We cruised on downstream for a few hours, passing some swampy looking back waters and the occasional farm building off in the distance. Finchy, rapt with his new boat, spirits only slightly dampened and myself, feeling more at ease as each hour passes. We glance at each other grinning, both excited to see what is beyond each coming bend in the river.
In the distance I hear a dog bark, carried on the wind across the water.
The river is serene, and the weather, considerably better than yesterday. A light breeze gives off the faint smell of smoke, wafting over us from an early campfire. It’s Christmas Eve tonight and Murray Bridge beckons. After securing Huck in the marina, we’ll drive the old EK back home to Adelaide and spend Christmas Eve, like we always do, with a heap of mates at our local pub.
Just past Mypolonga, Huck coughed and the Blaxland stalled. Unable to get it started again and with no auxiliary motor to rely on, we were slowly being blown backwards towards the willows. Panic began to rise again, mostly fuelled by my fear of deep water under the boat when stationary. Finchy head down, pulling desperately at the starter cord yelled back to me, “Throw the anchor out”. Our anchor was attached to a long sturdy white rope. I was careful as I threw it overboard that it didn’t get tangled around anything. I watched it unfurl, coiling over the side as Huck floated closer to the willow trees and snags, boughs and branches waiting to impale us. To my dismay, when it reached the end of its length and should have held us still, the knot I had tied, also unfurled. In total disbelief, I watched the rope float away from us. Huck continued to be blown sideways by the breeze until the willow branches were swishing around us under the rear deck and who knows what lurked beneath.
Our hearts pounding, Finchy and I stared at the rope, then at each other, then upstream. Off in the distance a huge houseboat peeked around the last bend, slowly moving towards us. “We have to do something,” I squeaked, my vocal cords betraying me. Ironically, this was the only other vessel on the river we had encountered for the entire day. “I know,” Finchy said. “But what?” We stared at each other again, our minds racing for a quick minute.
“I’ll swim out and get it,” Finchy said.
“What?” I didn’t want him to, but knew he was right. There was no other choice and no time for arguing. Finchy stripped off down to his shorts and jumped over. He swam hard against the downstream current, the rope floating like a forgotten river serpent from the dreamtime draped across the river.
Watching helplessly from the boat, my heart in my throat, I shouted, “Finchy! Hurry!” A terrifying ping pong match, my eyes darted between the looming houseboat and the splashing figure mid river.
The houseboat was getting closer, the current bringing it faster then we’d anticipated.
On board, people were laughing, drinking and enjoying their Christmas Eve happy hour. The driver, singing ‘Flame Trees’ with the others at the top of his lungs, was not at all aware of the rope, or Finchy, or the outcome of the whole shooting match coming to a screaming halt because of a rope wrapped in his propellors.
With minutes to spare, Finchy reached the rope, grabbed it, and like an Olympic athlete at the end of the pool, turned in a flash and was heading towards me. Dragging the anchor behind him, he started his swim back to the boat. The trailing rope was long and heavy, making it difficult for him to make headway. Putting all he knew into practice from being a surf lifesaver at the South Port Surf Life Saving Club at the mouth of the Onkaparinga River in Adelaide many years ago.
“Just in time,” I yelled,
leaning over the side, grabbing the dripping rope from Finchy and coiling it onto the floor. Finchy hung off the back of Huck getting his breath back while I lifted the anchor back on board. The houseboat passed by, oblivious to the danger it had just narrowly avoided. We waved to the holiday makers. They waved back, totally unaware of the drama that had just unfolded. Fred never mentioned ropes in his long spiel about things to watch out for.
Finchy climbed back on board, looking like a drowned rat, sweeping his long hair out of his eyes, “That was bloody close,” he said. I nodded, “Too close.” Sitting in silence together for a few minutes, we watched the houseboat disappear around the next lefthand bend downstream. Thanks to his quick thinking and bravery, we had escaped disaster. “I’m very glad I’m doing this river adventure with my own personal surf life saver,” I told Finchy.
Still stationary, Finchy untied the jerry can and put some more fuel in Huck. Using the poles, and following Fred’s sage advice, we pushed the wooden boat away from the willows so they wouldn’t get tangled in our propellor. After a couple of pulls of the starter cord the Blaxland sighed back to life, beginning its metronomic putt- putt- putt. Underway once more, and about half way to our destination, we held our hands up to shade our eyes from the afternoon sun. Finchy enjoyed the last of its warmth, helping him dry out for a couple of hours after his unplanned swim. Coming up to the island known as Long Island on our left and then the entrance to the Marina, beckoning like a mirage on our right, Finchy, mimicking Fred’s delicate touch on the fuel mix, throttled back. With a sputter that could only be described as dramatic, the damn Blaxland stalled again. Tantalisingly close yet frustratingly so far, we were adrift again. Just another hurdle in this grand, glorious misadventure.
Bending over the Blaxland in the cramped cabin, Finchy repeatedly wrapped the short starter cord around the flywheel. With the speed of a rattle snake striking each time, he pulled the cord again and again. The engine refused to start, the flywheel defiantly rocking to a stop after each pull.
Darkness fell, the evening air cooled and the breeze dropped, a whisper brushing across the mirrored surface.
Once again, as I feared would happen, we drifted into a tangle of trees, branches and roots on the edge of the island across from the Marina entrance.
“I could swim across,” Finchy suggested, but we both knew that was far too dangerous at night and didn’t discuss the option any further. The Long Island Marina was quiet, not a favoured destination for Christmas Eve. Stuck against the island mid river for over an hour, I sighed at our plight, “We’re going to be stranded here all night.” Finchy, trying to sound positive for my sake replied, “Unless someone comes along in a boat with good lights and sees us.” Buckley’s, I thought to myself, not wanting to dampen his spirits anymore. We scanned the still dark river for any sign of help, a flicker of hope, but there was nothing but blackness. We were all alone. “What are we going to do?” I asked, my voice shaking with despair. “I don’t know,” Finchy said. “But we can’t just sit here.”
Suddenly, some lights on a houseboat came on in the marina. We could hear the laughing of children and the joking of a small group of adults starting to settle in and enjoy some Christmas Eve cheer together. Finchy noticed a bloke heading to a nearby tree to relieve himself and realised this was our one shot at being rescued. He started yelling at the top of his lungs, and I soon joined in. We screamed and shouted until our voices were hoarse, but no one came. I saw the Christmas reveller head back through the darkness towards his houseboat and my heart sank, we were destined to spend Christmas Eve wedged in a willow in the middle of the Murray, our only companions the stars and the occasional fish jumping out of the water.
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what my family was doing at that moment. They were probably all gathered together at home. I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me, and I wished I was there with them.
Then the sound of an outboard penetrated the dark expanse of water. The small boat appeared out of the darkness, a flashlight cutting through the night. The flicker of a torchlight from the front of a tinny as it made its way through the mouth of the marina out into the main channel of the river. The torch light flashed across us, then the front of Huck and then came back to rest on our two sorry souls. Two blokes, interrupted from their families and festivities came through the dark in their small boat to search us out and rescue us. “Are you okay?” one of the men asked.
“We’re fine,” Finchy said. “The old engine won’t start.”
The men tied a towline to our boat and started their outboard. Within minutes, we were free of the willow trees and being towed “red faced” behind them in the dark. Our ordeal was over. We were towed unceremoniously into the safety of the Marina and Huck’s own little pier.
We thanked them profusely. They waved us goodbye as they headed back to continue their Christmas Eve.
Wind whispering through the reeds in the dark, a soft, welcoming rustle as we tied Huck firmly to the pier. Our 1961 EK Holden had sat there silently for two days, ready to take us back to civilisation in Adelaide and to our traditional raucous Christmas Eve with mates at the Belair Hotel.
As we travelled cautiously for an hour back to Adelaide, the problem of the overheating old Holden on this hot, Summer night, paled in comparison to the what we had endured over the past two days. On the drive we decided to keep the last 48 hours to ourselves for now. Finchy said, “As far as our friends at the pub need to know, we’re late because the trip in our new boat took a little longer than we thought.” He added, “I’ll never forget our first 48 hours on ‘Huck’.”
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