Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble of their sailing adventures in the Southern Hemisphere
“Shall we bother going to the East Falls?” Alex asked me.
“I’m a bit worried about crocodiles, not to mention jellyfish,” I replied.
I looked overboard and saw tens of large pale pink jellyfish. We had spotted a crocodile the day before on the banks of the King George River. I felt safe from the height of the boat, but would we be safe in the tender? I was tempted to decline and head back to the ocean. After all, the previous day we had taken the boat all the way along the river to see the Twin Falls. It had been in the late afternoon and the sun was punishing. I had walked around the boat trying to seek out shade. The heat alone had exhausted me. After having seen the Twin Falls perhaps we didn’t need to see the East Falls, but my curiosity prevailed.
“Let’s do it! We’ve come this far,” I relented.
We donned our lifejackets. Alex lowered the tender into the water. He held it with a rope while I gingerly hopped into the centre. Then he stepped in behind me and started the outboard motor. It was still early morning and the sun was low. Our bodyclocks were not adjusted to the standard Western Australian time but were rather in synchrony with the sunrise and sunset. The gorge walls provided shade, and we motored to the waterfall in an exquisite coolness. We were alone at the waterfall apart from a small fishing boat. Mist from the waterfall enveloped our bodies and my toes started tingling. It was that hallowed feeling that reminded me of Salisbury Cathedral, when you enter into a higher plane and dissociate yourself from both the outside world and daily life. The hardships we had endured to get here, the seemingly endless crossing of Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, the fierce sunshine, and the stress of having to retrieve furling and fishing lines that had become entangled in the propeller, were worth it.
“Let’s stay here, Alex!”
“Sadly, we have to head back to the sea while the tides are still in our favour,” he explained.
We motored back to the boat and climbed back in. He raised the tender and we set off down the river towards the ocean. Tens of tenders loaded with tourists headed towards us. They must have come from a cruise ship. Because we had anchored at a mid-point at the East Arm anchorage in the river, and had risen early, we had had the waterfall to ourselves. We kept the rudder half-raised to manage the shallow waters of the river enclosed by gorge walls and once at sea, witnessed a large and a small cruise ship. This confirmed that we had chosen the right destination.
Next, we were to sail to several locations that were the site of ancient rock art. We obtained permission and paid the requisite fee to the traditional owners, the Wunambal Gaambera people, and spent a day sailing west to each of the locations. All the while I was terrified of bumping into a crocodile. The first of the locations was Jar Island. We anchored and took the tender to the beach.
“Is that a rock or a croc?” I asked Alex.
The dark object protruding from the water looked to me like a crocodile.
“They’re just rocks,” Alex reassured me.
Then as the water splashed over them, he moved closer to observe them more closely and confirmed that they were indeed rocks.
I carried the boat hook with me to defend myself, as we carefully walked the path and clambered over rocks to reach the ancient art. This was to be repeated at the next two locations. We would anchor at a safe depth, calculating the change in tides during the time we were ashore, and then take the tender to the island, monitor the shore for crocs, and locate the rock art.
The second site of rock art was Swift Bay. We anchored a long way from the shore and hopped in the tender. Alex motored towards where the co-ordinates had indicated the art.
“The map is wrong! The inlet on the map doesn’t exist. Let’s go to the other side of the bay. Maybe it’s over there.”
We turned towards the other side of the bay. The tender skipped over the rough waters, and I was drenched in sea-water. I could taste the salt entering my mouth. Finally, we arrived at the beach. I kept my shoes on as I clambered out of the tender for fear of stepping on a jelly fish barefoot. We hauled the tender to a higher place on the shore and tethered it to a rock. Then Alex checked the co-ordinates on his phone map.
“It’s over there, about two kilometres away!’
We walked along the beach, over rocks and rock pools. There was no sign of human habitation on the shore, nor was there any rubbish. I kept scouring the shore for crocs, holding my trusty boat hook. Alex consulted his map again.
“It’s over that rocky hill! The tide has receded and the inlet on the map has appeared. It’s better to go back to the tender and head to the newly revealed inlet.”
“I’m too tired!” I whinged. “Can’t you go and get the tender and pick me up here?”
“Yes. It’ll take me about half an hour.”
Then I thought it might be scary to wait by myself. How would I defend myself against a crocodile?
“I’ll come with you. We should stay together.”
He grabbed my hand, and we hurried back to the tender. Light was falling. Just as well I had got drenched in the previous tender ride because my damp clothes were keeping me cool. We untethered the tender from the rock and dragged it into the water. I hopped in first and Alex pulled it to a suitable depth. Then he boarded and we motored to the inlet.
Once at the inlet we disembarked with our shoes and socks on, as usual, and dragged the tender across the sand to a rock.
“Not far now,” Alex reassured me, following the map.
After walking through bushes and climbing rocks we deduced that there must be a better way to get to the ancient art. We retraced our steps and found a well-trodden path. We just had time to view the rock art in the sunset. We couldn’t afford to linger though. We needed to return to the boat before nightfall. I kept nagging Alex to take photos of the sunset, but he urged me to hurry. What if it were too dark to take the tender back to the boat and we were stuck here with little food and water, and the fear of crocodiles?
By now the tide had turned, and the tender, which we had beached earlier, was floating. We untethered it, pulled it into the sea and I hopped in. Alex pulled it further and hopped in behind me. The tide was strong and it turned the tender around to head back to the shore. Alex pointed it back out to sea, turned on the engine, and headed towards the boat. The tender bounced along the water, and I was again splashed with sea-spray. The boat was a small object in the distance. Would we make it? As darkness progressed, we could just make out the anchor light at the top of the mast. The boat grew larger and larger. Alex turned off the motor, and I grabbed the rail at the stern. I pulled myself up and received the dry bag from Alex. After securing the tender Alex boarded, fixed some snacks, and we sat at the stern, savouring the relief from the sun, the solitude, and the purple and orange lights flickering on the water in the sunset.
The third location was Wary Bay on Bigge Island. By now I had had enough of the heightened tension that came from being vigilant for crocodiles. Maybe it was just me. I decided to do a search for the dangers of crocodiles in the Kimberleys, and my fears were confirmed.
“Maybe we should just enjoy Wary Bay on board?” I suggested.
“Don’t you want to see the rock art?” he countered.
‘Will you protect me from the crocodiles?”
“Of course.”
First, we had to anchor. Our chosen anchorage turned out to be too shallow. Alex raised the anchor and headed for deeper water. We repeated the process of heading ashore in the tender. This time it was a short ride, as was the walk to the caves. We congratulated ourselves on the ease of achieving our aim. We managed to return to the boat way before sunset. As the afternoon and evening progressed, we noticed a coral reef between the beach and us emerge from the water. The tide receded, and the reef grew more and more imposing. If we hadn’t anchored at a greater depth, our boat would have become grounded on the reef. If we had lingered in the caves, the reef would have blocked our route back to the boat in the tender. Instead, we would have been stranded on shore until the next high tide, scanning the water for crocs, or looking at rocks.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
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