Newry Island....during calm weather (Here where I now live we've just been
through the mayhem caused by the unwelcome, uninvited visit by Cyclone Alfred.
We were without power, and all the problems that caused, for a week, and longer.
No water, no flushing toilets, contents of fridge and freezers tossed, no
phones, no everything! But, there were/are folk worse off than I was/am.
Fortunately, here where I live we didn't suffer any flooding. Many, many trees
were destroyed by Alfred's uncaring fury)
In the early Nineties I lived, alone,
on Newry Island. To be honest, not entirely, alone, “Pushkin” and “Rimsky” my
two cats were my constant companions and bedfellows. The island lies within the
Great Barrier Reef World Heritage Area. Since 2001 only camping is allowed on
the island. The buildings were demolished; only shells of their former selves
remain. Once upon a time, back in the early to mid-1900s, Newry Island housed
one of the earliest resorts in that northern area, albeit a very humble, small
resort. In some ways, “resort” isn’t the correct description of what was on
offer to visitors. Newry Island lies between Rabbit Island and Outer Newry
Island; with Acacia and Mausoleum Islands nearby to its south-east. Newry sits
in the azure waters of the Coral Sea, 25kms north of Mackay; and few kilometres
north of Seaforth, as fish swim, or as seagulls fly. A well-maintained boat ramp
at the 22km long, meandering Victor Creek, 4kms north of Seaforth is the main
departure point for Newry Island.
Under my care were the island’s basic
accommodation, bar and dining facilities, along with running the generators (one
large generator, and one a little smaller), as well as keeping a close eye or
two on the dam that supplied water to the main building and the cabins. It was
my job to handle everything it took to run the small, unsophisticated resort.
From my first sight on the first day I crossed from the mainland to the island,
an island I’d never visited before, I fell in love the run-down resort with its
cabins built close to the foreshore facing the ocean; its simple,
straightforward, unrefined main dining/bar area in need of repair harboured many
stories between its walls.
The buildings reminded me of the seaside as it used
to be when I was a small child; a long time before our coastal areas and
tropical islands became clones of Hawaii, Florida, and similar glossy, “plastic”
holiday areas. No rain, or very, very little, had fallen during the nine months
since my arrival on the island. The dam was at a disturbingly low level; it had
gone beyond hovering. Daily its level decreased. Lowering the dam’s pump became
an everyday chore for me to enable water to flow down to the main building, the
guest cabins, and to the outside public amenities block. Eight self-contained
cabins, the bar/dining/kitchen area, and a camping site were serviced by the
dam’s water supply. Fortunately, visitors to Newry understood my dire water
shortage. In most cases, they happily obeyed my requests to not waste the
precious commodity.
Christmas was drawing close. The eight cabins were booked
out for the Christmas/New Year break; all by family groups. My plans for the
“Silly Season” were well underway. The larder and bar were being stocked. I made
sure I had more than sufficient supplies of diesel for the running of the
generators. The main holding tank was full, and I had a couple of spare
drums…just in case! Everything was running smoothly…I was on top of it all. The
drums of diesel had to be ferried across from the mainland on the island’s large
wooden raft, which was moored reasonably close inshore.
Cyclone Joy formed out
in the Coral Sea, off the coast from Cairns on 18th December, 1990. Joy, with
the promise of little joy, slowly travelled westward before she remained
hovering off the coast of Cairns for almost a week, causing rough seas and high
tides along the northern beaches between Port Douglas and Cairns; teasing
everyone’s equilibrium. With little or no forewarning, on Christmas Eve, tiring
of the Cairns’ area, Cyclone Joy picked up speed and headed southwards. From the
outset of Cyclone Joy’s appearance on the 18th, I’d been monitoring her activity
and progress daily; not only by my air-sea radio, but also by frequent telephone
contact with friends who lived at Clifton Beach, north of Cairns. When living on
a tropical island, or at any of the coastal and nearby coastal areas in North
Queensland, it’s mandatory to keep track of a cyclone’s erratic movements. They
enjoy keeping us mere humans on our toes. My commonsense kicked into gear a week
or so before Christmas.
I knew I'd need someone to give me a hand through the
busy time ahead. A couple of weeks earlier I'd met a very nice young girl,
Alice, who had visited the island for a weekend with her young boyfriend.
Alice's father, Ian, was a guest on the island at the same time; so the young
folk joined him for a couple of days. Rick, Alice's boyfriend was a nice young
lad. He was working as a jackaroo on a property out from Sarina, south of
Mackay. Rick was also “off the land”. His family were beef cattle folk, running
a large property in the Kingaroy region. Alice had taken a gap-year off from her
university studies in Melbourne, having decided to travel around Australia, much
to her mother's dismay. Alice had been working as a governess at another cattle
property outside of Sarina, but when I met her she was no longer employed in
that role. Biding her time, deciding what she would do next, Alice was staying
at a backpackers' hostel in Mackay, run by friends of her father, Ian. I had a
light bulb moment. Alice would be my ideal work companion throughout the
Christmas/New Year period. Fortunately, when I offered her the job (a very low
paying position...I couldn't afford to pay her much over and beyond her board
and keep...including access to the bar!), she jumped at the chance. I collected
her up by boat from the mainland the following day. No time was wasted
dilly-dalllying. Alice and I had ball together. She and I had clicked from the
first moment we’d met. We had so much fun. I was old enough to be her mother,
but we got on like a house on fire. She was a great, intelligent young woman
with a zest for life.
After a few days Alice asked if it would be okay if Jill,
her mother, came to the island to spend Christmas. They'd not seen each other
for a while. I agreed, of course. Jill lived in Melbourne. Alice’s mother was
thrilled at the invitation. Mother like daughter, Jill wasted no time in heading
north to Queensland...and Newry Island. I planned to pick her up Christmas
morning along with other guests, day-trippers, who had booked to come across to
the island for Christmas Day.
All was set in place. What could go wrong?
Christmas Eve arrived on Newry Island, bringing with it a clear blue sky and
gentle sea breezes. The temperature was around 28C…perfect summer weather;
perfect Christmas weather, with not a hint of a storm on the horizon, let alone
a cyclone. My day was filled with a multitude of chores as I prepared the
following day’s Christmas lunch for my expected 30 guests. I kept patting myself
on the back for having the good sense to ask Alice to be my offsider. She was a
smart, intelligent young lady who was wonderful with people. She was the life of
the party. I couldn't have wished for more. My Christmas lunch menu consisted
mainly of cold fare, accompanied by few hot dishes. The final preparation of the
menu I’d complete on Christmas morning after I'd picked up the balance of my
guests. Two boat trips were planned for Christmas morning across to Victor Creek
on the mainland to collect some guests who’d booked to stay on the island for a
week, intending to enjoy New Year on the island as well as the day-trippers.
Among the day-trippers were some overseas backpackers. My holidaying guests who
were booked for a few days or more were mainly family groups with little
children.
Along with the family groups, a couple of young fellows aged within
the mid to late twenties, who often stopped off at the island during their
fishing expeditions, chose the island to be their Christmas destination, as
well. Early Christmas Eve morning, with broad smiles across their friendly
faces, they arrived by their own boat, a 12-foot runabout. They anchored it
close inshore. I suggested to deaf ears that it would be more sensible to anchor
their boat out near where my boat was moored in the deep waters of the channel
between Newry Island and Outer Newry Island; but I’m a woman…what would I know?
Christmas Eve evening we partied a bit, of course. Later on in the night once
the guests returned to their cabins after spending a fun evening mingling at the
bar enjoying a few Christmas spirits of the liquid kind after a seafood laden
barbecue, Alice and I finished decorating the extensive, temporary buffet table
that was to hold the elaborate luncheon feast. The table was adorned with palm
fronds, banana leaves and bougainvillea blooms; along with various other
specimens of indigenous greenery befitting a tropical island. Once satisfied
with our efforts, we stood back and admired our excellent creativity. The long,
decorated table looked spectacular. The Christmas tree stood proudly at one end
of the dining room. Alice and I had found a suitable dead, weathered remnant of
what had once been a living tree. Sprayed white, it had been given a rebirth; a
second life. It looked festive; sparse, but it stood proudly in its place.
Glimmering silver, white, red and green baubles hung from its spindly limbs; the
glistening balls of varying sizes reflected the moon’s rays as they shimmered
through the full-length windows that looked out across the beach to the softly
murmuring sea; a perfect ending to a perfect Christmas Eve. I felt excited about
the day ahead.
The Christmas spirit on the island was alive and well; it was
contagious. Those who had children assured the little ones that Santa knew where
they were. Lemonade and slices of my “island-made” rich fruit cake were left on
the end of the bar for Santa’s anticipated arrival during the night. My luncheon
preparations were all but completed. Feeling confident everything would run
smoothly, my first Christmas Day on Newry Island couldn’t arrive quickly enough.
I could see only calm waters ahead.
By 8 am Christmas morning I’d already
completed two return boat trips between the island and the Victor Creek boat
ramp to fetch the balance of my guests, including the day-trippers who were
intent on returning to the mainland later in the afternoon after a leisurely
tropical island Christmas lunch. In all, including the guests already settled in
the cabins, on Christmas Day the final number of guests increased. Each and
everyone was keen to partake in my special luncheon fare, and the island’s
ambience. Among my guests staying beyond Christmas Day were five young children;
and among those kiddies were twins, aged around 20 months. After my second group
of visitors disembarked, I motored out to the mooring to secure my 21-foot
Trojan De Havilland, powered by a 175hp motor. I then rowed ashore in my little
red tender. The little dinghy had two wheels beneath its stern, making it easy
for me to pull the boat along the sand. Upon reaching the beach, I pulled the
dinghy right up to the foreshore, and tied it securely to one of She-Oaks
fringing the beach. Once satisfied everyone, including Jill, Alice's mother, was
happily settled in and relaxed, I raced into the kitchen to begin finalising my
luncheon preparations. Alice kept an eye on the bar because I couldn’t be in two
places at once, although I felt I was actually in a hundred places at once!
Along with my two regular fishermen guests, my much appreciated assistant tended
to everyone’s requirements if needed. So that end was well-covered therefore
taking a lot of pressure off my shoulders. I had no concerns anyone would take
advantage of the situation. My guests couldn’t go anywhere. They were on an
island surrounded by water; with me the sole operator of the boat. I was their
only means of escape. From the moment I stepped into the kitchen, I didn’t see
daylight again until around 11.30 am when I emerged from the galley to begin
laying out salads and various other cold platters onto the long buffet table in
the dining area, in readiness for the hungry hordes to descend. Glancing towards
the ocean, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The weather was unrecognisable to what it
had been only three or so hours earlier when I’d returned from my second trip to
the mainland. The conditions had rapidly changed for the worst. A frenzied sea
was being whipped up by a boisterous, unrelenting wind. The gale whirled
erratically and wildly. The once clear sky was now covered in low-hanging,
steely-grey clouds that groaned and moaned from their heavy load. The burdensome
clouds threatened to explode at any moment, and dump their cargo. I hadn't the
time, nor did I have the ability to row out to my boat on its mooring in the
channel. To try to do so would have been madness. When I first arrived on Newry
months previously, I’d been advised that in the event of a cyclone, or similar
wild weather, for me to anchor the island boat securely away up in the far
reaches of the creek across the channel; the creek that ran through the
neighbouring Outer Newry Island. The turbulent system now racing southwards was
moving too quickly for me to act.
