SOME SPECIAL PEOPLE I’VE MET

Looking westward up Victor Creek, via Seaforth

Mucking around one night on Newry...where I, in fun, officiated the "marriage" of  Bob and Una...don't ask me how this party started..but it was a fun night...ummm...wedding!

Klaus on Newry Island

Photo of me taken by Klaus circa 1990

Duplicated from a previous post...because it's a photo of Klaus and me enjoying a conversation

The "swimming pool" on Newry Island

Graham...photo taken by Klaus

Postcard sent to me by Klaus when he was in Los Angeles

Coincidentally, after I’d mentioned in my previous story - “It’s a Small World” - that I’d relate the story about Klaus, a German backpacker who paid a visit to Newry Island for a couple of days - when looking for something else I came across a postcard he’d sent me as well as lengthy letter; both written after he left my island – well, it was mine, on loan, for a while.

At the end of this story, I include the lengthy letter I received from Klaus at the end of his odyssey - after his return to Hamburg and reality. I’ve transcribed it as he wrote it. Please remember English wasn’t his first language; but as proven, he had an excellent command of English. 

I hope you enjoy my story about....

Klaus…A Young Man’s Odyssey

Bob and Una who ran the backpackers’ hostel in Mackay loved Newry Island.  Whenever they could get a break from their all-consuming job they’d jump on board their yacht and sail over to Newry.  I enjoyed seeing them, most of the time.  Una could get a little obstreperous if she’d had a glass of wine too many; and if allowed to get away with her sometimes, very annoying behaviour.  She learned pretty quickly where my demarcation line was.  I do have one. It’s not set in cement; it is flexible, but it’s there nonetheless.  I never allowed her get away with any nonsense. I handled her subtly. Una soon discovered it was easier to pull her head in than to stir the sleeping dragon! Other than that, the three of us shared some fun times when they paid a visit.

There are a couple of stories within that story, too…perhaps another time.  (I seem to say this a lot)!

As I’ve written many times previously the little resort on the island was humble; very simple, not at all fancy; but it was inviting, particularly to those seeking such ambience; it had character.  A few characters visited it, too! 

Its simplicity was what I loved about the “resort” from my very first glimpse the day I arrived to the island. It exuded a true seaside feeling of old.  I use of the word “resort” loosely because it was not at all similar to the images some may conjure when thinking about island resorts.  Think resorts on Hayman Island, Hamilton Island, South Molle, Bali, Fiji et al…then wipe those images from your mind…Newry Island Resort was nothing at all like them!

Bob and Una hand-picked particular overseas backpackers who stayed at their hostel and would suggest they visit Newry. They sent across to me those they believed would suit the island’s mood; and who would be compatible with the crazy woman running the place!  Bob and Una never failed in their choices.  Throughout my time on Newry Island I met some wonderful young people from all parts of the world.

Klaus Kühner from Hamburg, Germany was one such young man.

Upon his arrival in Mackay Klaus, like many overseas’ backpackers before him, discovered the hostel. Through Bob and Una he learned about Mackay and its surrounding areas. His lessons on local geography included Newry, of course. 

On an adventure travelling around the world Australia was one of the many countries on Klaus’ itinerary.  His odyssey lasted eight-month. When he and I met he was still in the early stages of his journey. By the time he came to me – to the resort – he’d been “on the road” for three months.

For the first three months Klaus’ girlfriend, Andrea was his travelling companion, but she had to cut short her trip and return to Hamburg, leaving Klaus to follow his dream, in the main part, alone. Rarely, however, if you understand backpacking, are the young travellers ever alone.  They make friendships along the way, often joining together to continue their adventures as a group.

Things were quiet at the resort the afternoon I received a phone call from the mainland; from Klaus, under instructions from Una.  He asked if I had room for him on the island. I had plenty of room at the inn.  

He asked if I’d pick him up later in the afternoon…much later.  I explained to him I would prefer if he left it until the next morning because the morning tide would be the better time for me to take my boat across to the mainland. The tide would be high or near enough to being high tide. 

The time he stipulated he wanted me to pick him up that afternoon the tide was going to be very low; at its lowest ebb almost, which meant I’d have to walk out to the drop-off to the deeper water in the channel where my boat was moored at all times. The far section of the ocean floor leading out to the drop-off to the deeper waters of the channel was very muddy and uncomfortable to traverse at low tide.  Not only that - I’d slushed my way through the mud many times before and after, but Klaus left his arrival time for pick-up too late in the day for my liking.  We’d be returning to the island in the dark; and I wasn’t comfortable with that idea.  I preferred to tackle the waters to and from the island during daylight hours. I have a keen sense of self-preservation; closely followed by an acute desire for the safety of others within my keeping.   

To the best of my polite ability, I discouraged Klaus; and I led him gently towards my suggestion that the following morning would be a far more suitable time for me to pick him up at the boat ramp.  He agreed.  He had no other choice, really!

The only guest I had on the island at the time was a friend, Graham, who was an ex-staff member of mine from my Hinchinbrook Island days. Graham lived in Cairns. 

He came to Newry for a visit to see me. I put him up in a cabin, free-of-charge, nearby to the resort’s main building for a couple or more weeks. He was a friend, a personal guest and it didn’t sit right with me to charge him for his accommodation. He could have stayed in the spare room in my quarters, which were above the bar, dining and kitchen area; but I treasured my own space then, as I still do to this day.  Graham had a tendency of over-staying his welcome…often!

He had gotten into the habit after our Hinchinbrook days of visiting me wherever I was at any given time. He’d originally come to stay for maybe a week, two at most, but invariably his visits turned into much longer; which, to be honest, became tiresome after a while.  He’d given up work after he left Hinchinbrook, but I was still working.  I had jobs; and those jobs entailed long hours, tiring hours. I probably sound unkind and a little harsh, but that’s not my intention. I’m telling it as it was; the truth.

Every time Graham visited he stayed on and on like one of those guests who attend your party, and then never know when to call it a night and head back to their own home.  He did similar to his other friends; not only with me.  They, too, felt the way I did; and, like me, found it difficult to say anything! He may not have eaten much, but he certainly did drink a lot, and rarely put his hand in his own pocket!

It was difficult for me to say anything to him. I didn’t wish to hurt his feelings. That was not my desire; far from it. He was a poor soul in many ways. I felt I couldn’t just blurt it out and ask him to leave; or ask when he intended doing so; or if he even intending leaving - ever!  During each of his visits I’d eventually become stuck between a rock and a hard place.

To give you some background on Graham…

After his Hinchinbrook days, Graham returned to the mainland. He eventually bought a unit in Edge Hill, an inner city, northern suburb of Cairns.

I was living in Yorkeys Knob at the time. When Graham arrived back in North Queensland after visiting family in Victoria, his home state, he rang me out of the blue one day from Townsville where he’d been visiting another ex-staffer from Hinchinbrook.  He asked if he could come to see me, and perhaps stay a couple of days.  I said it would be fine; that I looked forward to catching up with him; to sit around and “chew the fat” over a couple of drinks.  Three months later he was still staying with me in my rented townhouse!  I was almost at my wit’s end!

Sadly, Graham wasn’t a well man. He suffered from a debilitating disease, the name of which escapes me – it always did, no matter how many times I asked him its name. However, I think I’m correct in saying it was Ankylosing Spondylitis.  

The disease caused his bones to fuse. His inescapable fate was he’d become crippled entirely, with his spine totally fused. Think Rheumatoid Arthritis and multiply it a 1000 times or more.

Until his early 40s, long before I met Graham, he stood almost 6ft 2 inches in height; and he was a very handsome man. From the photos I’d seen of Graham from those earlier times it was difficult for me to imagine the person in the photos as being the same man I knew.

When he was a younger man he married a German girl. After a couple of years, they separated and divorced amicably. Graham was well-travelled. He’d spent a few years overseas. He was knowledgeable, intelligent and had a dry wit, and a good, sometimes wicked sense of humour.

Unfortunately, the disease began to take control of Graham’s body and life when he was in his early 40s. When I met and got to know Graham he was in his late 40s-early 50s.

By that stage he was badly crippled. He shuffled along, bent over like a person many years older than he actually was. He was in constant agony; his pain was relentless.  Suffering was etched in his face; it echoed in the timbre of his voice.  It was sad to witness.

However, when he was on my staff he never once let me down. Graham worked split shifts in the restaurant on Hinchinbrook Island. In the mornings he was my breakfast cook and chief dishwasher. When he finished the early shift he returned to the staff quarters to do whatever he did until he was due to arrive back to the kitchen in the afternoon for the evening shift. His duties then included dessert preparation, general kitchen-hand chores and dishwashing.

Graham was fond of a drink.  I didn’t hold that against him. Alcohol eased his pain and suffering. It was not my place to judge. None of us know what we’d do if we were in a similar situation.  His drinking never interfered with his work; if it had done, I would’ve dealt with the problem as I saw fit.  Graham showed up for every shift, come rain, hail, shine or hangover.  He moved much slower than others, but he always got the job done. What he did in his own time was his own business.

It was distressing to see his gradual decline, to know he was being consumed by a deplorable, despicable disease.  During the years we covered lots of subjects during our many conversations, Graham and I.  He had a love of music of all genres. Until his illness reared its ugly head, Graham had enjoyed a fulfilling, rewarding life. His disease, unfortunately, stole so much from him.

Graham and I lost contact in the late Nineties for one reason and another. Again, that’s a whole other tale.  I expect he’s no longer of this world. 

While I was away picking up Klaus, the German backpacker from Victor Creek the next morning Graham sat at an outdoor table on the little patio out from the bar, patiently waiting my return, a cold beer in hand to keep him company. The morning sun filtered through the trees warming his racked body.  

He’d already been on the island longer than his original “intention”; and I was back in that place I knew well - between the damn rock and that other place!

As soon as I set eyes on my new guest I could tell he was a nice young fellow.  I edged my boat closer to the shore. He extended his hand after climbing aboard and introduced himself.

“Hello! My name is Klaus Kühner.”  His spoke fluent English; his accent no impediment.

Klaus was well-mannered, and, at first, a little reserved, which was to be expected, naturally.   Being ferried by boat across unknown waters to an unknown destination by some weird Aussie woman who lived alone on island would put the fear of God into any young man’s heart and soul!  

However, our conversation soon flowed freely. As I pointed out land and ocean-marks along the way from the Victor Creek to Newry Island I explained to Klaus what to expect from his temporary island home.

If he was looking for a bright night-life, Newry wasn’t the place to be; but if he was looking for peace and tranquility while being wooed by Nature’s beauty, then he was headed in the right direction. If Una and Bob had chosen him to be a worthy candidate for the island, I knew he’d be looking for the latter during his visit.

I sensed Klaus was feeling more at ease as we drew closer to Newry. He’d not only been studiously listening to everything I told him about the place he was about to spend some time at, but his eyes drank in the encompassing land and seascape, as well.

By the time I’d tied the Trojan to its mooring, and rowed ashore in the little red dinghy, Klaus eyes sparkled brilliantly with eagerness and curiosity, ready to explore his new surroundings. 

Graham met us at the water’s edge.  Hardly missing a beat, he and Klaus commenced chatting like “Hail fellows well met” as we walked slowly up the beach.  Graham had a reasonably good command of the German language, having lived in Germany for a period of time during his marriage.

Over the next couple of days of his stay Klaus wandered freely around the island.  Its inescapable laid-back atmosphere; its space, privacy and freedom to “be” suited him. It allowed him time to think; to ponder.  The island presented him with an interval in which to reflect; to project and plan; to dream. Consciously, at the time he probably wasn’t acutely aware he was on a search for personal fulfillment, but subconsciously he’d already taken the first steps towards his future.

The island in its own unique, ethereal way helped direct Klaus towards the path to his future.

Even if he wasn’t conscious that he was, in fact, seeking the elusive butterfly named “personal fulfillment”, the brief time he spent on the island, amongst the whole immeasurable scheme of things, contributed in helping him realise what he was subconsciously looking for.

I like to believe Klaus eventually did find what he was seekig once he returned to his life back in Germany.

In the mornings I went about attending to my daily chores uninterrupted by either Klaus or Graham, which suited me.  I was always up at the crack of dawn, prepared for whatever the day ahead had in store for me.  Surprises were known to occur out of the blue with little or no warning. My motto was “Be Prepared”, like that of the Boy Scouts. It mattered not I was female not male.  Island living, to my way of thinking, demands one to be always prepared!

Graham mooched about at his own speed. He’d help himself to breakfast – usually just toast or cereal, accompanied by coffee, of course. Klaus quickly learned to do similar.

After breakfast, Graham usually could be found with an icy-cold can of beer in hand, sitting out at one of the tables under the palms and she-oaks along the foreshore; or at the corner of the bar; or other times comfortably ensconced at the table out on the little patio area at the entrance to the main building.  Often he’d wander down to the water’s edge when the tide was high. I’d spot him floating or swimming in the water out front.  The ocean was good for his poor, aching body; as was swimming. He’d gained quite a tan during his stay.  

Klaus went off alone to explore every nook and cranny of the island. I’d told him about the koalas; they also called Newry Island home, as did echidnas, and, of course, to be aware that there were snakes on the island.  

Thankfully, I’d only seen one small snake the whole time I lived on Newry. My two cats, Pushkin and Rimsky alerted me to its presence. It was an unwelcome, uninvited guest.  Without much ado, I rapidly made it aware of my thoughts on its unwelcome visit!

One day I did find a shed skin of a Death Adder around on the rocks past the point. Death Adders are native to Australia; and they are one of the most venomous snakes in Australia, and in the world. I was glad I found the skin because it made me aware that they were on the island.

When I lived on Hinchinbrook Island one of my staff members had previously worked at Bredl’s Reptile Park at Cardwell, on the mainland.  Often he’d go in search of snakes; catch and bag them; and we’d transfer them across to the reptile park where they’d use them to replenish their venom stocks.

I despise snakes. It’s as simple as that…I can make it no clearer.  I have a massive phobia about them; it’s probably the only phobia I have. Even writing about them gives me shivers up my spine. 

But, rather than discuss snakes, I prefer to revert to a much more pleasant subject - Klaus.

Klaus stayed on the island a couple of days only, but he made the most of the brief time he had in paradise. When he’d return to the resort after his expeditions he’d sit with Graham awhile if I was busy. They’d talk together, or sometimes, just sit in comfortable silence.

Once I finished “taking care of business”, I’d join them; or vice versa. The three of us would loll about in the sea; revelling in the sunshine and salty water; talking, laughing and feeling a little like three Robinson Crusoes.

Newry did have an unused, water-less swimming pool. I was, under instructions from the lessee of the resort, gradually filling it in with palm fronds, grass-cuttings left over after I’d mown, raked leaves, along with all other types of plant debris. Running a pool was too expensive, fuel-wise; and water was constantly a premium commodity on the island with only one working dam for water storage.  Anyway, who needed a swimming pool when the ocean was only a few strides away down a she-oak and palm-fringed beach?

The days of Klaus’ stay were hazy, lazy, sun-filled days. Our nights were spent similarly sans the sun.

On his final evening we three, Klaus, Graham and I, like Two Wise Men and the Madwoman of Chaillot sat in the little “lounge” area off from the bar area. Music flowed freely from the stereo as did the wine or whatever our chosen liquid refreshments were; my only certainty on that front being the refreshments were regularly replenished when required.

Spontaneously, with no planning the evening turned out to be a memorably, brilliant, fun few hours. 

Graham drifted off to sleep during the course of the night.  He often did so, no matter what the locale or where.  I was accustomed to his intermittent snoring as it emanated from a lounge chair or whatever was his resting place at any given time.  He’d been known to doze off at the dinner table.  It never bothered me, or anyone else, for that matter. The conversations and laughter continued on regardless.  Every so often, Graham would come back to life; give a couple of snorts; have a sip or three of his drink; join in the chatter for a while, and then drift off once again. The pattern would be repeated, never causing a hiccup or disturbance to the ongoing celebrations.

Klaus and I talked; solved the world’s problems; danced; laughed; drank; philosophized belted the skins of the resort’s set of bongo drums; strummed the four-string guitar; and shook the tambourine better than the girls in a Salvation Army band.

We sang along to the music, making up our own lyrics when necessary; and talked at length into the wee, small hours. 
 

Every now and then Graham stirred and joined in with us; other times he slept, inexplicably lulled by our sometimes rather noisy presence and our obvious lack of talent at playing music instruments. The cacophony of sounds emanating at different stages throughout the evening would have been enough to disturb the fish out in the channel; enough to have sent them packing further out to the ocean depths.  To be honest, however, along with our joviality; our boisterousness, were our restful moments when Klaus and I sat quietly discussing life and all matters pertaining thereto.

During the course of the evening, I discussed Richard Bach’s story - “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” with Klaus. He’d not read the story; nor was he familiar with it. I sensed so many similarities between “Jonathan” and Klaus. 

Klaus was on his own personal, individual search for answers; answers to questions that would hopefully direct him to his life’s destiny. He was “trying his wings”, too – just like Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  The world was his to explore; Klaus’ own self was his to discover. 

I gifted Klaus my copy of “Jonathan Livingston Seagull”. Over the years I’ve given so many copies of the little book away.  Naturally, I bought another copy for me…and it has pride of place, still, on one of my bookshelves. Richard Bach owes me commission.

 

I forget how it eventuated, but Graham decided it would be his last evening on the island, too.  He would be my second passenger on board the boat when I ferried Klaus to the mainland the following day; it was decreed.  His intention was to catch a train in Mackay to take him back home to Cairns. 

Also, I forget how he and Klaus got from the boat ramp at Victor Creek into Mackay, a distance of approximately 50kms (31 miles). Maybe Bob from the Seaforth Store picked them up at the ramp, and drove them into Mackay because he was doing some shopping for his store in the city; or, maybe, I’d arranged for Bob (all these Bobs bobbing about), from the backpackers’ hostel to do the pick-up.

I think, perhaps, the latter was what occurred. Graham’s train to Cairns wasn’t due until the day after I’d deposited both he and Klaus on the mainland. As he then had to stay overnight in Mackay, I’d booked him into the backpackers’ hostel. Klaus intended returning to the hostel, too, before continuing his travels.  He planned to head south to Sydney, New South Wales. Graham was headed north to Cairns.  I feel that was the most likely scenario.

Once Graham and Klaus reached Mackay they spent the day together from what I learned later, wandering around the city centre, absorbing the Mackay tropical air; and generally enjoying their last hours together.

Klaus was an extraordinarily nice, intelligent young fellow, with an open, inquisitive mind.  I’m sure the aforementioned has served him well over the years since I met and got to know him

We corresponded for a while after he left the island; and after he returned home to Hamburg; but as is the case so often…we lost contact, eventually. 

By now you’ve probably drunk that cup of coffee you made when you first started reading this saga.  It’s time to make yourself another one…below is the letter Klaus sent me from Hamburg…it’s self-explanatory...

Copy of Klaus’ Letter -

“Dear Lee,                                                                             Hamburg 8 July 1991

I always hesitate when writing a letter to a very special friend.  It’s no problem to put some lines on a postcard sent to anybody.  But…in this case…it seems I have to be in the right, a special mood; and the letter has to be a very particular one; and, in addition, this language is not my familiar one.

Now, I’m writing!  Time, place, environment, mood, muisic, etc., is all right and in harmony.

More than seven months have passed by when we met at Newry Island…I received your letter some days past Christmas in Auckland/New Zealand.  It was a very busy day.  I’ve got many things arranged i.e. the return flight to Germany.  Looking forward to read your letter, I found a quiet nice restaurant place in a shopping mall at least, and I ordered a coffee, sat back and opened it in great expectation. And really!  There was a letter inside, and some copies of your poems too! I was very pleased; reading your words was as hearing your voice!  I felt sat back in time and place, and suddenly I was right back in “her room” at our final evening with all our conversation (conservation?) about tides, Michelmores, Dali, Bowie; with all the music we let come out of the speakers, not to forget that we played by our own on the bongos, congos and guitar….’ With all your poetry, Graham’s tempory snoring, the wine, our laughter…the dances in the moonlight on Frank Zappa’s music…I enjoyed the density of the night, the variousity (sic) of the events, the talks, but also the natural exuberance. (some of my words here base on my dictionary; but I keep on trying to find my own words to stay away from (I can’t understand what the word is that Klaus wrote here)…

To meet you (and Graham) was one of my – say – half a dozen super-high-lights on my 8 month’s journey.

My thoughts flow…I remember my phone call with you from Una’s youth hostel in Mackay. (I don’t remember his name); I wanted to come over that evening, but you felt disturbed…

But it was a great pleasure when I felt being accepted in your company (you and Graham’s), not only that! In a short time you made it possible for me to gain ground, and we were no longer 2 + 1, but 3.

But there was, at least, one big, great experience I could make!  This, at least, was the main aim of my journey; to make some important steps to reach adulthood.  I had been very much younger than the two of you, but you never looked on me in such a way…this was, besides knowing you and Graham (as friends), a great achievement (I hope this is the right word!).  What a great feeling!

After leaving Newry Island, which is an unforgettable event in my life, it took a lot of time to get all the impressions put straight.  That means I was busy in writing my “Newry Island Report” in my diary for the next two weeks.  I wrote in Sydney (my next stop past Newry), in Auckland and in Russell, Bay of Island, North Island of New Zealand.

Next after the diary I wrote  (I always want to write books, but I mainly read them!) – I read the book of Jonathan Seagull, the gift from you, Lee.  The teaching of this book fit into my life of these days!  For the first time in my life I went out by my own on a foot path all the way to some kind of “land’s end”, to a secluded hut (in former time inhabited by lighthouse people), now owned by the Department of Conservation, at the foot of the last rock, which points like a tall finger in the surrounding Pacific Ocean.  I lived in that hut for five days, as long as the provisions lasted.   During this time I never saw anybody.  I mainly lived in the kitchen-room, 50 metres above the sea-level and watched a colony of seagulls…any better time or place to read about Jonathan?

At that time I started reading your poems, but at last at Fiji I got enough concentration and time to translate them and get the meaning!  They are very good!  They are something typical of Lee George…a part of her, a part of you!  Suddenly, I decided to write one or two or three in beautiful letters, but I haven’t realised it yet.  So, I never put somebody’s poems in calligraphy – yours will be the first!  I’m happy that I’m one of the few selected that have read them (of course, I will tell my children about you!).

Newry Island had also another meaning to me:  it was the point on my journey where I cancelled my wishes to do the second half of it together with German friends…it was the turning point where I felt strong and safe enough to travel by my own! (Remember that I said about adulthood?!)   And so I did – and felt great!

In New Zealand, Fiji, Cook Island, Los Angeles and New York my companionship always changed: sometime I was alone; sometimes I was together with (always) nice people.  It was easy to travel by my own resp. to find the right people.

Then, at the very end of February I took the airplane back via Copenhagen to Hamburg: the last flight took part in thick (winter) clouds, cold and low and grey…I felt the machine making preparations for landing, it was jerking ---

Suddenly we emerged from the clouds and the (sic) nothing but grey surface some metres below appeared, but we already had landed!  It was unreal and sudden like awaking from an impressive dream…I saw the letters “Hamburg Airport” – everything was so far away, but familiar, too!

The next weeks “back on earth” (that means returning from paradise…) were like the first impressions…well-known, but buried…but it happened – what must happen: all remembrance, all my pre-journey-life-details came to life again and overflew (sic) me…It’s easy to go away but hard to come back someday…

But I’m back now, with a lot of impressions and experience; meanwhile I can enjoy my life here and I’m not intended to escape (some people I met always travel, always escape from themselves!). 

I’m willed to put in the things I had learned on my journey to my life in Hamburg!  And it looks good.  But learning never comes to an end because that would mean, life comes to an end!

Next afternoon…

My life is as various and colourful as ever; but sometimes it’s hard, surely harder than a long journey: when travelling I have had less obligations.  I have been only obliged to me (and my girlfriend, waiting for me).  But now? There is my full-time job (I try for 13 months to get it reduced to half time!); there is my studies (Graphic design; I like to continue, but therefore I have to reduce my main job!); there is the finance office (taxes!); there is the woman I share my flat with; there are a lot of friends; my parents – there is this stupid telephone which makes me within reach at every time…

And, of course, there is Andrea, my lovely girlfriend – our partnership gets closer every day.  She was the one I travelled with in the first three months of my journey, then we were separated for 4-1/2 months of my journey – this was, at least, no problem; so everybody thought about our partnership in absence of the other – and the result was a solid formulation!  Now we decided to move together and live in my apartment late this year.  In the next three weeks we have holiday; we plan to go canoeing in the hilly middle part of Germany on a river called “Fulda”, which runs through Kassel, the city I was born at.

Dear Lee, I will finish this letter here; did my Bowie postcard from Los Angeles reach you?

Some weeks ago I had a phone call with Graham; phoning with, writing to or reading letters from you or him is like contacting a dream company…or some kind of paradise…but Lee, Graham and Newry Island is reality!

I look forward to your next letter!

All the best to you,

Enjoy flying!

Klaus”     End of Letter.

WHAT GETS ON MY GOAT…

My goat has a backbone made of steel with Herculean shoulders as broad as a barn door. My goat has to be very strong because I kid you not - a lot gets on my goat. My poor goat has to bear a burdensome load; a load that increases daily, unfortunately.

Ironically, it’s because there appears to be more of its relatives lurking about these days than ever before - and this really gets on my goat!  Many of these goats should be penned up forever, whether they’re wethered or not; some should be wethered! 

Enough said about that – I won’t air my strong opinions - not at this time, anyway!

I’m not a speed hog, nor am I a speed hound. I’m more a greyhound than a grey fox. It’s more likely I’m a silly old goat! 

In case you’re unaware - the grey fox travels faster than the greyhound (by about 4kms an hour; but 4kms make a big difference if a speed gun is pointed at you).

If I had a choice of what speedy animal I’d prefer to be – I’d like to be a black panther. However, a grey panther is more applicable to me these days. The black (or grey) panther’s top speed is 56 kms; I’d never get a ticket.  With practice I could increase my pace a little.  I wouldn’t mind being known as a grey panther. I’d accept that description - it wouldn’t get on my goat.  It sounds more glamorous than a greyhound; or an old grey mare. 

What does get on my goat, however, is being forced to travel behind those folk who crawl along at 30 to 40kms in a 60km zone.  They amble along; their heads turning left to right and back again; usually with their mouths open; not dissimilar to those open-mouthed, head-turning clowns in a sideshow alley stall!

Another thing on my lengthy “what-gets-on-my-goat” list is people who immediately start complaining about rain when we’ve received about three drops of the precious commodity. Their washing won’t get dry is their woeful cry!

If we get no rain they’ll have no water in which to do their washing. D’oh! They’d then really have something to whinge about! 

Up here on the hill where many households depend solely on rainwater to fill their tanks why on earth would anyone want to complain about a measly few drops of moisture?

Why complain about rain when, in fact, we should be grateful hearing it land on our roof? It’s a comforting sound. We never know when we’ll hear it again. In the meanwhile, the precipitation fills or tops up our tanks. It waters our trees and gardens.  I kid you not – grumbling about rain really gets on my goat.

Forget the washing; an extra rinse or two won’t hurt it – it will dry eventually.  I’d rather have wet washing than a dry throat - that would get on my goat!  I hear dehydration isn’t much fun!

However, I must retract what I wrote above where I stated there seemed to be more goats around nowadays. I’ll never call those who get on my goat “goats” again. I shouldn’t insult goats this way.

I sincerely apologise to all you goats out there, hairy, old or otherwise!

My reasons are - goats are highly intelligent animals. Also, they are curious, coordinated and well-balanced animals.

We mountaineers up here on the range should proudly call ourselves “mountain goats”.  I won’t ram this down your throats, though. 

 I’m a slow old goat!  At a measly 19kms to 25kms top speed goats run faster than I can.

 A mountain goat can climb a mountain at 10kms per hour; downhill they speed it up to 30kms. I’m a ninny; not a nanny!  I can’t achieve either!  I doubt I could run that fast when I was younger! I hated running, uphill or down; unless I was being chased by a billy goat, of course!

Potato-Pumpkin-Goat Cheese Gratin: Preheat oven 200C. Lightly oil casserole dish. Use mandoline or very sharp knife; slice 500g Jap or butternut pumpkin and 500g 4 potatoes or kumara into very thin slices; toss slices with 3tbs olive oil. Spread 1/3^rd slices in bottom of dish; season; top with 55g goat cheese, scattered evenly in large chunks. Repeat with another 1/3^rd of vegetables; season; top with 55g broken-up goat cheese; finish layering with final 1/3^rd of slices; season. Pour 1/4c whole milk over slices and cheese; top with freshly-grated parmesan. Bake, covered 30mins; then bake 15mins, uncovered.

Figs, Goat Cheese Pecans & Bacon: Preheat griller. Halve 6 figs; stuff with goat cheese. Press some halved, toasted pecans into the cheese. Wrap each stuff fig half with a bacon slice; secure with toothpicks. Arrange on baking try; grill 5mins or until bacon is evenly brown and crisp and goat cheese bubbly, slightly browned.

Green Beans with Goat Cheese & Pine Nuts: Heat heavy pan over med-low heat; pour in some olive oil; add trimmed green beans; cook covered; stir every couple of minutes until almost tender and lightly-browned. Add chopped garlic to taste; cook 2mins. Season; add goat cheese and pine nuts (55g pine nuts per 450g beans); stir gently to distribute; cook a couple of minutes to lightly toast the nuts.

Rolled Goat Cheese Omelette: Chop 6 mint springs. Mash 6 small goat cheeses coarsely with fork; add mint, 2tbs olive oil, salt and pepper. Beat 10 eggs; season. Heat 2tbs peanut oil in pan; pour in beaten eggs; cook until set; turn omelette halfway through cooking. Slide onto a plate; garnish with the goat cheese. Tightly roll; cut into thick slices; serve immediately with rocket salad.

PS: I've begun writing my tale about Klaus, the German backpacker I mentioned in my previous post.  Once completed, I shall post my story about Klaus. He was another special young person I've had the good fortune to have met.

CHAPTER TWO...IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL…BUT THIS MAY NOT TURN OUT TO BE A SMALL STORY...

 

Mackay Harbour

 

Rimsky Lording It Over the Bar; and Me and Klaus, German backpacker sitting at table outside of bar/dining area

Time and light were running out.  Nightfall was nigh.  It was the enemy. Not a single moment could be wasted. 

After assuring Glen’s mate I’d do my utmost, while simultaneously trying to appease his concerns, I cut short our phone conversation so I could call the Air Sea Rescue, Mackay Squadron.   

Upon reaching them I explained in minute, precise detail what had happened from the moment Glen had left the safety of Newry Island; from my last sighting of him when he rounded the point. I told them about the scud that had gone through shortly after his departure; explaining it had been the final scud of the day; of the afternoon. After it had passed, that was it - there were no more. The weather had cleared.

The service informed me there was little they could do at that point in time because of the failing light; the lateness of the day, but they would send up a plane to do a quick scan of the area between Newry, Rabbit Island and St. Helens on the mainland before darkness took hold completely.

By the time all of this mayhem was occurring I was alone again on the island, of course, because Ivan and Doris had left for their mainland home around 2 pm, under their own steam in their boat. The wind had dropped, and the seas had becalmed to a gentle, inoffensive ripple early afternoon as the forecasts had correctly predicted. At that time the three of us were unaware of the turmoil going on in Glen's life.  He was completely on his own.

Ivan, Doris and I were in total ignorance when I bade them farewell.

I didn't want to appear to be a know-it-all because I wasn’t; but I felt I had to express my thoughts of where Glen most likely, in my humble opinion, could be found to the Air Sea Rescue people.

The waters behind my island and the waters north-west or further north of Newry Island were unfamiliar to me.  I’d never once travelled that part of the ocean.  My coverage, personal, hands-on knowledge of the sea surrounding Newry was between my island and Victor Creek on the mainland, four kilometres north of the small coastal village of Seaforth. 

I knew my route to and from the island like the back of my hand. It was imperative I had that knowledge down pat.  I had no reasons to venture further afield. I knew nothing beyond my own sphere. 

However, I’ve always considered myself to have a worthy amount of commonsense – the majority of times, at least!

I could sense I was being humoured by the person on the other end of the phone when I shared my opinion of where I thought Glen might be located; of how the winds could have picked him up and forced him northwards, where he’d then be carried further by the currents.

You know that feeling when you sense you’ve lost the attention of the person you’re talking with - they drift off as if in a vacuum of their own. Suddenly you become invisible; a lonely voice in the wilderness.

I didn’t allow the attitude at the other end of the phone faze me, however.  The matter at hand was far too important – and urgent. I made my position clear, confessing my lack of knowledge of the areas beyond my little world, but I also gave my reasons for thinking the way I did before I completed my phone alert.

Dusk was descending rapidly.  There was no time to lose.  I ran to where my dinghy was hitched; unhitched it and rowed as fast as I possibly could out to my boat at its mooring.  I knew I’d get little or no sleep that night; and I knew if I didn’t make an attempt, at least, of trying to find Glen it would haunt me through the night.

Unfortunately, I had been having trouble with my boat’s motor…a Johnson outboard, 175 horsepower.  I’d just gotten to the northern point of Newry; at the end of the main beach…hoping to spot the colourful sail of Glen’s craft up on the beach at Rabbit Island, when the motor on my boat started coughing and spluttering. 

“Great!” I thought. “That’s all I need!  Me - stranded out in the ocean as well! Not a clever, comforting scenario!”   I uttered a few expletives that I won't repeat here; I'll leave those to your imagination. Suffice to say they were worthy of a pirate!

What help would I be, floundering about at sea in the middle of the night?  Just another problem added to the already existing one.

Good sense prevailed. I limped back to my mooring; and then rowed ashore in my little tender. 

It was better that I stayed close by to the phone and to my two-way radio.

Communication and the availability of same with the outside world were vital.  I would be of no use if I, too, was stuck out in the ocean overnight.  By the time I reached the safety of my sandy surrounds the curtain of darkness had been drawn.  Night had descended.

Not long after my own minor misadventure I received a call from the Air-Sea Rescuers informing me they’d ceased the search operation because of the failing light, but they would be out again at the crack of dawn to pick up where they’d left off.   

There was nothing else to be done, but worry.

All through the sleepless night I kept hoping I’d hear Glen’s voice echoing up from the beach; calling out to me, telling me he’d made it back to the safety of Newry Island 

It was a vain hope, I knew; but I had to hold onto something in an attempt to retain my sanity!

At first light I was informed by Air-Sea Rescue they’d resumed their search.

Again, I expressed my feelings about where I thought Glen most likely would be. My feelings had strengthened overnight.  That corridor; that avenue had to be pursued, I believed; but, clearly, I was alone in my belief.

It didn’t make sense to me that Glen would’ve ended up over towards St. Helens Beach where Air-Sea Rescue were directing the search.  They had set their minds upon that area and wouldn't be swayed. No matter how much I insisted I believed the wind would have picked Glen up and pushed his tiny craft directly north; and then the currents would have carried him towards Midge Point; that I believed they were looking in the wrong area, my pleas were ignored. 

My thoughts about where Glen could be made sense to me, even though I didn’t know the currents etc; in that area, but it seemed logical to me. 

He had just rounded the northern point of Newry when the scud hit.  In my mind’s eye, I imagined him being picked up by the strong wind and forced in a northerly direction towards Midge Point.  It just didn’t sit right with me that the scud would have pushed him between Newry and Rabbit Island.  It didn’t make sense to me.  If Glen was at the northern point on Newry - in my reckoning the wind would’ve driven him northwards, not around a corner!

Anyway, no amount of talking convinced the searchers to consider my thoughts on the matter. I was beating my head against a brick wall. I felt like pounding, not only a brick wall, but the Air-Sea Rescue men, as well.  By the second I was becoming more frustrated; and very angry.  They’d put me in a hopeless, helpless situation; and wanted to keep me there!  

And what really annoyed me - I believed I wasn’t being listened to because I was a woman!

Hell!  If I was capable of living alone on an island; if I was capable of running the whole show single-handedly from driving the boat; operating the generators; handling the gardening; cooking; cleaning; running the bar - everything - surely I deserved a hearing!

As it was, I could’ve talked until I was purple in the face, if not black in the face, and my words would have kept going over their heads; in one ear and out the other.  They were probably laughing at me.  But I wasn’t going to give up!  I wasn’t going to give up on Glen.  They could keep searching the waters between Rabbit Island and St. Helens on the mainland until the fish came home; but they could be WRONG!  It was a strong possibility they were wrong!

I intended to keep harping on the matter until I grew hoarse. I had all the time in the world; but Glen didn't! I intended to keep being as annoying as I possibly could be until someone was prepared to listen to me!  I’m a true Scorpio!  I’m unyielding!

Between 11 am and 11.30 am that Monday I saw a trawler arrive in the channel between my island and Outer Newry.  It set anchor a little north of my mooring…a few metres away from my boat.  The skipper, “Rolly” Rollinson never came ashore whenever he anchored up in the channel before heading out to sea or on his return trip to Mackay Harbour. 

I’d never met the man face to face. I wouldn’t have recognised him if I’d fallen over him, but I had spoken with him via two-way radio and phone a couple of times. For various reasons “Rolly” wasn’t liked by many of his fellow-trawler skippers; a lot of whom, with their crews, were regular customers of mine on the island. Most of them were good blokes, and I had no reasons to doubt their words or opinions.

 “Rolly” was a fairly arrogant fellow.  Years before he’d had a falling out with Willie Litz, the lessee of the resort area on Newry; but that was none of my business.  Willi didn’t live on the island; I did.   “Rolly” had fallen out with lots of people, I’d been told; but that was the least of my worries that day.

I radioed “Rolly”. Not wasting words I told him of the frustrating position in which I’d found myself.  I explained what had occurred over the past 24 hours; and I told him where I thought the missing Glen was most likely could be found…up towards Midge Point somewhere; not where the search was presently being conducted. Precious time was being wasted!

To my surprise, “Rolly” agreed with my assessment.  I asked him if he was prepared to get in touch with the Air-Sea Rescue people and tell them of his thoughts; but to leave my name out of it.  They’d take more notice of him – he who had been sailing those waters for years – than they were of me – a mere female! They'd made it very obvious they were taking no notice of me!

What the hell would I know?

The rest of the afternoon I spent anxiously by the phone and two-way radio.  There was little else I could do, but wait…and wait.  Daylight was running out again with no positive results to hand. Night was just around the corner. 

My phone rang.  It was shortly after 5 pm. 

On their final fly-over for the day before pulling the plug on the search, intending to recommence the search again the following morning, the pilot spotted something on the beach, on the southern end of Midge Point.

It was Glen’s small sailing boat, with Glen standing beside it waving like a crazed lunatic!

Oh! God!  It was the best news I’d heard in years!  Tears of joy and of relief flooded down my cheeks.  I cheered loudly with no one within reach to hear other than Pushkin and Rimsky.  They didn’t mind being disturbed from their naps!  They barely moved a whisker.

Glen had been found where I had thought all along he could be. 

The wind from the scud had picked him up and carried him northwards. He didn’t turn the corner, nor was he forced towards St. Helens. His passage was taken completely out of his control.  He’d spent the Sunday night and the Monday in the open sea, holding onto to his small craft in sheer desperation. At one point it had flipped over.  In desperation he managed to right it.  

Finally, the currents nudged him to shore about an hour before the search plane spotted him – on their last fly-over for the day!

I felt extremely grateful to the faceless “Rolly” for insisting the search be extended to that area. 

After I learned Glen was safe, I made contact with "Rolly" Rollison to give him my heartfelt appreciation for his most important role in the play.  I never did meet him face to face, but I was very grateful for his actions that day.  I still am.

The following afternoon Glen rang me from Mackay to thank me for alerting the authorities etc.  He’d spent the previous evening in hospital where he'd been kept under observation overnight. Fortunately he had suffered no injuries from his adventures at sea.  He was calm and collected when we spoke. It was who he was. 

I never saw Glen again.  I think he’d had his fill of the ocean to last him for a while.  Who could blame him?

About three years later I was the cook/chef at the Town & Country Hotel Motel in Collinsville; back on dry land.

One evening after service I chatted with a young fellow at the lounge bar. He had the Hastings Deering insignia on his shirt; that’s what drew me to him. He was a motel guest, and he’d dined in the restaurant that night. 

I told him the above story. 

Looking at me, the young fellow said: “So you’re the one! You're the "Lee"! Glen told me about you! He’s told the whole crew!  I know of the story you’ve just told me! You have no idea how grateful he was for what you did.  He speaks often about that time. Everyone at work knows about it.”

I was taken aback to discover the story I’d just finished relating was familiar to the young bloke I'd not met before until that night.

At the time, Glen was still employed by Hastings Deering.  I asked the fellow sitting beside me at the bar in Collinsville to pass on my very best wishes to him the next time their paths crossed.  I often wonder how Glen’s life has panned out.  I hope he met a fine girl to spend it with; he was a fine fellow.

It is a small world after all….

 

https://maps.google.com.au/maps?q=Map+of+Midge+Point+Queensland&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=0x6bd9ea5519c1f729:0x400eef17f208ee0,Midge+Point+QLD&gl=au&ei=XnIrU9jOEIquiAf_8oCwDA&ved=0CCoQ8gEwAA

If you go into the above site...just click on the "South" arrow...and the right arrow...and you will see the distance between Midge Point and Newry/Rabbit Island etc.

Graeme Connors - A Little Further North

I will always love this song...so many wonderful memories come with it...and they shall remain...forever...

IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL…BUT THIS MAY NOT TURN OUT TO BE A SMALL STORY....CHAPTER ONE...

Chateau Hotel, Christchurch, New Zealand

Ruska, Derryn, Dylan and Me at my little house on Hinchinbrook.  Also Jacki, Derryn and Dylan at the bar and in the restaurant on Hinchinbrook Island

                         

The Hinch Clan Departing Hinchinbrook via Air Whitsunday's Beaver Sea Plane

                             

 

Similar to Glen's Little Sailing Boat

Me Behind the Bar on Newry Island

                                                       

Newry Island is the small island at the far right in green...Rabbit Island is the larger green mass. And "B" on the mainland is St. Helens Beach....just to give an idea.

Rimsky lording over the bar on Newry Island. looking down upon his subjects; And me sitting outside the main building chatting with a German backpacker who stayed on the Newry for a couple of days.

                       

                               

                                                      There is just one moon

                                                       And one golden sun
                                                      And a smile means
                                                      Friendship to ev'ryone
                                                     Though the mountains divide
                                                     And the oceans are wide
                                                     It's a small world after all....

Every day we read about people who’ve gone missing.  Some of whom have done so purposely, wanting to change their lives for whatever reason.  I’d never be able to disappear over the far horizon.  Invariably I’d run into someone I know; or someone who knows someone I know who knows me - ad infinitum.....

In my previous two posts I made mention of the stranger I met one Saturday afternoon in a little pub in Chillagoe out the back of Woop-Woop.  Not long after we’d started chatting he and I discovered we had a mutual friend.  In my case, an acquaintance; but in the stranger's case, his boss was guilty of being our common link.


There is no escape hatch for me! I will always run into a familiar face, no matter where I roam or how far I stray!

Back when I was managing the resort on Hinchinbrook Island I attended a travel/tourism conference in Christchurch wearing my "sales/marketing manager hat". Having returned to my hotel from a day of listening to speaker after speaker droning on and on about this, that and the other thing, I was relaxing at the cocktail bar enjoying a drink with one of the fellow conference attendees, a gentleman from Saudi Arabian Airlines otherwise known as “Saudia”.  I sensed someone come up beside me to my left.   

I didn’t turn until I heard the words: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world….!  What’re you doing here in my home town, Lee George?  You’re supposed to be on the island!”

My head spun around at the sound of a familiar voice. 

To my surprise, standing beside me was Derryn Hinch, someone I'd gotten to know a few months previously..  

Derryn is a very well-known Aussie (New Zealand-born) media personality. 

He’s a reporter/journalist/author and strong advocate for sexually abused children in this country.  The latter he takes very seriously.  And I take my hat off him for his dedication to the cause.

Derryn is a vocal and harsh critic of Australia’s criminal justice system.  He doesn’t hold back; and nor should he. His outspokenness and beliefs have gotten him into trouble more than once; and, no doubt, will again. Because of his refusal to forgo his convictions he has been jailed a couple of times.  Only last week he was released from prison after spending 50 days in confinement for contempt of court.  He chose to go to prison in lieu of paying an unjust fine. I agree with him wholeheartedly in his convictions.

Derryn is a good man; I support him in his beliefs; in his fight for justice.  He’s ruffled a few feathers along the way…but they’ve been feathers that needed ruffling; and he'll continue ruffling feathers.  There are many in society who can't handle the truth!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derryn_Hinch

 I’d originally met and gotten to know Derryn and his then wife, Jacki Weaver, a highly-acclaimed Australian actress of stage, screen and television when they, along with Jacki’s then teenage son, Dylan came to stay at my island resort for a week-long holiday.  During their stay I broke from my usual set-in-stone protocol. I invited them to dine with me at my private abode; just the four of us (and Ruska, my ginger cat), away from the restaurant and the other guests; a little private time and space for us all. They were fun, normal people; good company and intelligent conversationalists. 

During one of my business trips to Melbourne after their visit to the tropical north, I met up with them again.  Another “small world” moment occurred during our rendezvous that afternoon, as well, but I won't go into that at the moment...this small story about how small the world is, is going to end up being a lengthy story as it is....

Jacki Weaver has been well-known in this country for five decades (she started young). She is now known internationally, also,  for her performances in the movies “Animal Kingdom” (an Australian movie), along with the popular and successful US movie, “Silver Linings Playbook” starring Jennifer Lawrence (who received an Oscar for her role). Jacki also played alongside Bradley Cooper and Robert De Niro in the movie. 

Jacki was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress in both the above movies.  Since her being “discovered” by a wider audience (and movie makers) she’s been making movies in the States for the past couple of years.  This is an amazing for her; and she’s started a whole new career while in her mid-60s, proving anything can happen at any time. You're never to old!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacki_Weaver

Anyway, back at the bar in the Chateau Hotel in Christchurch….

Derryn told me he’d just flown in from Australia an hour or two before.  He was staying in the same hotel as I was.

“This is ridiculous,” he said.  “I was just talking about you!”

“Why would you be talking about me?” I asked somewhat incredulously, both at the statement and at finding him standing beside me.

His cousin had picked him up from the airport. While unpacking his suitcase in his room, the first item he removed from his suitcase was a Hinchinbrook Island tee-shirt.  

Before Derryn, Jacki and Dylan departed the island I’d given them a tee-shirt each.  So upon seeing the shirt Derryn told his cousin about his holiday on the island.  Derryn pointed it out to his cousin…saying, “Hinch on Hinchinbrook”. My name came as he had told his cousin about his happy, holiday getaway. 

He asked to join him and his cousin for a drink. They were sitting across the way in an alcove alongside the wooden-panelled wall.  Once I’d made my polite overtures and good-byes to the Saudi-Arabian Airlines fellow, who already had an appointment he had to run off to, I joined Derryn and his cousin in the alcove. 

Derryn was visiting Christchurch for a couple of days only. He was there to join in a favourite uncle’s 80^th birthday celebration. Because of his hectic work commitments his trip had been a last minute decision made at the 11^th hour.  That we should be staying at the same hotel was coincidental, as was my spontaneous decision to accept the invitation to have a quick drink at the bar with the Saudi gentleman.  We'd bumped into each other in the hotel's foyer upon our return from the seminar.

 Derryn never stood at a bar to drink, preferring to sit at a table or alcove as was the case that afternoon. The only reason he’d gone up to the bar was to request a bottle of mineral water to go with the wine he’d ordered and received.  The waiter had forgotten to bring him the mineral water when serving the wine.  If not for that reason, neither of us would probably have known the other was there.  We laughed about the power of coincidence.  

A week or two later when back on the island I received a postcard from Jacki, jokingly saying: “What’s the idea of meeting up with my old man in Christchurch?”  I still have the postcard here somewhere.

In a totally different story about different people and a different locale (but one still on the “Six degrees of separation” vein), this following anecdote began when Newry Island was my home.

By living on the islands - Hinchinbrook and Newry, I’d become very in tune with the weather forecasts; with what to expect; its predictability and its unpredictability; whether a south-easterly wind was due to upset the equilibrium, and at what rate of knots it intended doing so. The south-easterlies upset the comfort of my comings and goings by boat.  Their arrival always brought a lump to my throat if I had to take my boat across to the mainland to pick up guests and/or provisions.  

Also, at all times I had to be aware of the tides; when the high tide or low tide was due; when the tide was expected to turn, and so on.  The weather dictated to me, not vice versa.  I always heeded the forecasts - good and bad.

Friday arrived.  Along with it came a report of wild weather due to arrive mid-Saturday morning. It was predicted it wouldn’t last for long; probably 24 hours at the most.  Scuds were expected to pass through at regular intervals.

Fortunately, the weekend ahead was going to be quiet, people-wise. Only two guests were booked in for the Friday and Saturday. Their intended departure was Sunday. They’d arrived by their own boat earlier on the Friday morning.  Friday’s weather was near perfect.   

My guests, Ivan and Doris, sugar cane farmers from Mirani in the Pioneer Valley, 37kms west of Mackay, owned a beach house at Seaforth, my nearest port of call on the mainland.  Off-season, when possible, they enjoyed a few days respite at the beach, with the ocean as their backdrop for a sea change.  Sometimes a trip to the island was on their agenda. Through their visits we'd become friends.  They also generously stored most of my possessions in the lower level of their house in Seaforth; a gesture that saved me from lugging everything I owned across to the island.  I’ve have mentioned Ivan and Doris in previous posts when writing about my time living on Newry Island.  They were good friends of Willie Litz, the lessee of the island (or part thereof) at the time; and it was through him I originally met Ivan and Doris. It was Willie who suggested they house my possession.  Willie lived and worked elsewhere on the mainland, and only once visited the island while I was there, other than my initial introduction to the island and all that my job there entailed.

Saturday morning I went about my normal daily duties. Certain chores had to be routinely attended to each day.  I was most always up at the crack of dawn, if not before.   

Mid-morning I was surprised to see a small one-man sailing craft taxi to stop at the ocean’s edge.  I strolled down the beach towards the little vessel to greet my unexpected visitor. As I drew closer I recognised the young, sole sailor.

“Glen!  G’day!  What on earth are you doing here?  And how did you make it here in that little thing?”  I exclaimed, somewhat aghast at the tiny size of his ocean-crossing craft!  My greeting, however, was issued in a friendly, welcoming manner.

The young man in front of me with a beaming smile across his face was Glen Winning. Glen often visited the island.  

 He worked for Hastings Deering in its Mackay division. The Mackay branch serviced the mines throughout the coal and natural gas-rich Bowen Basin. World-renowned yellow Caterpillar, heavy earth-moving, mining equipment etc., is distributed throughout Queensland, Northern Territory, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Island and New Caledonia by Hastings Deering’s branches. The majority of Glen’s working life was spent visiting the various mines throughout the Bowen Basin, and sometimes beyond. 

Quiet and unassuming, Glen was a nice, well-mannered young bloke in his mid-twenties. I always enjoyed chatting with him when he visited. Every time he came to the island I picked him up from the ramp at Victor Creek on the mainland, four kilometers north of Seaforth. I’d ferry him to the island in my boat, the 21-foot Trojan Dehavilland. Glen always came alone.  I’d sensed he was a bit of a loner like I am, so it never seemed strange to me. Most of the time he preferred to camp rather than stay in one of the island’s cabins. 

Within easy distance of the restaurant/bar and beach was a designated camping area for those who preferred to “rough it” rather than sleep within four walls. A free-standing shower and toilet block was available for campers and day-trippers to the island.  Every aspect was covered. The self-contained cabins, the bar/restaurant and public facilities were very humble; very simple, but that's what my visitors to the resort enjoyed.  They weren't looking for anything flash when they came to Newry Island..they sought and liked the modest, natural environment and ambience it had to offer.

When travelling to and from the island by my boat Glen’s toted a backpack. It held whatever meagre requirements he needed for his stay. It also held his one-man tent.  He had his favourite spot to set up camp. Protected by a shady tree it had a million dollar view of the bay and Outer Newry Island across the way.

He always joined in with the evening meals I prepared for my island guests.

At night, 99.99% of the time dinner on the island was a barbecue of fresh seafood held outside under the stars, with the ocean gently lapping the shore a short distance away. The barbecues always consisted of fresh prawns, fish and oysters, accompanied by a large bowl of mixed salad, fresh bread and butter. There's little to beat that, in my book!

Island lunches were never grand affairs.  Often I’d put out a large stainless steel bowl full of freshly-caught and cooked prawns. Whoever was present at lunch time would just bog in to their heart’s delight and content, heartily enjoying the feast set before them.

I’d trade with the trawlers who used to set anchor in the channel between Newry and Outer Newry before they'd head off to Mackay Harbour to off-load their catches. Contra deals were done; a case of beer; perhaps a bottle of bourbon, or rum (whatever their choice) for an abundance of fresh bounty from the sea.  I always came off best in the deals; and never once was cash exchanged for the seafood.  

I was in seafood Heaven when I lived on Newry Island.  And I can assure you...it was wonderful! (Pushkin and Rimsky, my two cats at the time would have confirmed it in gold lettering)!

In my opinion, the only accompaniments fresh prawns (and freshly-shucked oysters) need are fresh bread, lashings of butter (never margarine!), vinegar (and lemon for those who prefer lemon to vinegar with their seafood), pepper, salt, bowls of water for finger dipping and loads of napkins; and, of course, another large bowl or three for the scraps.

The rare times my stock of fresh seafood was depleted when lunch fell due, I’d prepare sandwiches, or, perhaps, heat up meat pies if they were the food of choice.  As I said, lunch went by without fanfare on Newry Island.  I kept the balloons and whistles for the evening seafood barbecues; along with the streamers - they were for those regular special occasions!

But the Saturday morning Glen arrived under his own steam; or should I say by his own sailing prowess, he’d travelled lighter than he usually did, so he rented a cabin, rather than camp.  I instructed him to drag his little sailing dinghy up high to the foreshore and to secure it well to a She-Oak tree; advising him on the expected downturn in the weather conditions.  

Already I could sense a change in the atmosphere.  Within an hour a gusting south-easterly wind had whipped up the ocean. Grey clouds loomed heavily overhead. Scuds started to come through frequently.  During their visits, wind-driven rain pounded the sandy beach; indoors was the preferred place to be.

That evening we island dwellers dined inside away from the inclement weather.  I prepared a tasty, relatively mild prawn curry with steamed rice as its accompaniment. We called it a night fairly early. My guests dashed off to their respective cabins when the rain ceased for a moment or two, leaving me to my own devices.  Allowing them enough time to settle, I went to the generator shed and switched off the generator; and then took myself off to bed. Stormy island nights have a unique special cosiness about them. (As long as it’s not a cyclone causing havoc)!

Upon waking Sunday morning the weather had abated a little, but the sea was still fairly rough and the wind was still gusting. Putting it simply, I would not have taken my motor boat anywhere.  It remained securely moored out in the channel. To reach it I had to row a little dinghy out to the mooring; and in weather such as it was that morning and the previous night, nothing was so important to make me do the trip.  Whatever it was could wait - too bad - even if it was the Queen of England!

Around 11 am, Glen came to me to pay for his stay. At the same time he informed me he would be on his way.  Alarmed, I told him firmly for him to leave at that time would be very foolish.  His small craft battling against the stormy sea didn’t conjure a pretty or safe image in my mind.

I’d been keeping an ear on the weather reports throughout the morning, and they were telling me that the conditions were due to change for the better shortly after noon.  I explained this to Glen and insisted he not leave the safety of having sturdy ground under his feet until another couple of hours; allowing time for the weather to settle down. Doris and Ivan backed my words.  They were delaying their departure until early afternoon; and they were travelling by a powered boat, and one much bigger and sturdier than Glen's little craft.

I could see Glen was itching to be on his way, so I did my utmost to delay him.  The scuds were becoming lesser in intensity, and more time elapsed in between each one's arrival; but the sky was still leaden and the wind hadn’t dropped to a satisfactory, calm pace to my way of thinking.

Just before mid-day, Glen followed the beat of his own drum.   

Filled with reluctance and concern, I walked with him to where his boat was resting. While he unhitched his little boat and dragged it into the water, not one to give up without a fight, I kept on trying to convince him not to go; to leave it for another couple of hours.  Doris walked with us to the water’s edge.  She could see I was fighting a losing battle.  No matter how hard I insisted and pleaded my words just faded off through the air..

Granted, the weather was clearing; but it had not yet.  The sun was fighting to peek through brief breaks in the still morbid clouds; but it was not enough, I believed; not without reason. 

Off sailed Glen, full of goodwill and good manners. As he turned around the north point of the beach, to our left, he waved and yelled out his good-bye; a big smile across his face.  Doris and I returned his wave.  Only a couple of minutes after he disappeared around the point, out of our view, a scud came blustering through from the south-east - passing between Outer Newry and Newry Island heading in a north-west direction.

“Oh! My God!” I exclaimed to Doris.  “I hope he’s okay!  I wish he’d taken notice and waited a while! Nobody ever wants to listen, do they?”

We rushed up to the point but there was no sight of Glen anywhere.

“Perhaps he found shelter on Rabbit Island,” I said, not believing my own words.  The scud had rushed through, suddenly, out of the blue (or grey) with no warning, leaving no time for preparation or forethought.  

Rabbit Island lies to the rear of Newry Island.  There is a narrow waterway separating the two islands.

As it turned out, it was the final, last scud of the day, and weekend. Shortly after it had barged its way through, the clouds cleared away. The wind dropped. The world around us was calm once again. The sun smiled down on a pond-like ocean. The weather forecasts had been spot-on.  The bureau had predicted the rough conditions would last for 24 hours at the most; and they were correct.  The rest of the afternoon and night was as if the past hours hadn’t existed. 

Ivan and Doris departed around 2 pm, leaving me alone once again on the island.  I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the two cabins that had been occupied; changing the bed linen etc. Those chores didn’t take me very long. I looked forward to spending the rest of the afternoon at a leisurely pace; talking to my two cats; reading a book; losing myself in the view while doing so.  I used to be an excellent multi-tasker!

Every now and then, my thoughts turned to Glen.  I hoped he'd been safe from that final scud.

At 5 pm the phone rang.

“Hi! I’m a friend of Glen Winning,” said the voice on the end of the line.  “He spent the weekend on the island.  He sailed over yesterday. I dropped him off at Victor Creek.” 

“Yes, that’s correct,” I answered.

“Can you tell me if he’s left there yet?  Before he headed off yesterday morning he asked me to pick him up here at St. Helens at 3 pm.  I’ve been waiting and waiting, but there’s no sign of him.”

St. Helens Beach is on the mainland, west of Rabbit Island and Newry Island.

My heart began to pound. My stomach did a few back flips and somersaults.

“Oh! I see!  Glen left here just before noon.  This isn’t good.  He should’ve been there hours ago. Give me your contact number.  I have to get off the phone now; I need to ring the authorities. I have to get in touch with the Air/Sea Rescue mob. It will be dark within the hour.  I’ll keep you posted.  If you hear anything, please let me know immediately!”

I didn't panic...panic doesn't solve anything...but I was very concerned...very concerned, indeed....

To be continued..... 

PS....I'll tell the tale about Klaus, the German backpacker another day, too....he was a lovely fellow.