Calypso's Mast

Chapter 18 - Croc Hunters

Schofield and Pringle came out onto the beach about 40 kilometres north of Portland Roads, a little hidden, coastal community about 45 minutes of off-road driving, north of Lockhart River. The bush tracks had run out and now it was all beach driving.

Schofield was at the wheel and he pulled up at the edge of the beach.

"We'd better let the tyres down," he said and jumped out of the cab of the tray-back Cruiser utility.

"I'll do this side," said Pringle as he climbed stiffly out on the kerbside. "What pressure do you want to make it?"

"12 psi should do it. This sand looks quite soft. We'll make the boat trailer the same pressure."

While Schofield used the pressure gauge from the glove compartment, Pringle scouted around and found a small stick which he used to depress the valve centres and let the bulk of the air out. Then Schofield followed up with the gauge and did the final pressure trim.

After making sure the front hubs were locked in, they recommenced driving north along the beach in high range 4wd. Pringle had a Garmin Nuvi GPS plugged into the cigarette lighter socket in the dash and was watching the coordinates and comparing it to a nautical chart on his lap.

"What do we do when the beach runs out?" asked Pringle.

"I suppose we go inland if we can, otherwise, it's into the boat."

"That was a stroke of good fortune having those Border Protection people find that crocodile up here."

"They've got a lot more money than our department. They can afford planes and helicopters and stuff."

"Check out all of the rubbish on the beach."

Schofield had to do a lot of weaving to avoid the piles of plastic bottles, fishing net pieces, timber and other rubbish that had washed up on the beach.

"The cyclone must have blown it all ashore," said Pringle.

At that moment there was a huge roar and a twin engined plane passed about five metres above them, travelling at high speed and flying in the same direction as they were driving.

Schoefield's expletive was drowned by the noise of the engines and he slammed on the brakes and stopped.

"What the hell is that bloke doing?"

The plane waggled its wings slightly, then went into a near vertical climb further down the beach, gaining a few thousand feet in a few seconds and then it levelling out before turning east.

Pringle grinned. "I bet that's the bloke that came and saw us last night - the bloke from Border Patrol or Protection or whatever they are called. He said he had a plane."

"Yes, well, the idiot scared the hell out me. It was so loud and so sudden, I didn't know what that was." He squinted, following the plane out to sea. "Is that a ship out there?"

Pringle looked and could just make out the outline of a distant vessel, out on the horizonin the haze. 

"Just when you think you are as far away from civilisation as possible, the place turns into Grand Central Station," he said. "We're going to need traffic lights soon."

"It's nearly time for us to quit this and get a new job somewhere where it is quieter," said Schofield as he put the four wheel drive into gear and moved off along the beach.

Pringle was looking hard at the ship and he reached down to take out the binoculars. Then he leaned forward, put them to his eyes and looked across Schofield, out of the driver's side window. "That's a patrol boat. They must be working together on something."

"I wondered what that bloke was up to."

"That woman he had with him – she didn't sound like a local. She sounded foreign."

"Yes, I don't know what she was, but she could dance pretty good. So could he."

"They didn't need much, did they? Just put on the CD and start dancing. Whatever floats your boat, I guess."

"Yes, I don't like dancing. My missus doesn't either, which is fortunate." Pringle put the binoculars back in their case.

"I just can't dance so I don't bother," said Schofield. "I don't know if my missus can dance. We never tried."

"You reckon they were married – that fellow, Winston and that chick?"

"Don't know. He didn't say."

"If they're not, they probably will be if they keep that up."

Pringle half smiled at his comment and settled back in his seat and half shut his eyes.

They continued working their way along the beach, which stretched away in a long sweep, north to the horizon, towing the boat and dodging tree trunks, jetsam, flotsam and rubbish. After about four hours of driving, they came to a headland.

Schofield looked out and up at the mass of trees, jumbled rocks and cliffs through the windscreen. 

"I reckon we will have to use the boat," he said. "There's no chance of getting over this. It's too steep to drag the trailer over it."

"I agree."

"Let's make a camp here and head north in the boat. How much further is it on the map?" Schofield swung the wheel and headed toward the treeline.

Pringle pulled out the map and plotted their position from the GPS coordinates. "Only 20 kilometres."

"Want to try this afternoon or should we go tomorrow?"

"I reckon we try this afternoon, or that croc will get too far ahead of us and we won't have enough fuel to run him down," said Pringle.

"Good idea."

They pitched camp and two hours later were in the dinghy on the northern side of the headland and headed out into the open sea. Schofield was driving. Pringle, who was sitting near the front of the boat, had his phone out with a GPS app running and was keeping track of their position.

Schofield had to shout to be heard above the noise of the outboard motor.

"You know this is not going to be easy."

Pringle nodded affirmatively and scanned the horizon with one hand shading his eyes.

"Where did that patrol boat go?"

Schofield looked. It was nowhere to be seen. He waved an arm dismissively.

"It will be out the somewhere."

They were running with a small southeasterly swell on their stern, starboard quarter, as they travelled north. The afternoon breeze was picking up and the sun was well on its way toward the western horizon.

Schofield licked the salt spray from his lips and sucked in a lungful of sweet, oxygen rich, humid ocean air. This was living! This was the way to earn a  dollar. He wondered how long it would be before someone found out how much they were enjoying all of this and took it away - because that seemed to be the way of the world. He looked at Pringle, sitting in the bow of the boat looking at the ocean  and keeping a watch out for danger and their quarry. He loved this life as well. It was obvious.

A seagull swooped down and skimmed the wave tops beside them. It eyed them curiously for a few moments before swinging around and heading up wind where it could glide on the breeze and maintain height with little effort. 

The noise of the outboard motor made speech difficult so they were happy to sit in silence and savour the moment. They made good time and within the hour, they were close to where the croc had been spotted.