Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 5

The twenty five horsepower Yamaha sounded off like a cat trapped in a dumpster full of water. Whoring away it compelled the dingy forward through the translucent waters and fortress of mangroves. The dingy or tinny for the uninformed is a small boat hull about 14 feet long, folded from Aluminium - it is supposedly as good as indestructible. That is, indestructible in the hands and hearts of timid owners. This craft however, belongs to the oyster farm, an entity of sort’s, not a loving, caring, meticulous owner as above. Different rules will apply.

‘..And like all “company” vehicles certain protocol, procedure, call it what you like, is to be followed’, Dick, the boss explains as he handles the tiller. For this sort of business he had demanded a full demonstration would be required.

Work must have been taking a back seat today, I thought as he suddenly interrupted the monotonous schedule.
‘Have you driven a dingy before’, he inquired on a slow hot afternoon.
‘No’ I concluded, well, apart from that intrepid flog down the river last week when he was off on R&R. That I’ll keep to myself though, I had to choke the bastard every time I wanted it to stop, couldn’t even find the kill switch.
‘Well grab some beers from the fridge then’, he instructed with his authoritative coarseness and started on about the motor. ‘It’s a real temperamental prick’, he informs me. ‘It’ll cut out just as you come ‘round a tight bend. Cause all kinds of grief - you got those beers yet then?’

Before long he was well showing me all right, as we careered off into the thick mangrove brush, the dingy tipping heavily as the hull connected sidewards with the oyster encrusted banks - wiping off twenty five horsepower of inertia in one smashing instance. I exploded into a prolific rage of curses. Fearing for my life, I stare into him wondering what type of cut snake he was. He laughed.
‘You see what I mean’, he finally starts as he studies my pale disfigurement which is now scrolled across the bow. I nod agreeing and pull a branch from my torn shirt.

You see the rivers, or more appropriately drains, in which we are devouring with great vigour, are rather a branch of small streams that weave haphazardly through the endless salt plains of the north. Most of which are only accessible during high tides, not much larger than a dingy in width they are lined by lush mangrove confines.
‘The aim’, Dick explains, is to drive as fast through it as you can with out achieving the inevitable, which is losing control! As I would learn, this little activity of his was a favourite for passing away some of the tiresome desert tedium. I was sceptical!

‘We got a shuck’r around here’, he instructs and I go-to nervously searching for the small metal blade amongst the leaves which are now scattered across the wooden floor. ‘And pass us a beer’.
He then leans over the gunnels and tears a branch from the shallows.
‘Goes with the beer’, I am informed as I look across in wonderment. The branch he’s holding, I now see is covered with good sized oysters. I find the blade jammed against the ribs and Dick snatches it from me. Skilfully he prises the pointy end of the shellfish. It’s a short fight, brute against small oyster. Once open he gives me a good lookin inside, offering it up for first try. Maybe he’d figured I hadn’t eaten oysters before. I think he rather enjoyed scaring the shit out of this city boy, no doubt he was doing a fine job of it but in this case he was a week late.

The branchial chambers are swollen. I think about telling him this, but it’s too late to start pretending, I was still shaking from the collision… and anyway I only know this as Colby had instructed me earlier that week. ‘It’s like the ball sac’, he had explained, ‘they are best eaten when they are ripe like this, gives it that creamy flavour’.
Reaching across the deck I took up Dick’s offer.

I had to agree, they tasted delicious.

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