72 different colours of sand on the island (!) we spotted what must have been a gigantic whale on the horizon doing a back flip, a truely awesome sight, we only gave him 6 out of 10 though as his descent into the ocean was marred by a giant splash. With everyones eyes glued to the sea we encroached on Indian Head and witnessed some of the orghanised groups tooking into their grub beneath the rocky outcrop towering above. Boycotting that for a herbal lunch we weaved up the grassland path to the imposing headland. Human curiousity took hold of everyone as they peered down form the sheer cliff face, giving everyone a stark reminder as to the unbalnacing effect of beer. A couple of steps back then to peer out over the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Before long we saw a giant turtle doing it’s thing (150 years old and still young man!).

Some how the day glorious as it is/was had evaporated…almost. A big power on the way back to camp turned into a marathon three and three quarters power hour(s) as we raced inland to avoid the perils of salt water, the incoming tide and their corroding effects on the van and our deposits. With night falling and decibels soaring we journied to central station. Upon arrival it became apparent that a) it was dark b) everyone was helplessly drunk (save the deisnated dessie). With the confidence of 10 Lions we strutted into the rainforest, listening intently as the nocturnal species awoke and began their patterns of communication *. ( *Get the backpackers whilst they are drunk most probably).

Fifteen minutes later we emerged from the dense, dusk encased foliage and crossfire of wildlife symphony relatively unscathed, save for a developing appetite. Back at the camp and the trend for us to return last was succesfully accomplished for the 2nd successive day. Ready to fall, I was saved by Laura and some Pumpkin Soup (brilliant it was). We spent the night discussing countless topics of alcohol degenerated conversation as well as the days exploits, before developing a cultutal angle as we practiced our decidely limited gealic skills with a friendly Frenchmen in our midst.

As fatigue swept into the campsite, dingoes conteracted this with their confident alertness as they trotted in and out of the jet black dune silhouttes drenched with the occasional layer of moonlight as it passed silently between the clouds silently encasing us. As Irish song rang out a massive storm blew in (out of season winter cyclone?), sending tarpaulin, hair and empty beer vessels flying. First concious decision of the day, having been led by our senses and vision by the nature on display in front of us. Bed! So we stumbled off into the night, destination tent. We spied it a big flailing mess in the hurricane or what felt like one. After what seemed like an eternity of shouts lost in the swirling gales i came up with the genius idea of a) tying the tent to a van? and b) stealing other peoples pegs to accomplish an upright dwelling for the evening. It seemed to work as we woke in the tent and still in the same place.

Day 3.
Waking to hear someone call ‘breakfast is ready’ is a wonderful feeling. Waking up and feeling like a marching band has stomped all over your head isn’t. I disregarded one and ate the other. Again the ‘A’ Team were last to rise, last to leave, beofre the final fuzzy day unfolded before our bloodshot eyes. With everyone trying to ignore the quarter bags of goon and a solitary scattering of beer cans, it was hangover from hell time.

A bit of mood music (bad after 2 dribk filled sleep deprived nights) was required and was dutifully supplied with a samplinmg of Ingoes finest meloncholy as we laughed at each others varying states of conciousness.
Groans were emitted as we approached our final calling point and someone spied a sign displaying an ominous 90 minute trek to a uhge valley of dunes teetering above a freshwater lake. Clutching at a warm Castlemaine XXXX we trudged off into the dense foliage encountering more sprightly looking groups returning. As we weaved through the lush branches and leaf leaden paths a real sense of rambling adventure began to develop. Then a sighting: the lake pertruding through tangled branches far below. As we neared our minds began to stir from their alcohol submerged captors and we looke dup in anticipation at the dunes looming ominously over the emerald green lake.

Leaving the forest behind we emerged into a vast expense of sand as our limbs worked tirelessly along the soft energy sapping sand at the edge of the water. Bubbles rose slowly from the bottom, due apparently to huge catfish who can deliver a bit of a nip if you happen to sit on their spikes. With this in mind we clambered away from the waters edge and painstakingly reached the summit of the first dune. Having made such monumental effort, my mind became caught in a schizophrenic mood, one half wanting to stop gather my thoughts and stare out across the endless peaks and troughs across the sand valleys stretched out seemingly untouched by mans heavy hand or foot. Unfortunately the other half seeked excitement and bravado and grabbing a busted up old bodyboarding overwhelmed logic sending my limbs thundering back towards the edge of the precipice. Before i knew it bump, bump, woah, this wasn’t the best idea, sand in the mouth, cough, bump, gulp, I was submerged, a mouth full of water and no doubt attracting the atention of those catfish. After another near fatal climb it was time to head on our heels for the enclave of our mobile pub and embark on a journey back to wher eit had all began. How long ago was that….? A few distant beery days before. The beauty in our surroundings had accounted for any heavy heads as we encountered more water inlets flowing under branches and over untrodden paths. As we emerged everyone cheered barely disrupting a few stray dingoes at one with their excitable homospaien counterparts.

As we boarded the ferry it wa splain to see from everyone had experienced a great time as alcohol heavy heads ifted to offer the universal approval of a thumbs up.

So, Celebrity Love Island? not really that was a cruel ploy to draw you into reading my tale. Love Island maybe, and to answer the Canadians question “Did we have a sweet time on Fraser Island? Definitely!