Swimming with Crocodiles by Will Chaffey

Author:Will Chaffey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

The first sign of man appeared out of the dry, rocky country almost miraculously, a stripe in the orange soil and a windsock sagging on a post: the station’s airfield. I looked down at the land below as we descended. The Drysdale River snaked through miniature paperbark trees across a wide sandy plain. The station buildings, the bunkhouse, the water tower with a splash of magenta bougain–villea creeping up a leak in its side, the corrugated tin garage, and the main house were surrounded by a vast orange plain dotted with eucalyptus trees.

A single vehicle waited in the tall grass beside the runway some distance from the station. Small figures stood beside it: John and Anne Koeyers, the owners of the station, and their two children. They had heard the sound of the approaching aircraft for some time, droning somewhere in the quiet sky.

Like all station owners in outback Australia, John and Anne eagerly awaited this twice-monthly flight, weather permitting, for goods and mail from civilization. Earlier in the day they had checked to make sure the airstrip was safe for aircraft by driving their four-wheel drive up the length of the runway at forty miles per hour. This was standard procedure at outback airstrips – if they did not skid off the runway, it was dry enough to land on.

The pilot made a pre-landing sweep, studying the ground as it passed under the wings. Our shadow dodged and flickered over the treetops and rust-colored earth. As we lost altitude, I noticed all the little things, the wheel ruts in the soil, the faces of the children as we hurtled past fifteen feet above the ground, the trees at the end of the runway.

The plane bounced twice in the soil. We slowed and taxied over to the truck. The pilot killed the motor and we stepped out into the furnace of twelve degrees south latitude.

“You blokes have got to be crazy,” he repeated.

“How you going, Richard?”

“Not bad, and you, John?” the pilot said.

“Been pretty quiet.”

We said hello to John and Anne and their six-year-old son, Paul. Anne held a baby girl in her arms.

We helped them stash boxes of perishable foods and mail into the back of the truck. Jeff asked about the wet.

“Hasn’t really started yet. This week’s as wet as it’s been,” John said.

The rains had cut off all access by road, but the torrential rains of the wet season had yet to come.

We said goodbye to Richard as he got behind the controls. He brought the small plane up to speed and bounced down the runway into a lonely sky. Jeff and I watched the plane disappear with different thoughts.

John and Anne got into their truck and with a few words of warning about bulls and freshwater crocodiles headed off on a road back to the station with their children. The sound of the truck engine grew fainter until Jeff and I were surrounded by quiet. The sky was empty. I looked at Jeff. Now where were we?

“Welcome to nowhere,” he said.

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