Bora born
Monsoon sailing
Boxing season
turtle season, silly season, mango season
all mean the same to me.
It's the start of the wet season
the end of the dry, affecting those
who pass by through here.
All feel the pinch
those who don't are only telling a lie, stay out bush
watch real close and you'll get an idea of why.
People take risks
they try something new, inhibitions
are thrown to the wind.
Got to get out
out of the house, is the talk
increasingly heard.
You're almost compelled
to make this happen, unless you enjoy
living a life unobserved.
Some women find it hardest
the gossip comes home, the blood
runs a bit more freely.
Late night shopping
for two legged crocs, in the mating game
can happen all too easily.
Stories to tell
yarns to spin take on a character
all of their own.
Live remote for awhile
and you'll fill a book with tales
a bit too close to the bone.
And so it happened
in the summer of 77, in a remote community
on top of Cape York
Dave brought his boat
up from Cairns, to enjoy this paradise by sail
at a pace that would suit him.
He needed a crew
so asked Angie and me, little experience was needed
can't argue with that as you will soon see.
From Red Island point we started
heading south-west to follow the coast
full sail, one life jacket, and little sense of risk we departed.
Wind from behind
gently pulling the sails, no spinnaker on this twelve foot boat
perhaps three knots we are moving.
Brought some food
and fresh water too, this saltwater air gets the appetite going
so we have some morning tea.
Dave liked his smoke
Angie he later married, two sons were born
twins to be.
But on this crisp Sunday morning
who would have guessed how easy it is to change
the course of history.
Down past Cowell Creek
as it was known then, later changed to Injinoo
a name of local origin.
Time to turn about
almost lunch time, start tacking this way and that
back into the south easter we came.
So slow was the progress
getting a bit gusty I recall and this sure as hell
didn't help any.
Take the tiller and reef in the sail
he handed to me the ropes, if a gust comes up just let it all go
were the instructions he passed on to me.
Ok Dave
thanks for this trust you have, I'll give it a shot and try my best
to bring out the sailor in me.
Conditions have changed
since early this morning, squalls in the making
tides are now boxing.
Stiff breeze has sprung up
straight into it we are heading, keeping close as to the shore
to limit its effect on us.
As time goes on
the gusts are now increasing, one hand on the tiller, the other the sail
not that easy to keep this thing stable.
Went great for awhile
felt good about the whole thing, until that big blow came up
and into the drink we all went, Angie screaming.
It's all right
this thing floats, come the words to reassure us, if we all get on this side and pull on this rope
no problem to get this thing uprighted.
Easier said than done
I can sure tell you, to right this dingy was near impossible
as floatation tanks filled and the boat started sinking.
Plenty of Noah's around here
is on everyone's mind, don't tread water too much
it's their attention we're not wanting.
Don't worry too much, we're 300 yards out
we'll yell out as Cowall Creek passes, someone must be on the beach
God we were confident, comes back this memory.
No one's there
everyone's home eating sunday dinners, or from last night reviving
with this stiff off shore breeze the distance to the beach is increasing.
An hour later
three hours before sunset, we're two miles past the creek
and a mile off shore, time to start getting worried.
Only one boat
has passed us all day, the Sebasio lads off to the Jardine
for fishing and some serious drinking.
Only one life jacket
Angie can't even swim, this is one hell of a fix
we've got ourselves into.
For you see
with only three hours of light, and one drunk boat returning
there was nothing between us and the Arafura Sea.
Someone has to swim for shore
is the decision to make, thankful for football training a start is made
leaving Angie in the care of Dave.
It's a mile to swim
side stroke this side and that, to conserve energy, I can't fail this test
to leave my friends to a fate past misery.
Thirty minutes it takes
I'm nearly all spent, then a few miles up the beach jogging through sand
lucky I'm still in my early twenties.
Reach the creek full of crocs
have to swim it as the lad on the other side can't understand me
to raise the alarm before this light begins fading.
My brother Waime comes down
the sergeant in Bamaga is rung, no dinghy's here are ready to go
we're wasting time staying here waiting.
Then Danny Ropeyarn the chairman hears of our plight
gets his dinghy on the back of the cruiser, down by the creek we get ready to go
as soon as the sergeant arrives.
Another half hour
Dave Stannard in the police launch at top speed arrives, we jump on board
flat out we go, two dinghies toward the western sun sinking.
It's an hour and a half
since I last saw them, times starting to get on, thinking we're too late
how will I live with this memory.
The sergeant runs first
we're close behind but further inshore with Danny, Waime, George and I
toward the land our eyes were scanning.
The sarge also had an offsider
at the moment can't remember his name, we slow down near Gel Point now half throttle
let's hope they're found before sundown.
For an upturned boat we're looking
now two miles off shore, with all eyes straining toward land we press on
in a vain hope to find them.
Hunting skills come into play
keep looking back where you've been, is the part to play in this remote chance
of spotting them.
No boat is seen
their future is looking bleak, to myself I will be taking the blame
for this tragedy, then
Toward the shore
a black speck is seen, it looks like a rock
over there Waime, I'm sure I've seen something.
Some time before again it appears
rising and falling through the troughs of the waves, let's have a look we all agree
nothing else has looked likely.
We travel a mile toward shore
at last the rock becomes a head, then two peoples lives, three feet under the water
on an invisible dinghy they are kneeling.
Get all on board
didn't Dave give Dave a tongue lashing, two lives nearly lost
and it was so easy to do, just quietly.
Not the thing to do
I suspect, as they both looked wrecked
from four hours treading in water.
Took my mates part
sharing the blame, to the sergeants amazement
he didn't expect this of me.
The Kurri Bay diver
Waime's son George, dives deep to secure Dave's little boat
take up the strain, take it real steady, there's no way to get it to float.
Tow the dinghy to shore
pull it up on the beach, above high water
later to be retrieved.
Too close a call
too long a bow, to think
all this was not meant to be.
Arrive on the scene _ the lads from the Jardine
Victor, Kenny and Joe boy, someone yells out _ who wants a lift
to get out of this mess I accept gladly.
Only five miles to RIP
flagons shared round, it doesn't take long
before my land legs are disappearing.
What a way, to end a day
to nearly lose and then save your friends, on that peaceful tropical morning
when we went monsoon sailing.
- O -
© 2003 _ Nhawrr yirrpa
turtle season, silly season, mango season
all mean the same to me.
It's the start of the wet season
the end of the dry, affecting those
who pass by through here.
All feel the pinch
those who don't are only telling a lie, stay out bush
watch real close and you'll get an idea of why.
People take risks
they try something new, inhibitions
are thrown to the wind.
Got to get out
out of the house, is the talk
increasingly heard.
You're almost compelled
to make this happen, unless you enjoy
living a life unobserved.
Some women find it hardest
the gossip comes home, the blood
runs a bit more freely.
Late night shopping
for two legged crocs, in the mating game
can happen all too easily.
Stories to tell
yarns to spin take on a character
all of their own.
Live remote for awhile
and you'll fill a book with tales
a bit too close to the bone.
And so it happened
in the summer of 77, in a remote community
on top of Cape York
Dave brought his boat
up from Cairns, to enjoy this paradise by sail
at a pace that would suit him.
He needed a crew
so asked Angie and me, little experience was needed
can't argue with that as you will soon see.
From Red Island point we started
heading south-west to follow the coast
full sail, one life jacket, and little sense of risk we departed.
Wind from behind
gently pulling the sails, no spinnaker on this twelve foot boat
perhaps three knots we are moving.
Brought some food
and fresh water too, this saltwater air gets the appetite going
so we have some morning tea.
Dave liked his smoke
Angie he later married, two sons were born
twins to be.
But on this crisp Sunday morning
who would have guessed how easy it is to change
the course of history.
Down past Cowell Creek
as it was known then, later changed to Injinoo
a name of local origin.
Time to turn about
almost lunch time, start tacking this way and that
back into the south easter we came.
So slow was the progress
getting a bit gusty I recall and this sure as hell
didn't help any.
Take the tiller and reef in the sail
he handed to me the ropes, if a gust comes up just let it all go
were the instructions he passed on to me.
Ok Dave
thanks for this trust you have, I'll give it a shot and try my best
to bring out the sailor in me.
Conditions have changed
since early this morning, squalls in the making
tides are now boxing.
Stiff breeze has sprung up
straight into it we are heading, keeping close as to the shore
to limit its effect on us.
As time goes on
the gusts are now increasing, one hand on the tiller, the other the sail
not that easy to keep this thing stable.
Went great for awhile
felt good about the whole thing, until that big blow came up
and into the drink we all went, Angie screaming.
It's all right
this thing floats, come the words to reassure us, if we all get on this side and pull on this rope
no problem to get this thing uprighted.
Easier said than done
I can sure tell you, to right this dingy was near impossible
as floatation tanks filled and the boat started sinking.
Plenty of Noah's around here
is on everyone's mind, don't tread water too much
it's their attention we're not wanting.
Don't worry too much, we're 300 yards out
we'll yell out as Cowall Creek passes, someone must be on the beach
God we were confident, comes back this memory.
No one's there
everyone's home eating sunday dinners, or from last night reviving
with this stiff off shore breeze the distance to the beach is increasing.
An hour later
three hours before sunset, we're two miles past the creek
and a mile off shore, time to start getting worried.
Only one boat
has passed us all day, the Sebasio lads off to the Jardine
for fishing and some serious drinking.
Only one life jacket
Angie can't even swim, this is one hell of a fix
we've got ourselves into.
For you see
with only three hours of light, and one drunk boat returning
there was nothing between us and the Arafura Sea.
Someone has to swim for shore
is the decision to make, thankful for football training a start is made
leaving Angie in the care of Dave.
It's a mile to swim
side stroke this side and that, to conserve energy, I can't fail this test
to leave my friends to a fate past misery.
Thirty minutes it takes
I'm nearly all spent, then a few miles up the beach jogging through sand
lucky I'm still in my early twenties.
Reach the creek full of crocs
have to swim it as the lad on the other side can't understand me
to raise the alarm before this light begins fading.
My brother Waime comes down
the sergeant in Bamaga is rung, no dinghy's here are ready to go
we're wasting time staying here waiting.
Then Danny Ropeyarn the chairman hears of our plight
gets his dinghy on the back of the cruiser, down by the creek we get ready to go
as soon as the sergeant arrives.
Another half hour
Dave Stannard in the police launch at top speed arrives, we jump on board
flat out we go, two dinghies toward the western sun sinking.
It's an hour and a half
since I last saw them, times starting to get on, thinking we're too late
how will I live with this memory.
The sergeant runs first
we're close behind but further inshore with Danny, Waime, George and I
toward the land our eyes were scanning.
The sarge also had an offsider
at the moment can't remember his name, we slow down near Gel Point now half throttle
let's hope they're found before sundown.
For an upturned boat we're looking
now two miles off shore, with all eyes straining toward land we press on
in a vain hope to find them.
Hunting skills come into play
keep looking back where you've been, is the part to play in this remote chance
of spotting them.
No boat is seen
their future is looking bleak, to myself I will be taking the blame
for this tragedy, then
Toward the shore
a black speck is seen, it looks like a rock
over there Waime, I'm sure I've seen something.
Some time before again it appears
rising and falling through the troughs of the waves, let's have a look we all agree
nothing else has looked likely.
We travel a mile toward shore
at last the rock becomes a head, then two peoples lives, three feet under the water
on an invisible dinghy they are kneeling.
Get all on board
didn't Dave give Dave a tongue lashing, two lives nearly lost
and it was so easy to do, just quietly.
Not the thing to do
I suspect, as they both looked wrecked
from four hours treading in water.
Took my mates part
sharing the blame, to the sergeants amazement
he didn't expect this of me.
The Kurri Bay diver
Waime's son George, dives deep to secure Dave's little boat
take up the strain, take it real steady, there's no way to get it to float.
Tow the dinghy to shore
pull it up on the beach, above high water
later to be retrieved.
Too close a call
too long a bow, to think
all this was not meant to be.
Arrive on the scene _ the lads from the Jardine
Victor, Kenny and Joe boy, someone yells out _ who wants a lift
to get out of this mess I accept gladly.
Only five miles to RIP
flagons shared round, it doesn't take long
before my land legs are disappearing.
What a way, to end a day
to nearly lose and then save your friends, on that peaceful tropical morning
when we went monsoon sailing.
- O -
© 2003 _ Nhawrr yirrpa
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Monsoon sailing
Monsoon sailing
