1988 Page 12

  We received some news. It was Tuesday. I had the midday shift. The Darwin operator came on air, but instead of the usual routine she first relayed a message from the Met. Bureau to all coastal weather stations. It was an announcement that a tropical low in the Arafura Sea had developed into a tropical cyclone. It was named Matthew. It was 400 ks north of Cape Wessel, and heading southwest at 10 ks an hour. A high wind warning was current for the coast of Arnhem Land and the Cobourg Peninsula. I considered this. There were no high winds being recorded on our wind meter, and only a few patches of rain. I had no idea where Cape Wessel was.

  After I’d reported our weather I went over to Vince’s house and informed him of the situation. We consulted the map. Cape Wessel was five hundred ks east of us. That put us roughly in the cyclone’s path. We went back out to the weather shack and studied the barograph. The air pressure was currently around 1004 mb, and on a slight downward bent. Maximum wind gust for the day so far, 12 kph.

  Vince decided that for the time being nothing need be done. If it seemed that Matthew was going to come close, he’d see about getting the place ready. We’d wait on the weather reports.

  ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘I’d better radio Russel and Eve and the others over at Araru. They’re a bit closer to it than we are. They might wanna know.’

  We watched the barometer overnight. It rose and fell in the usual daily cycle, but the overall trend was slowly downwards. The radio reported that Matthew was maintaining speed and direction. I grew excited. I’d never been caught in a cyclone before. I thought about things I’d heard. Howling winds, torrential rains. The deceptive stillness of the eye, passing over. Would we still be expected to make weather reports in the middle of a cyclone? In winds 200, 250 ks an hour? I pictured myself battling across to the weather shack at 3 a.m.—the sky convulsing, rain stinging in my eyes—to scream a last report down the airwaves to Darwin.

  And by late next day things were looking encouraging. The sky was overcast and a steady, light rain was falling, draping the ocean with grey. Maximum gust was up to around 30 kph. In the evening Vince dropped over to discuss the situation. He’d spent the day cleaning up around the compound. Stacking away petrol drums, bits of junk, anything that might become airborne debris should the cyclone hit.

  ‘If it does,’ he said, ‘You guys will have to move over to my house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You think this house is safe?’

  ‘It’s made of stone.’

  ‘The walls are, but I wouldn’t trust the roof, or what’s left of the verandahs, if a real wind got up. I’d take over the weather too.’

  ‘You mean do our observations?’

  He nodded seriously. ‘This is a Conservation Commission station, and I’m in charge of it. You guys are my responsibility. I don’t want the two of you blundering around in a cyclone.’

  I thought about that. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’d rig up a safety line from my house to the weather shack. I’d be alright.’

  ‘A line. You’re kidding.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea what those winds can do, do you?’

  ‘You’ve been in a cyclone?’

  ‘I was in Darwin for Tracy.’

  ‘Shit.’

  He nodded. ‘Shit indeed.’

  ‘So what was it like?’

  He scratched his ear. ‘Actually ... I spent the night in a pub.’

  We looked at him.

  He shrugged. ‘I was just having a few drinks there, you know, for Christmas Eve. The police dropped in and said it looked like the thing’d hit that night, told everyone to stay put for the time being. Who was gonna argue? The owner kept the bar open, so we sat there all night. It was a solid place, big thick walls and a good reinforced roof, so we hardly knew what was going on outside. The power went, and some of the windows got smashed, and there was lots of noise, but nothing you wouldn’t expect. No one went outside. It was too dark to see anything anyway. It wasn’t until daylight that we realised what had happened. We staggered out half-pissed, and the town wasn’t there anymore.’

  I thought about the pictures in the papers and on TV, the wreckage, the deaths and injuries, the mass evacuations . . .

  ‘Did you stay?’ I asked, ‘Afterwards?’

  He nodded. ‘Joined one of the clean-up crews. Even found one of the bodies.’ He paused. ‘That was a few days later though.’

  That night the Bureau had a special message for Cape Don. Due to the proximity of the cyclone, we were to go on emergency footing. Instead of the three-hourly reports we were now to do an observation every hour, midnight included. We did as they asked. It was more money for one thing, and we weren’t doing anything else. It was no time for painting or writing.

  The rain continued most of the night and the barometer kept edging downwards. At 3 a.m. it was 996. Maximum gust by the next morning was 50 kph. According to the bulletins, Matthew was just under 200 ks to the north-east.

  Next day, not long after the midday report, Vince arrived at our front steps. He was driving the Toyota. ‘I’ve just been on the radio again to Araru,’ he said, ‘Russel and Eve are on their way back by boat. I’m off to meet them. Wanna come?’

  We climbed in. The rain, for the time being, was holding off. The clouds were still dense though, and low, streaming across the sky. We rattled out of the compound and down into the bush. It was dim down there, the wind tossing the trees, smacking large drops of moisture down onto the windscreen. Water pooled on the tracks, gleamed in freshly flooded swamps.

  We didn’t take the turn to the bay. Vince explained that normally Russel and Eve would dock there, but not today. They were wary about the present weather, so they were making the trip as short as possible. There was another small inlet on the far side of the airstrip. It would save them maybe twenty minutes at sea if we met them there.

  We reached the strip and drove directly across it. There was another small track, barely more than two wheel ruts, winding through the trees. Vince paused and slipped the Toyota into four-wheel drive. We bumped and slewed along. The undergrowth was thick, and the ground alternated between loose sand and red mud.

  I said, ‘Why didn’t they stay at Araru, if the weather’s that bad?’

  ‘Russel thought he should be here, just in case. It’s his job, after all. They’ll make it across. They’re an experienced lot with boats, the Gurig. They’re mainly a sea people y’know. They might hunt inland, but they always live near the coast.’

  ‘What sort of boat do they have?’

  ‘Just a dinghy, same as mine.’

  We made slow progress through the bush for another fifteen minutes or so. Then we emerged onto a tiny beach. It ran down into mangroves on either side. It was situated at the mouth of what appeared to be a rapidly-flowing channel, maybe fifty-yards across. Beyond it was the wide grey ocean, capped with white. The wind was much stronger here, wilder, whistling in my ears. Low waves were being driven deep into the mangroves. The black branches surged up and down, awash with foam.

  ‘This is as far east as you can go,’ Vince half-yelled, head turned away from the wind, ‘This creek flows from the swamp that cuts us off from the rest of the Peninsula.’

  ‘How long does it take to get here from Araru?’ I shouted back.

  ‘About an hour. In good weather.’

  We all stood on the beach, hands in pockets, leaning into the wind. We stared out to sea. The land curved out to a point, then there was nothing. Only mist and shadow. I could almost sense the cyclone out there now, a greater darkness beyond the horizon. From time to time a stronger gust would flick up spray from the sea, stinging our eyes and forcing us back on our heels.

  At length, a black dot appeared. It was a small boat, hugging the coastline. As it closed in I could see it was an aluminium dinghy with an outboard motor. It was making heavy going in the swell, chopping awkwardly from crest to crest. Five people were in it, all Aboriginal. Standing upright, riding the waves.

 
; Vince peered at the boat, nodded. ‘I thought he might be with them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Allan Price. You two wait here. If he wants to meet you, I’ll call you down.’

  Wayne and I waited at the top of the beach. Vince went down to the water’s edge. His thin hair was streaming in the wind, and his thongs sank in the sand. The boat swung into the smoother waters of the channel. There were four men and one woman. They stared up at Wayne and I, then at Vince as the boat neared the shore. Two of them jumped out and pulled the boat in. The other two men and the woman then stepped out and walked over to Vince.

  I assumed the woman was Eve. She looked quite young, with a thin, frowning face. She hung back, carrying a cardboard box of gear. The two men were older. One seemed about thirty, tall, with swept-back, greyish hair. He was wearing a ranger shirt. Russel, then. He nodded to Vince, waited. The other man was smaller, and much older. No shirt. There was white hair on his chest, a straggly beard of it on his face. His expression was severe, stern. Russel’s father, Allan Price. He shook Vince’s hand, and the two of them turned to the ocean, conferring.

  The rest of us waited. I felt conspicuous, standing there on the sand. The two men at the boat kept glancing up at Wayne and I. The looks weren’t friendly. I remembered we were two city boys, white, with only a few weeks in the place, and no one had wanted us there anyway. We waited. The skies blew. The mangroves writhed. Whatever Vince and the old man were saying, no one else there could hear it above the wind and the sea.

  Finally they were finished. They shook hands again. The old man gave one long, dark look up to Wayne and I. Then he spoke a word to Russel, and walked back to the boat. The other two pushed off, jumped on board. In moments they were motoring out of the channel again, all three standing straight, riding the swell with ease. Vince and the other two came up the beach.

  ‘Gordon and Wayne,’ Vince yelled, ‘This is Russel and Eve.’

  They nodded at us, saying nothing. We nodded back. We all stood there. Eve shifted her box, stared away. A sheet of rain was coming in off the ocean, wind-driven. The boat had already vanished.

  Vince gave up trying to light a cigarette. He looked at Russel. ‘Rough crossing?’

  ‘Not so bad.’

  Vince indicated the darkness in the northern sky. ‘Your old man call up this cyclone?’

  Russel followed his glance out to sea, gave a short smile. ‘Not this one.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Dusk came early. The air was heavy with cloud and rain. In the weather shack the barometer was down to 986 and dropping fast. Vince and Russel had spent the afternoon on final preparations, now they made for their houses, battened them down. We entered the long night of the cyclone.

  Wayne and I sat in our house. The wind was regularly gusting over seventy now, blasting the rain in under our verandah. A sheet of iron somewhere up on the roof was giving out ominous screeches. The screen doors around the house banged open and shut. After dark the reception from Darwin started to go. The last report we heard was at nine p.m. Matthew was 80 ks north-east and holding steady on course. Winds at the centre were reported to be between 160 and 200 kph.

  We kept up the hourly observations, even though it was impossible to radio them in. It seemed unlikely that we’d be sleeping much anyway. Vince dropped in. If the winds got up over 100 kph at any stage, he wanted us over in his house. We agreed, but reluctantly. We didn’t like the idea of placing ourselves under Vince’s control. It felt good out there on our own back verandah, staring into the wind and darkness. We wanted to go it alone. We were out of beer, but we had a cask of wine, and were drinking steadily.

  In the meantime there was a degree of boredom in the waiting. The back verandah was too wet for lengthy periods of sitting, so we spent most of the time in the long, empty dining room. The ceiling fans were still on. Away from the wind and rain, it was as warm as ever. Wayne was sketching on a pad, I was reading. We kept the stereo down low. It seemed important to listen to the sounds from outside. Or for the long groan of the roof giving way.

  ‘What about Scrabble,’ I asked.

  Wayne threw down the pad. ‘Okay.’

  I went through the luggage and found the Scrabble set. It was old, the box squashed flat. The board was there though, and there seemed to be plenty of letters. We set it up on the table.

  ‘Ever played this?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Have you?’

  ‘Only a couple of times, years ago.’

  ‘Are there rules?’

  We found them on the back of the lid, read through them. There were details I’d forgotten. No capitalised words, and a fifty-point bonus for using all seven letters at once. There were rules, too, about consulting the dictionary. I went to my room and got the only dictionary I’d brought with me. It was a relic from my school days. An Oxford Concise. For an alleged writer, I wasn’t planning to use much of a vocabulary.

  We played a game. The house shook and rattled. Rain came and went in loud rushes. Wayne had to leave midway through for the 11 p.m. observation. There was no point in bothering with the umbrella, so he came back wet, towelled off. He reported eight-eighths cloud cover, and a barometer reading of 980. Precipitation was nineteen mls in the hour and the maximum wind gust an even eighty. He also won the Scrabble. Our scores were both around the one-sixty, one-seventy mark. Neither of us had scored any seven-letter words. I had a feeling it was possible to play considerably better.

  We started another game.

  At 1.50 a.m., it was my turn for the observation. I’d made a comeback in the Scrabble stakes and was up two games to one. Highest score two-forty, one seven-letter word. Wayne had gone back to his drawing. I ventured out into the night, torch in hand.

  It was wild and lonely out there. All the streetlights were on, and the three houses were brightly lit, but everything was blurred with wind and rain. The trees visible on the fringes of the compound were dim, frenzied shapes. Beyond them was total void—no stars or moon, only a great, whistling darkness.

  I turned my face away from the rain, made it to the shack. From the doorway I looked back at the houses. I assumed that Vince, and Russel and Eve, were all still awake, but there was no sign of any of them. Both houses were fitted with modern storm-shutters on the verandahs, and these were down. I turned back inside.

  It was dry and still in the little room. The redbacks sat fatly in their webs, undisturbed. The radio was a mass of static. The first thing I did was check the wind meter. Maximum gust, 91 kph. What would 180 be like? 220? Then it was to the barometer. I peered at it, blinking drops of water out of my eyes. 976. Four points in three hours. That was about as fast as a barometer could drop. That was plummeting.

  I got through the rest of the weather, then set off for the house. Halfway across the wind rose, roared, blasted me sideways. Somewhere ahead there was a sharp bang and the world went abruptly black. The houses, the streetlights, everything disappeared. For a moment the night and the cyclone had me. I reeled, stuck my arms out, hit the ground. I lay there, staring up, wide-eyed, lost in noise. The lighthouse beam—still turning, the only light remaining—was veering across the sky. The fucking thing was falling.

  The gust eased. The lighthouse wasn’t falling. It was some sort of illusion in the wind and darkness. I lay there for a moment, feeling solid earth. Then I got to my hands and knees. I switched on the torch and cast the light around, illuminating wet grass and driving rain. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was soaked, muddy. Maybe this was it, the beginning of the end. A light appeared. It was Vince, with another torch. I stood up carefully, waited for him.

  ‘That was a strong one,’ he shouted.

  ‘What happened to the lights?’

  ‘Probably the generator.’

  We went over to the generator shed. Its door was loose, slamming in the wind. We went in. The generators were silent, but there was no sign of any damage. Russel appeared. He and Vince peered around the shed, but found no reason for the breakdo
wn.

  ‘It was the dodgy one,’ Vince said finally, ‘Maybe it just packed it in?’

  I told him about the bang I’d heard. We decided it may have been nothing more than the door giving way. Perhaps there’d been some obscure vacuum effect that made the engine stall. There was nothing for it but to fuel-up the third generator and see if it started. It did. The lights came back on. We went out and examined the night.

  Wind and rain and tumult. Wayne came out of our house. He reported that the last gust had taken several sheets of roofing from the back verandah. He sounded shaken, yelling over the wind. I thought about what it might’ve been like, in a suddenly dark house, hearing metal rip away. We all went back to the wind meter. Maximum gust, 130 kph.

  ‘That’s it,’ Vince said, ‘You’re coming over to my place.’

  We didn’t argue.

  For the next four hours we sat in Vince’s living room. There were none of the creaks and groans of our own house, and the storm outside sounded more remote. Vince also had some beer left, so we drank it. He remained at his desk, on his stool, sipping port and listening. I was tired now. The cyclone showed no signs of either intensifying or easing. Vince let Wayne and I continue the observations, but they gave no certain indications. The barometer was stable, the big gusts hovering around 100, 110.

  By 6 a.m., though, they’d fallen back into the 80s. There was a grey light outside. Everything in the compound still seemed to be in its place, even the roof of our house. The rain remained heavy, driving across the clearing. Streams of water cascaded down the track into the bush. By 8 a.m. the winds had eased dramatically. Maximum gust in the hour was only in the 60s. At 9 a.m we could hear Darwin again. The announcement was that Matthew was now eighty kilometres west, north-west of Cape Don, and heading directly west at fifteen ks an hour. It had curved in, toyed with us, now it was swinging away.