Five P.M Saturday, mid July, late nineteen sixties we gather at the canteen, a dozen men comprised of at least six nationalities, all participating in a fishing expedition into the Gulf - Of-Carpentaria.


Of the twelve I know only two, the skipper, Herby Seeker, along with a sturdy fellow named, Jimmy Prawn. We're all part of the machinery in the process of building a new city. Herb, Jimmy, and myself work for a contractor constructing a tunnel to house a conveyor belt to be used bulk loading Weipa's bauxite onto ships. An injury from long before has been giving me trouble all week, my ankle swollen up like balloon. I'm overtired, without enthusiasm. “Maybe I should give it a miss, Herb?” I suggest, despondently.

He pats my back, mollifies, “Don't be silly, Joe. Come out, we'll have a few stubbies, a bit of a yarn, and then you can go down for a camp. Tomorrow we'll pull in some beauties - you'll see…”

It's not cold but, to lighten my load, I pull on the blue overalls I'm carrying. Then order a carton of stubbies along with the rest of them.

We walk across the flat each bearing his own supplies, along with fishing tackle, passing the towering open-air picture screen, along Evans landing jetty, on to where the Seeker's moored. Ron Fineman bought the fifteen metre timber trawler two years earlier. A former Melbourne businessman who came north after the death of his wife, taking up a new life style, becoming Herby Seeker. “Here she is, boys,” he introduces, “Queen of the Torris Straits.” Herb's talking through a wry grin, the men responding with smirks and nudges. It is obvious the Queen's known better times. Her white paint cracked and blistered, still she stands out amid the smaller, derelict craft beached around her. While the men are filing on board I glance across the inlet to where mangroves grow down to the waters edge, even as I watch, a large ship, having taken on a cargo of bauxite, is exiting along the channel.

When the fishermen are all aboard, the skipper guides the Seeker out into the main stream, and we are sailing in the wake of the cargo ship. Herby takes off his shirt, relaxes, stubby in one hand, steering wheel in the other. “The old girl's been idle too long,” he says, between drinks, “She's chafing at the bit,” Herb's short, slim, and agile, with only a few streaks of grey in his sandy hair to hint he's in the early sixties. Myself I'm thirty, a hundred and eighty centimetres height, weighing eighty kilograms. Although my hair's dark, my beard's tinted red. “I think we'll make for Duifken Point,” says Herb.

“You're the skipper,” I remind him, wandering out on deck.

An hour after departing Evans Landing the Seeker emerges in Albatross Bay, progressing out into the grey Gulf waters. Myself and another chap, a Swede, sitting on the edge of the stern. The swelling has almost gone out of my ankle and I'm beginning to enjoy the trip. Far ahead of us, now, the cargo ship looks no bigger than toy in a bathtub. To the west the sky ablaze of gold with one of the most impressive sunsets I have yet seen.

Gradually the sky darkens until I can no longer determine the mainland. I yawn thinking I'll go and have a stubby soon, then curl up in one of the bunks, another five minutes - that's the last I remember before hearing my own splash, being submerged in water. I fight my way back to the surface coughing and spluttering salt water, seeing the lights of Seeker fade into the night, knowing I'm alone in the Gulf-of-Carpentaria…

I tread water for a while, considering my precarious predicament. The Seeker's heading north. So unless I want to swim all the way to the Northern Territory I'd better make off to my right, which I decide to be the east, first I have to discard the overalls.

I stop paddling, fingers reaching for buttons and immediately plunge, with alarming speed, beneath the waves. Several times I attempt to remove the obstacles, with the same result each time. I make one last desperate endeavour but, with less than three buttons undone, I'm a metre down in the depths, my strength ebbing fast. I soon discover the only way I can stay afloat is to lie on my back using my arms like oars. I'm lying there, bobbing up and down like a cork, looking up at the stars, strange thoughts filtering through my mind. Were I able to prey, I most certainly would but, even here, with eternity stretching out in front of me, I can find no solace in prayer and, at the moment, I'm overcome by a great loneliness, wondering what it will be like to be down there forever, separated from my own kind. I remain with this dread until two distinct possibilities penetrate my fogging brain, sharks! Crocodiles! Suddenly I'm possessed by a fear such as I have never known….

Meanwhile, on board the Seeker the Swede, breaking a long silence, suggests, “Feel like a beer, mate?” getting no response, he glances sideways, more than surprised to find himself alone. “Where in the name of Christ did he go”?, he yells to hovering fisherman.

“How the bloody hell would I know?” the answer and, on afterthought, “Probably gone for a stubby?”

“But I would have seen him go,” protests the Swede. They look at each other, at the surging Gulf waters. Then seek out the skipper, a frantic search instigated. Within minutes there's no doubt - a man is overboard…

Herby wipes his forehead, mind in turmoil. He has to make a decision - and does - chartering the exact same course back.

At first I think it a cluster of stars out on the sky's horizon. Then, with surging hope, realize the lights are moving inexorably towards me, drawing closer, closer - I forget about the sharks, crocodiles, begin yelling in an unrecognisable voice, hear my own plea's rising up from the dark sea, “Help! Help! Help - "

Herby cuts the motor back, edging the Seeker in as close as he dares. A rope comes whistling over the side, a good cast. I catch the end, start hauling in, confused by the slackness, the rope keeps curling around me, the waves belting it against my face until, in an ominous moment, I realize I have both ends in my hands. Jimmy Prawn, who threw the rope, had forgotten to hold onto one end…

After the struggle trying to discard the overalls, the panic about predators, extreme use of my lungs trying to attract attention, my endurance is waning fast. I am on the brink of exhaustion and, the unmanned rope the last straw, conscious-ness slipping away.

Something spears into the water beside me with such impel I think it must go all the way to the bottom. He comes up spluttering just as I had. I see his white teeth grinning at me and, even in the darkness, recognize him as sturdy fair headed fellow named Bob who seemed to be always laughing. “Hang on, mate,” he encourages, “We'll have you back up on top in no time.”

Another rope comes whistling over the side. My rescuer, catching hold of it, grips me under the armpits, and they are hauling us up to sprawl, soaking wet and gasping for air, on the deck
Minutes later I'm sitting in the control cabin, a glass of the skipper's brandy in a shaky hand. ”Do you want me to take you back, Joe?” Herb asks, one hand on the steering wheel, the other wrapped around a stubby.

I know he's quite willing to return me to the Landing. I also know it will terminate the fishing expedition and, for that, I won't rate to highly in the popularity stakes. I make a gesture with the brandy glass. “Another couple of these and I'll be right as rain, Herb.” I assure him, but I can still feel that unmanned rope in my hands.

I have two more brandies before going down to a bunk and there, with the steady drone of the engine in my ears, pass into dreamless sleep…

Nine A.M Sunday morning the Seeker anchored north-west of Duifken Point on the west coast of the peninsula. The Skipper and I having a cup of coffee in the galley. “How you feeling, mate,?” inquires Herb, “going to wet a line?”

The winter sun's already warmed the deck, a gentle breeze blowing, the Seeker rolling with the swell - conditions ideal - yet I can not muster the slightest incentive to fish. All I want is to feel my feet on good solid ground again. “That's what we came for, Herb,” I say.

Herby isn't fooled, “Or would you rather I put you ashore for the day? Pick you up when we're ready to go home?”

I look across at the isolated coastline almost at the top of Australia, a forlorn sight but, at the moment, it looks pretty good to me. “That would suit me down to the ground, Herb,” I agree.

He takes the boat into within three hundred metres of the shore where some of the boys chuck a dingy over the side and, soon, the Swede and Jimmy Prawn are rowing me in. I can tell by his silence the latter feeling a little embarrassed. “On the spur of the moment it could have happened to anyone, Jim.” I console.

He grins at me. ”All's well - that ends well, eh?”

As I'm disembarking he produces an esky packed with ice and stubbies and, right now, I'll forgive him for anything.

I wade ashore, confronted by the silent, eerie coastline with only a scattering of trees and weeds growing in the sandy soil, seek out the shadiest tree available, sit with my back against it. Out in the water they're pulling the dingy back into the mother ship. I remove the top off stubby, saluting them.

For hours I sit drinking stubbies, watching the Seeker manoeuvre around the Gulf. She relocates at least six times and, although becoming very small and distant on occasion, I never once lose sight of her.

Sitting there alone on this desolate shore I'm finding it hard to avoid indulging in the hypothetic. What would have happened had I been able to shed the encumbering overalls? Being a reasonably good swimmer I would have swam out of the pickup area but, which way would I have swam? After several immersions I had been totally disoriented. Had I gone south? It was hundreds of kilometres to the bottom of the Gulf. West? The Territory a similar distance. North the open sea. East had been my only chance. Well it hadn't come to that - so I channel my thoughts to another avenue -

Just as Jimmy Prawn had been a little distressed over the misdemeanour with the rope. I am having qualms about thanking the man who saved my bacon and for some reason, I can not fathom, Bob's been avoiding me since the incident.. Well, I know it has to be done and, the boat being only fifteen metres long - I'll corner him sooner or later.

By three in the afternoon I have drank seven stubbies, about to start on the eighth when I observe the Seeker moving shoreward.

The tide in now, Herb able to bring the craft much closer before deploying the dinghy. Within minutes I'm back on board, welcomed by an air of despondency. For the day's fishing the men have been rewarded with only a half dozen queen fish, a few turrums. The sea's surface simmering under an afternoon heat haze. Stubbies getting short - tempers frayed.

Soon as the dinghy's hauled in Herb heads for home. We have been travelling for a half hour or so when he cuts the motor, taking the boat in a half circle, stopping with the nose pointing to the east. “This is about where you were treading water last night, mate,” the Skipper's finger lined up with a projection of land out over the Seeker's bow, “That's Duifken Point out there.”

It looks to be a good three kilometres into the shore. The sea a lot calmer now than it had been last night. We can barely hear the waves lapping against the side of boat. Jimmy Prawn comes charging into the cabin. “Better get the anchor down, Herb!” he yells, “Johnson just pulled in a beauty!”

It has been less than five minutes since Herb made the stop-over. Johnson, out of boredom, dropping a prawn baited line over the side, straight down the mouth of a twelve kilo turrum.

Within minutes the deck becomes a hive of activity men jockeying for positions. Some of them, having packed their tackle away, cursing the precious moments it takes to dig it out and bait up again. It soon becomes evident that Johnson's turrum had not been alone down there. Fish being landed all round the boat, causing some heated argument as lines become entangled in the action. All the while turrums, queen fish, and blue salmon are piling up in the well.

A German fellow puts his line down to roll a smoke, with a swish it is gone, shooting away like an uncoiling snake. The German looks all set to burst into tears. Seconds later the man next to him, while reeling in a fish, retrieves the lost line, hands it back to it's owner. The triumphant German proceeds to pull in a sizeable salmon.

I'm fishing between Jimmy Prawn and the Skipper. The run's been on for an hour without any sign of letup. Jimmy, right on top of things again, unhooks a turrum, tossing it into the well, turning to me with an insolent grin. “Looks like you weren't the only fish in the sea around here, Joe Bains,” he cracks.

The strike ends as abruptly as it began. No one to disappointed for it's gone five and the catch yet to be cleaned… I get a chance with my rescuer. “I want to thank you for the other night, Bob,” as I speak realizing, with a start, it had only been last night.

He looks away from me, emitting a hollow sounding laugh, lacking any of it's normal infection. “Oh that,” he says, waving the gesture aside, “You can buy me a beer back at the landing.”

All the way across Albatross Bay we sit around the well gutting fish. The catch exceeding all expectation and, as every one participated, there's no lamentations - or tales of the one that got away.

Another splendid sunset on display as we sail up the darkening inlet. After the open sea the mangroves lining each side of the waterway seem much closer than they had on the way out.

I stand in the bow as the Seeker rounds the last bend. There beyond the Evans Landing jetty, silhouetted against the northern sky, the open air picture screen. I look at my watch, it is seven thirty. We're going to make it for tonight's movie. I remember George Peppard and Alan Lad are starring in the Carpet Baggers.

Making my way back to the cabin, intending to gather my gear, I stop short. Two men are huddled together near the galley, engaged in earnest conversation. One of them Johnson, who had caught the first turrum. The other my rescuer. “Those overalls were full of water, Bob,” says Johnson, “He musta weighed a ton,”

“You're not wrong,” divulges Bob, speaking in a hoarse whisper, as if afraid of hearing his own voice, “Keep this under your shirt, Johnson, You'll never know just how close I came to dropping the bastard…”

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