Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 6

A few weeks have passed since that ordeal and the river. Of course, the indestructible aluminium hull has since been at the welders’ joint having a hole patched. Suppose it wasn’t all that indestructible after all. The leak however, appeared after a raging stomp out at the oyster farm. The Boss, well intoxicated, went on another demonstration with a few folks from town.

It is said, when in Carnarvon, one must be stupid drunk, period. ‘Once you have learnt this secret’, I imagine the boss preaching one morning as he tosses me a toasted cheese sandwich, ‘any shithole will seem like paradise’.

There was this time when, ‘Hold on’ I shout over The Vandals and that, what song was it again, that’s right, Long Hair Queer. So Shane braces himself across the backseat like a well armed star fish, the .22 magnum slung firmly across his chest. Zac however can see the corner, holding the shot gun through the window, he leans into the passenger door ready for what is about to happen.

The speedo’ needle finds the 100kmh mark, my knuckles go white and I tear at the handbrake like a tiger tears a throat. The car swings wildly across the gravel track, one instance; I shift down, release the brake and throttle the hell out of the pissy carburettor. The car keeps sliding as Zac lets off a round; the power pole on the far corner splinters as hundreds of pellets blister beneath the timbers skin. The front wheels spin through the dust, it takes hold and we’re through the corner. In the rear view I can see a magnificent dust cloud covering the intersection, we’re safe, and I didn’t even spill the beer.

(Authors note: Destroyed that car some months later in a late night sideways flight from the authorities. We didn’t spill any beer that time either, we had already drunk it).

Through the long lazy heat we drink beer, beer and more beer. When we party we drink vodka mixed with beer and roast oysters over an open fire. When we get drunk, we ‘wrangle’ cods with thick ropes, we shoot guns at bricks and drive fast and eat oysters. The desert sun shines in our eyes, our lips crack and we dance around the yard for the joy of the earth, until it’s late, then we fall in the grass and sleep.

And this other time, Zac was nestled against the bow; in his hand he clutches a 1.0m spear gun and in the other rests a Corona straight from the ice box. He said he was hungry, we should shoot a turtle and you know the next thing, that small outboard is labouring away, flat out, hell screamin’. The hull dancing across the chine, throwing to and fro with the rippling tide we pass through the labyrinth of lurking mangroves. The water’s always clear after the change of tide, we’re lucky we consulted the chart; it’s perfect turtle hunting conditions. So pissing down this river we get talking about the logistics, ‘how do you catch a turtle’, you know, ’you jump on it’, ‘Fuck that, I’m just going to shoot it’.

The fish was sweet the way fresh fish tastes and we ate it while a fat mud crab boils in the brine. Turned out Zac was full of shit, you can’t shoot a turtle from a boat unless you hit the head. After the first ten shots our skin grew tight, we threw in the towel so to speak and went out into the bay where the rusted wreck lay. Zac shot some fish and I climbed across the rusting remains, jumping into the cool salty sea when I was too hot and a fresh beer was in order.

So Mum that’s all for now, as you can see, I’m doing okay and keeping away from those ‘filthy whores’ you warned me about. You know, I really have been thinking about those lovely Christian girls you keep harping on about, if you don’t mind, could you please send one up with the next package, my balls are killing me.