“Should we do another one?” I yelled to Finchy, standing like a heron on one leg. His right foot planted on the deck and left toes gripping the tiller handle, surveying the scene with a sharp eye and furrowed brow. The Randell dry dock came into view again as the boat spun around in a circle for the second time. I felt silly, like all the people sitting stationary in their cars on the Mannum ferries were laughing at us. The staff at the museum and the newly restored Marion paddlewheeler were getting ready for the day. If I could see them, they could definitely see us on our little boat, pirouetting in the river.
“I’ll try the whistle again,” Finchy yelled,
the wind wafting his voice away. He leaned under the rear roof grabbing the footy whistle off its hook by the wee yellow cabin door.
Fred had arrived in his ute again this morning. Pale and parched, he waved us, and his old boat, Huck Finn, off the shores of Mannum. He wished us good luck and reminded us that to move past the ferries, a boat blows a long blast on its horn, then waits for the ferry to reach the river bank and stop. The ferryman will turn on the green, all good to go flashing lights, telling the boat that the heavy steel cables are now at their lowest point on the riverbed and it’s safe to cross.
As we had no horn or electricity on board yet, two more things to add to our fixer upper list, Fred instructed us to go around in circles in front of the ferry until he noticed us. Finchy, stomach lurching and threatening mutiny after last night’s insobriety, realised that this was his only option. We hoped the ferryman would see we were actually serious boaties, not the hooligans we looked, and doing donuts was our way of marking time before crossing his cables. Finchy, out of breath, realising the banshee wailing of the footy whistle hadn’t worked, hung it back on its hook.
Circling again, the Marion and museum swinging by for the third time, we got a wave from the ferryman. He had seen our approach and acknowledged our antics, and turned the green flashing lights on. The anxieties that gnawed at me all morning dissolved in Huck’s wake. In their place, a quiet ease and sense of achievement came over me. The victory, although small, was nonetheless sweet. We had successfully navigated our first ferry crossing and were heading downstream past the PS Marion, past the Mannum riverfront, towards our destination of Murray Bridge.
The paddle steamer, PS Marion, is one of the world’s only operational, heritage, steam driven, wood fired, side paddle steamers with overnight accommodation still running.
Built in 1897, she was one of the first paddle steamers to run cruises on the Murray, Australia’s longest river. Our little wooden boat, Huck Finn was one of the first “houseboats” to run on the Murray, built as one of three Bluebird class in 1956.
The Marion amazingly, has endured a long and varied working life, plying the Murray and Darling rivers since the late 1800’s. The vessel had a number of different owners and captains before the National Trust bought her in 1963. She sailed from Berri, under her own steam, back to Mannum where she was kept as a static museum for thirty years, a memorial to the River Navigation Era. In 1989, the people of Mannum decided to restore the steamer back to full operation. Volunteers dedicated thousands of hours to the project and the PS Marion was recommissioned in November 1994.
Had we been passing by here a month ago, we would have witnessed this historic event.
Moving through Mannum, enjoying the warm breeze on my face, I noticed the house and waterfront lawn where we’d hired the houseboat Cygnet from last Spring. Finchy and I, and two other couples, had a terrific week holidaying together.
The lapping water provided the soundtrack as Finchy and I clinked glasses on Cygnet’s wide rear deck. The night was silent, punctuated only by the occasional hoot of an owl, a fitting end to our last night on board. The others, weary from a day of sun and shenanigans, had already succumbed to sleep. Enjoying the tranquility, our conversation meandered, and in that moment, under the watchful gaze of the moon, with the Murray stretching out before us, a plan was born. Finchy, embers glowing in the remnant of his cigarette lying on his bottom lip suddenly declared,
“Let’s do this!”
I knew exactly what he meant and from that lightbulb moment, our idea, as grand and audacious as the river itself was hatched, we were going to travel the length of the Murray River.
So much has happened since that night. We have planned and researched and worked and saved. Now the gentle flow of the river soothes my soul. I sit on the back of an old wooden river boat gazing out at the peaceful river going by. Listening to the engine putt-ing steadily downstream, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of the past 24 hours. From the excitement of buying the boat, the anticipation of our journey, the terrifying waves of Pellaring Reach, the sickening jolt of the accident, and the unexpected kindness of the boat’s previous owner. It was a lot to take in. Two days ago, I didn’t even know what a transom was.
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