“Let’s go for a camel ride when we are in Broome!” Alex suggested.
The voyage from Darwin to Broome along the remote Kimberley Coast had felt interminable. Twenty-one days with no other sailing boats in sight until we neared Broome. Even shore visits had been tense, with the prospect of meeting a crocodile or stepping on toxic jellyfish in the shallows. Unlike Alex, I was not a natural sailor, although I assisted where I could. I was adept at operating the winch when he was adjusting the sails, throwing out the fenders before arrival at a dock, and hooking the mooring with the boat hook. However, I was really there because I liked his company, and this overruled my aversion to risky adventure. Alex knew this, and he also knew how much I would love to ride a camel.
Astride a camelBroome Camel SafariPhoto Courtesy: Alan Noble
The camels loped towards us at the meeting point at the far end of the beach. The earlier ride departed soon after we arrived, so we had to wait. We found refuge in the shade of the official camel tour vehicle. I removed my shoes, sat down, and ploughed my bare feet into the sand. Forty minutes later the earlier ride was finished, and the camels lined up again. Alex and I were to share a camel. The lighter person had to hop on the front and the heavier on the back. All of the personnel were young European working holidaymakers, and invariably cheerful, like all of the other working holidaymakers we had met in Western Australia working in hospitality. Their job included caring for the camels. They would arrive at the farm late morning, groom the camels, and walk them for an hour to get to the beach. Apparently one of the camels had been rescued and so we were instructed not to pat her, but others enjoyed being patted. We mounted our female camel, Silky. Her long neck stretched in front of me. She had curly hair on her neck and long eyelashes.
Because our tour was late, we could enjoy it just before sunset. We had wanted to take the sunset tour, but it had been booked out.
“Are you enjoying it?” Alex asked me.
“This is absolutely worth it!” I confirmed, allowing myself to be gently rocked in the saddle in a motion which mimicked the ocean swell.
After the hardships of violent seas, a torn sail, and extreme isolation, I could relax on this gentle creature with Alex sitting behind me, gazing at the changing colours over the horizon. At the end of the tour, the tourists spontaneously erupted in applause. If this had been horses, they would have been startled, but the camels remained calm.
Camels are not native to Australia, having been introduced from the Middle East, North Africa and the Indian Subcontinent in the nineteenth century. In fact, the railroad that runs south to north across the Australian continent was named the “Ghan” in honour of the Afghan cameleers that the railway replaced. Camels were released into the wild in the early twentieth century when modern forms of transport were introduced. Their descendants compete with native marsupials for resources, and so they are considered invasive. But it is not their fault that they are invasive.
Camels in 1925 Australia. Photo Courtesy Lance Mugford circa 1925
They are the descendants of camels that were brought here well over a hundred years ago. It so happens that they are well-adapted to the harsh conditions of the Australian outback. Sometimes wild invasive animals are culled because of the havoc they wreak on native fauna and flora. But I have a soft spot for these magnificent desert creatures and hope that they can be treated with dignity and kindness.
Anchored in sunset. Photo Courtesy: Alan Noble
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble
“Oh no! The sail is torn!”
I looked outside and the tall black sail, known as the reacher, was billowing above with a one-meter gash. The boat bumped along in the wind and the tide. My hat blew behind me, held by the cord around my neck, and my matted salt-encrusted hair scattered in all directions.
“Can you fix it?”
“Well, I have some sail tape as a temporary solution, but I can’t do the repair while we’re underway. It means we won’t be able to get to our destination tonight. The reacher was giving us a good speed in this wind, and without it we won’t make it all the way to the Horizontal Falls. We can only approach it when the tide is flooding. The only problem is that there are no anchorages listed in the cruising guide between here and the falls. I’ll have to choose an unlisted spot to anchor before it gets dark,” Alex explained.
Horizontal Falls in the Talbot Harbour is a destination often advertised in Australia by cruise ship companies. The advertisements feature glamorous retired couples enjoying luxurious service on deck, often sipping Champagne. I confess to feeling a tad envious looking at those couples with clean and coiffed hair wearing freshly laundered clothes, with constant access to hot water. Fresh water is a luxury on a sailboat, and hot water even more so. But we like travelling on our own terms, creating our own timetable. Plus, Alex likes the adventure. His expression starts to relax once he is at the helm heading out to sea.
Horizontal Falls is so named because it features rapidly moving water that ebbs and floods between narrow cliff faces. Unlike a normal waterfall, which flows vertically, the water flows horizontally. Alex and I were heading there in a very unconventional way. Rather than taking a cruise ship, we were sailing there in our own boat. We witnessed multiple cruise ships on our voyage but no other sail boats. Guests on the cruise ships would see the falls from sea planes or helicopters because the falls were best observed from above. We would be observing it from surface level.
“How long is the afterglow? Can’t we try to make it there this evening?” I persevered.
“It’s not a good idea. Sailing in the dark and fighting a tide in these remote waters is tricky. Let’s try that cove over there.”
The cove looked well sheltered and would hopefully give us a good night’s sleep.
“The main hurdle is that the tide is nine metres, so we have to anchor in at least three metres at low tide. We also have to avoid coral and rocks that might be lurking beneath the surface.”
We circled a few times, trying to conserve what little power remained in the battery. Eventually Alex settled on a spot and lowered the anchor. We had been sailing for two weeks, and our rations were starting to run out. We did have half a packet of blue brie and some crackers, so we contented ourselves with that. The sun slipped beneath the horizon and framed the seascape in burnt orange.
“Hooray!” I said as I did every evening when the sun set. Finally, I could escape from the sun. During the day I actually wore two hats when I was outside, but only one when I was inside and the light was streaming through the windows on all four sides of the saloon. The sun would sear into my eyes and turn my pasty skin a shade of watermelon after even a couple of minutes of exposure.
Meredith CoveAlex adjusting the mainsail
Alex then announced: “I’m going to name this place Meredith Cove when I add a listing to Zulu Waterways.” Zulu Waterways was Alex’s favourite online cruising guide, which he used wherever he sailed, whether Japan, Indonesia or Australia.
Alex prepared Nasi Goreng, having been recently inspired by his delivery voyage through Indonesia. He used up cooked rice and leftover vegetables from the fridge. We were to indulge in our evening pleasure of streaming a British crime show, but the pitch darkness of the seascape sent us into a deep sleep, and we never did rouse to watch the show. There were no other vessels anchored nearby, but the occasional cruise ship passed us in the distance.
Around 2am, the anchor alarm sounded. This was not a listed anchorage, so there was a possibility that something could go wrong. The tide had come in, and it was too deep for the anchor. We needed to avoid drifting into the cliffs. Alex went to the stern.
“Can you hold the tiller? Keep the boat facing towards the compass on the screen.”
This was too much responsibility for me. I couldn’t see the cliffs because it was pitch dark.
“Can’t I raise the anchor instead?”
“No. I don’t want you going up there.”
I was secretly relieved. In this pitch darkness I didn’t trust myself walking to the bow to raise the anchor. What if I fell into these crocodile and shark-infested waters with the massive tide movement? How would Alex save me?
In the end he managed to stabilize the boat without entrusting the tiller to me. He ran to the bow and soon I could hear the chugging and grunting of the anchor chain. I kept my eyes on the screen, willing the boat to continue pointing in the right direction. Thankfully it did, and soon Alex was back at the stern. Soon the tide would fall, and it would get shallower. Alex was confident the anchor would hold.
The next morning was a late start because we had to wait for the Talbot Harbour to flood so that we would be going with the tide and not fighting it. It was a two-hour voyage to reach Horizontal Falls. As we entered the Talbot Harbour, we saw cruise ships. Closer to the falls, seaplanes and helicopters circled overhead. After the isolation of two weeks sailing with nary another vessel in sight, it suddenly felt like we had arrived at a marine Grand Central Station or Clapham Junction. (Or should I say Shibuya Crossing since both of us had spent so many years in Japan?)
Sea plane near the Horizontal Falls
We anchored outside the falls, a few hundred metres from the floating hotel. Tenders were departing from a cruise ship anchored closer to the falls. A power boat was taking guests in from the floating hotel.
“Shall we take the tender to the falls?” Alex asked me.
“What do they advise?” I asked him.
“They say to exercise caution,” he responded. “It’s a flood tide, which will tend to suck us in unless we’re careful.”
I was a bit worried we would be swept into the falls, but they must be worth looking at, given the number of seaplanes and helicopters circling overhead.
“We have come all this way. We had better do it,” I said somewhat fearfully.
We covered as much exposed skin as possible to protect ourselves from the sun and donned our lifejackets. We stepped off the back of the boat onto the tender, and Alex took it towards the falls. The tenders from the cruise ship went to the outskirts of the falls, whereas the power boat from the floating hotel went all the way in. We took our cue from the other tenders and stopped outside the falls. Alex tethered the tender to a tree, and we faced the direction of the falls, hearing its roar, and enjoying the shade of the cliff. From our vantage point, we could only discern a thin ribbon of whitewater.
“Let’s go back, Alex!” I urged, afraid of getting swept into the falls.
He untethered the tender from the tree and we headed back to the boat. We had to wait for the ebbing of the tide before heading back out of the Talbot Harbour to the open sea. Alex donned his swimmers and snorkel and performed an underwater adjustment to the rudder. I stood above him scanning the water for crocodiles and bull sharks. Then he started making bolognaise for dinner, so it would be ready once we had stopped at our next anchorage that evening. As he was performing these chores, I heard a helicopter engine and saw a helicopter make a careful and delicate landing onto the helipad on the cruise ship. This clever manoeuvre made me want to applaud. The guests disembarked, more guests boarded and the helicopter took off again, swirling over the hills in the direction of the falls. Sea planes took it in turns to depart from the floating hotel to take their guests on aerial tours.
The author’s view of Horizontal Falls
The Horizontal Falls had been the purpose of our voyage, but other tourists were part of organised tours and so they had been escorted up close to see the falls. As private tourists we didn’t feel it safe to go into the falls too deeply, in case we got swept away. Although the falls were beautiful, it was somewhat of an anti-climax, viewing them from the same level rather than above. However, it was worth the visit. The sight of the helicopter heading to the cruise ship and making a precise landing on the ship’s helipad was a spectacle indeed. It was all the more impressive because we suddenly went from the extreme isolation of nature to bustling human activity. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that we had persevered with all of the sailing hardships to witness this spectacle. Sometimes you don’t find what you are looking for, but you find something unexpected that is equally satisfying.
Helicopter landing near the falls
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble of their sailing adventures in the Southern Hemisphere
East Falls, King George River, Western Australia
“Shall we bother going to the East Falls?” Alex asked me.
“I’m a bit worried about crocodiles, not to mention jellyfish,” I replied.
Jellyfishes in King George River
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.
Twin Falls
“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.
The tender on Jar Island
“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.
Crocodile, King George River
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble
Bridge in Hoi An
The tour to the Mekong Valley had finished. Rather than return straight to our hotel, we left our luggage from behind the counter of the tourist office so we could explore the nearby markets unencumbered. Later, after we retrieved our bags and headed outside to wait for the taxi, our guide emerged from the office and smiled at us.
“Where are you going next?” he enquired.
“To Hoi An, and then Hanoi,” Alex informed him. “What’s it like up there?”
“I don’t know. When I was a uni student I went with my friends to Hanoi, but I didn’t have any money, so I just walked around the town rather than going anywhere. Now that I have a two-year old child I can’t travel anyway.”
“Does your wife work?” I asked.
“Yes. She works in a shoe factory.”
“Who looks after your daughter?”
“My mother does. Both my wife and I need to work to pay the bills so we can’t really go on holiday. I work seven days a week. Paying the rent, the bills, and our daughter’s education, are very expensive.”
Our taxi arrived, so we carried our luggage and put it in the boot. Our guide stood by the car, smiled at us, and waved us off. There was one piece of advice he had given us that stood out in my mind.
“If you need to cross the road, raise your hand to let people know and cross confidently!” he had advised.
We had alighted from the taxi too early to visit a cathedral, but it was closed, so we decided to walk the rest of the distance to the railway station. After all, it was only just over a kilometre. Or so we thought.
Cathedral at Ho Chi Minh CityTraffic in Ho Chi Minh City
It turned out to be just under three kilometres. The footpaths were blockaded by motorbikes and rubble, so we had to detour via the street to make our way forward. What was much more challenging was crossing the intersections. The pedestrian crossings were disregarded. Instead, you had to make eye contact with the motorcyclists, raise your hand, and stride ahead. Alex and I stood helplessly on the footpath watching hundreds of motorcyclists slowly turn the corner. A young motorcyclist looked at me as he slowly turned along with hundreds of others and gave me a wry sympathetic smile. The traffic turned to gridlock, so Alex held up his hand and weaved his way through the stationary traffic, with me following. Finally, we safely reached the other side. One of our tour guides, referring to traffic lights, made light of it saying that the drivers were colour blind. We did witness a minor accident, so there is no way I can advise how to safely cross the road in Vietnam.
We continued to pull our luggage along the footpaths, veering onto the road whenever the footpath was blocked, which was frequently. Then Alex decided to provide some relief by heading down a narrow lane, which he thought was a shortcut. Residents gave us surprised looks. A grandmother handed her grandson a lettuce which he placed in his bicycle basket. We greeted each other. At the end of the lane, we arrived at another main road clogged with motorcycles. We paused wondering which way to go. I saw something dark scurry towards me and brush across my sandals. It turned out to be a rat which rushed behind me under some buildings.
“Oh no!” Alex exclaimed. “My phone’s run out of battery and I’m not sure of the way to the station.”
I looked around for someone to ask, but the few people who weren’t on motorcycles appeared to be intent on whatever they were doing. More importantly, I didn’t have the Vietnamese language skills to ask them. Alex and I were stranded in rush hour and unable to find the station. Would we miss our train? We looked up and saw the sign Ga Sài Gòn. The first word sounded like it might have come from French gare, meaning ‘station’. We followed the signs and within a few hundred metres we reached our destination, the station. Alex’ phone had expired at the very moment that the sign had appeared.
We were in good time for the sleeper train and headed towards our carriage, fifteen minutes before departure. There were four beds in each cabin, and we had secured all four beds for just the two of us to ensure our privacy. The train departed exactly on time. My favourite cure for insomnia is lying on a train sleeper. Soon after the train had departed the gentle motion of the train rolling over the tracks, and accompanying sounds, sent me into a comforting sleep.
Iced Coffee on the Train
There was no dining car on the train. Instead, hawkers would board the train at the various stops. The next morning, we couldn’t start the day without coffee so we bought one from one of the vendors. A few hours later, we looked across the train tracks while the train was stopping at a station. We made eye contact with an elderly lady on a distant platform. She was holding two cups of iced coffee in plastic bags and calling out urgently to us. Normally, hawkers who are too insistent have the effect of turning me off, but not this woman. We nodded, and she ran across the tracks and held the coffees up to us. We took the coffees but were unsure of how much to pay. We held some cash out, and the conductor happened to be standing next to us. Unable to communicate with the vendor, we looked at the conductor. She took 20,000 duong from us ($1.00) and handed it to the lady. She took it and made her way back to the platform. The train departed and we returned to our sleeper compartment. The ice was in one cup and the coffee and condensed milk mixture in another. We tipped the ice into the coffee and savoured this new taste.
When we alighted at Da Nang many people touting for business made eye contact and called out to us. We looked for the driver we had booked. Finally, we found him, and followed him back to the taxi, from which he drove us to our destination, Hoi An. We briefly relaxed in our hotel room before walking the streets to the market. We crossed the streets in the same manner as we had in Saigon, making eye contact with motorcyclists and raising our hands, before making a show of confidently striding across. This remained stressful but instead of hundreds, there were tens of motorcycles.
Lanterns in Hoi An
We reached the river, alit with colourful lanterns. The streets were lined with throngs of fellow tourists speaking multiple languages. Touts and hawkers would stand directly in my path, call out ‘hello’, and try to engage me. I looked straight ahead and stepped around them. There were too many choices of where to stop, and the throng of displaced westerners, like us, was disconcerting. The westerners outnumbered the locals, but it was not a group of westerners with a shared culture, but a mixture of visitors from far-flung locales. When we decided on a place to stop for dinner, we shunned the ones who were standing in our way pressing us to stop, in preference to a stall-holder who did not even make eye contact with us.
There were two locals who stood out in my mind during our first few days in Vietnam. One is the lady who called across the rail tracks from the platform to sell us some coffee. Other hawkers, standing in my way and behaving like they are my best friend, I confess to have found annoying, but Alex and I completely dropped our guard down for this lady prepared to go the distance to sell a drink to strangers on a train that was passing through.
The second person was our tour guide in Ho Chi Minh. The tour itself was informative and fascinating, but the impression that lingers was our brief conversation after the tour when we were waiting for the taxi. The next time I purchase a well-priced and crafted product that is made in Vietnam, I will recall those who have brought it into my hands, maybe working seven days a week, paying exorbitant rents, and having others look after their children.
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens: Photographs by Alan Noble
Boat which took the author and her husband to Mekong Delta
We alighted from the ferry and disembarked at a small island in the Mekong Delta. Our Vietnamese guide had promised us that we could witness how local people lived. After walking along a trail, we were ushered into a small boat with a local lady at the rear who would row us down the river. We stepped into the back of the boat and another couple stepped into the front.
“Would you mind taking a photo of us?” asked a woman with a bright smile and an energetic voice. I could hear she was English. Then the four of us started bantering and I detected that her partner was English too.
Next, we hopped off the boat and were treated to the chance to hold a cobra, sample local delicacies, and listen to the villagers’ musical performance. The next day we were taken to a restaurant where you could make your own seafood pancakes. Just before lunch, we were given the opportunity to cycle along a nearby path. Those of our group who wished to cycle selected a bicycle. I chose one and headed to the path. Then I looked ahead of me and realised that the English woman’s bike was the wrong size for her.
Cycling tour of the village
“Would you like to swap bicycles? Mine is too large and yours seems to be too small.”
She nodded. We swapped bicycles and seemed to find the perfect match. Our tour guide gave the signal and off we went. After a few kilometres, he signaled to stop so the group would stay together. I found myself at the front of the group and turned around to see the English woman immediately behind.
“I commuted to work by bike for twenty years,” I explained, surprised to be the one who had to stop so the others could catch up.
“I was in Japan. Japan is much friendlier to cyclists. The traffic is slower, and the roads narrower. It’s easier than driving, at least for short distances.”
She nodded. “They cycle a lot in Amsterdam. Also in Cambridge, where I lived for three years.”
I didn’t want to ask too many personal questions of this woman I had only just met, but I was curious. I wondered if she had studied at Cambridge University. Instead of being nosy, I added a few comments about Cambridge.
“We visited there recently. We stayed on the outskirts, and walked in. We had to walk through a park where there were cows grazing with bells around their necks. I much prefer Cambridge to Oxford.”
“Yes, it’s smaller. But Oxford is pretty good too!” she added.
By then the other cyclists had caught up. We continued along the path and then returned for lunch. We resumed the tour and were dropped off back in Ho Chi Minh City.
“Where can we store our luggage?” Alex asked her.
“Here at the tourist agency. We’ll leave ours there while we pop into the markets to get Ian a new backpack. His is broken.”
“Thanks for the tip. By the way, do you have an email address so we can exchange photos?”
“Sure. Where are you heading next?” she asked.
“Hoi An,” she replied.
“Oh! We are going there too. We are doing a cooking class. Would you like to join us?” offered Alex.
“Sure! Send us the link.”
We parted ways.
“See you in Hoi An,” I said, hoping that we could meet again.
The English woman was so easy to talk to, so quick to respond, and pick up on any nuance. I’d already decided that she must be a therapist. I had been trained since early adulthood not to ask people what they did for a living. It wasn’t fair to allow your knowledge of their career success to determine your assessment of them. But I admit to being curious. If she had studied at Cambridge, what career had followed?
Alex and I caught a sleeper train to Hoi An. There we found generously proportioned historic buildings. However, there were too many tourists in Hoi An, people like us. We walked around the town and felt overwhelmed. We could barely move down the street without bumping into other tourists.
Night trainTrain station
The next day Alex texted the English woman. He must have been just as eager to meet the couple again as I was.
“Sorry, your cooking class was full. We booked another one. How about drinks this evening?” she replied.
Alex accepted. That evening we made our way to the bar she had suggested. They stood up and hugged us.
“I’m Jill* by the way. And this is Ian*.”
“I’m Alex, and this is Merri.”
We ordered a gin and tonic. They were drinking beer.
“Since we were meeting you today, we thought we’d better order a gin and tonic,” I explained. This drink brought back memories of England.
After we had sipped our drinks, Alex broached the question that was on my mind.
“So, what do you do when you’re not touring in Vietnam?” he asked.
“I write historical fiction. Ian has retired. When the children were younger, he supported me, but now it’s my turn to support him.”
I was beside myself with excitement. If you asked me which profession intrigued me most, I would have said a writer. I have little inclination to meet actors, politicians, astronauts, rocket scientists, or billionaires, but I certainly would like to meet writers (not to mention musicians). For the next couple of hours, Jill shared her experience of writing, and Alex and I shared our experiences of sailing. I was so excited that I lost my appetite and only nibbled a few snacks at the end of the evening. They told us that they lived in a nearly three-hundred-year-old house in Somerset*, one of my favourite places in the UK.
“Just a warning. We will visit,” Alex added.
“Certainly!” replied Jill.
“And please come sailing with us when our boat is ready!” I urged.
We parted company, and I floated all the way back to the hotel. I looked up her many books online and resolved to read her latest one as soon as I could.
A day later, Alex and I caught another sleeper to Hanoi. It was so pleasant rolling along the tracks that I was lulled to sleep as soon as I lay down. I informed Alex that when we returned to Adelaide, I needed a sleep machine that mimicked the motion of rolling along the tracks and provided the accompanying background noise.
When we exited the station a throng of taxi drivers approached us to offer us rides. We had been advised that it is more secure and economical to use the local ride called Grab[1]. I shielded Alex from one driver that persisted in following him around too closely. I positioned myself between Alex and the driver with my back to the driver. Then we looked over and saw a couple laden with suitcases and eyes glued to their phones. The husband made eye contact with me and gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug and I immediately knew they were French. They looked desperate, and I knew I had to put my rusty French to practice. Years of study at the Alliance Francaise did not equip me to use my French in context. French speakers tended to switch to English as soon as I made my opening gambit in French. This was either because my English accent was too strong, or the French speakers wanted to practice their English. However, this time, the urgency of the situation prompted me to use my French.
“Have you tried to use Grab? It’s less expensive,” I informed them.
“We couldn’t install it. We’re trying to contact the hotel. They were meant to pick us up.”
Her husband was persevering on the phone.
“We’re meant to be going home tomorrow,” the wife informed me. “But our flight has been cancelled.”
“Because of the…,” I offered, unable to quickly find the words for ‘Middle East conflict’.
“Because of the…,” she confirmed. She knew what I meant.
“We were here for our anniversaire,” she explained.
I knew that ‘birthday’ is ‘anniversaire’ in French, but as I was scrambling to communicate, I temporarily assumed that it meant its false friend, anniversary.
“How many years?” I asked.
“69 and 64,” she explained.
Whoops! She must have meant birthday. I pointed to Alex. “He’s ten weeks older than me,” I added.
She laughed and then switched to English.
‘Where are you from?” she asked.
She must have known we were anglophones, but not which anglophone country we came from.
“Australia,” I replied.
She was very surprised to hear this. I continued to scramble to make meaningful conversation, sacrificing precision for getting the words out quickly.
“We come from a town that no-one has heard of,” I added in exaggeration, reverting to French. “Our city Adelaide often gets left out when visiting performers and VIPs come to Australia.”
She laughed again. Then Alex saw on his phone that our Grab ride had arrived. We picked up our bags and exited the station.
Alex decided to join in in French.
“Bonne chance,” he said, hoping they would soon find their transport.
“Bon voyage,” she replied.
“Bon voyage,” I echoed.
I felt sorry and guilty as we boarded our Grab outside the station.
The third serendipitous encounter was on our boat tour in Lan Ha Bay. After spending the night on a small cruise ship, we boarded a dinghy to take us to the rowing boats which were to take us to the caves.
Our tour consisted of two Indian couples, two Danish girls, three Russian couples, and a young Australian family of four from the east coast. Each rowing boat seated eight. As Alex and I were lining up to board we were directed to the boat with the three glamorous young Russian couples. I was a bit concerned about how we would converse in the boat. Sitting in silence would be awkward. The only Russian I knew were those words from the media in the ‘80s, perestroika and glasnost. They wouldn’t get us far because these Russians would be too young to remember the times when these words were used. Alex and I averted our gaze, and the tour guide gave up trying to persuade us to board the boat. We turned around and saw the young Australian family lining up behind us. We smiled at them.
“Aussies!” I exclaimed. We had been deprived of conversation with our compatriots for quite a few days.
The six of us hopped in the rowing boat and were taken inside the stunning Lan Ha Bay. I am not sure that our conversation with our compatriots amounted to much, but it was animated and fun, and I hardly had the time to take in the wonderful bay.
Lan Ha Bay
Seeing the sights in other countries is both a privilege and an enormous treat. What is just as exciting is meeting locals, and the random, sometimes fleeting, and yet meaningful encounters with fellow tourists. We may meet Jill and Ian again. We will never meet the French couple again and don’t even know their names. We just hope they made it to their hotel and then safely back to France. We probably won’t meet the young Australian family again either. The east coast is just too far away. Nonetheless, we have been enriched by the knowledge shared by our kind, enthusiastic and energetic Vietnamese tour guides, and the unexpected encounters with fellow tourists trying to navigate this unique culture together.
* Some names have been changed.
[1] A Singaporean company that caters all over Southeast Asia
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Alex pointed the flare towards the ocean and released it. The flare was originally from the boat, but had passed its use-by date so we had decided to release it to celebrate the New Year. But instead of heading into the ocean the flare changed trajectory, turning at right angles into the wind and headed into the hills. In the distance we saw a flame erupt, but it didn’t die down as expected.
“Oh no! A fire? Let’s go and put it out,” shouted Alex.
The six of us piled back into the ute[1] and drove to the site of the fire. A trail of light extended down the gully towards the ocean. Surely, it wouldn’t last long on this cold summer night? I shivered in my coat and walked down the hill to the house to change into a heavier coat. When I returned the fire burned ever more brightly.
“Let’s go and get the water tank so we can extinguish it,” suggested Alex.
We drove back down the hill towards the orchard to retrieve the water trailer.
“Alex pulled and pulled on the starter cord. Damn! It’s refusing to start!” exclaimed Alex.
Then, Aaron joined us to help us pull the cord several more times, to no avail. Eventually, after trying about fifty times, we gave up. Instead, we ferried twenty-litre jerry cans of water to the fire front, but the miserly amount of water was no match for the ever-growing fire. Aaron’s mother, Rochelle, emptied a wheelie bin of recyclables, pulled it towards the water tank, and filled it with water. She and Aaron pulled it towards the fire to douse the flames. At that point Alex realised that we couldn’t contain the fire ourselves and called the fire department. I wasn’t sure what to do, so returned to the house to fill a bucket with water. Rochelle rushed into the house.
“Can we have some towels to douse the embers?”
I reached the top cupboard in the laundry and grabbed the freshly laundered guest towels. I handed them to Rochelle.
“Thanks,” she said, and ran out of the house.
Rochelle and Aaron, upon the advice of a concerned neighbour who had observed the fire and come over, whacked the embers with a wet towel that they had dipped in the wheelie bins. Rochelle protected the water tanks by treating the nearby embers with the heavy wet cotton towels. Her actions saved the water tanks from melting, as the fire edged close but stopped just before making contact with the equipment. Aaron protected the hot tub in the same way with the wet towels.
The hot tub is saved. Photo Courtesy: Meredith Stephens
The casuarinas were at risk of being burnt and would have added fuel to the fire. Aaron smothered one of the casuarinas with the towel and averted a further spread of the fire to the cedar hot tub. That is how Rochelle saved the water tanks and Aaron the hot tub.
The fire trucks arrived. The fire-fighters did not know the lie of the land, and this was compounded by the darkness. Rochelle’s husband, Brian, had anticipated this, and directed them where to go. It was dark. The unsealed road to the house was unlit. The fire-fighters directed their giant hoses to the fire. Now the fire had turned and extended to the front of the house. I found another towel and drenched it with tap water. I saw a man in uniform outside the front door, and assuming he was a fire-fighter, directed a question to him.
“Which area would be best to douse flames with this towel?”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary now. The fire-fighters are here.”
I looked at him more carefully and noticed that ‘police’ was written on his uniform.
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Who called the fire-fighters first?” he asked me.
“Alex,” I answered.
“The house is safe,” he advised. “You don’t need to do anything.”
Alex saving the house. Photo Courtesy: Meredith StephensThe author not knowing…. Photo Courtesy: Ruby Riessen
Once we knew the house was safe, we looked at our phone and discovered it was 12.18 in the morning. 2026 had arrived without us noticing. Rochelle’s jeans were blackened all over, and she had smudges of soot on her hands and face. Alex had blackened ankles, and a large patch of soot on this face. I wish I could claim I was covered in soot too, but in typical fashion the crisis had left me in a state of paralysis. Despite our fatigue it was impossible to simply go to bed as usual. We needed to process the events of the evening. Inexplicably, we suddenly felt hungry. Alex, Brian, Rochelle, Aaron and I sat around the coffee table and consumed large quantities of cheese, crackers and dips. Suddenly, at 2 am, our tiredness caught up with us. We felt guilty going to bed when there were still firefighters dousing the last of the flames in the distance, but we gave in to the overwhelming urge to sleep.
The next morning, a fierce sunshine pierced into my room but I resisted the urge to get up. Surely yesterday would have been a dream, and I would be greeted by the usual vegetation when I looked out of the window. I remembered the blackened treeless landscape on the highway leading from Fresno to Huntingdon in California a couple of years earlier and dreaded being greeted by a similar scene. I braced myself to look outside. The grasses had burnt over many hectares and extended close to the infrastructure but not burnt any of it. The aforementioned water tanks and cedar hot tub were unscathed, as was the house and the ancient coastal forest. Alex had lost some of his revegetation, consisting of a few pines and immature casuarinas. The other damage was that the police advised Alex that he would receive a fine for letting off a flare when there was no emergency. There would be no further action because the fire was confined to his property and had not extended to the neighbours’ properties. This was thanks to our wonderful house guests and the dedicated fire-fighting volunteers who worked through the night.
The next day, a helicopter repeatedly flew in front of the house, along the coast, dumping one thousand litre buckets of water at particular points on the sand. There was a risk that in hot conditions the sandy patches could erupt into flames again.
Next new year we will content ourselves with sitting in front of the television to watch the official fireworks, if we can be bothered staying up that late. We have had a first-hand and first-time experience of a bushfire, which has given us a new respect for the speed and ferocity of a bushfire, and a fresh awareness of the necessity of being prepared.
[1] An Australian term for a vehicle with a passenger cabin and an open cargo space at the back
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.
A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders…
I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.
Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.
In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.
A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.
“Please show me your international driver’s licence.”
“Certainly!”
Alex produced the licence.
“This is out of date! I’m sorry but we can’t hand over the car.”
“No! It’s current! It’s valid for five years.”
We scrutinized the licence. The start date was prominently displayed, but not the expiration date. As we squinted to decipher the fine print on page three, we discovered that it had expired three years ago. Alex had thought it would be valid for five years, but it was only valid for one. We attributed it to his light-heartedly referred to “OCD Deficit Disorder”. And that is how a one-week road trip suddenly became a public transport and taxi trip.
This was my first visit back to Japan after having left at the beginning of the pandemic. Alex and I had been deliberating where to spend our honeymoon, and we agreed that the island of Shikoku in western Japan where I had spent over twenty years would be our first choice.
Onigiri. Photo courtesy: Mariko Hisamatsu
There were so many things to look forward to. The first thing I did, before even leaving Kansai Airport, was rush into the convenience store and buy an onigiri flavoured with an umeboshi pickled plum. An onigiri is a triangle of rice, with a choice of flavours in the centre such as fish, seaweed, or the aforementioned umeboshi. It is wrapped in a crisp sheet of seaweed. Before eating it you gently pull away a thin layer of wrapping which protects the outer seaweed from absorbing the moisture of the rice. As you bite into it you can enjoy the three distinct textures and flavours – the piquant centre, the contrasting bland rice, and the crisp outer layer of seaweed. Next, I purchased a mugwort daifuku. This is a Japanese sweet, consisting of a layer of pounded mugwort-flavoured rice around a centre of sweet azuki bean paste. All of this was washed down with a bottle of green tea.
From the above account, it might sound like I was returning to Japan to indulge in simple culinary delights from a convenience store, and maybe this is a possibility I am unwilling to admit to myself. Of course, the main purpose was to reconnect with old friends, the second to reconnect with old pleasures, such as the aforementioned onigiri and daifuku, and the third, to stay in a traditional Japanese house.
After having been refused permission to drive our hire car, we headed back towards the terminal and searched for the railway station. We caught trains out to the UNESCO heritage listed site of Koyasan to enjoy the autumn leaves, and then seven trains and two buses later, to Wakayama station. Finally, we caught a taxi to our accommodation, which turned out to be a house that was over two hundred years ago, dating from the end of the Edo Period.
Jiomaru-an Edo period house. Photo Courrtesy: Alan Noble Inside the house. Photo Courtesy: The Host
The door slid open to reveal an earthen floor. We walked down the hall to the kitchen, left our shoes in the sunken area, and donned the provided slippers. The kitchen opened onto two traditional tatami rooms, with fusuma sliding cupboards, and latticed paper shoji screens leading onto the garden. Beyond the shoji was a narrow hall known as an engawa, with a small wooden table and chair where you could enjoy sipping a drink while looking out over the garden. This was the kind of room I had been longing for during my five years away from Japan.
But we hadn’t had dinner yet and I was longing to ride to a local supermarket to purchase a ready meal.
‘“Do you have any bicycles?” I asked the host.
“Certainly. We have mountain bikes too!”
“You don’t want to go cycling in the dark?” queried Alex. “Not after a long-distance flight, seven trains, two buses, and a taxi ride? Surely not!”
I insisted, and Alex gave up persuading me otherwise. Rather than a mountain bike I chose the mamachari, a vintage bike replete with a shopping basket attached to the front handlebars.
We cycled to the supermarket, as I had done almost daily during my twenty years of living in Shikoku. There we bought sushi and sashimi ready meals, and cycled home, scanning to avoid roadside ditches with sheer drops and no guard rails. Once safely home, we indulged in the much longed for sushi and sashimi, enjoyed the traditional deep Japanese bath, spread out the futons on the tatami, and luxuriated in a deep sleep.
The next morning, we woke to a gentle light streaming through the latticed paper shoji screens. We cycled to Wakayama castle, Alex on the mountain bike and me on the mamachari. We strolled around the traditional garden before entering the castle and then completed it with a visit to the adjacent tearoom, where we enjoyed green tea and a sweet bean paste confectionery.
The following day, we bid farewell to our Edo Period home, and our kind host drove us to the ferry terminal. As soon as I saw the sign in Japanese for Tokushima, I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. This had been my home in Japan for fifteen of my twenty years in Shikoku, until the day I departed for a routine visit to Australia, just before the international borders were closed due to COVID. Little did I know that the pandemic would prevent me from returning to Japan. I boarded the ferry as I had so many other times after returning from various work trips, but this time I was visiting on my honeymoon. The two-hour crossing readied me for the arrival in my old stomping ground and was heralded by the sentimental music played to signal a homecoming. Alex and I exited the ferry to be met by my old friend and writing mentor, Suzanne. Overcome with emotion, I covered my face with my hands to spare her the sight of my crumpled features and then gave her a hug. Then I went back to covering my swollen eyes and gave her another hug.
Platter of Sushi at Sally’s home. Photo courtesy: Alan Noble
Suzanne drove us to the home of the son of another old friend, Sally, who had kindly offered us a couple of nights’ accommodation. That evening a subset of old friends dropped in to see us and eat sushi. I braced myself for the entry of each friend into the house, trying to compose my features, after an unanticipated five-year interval. My eyes, however, betrayed me. I caught the expressions of those who returned by gaze, and they could sense my relief and excitement of meeting them again. Over five years people’s appearances were a little different. Those who had long hair now wore it shorter. Those with shorter hair had grown it. Those who were curvaceous were now svelte, and those who were svelte were now curvaceous. A child had now become a lanky teenager. I’m sure I must have looked different to them too. What had not changed was people’s smiles, conversation and sense of humour. People who I would normally see a few times over a month were now all present in the same room in the space of a few hours.
A few days later, we took the bus across Shikoku to Matsuyama, where another happy reunion took place of eight friends from six different countries. I was freshly aware of the joys of the expat life, where you can make friends from a greater range of countries, and a greater range of ages, than you would at home.
Ranma Carvings in a traditional room. Photo Courtesy: Alan Noble
I had been craving another stay in a traditional house, and we savoured a room with ranma carvings suspended from the ceiling, letting in light and air flow from the adjacent room. We sat at the kotatsu low heated table on the tatami, and slept on futon, in a room featuring shoji paper screens facing outside and fusuma cupboards where futons were stored. Features which had once seemed so ordinary were now infused with nostalgia.
Family obligations called us back to Australia after only one week of our Japanese honeymoon. A taxi was followed by a bus which took us on the long trek back across Shikoku, driving through impossibly long tunnels, crossing elegant bridges, with views of the sea and mountains. Once we crossed the final bridge onto the largest main island of Honshu, the landscape was transformed into high rise apartments, and dense traffic. We alighted from the bus at Kobe’s Sannomiya Station.
There we asked directions to the airport limousine bus and made a final purchase of onigiri. My favourite umeboshi pickled plum one was not on sale, so I had to make do with a tuna mayonnaise one and a pickled seaweed one. We ran to the bus stop, purchased tickets, and skipped into the bus holding our luggage. There was no time to store the luggage in the hold. Once the bus pulled into the traffic, we knew we could relax after our long and complicated journey. I gently pulled away the wrapping separating the layers of the tuna mayonnaise onigiri and savoured the contrasting flavours and textures. Our fleeting trip to Japan was punctuated by savouring onigiri on both arrival and departure. We bade farewell to this land of delectable tastes, exquisite arts, historic houses, hair-raising bicycle rides, and precious friends.
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I stretched the boat hook as far as I could towards the mooring buoy, but it slid beneath the bow.
“Go back!” I shouted to Alex back at the helm, but my voice was carried away in the wind.
I pointed at the buoy under the net, and Alex reversed. The waves were dancing in front of me and the buoy would not stay in place long enough for me to reach it. On the second attempt, I forced all of my attention on the rope attached to the buoy, and tried to pull it aboard. It was much too heavy so I screamed for Alex to come, and he raced from behind, pulled the buoy up and secured it to the bow.
How would I alight into the dinghy in these waves? Alex lowered it into the water and it lunged towards the stern and back in succession. I doubted I would be able to board in these conditions.
“How about if I move the dinghy to the side of the boat and you enter via a ladder?”
“Worth a try!” I answered.
Alex brought the dinghy to the side of the boat and slung a ladder made of strong fabric overboard. I gingerly stepped down but once I glanced at the water raging beneath me, I lost confidence and gave up.
“I think I had better hop in from the stern after all,” I told Alex.
He moved the dinghy back to the stern. As I walked towards it, I slipped and fell on my thigh. There was no time to feel sorry for myself, so I picked myself up and continued heading for the dinghy. It lunged back and forth in the waves.
“Now!” commanded Alex.
I placed one foot in the centre of the dinghy to centre myself and then sat down on the bench. As hard as it was for me it was not hard for Haru, my border collie. I called her in and tapped the dinghy behind me because I knew she was hard of hearing. She leapt behind me with alacrity. It was so much easier for her to board the dinghy, not least because of her four legs.
Alex was locking the door back on the boat. The dinghy kept lunging toward the stern, and I was scared of getting knocked off when it hit the stern. I screamed as hard as I could.
“Okay!” replied Alex and hopped in behind me. Then he turned on the engine and headed for the shore, except that the shore was unrecognisable. Instead of a sandy beach, there were rocks.
Alex headed for the most promising spot. “Hop out!” commanded Alex, and I disembarked one leg after the other and headed to climb over the rocks. As usual, Haru leapt out and ran ashore.
I thought I was clear of the rocks and the menacing water, when Alex called out to me.
“Take my backpack! The laptops are in here. They can’t get wet. I realised then that we should have put them into the dry bag.”
I walked over the slippery rocks and strained to grasp the shoulder straps of the backpack. Once they were in my hands I returned to shore over the rocks, ready for the trek up to the holiday house.
I was so longing for the warmth of the fireplace and the view of the setting sun over the bay. I walked effortlessly up the hill, with Haru trotting happily beside me. The shelter and glow of the house was just as I had imagined. It was worth the hardship of getting there.
That night the winds continued to build, but it was pleasurable to hear them passing over the house as we enjoyed the safety and warmth of being inside.
Around one in the morning, the whole house shuddered when hit by a particularly strong gust, which was violent enough to briefly wake Alex.
No sooner was it light that I heard Alex enter the room. He must have been out before the wee hours.
“The boat has drifted to shore. I had a bad feeling and got up early to check the position of the boat. From the cliffs I could see that the mast was too close to the shore. Then my fears were confirmed when I saw that it had been blown ashore.”
Dragged moorings. Photo Courtesy: Alan Noble
“Didn’t the mooring hold?” I asked.
“Evidently not. I’m going to check it out now. Want to come?”
I agreed, and we drove out to the cliff with Haru in the back seat. Once at the cliff, I remained in the car because I couldn’t face the gale-force winds that were now gusting to forty knots. Meanwhile, Alex, in his wetsuit, walked down the dirt road towards the beach, entered the water, and pulled himself aboard. I kept my eyes focused on him until I saw his figure exit the boat, swim ashore, and walk up the track back toward me.
“It’s finished. There’s nothing we can do, beyond salvage.”
Alex’s boat of sixteen years and our home away from home for the last five years was no more. In years past, we had circumnavigated Tasmania, sailed to New Caledonia and back, and across the Great Australian Bight to sail north on the Indian Ocean. Exiting a marina and heading towards the waves was a symbol of leaving our troubles behind and anticipation of adventure. I could no longer take this adventure for granted.
Alex reached out to Thompson’s Marine Salvage, and they arrived at the bay within two hours. The plan was to attach one end of a heavy rope to a tractor at the top of the cliff, and the other end to the boat, and drag it onto the sand to save it from smashing on the rocks.
Alex again donned his wetsuit, descended the cliffs, and swam to the boat. I sheltered from the wind in the car at the top of the cliffs with Haru. Then I thought that I should walk towards the boat in case there was anything I could do. Just as I reached the shore, a young man in a wetsuit approached me.
Haru observing from inside the car. Photo Courtesy: Meredith Stephens
“Watch out for the rope. We’re ready to begin!”
It was too late. The operation had started, and the rope was heading towards me, as the tractor started to try and haul the boat to the shore.
“Jump!” the young man urged.
I’m glad the young man thought this was a possibility, but I haven’t jumped for years. My days of jumping are decades behind me. Unable to jump, I met the full force of the rope and was knocked on my back. My head hit some rocks. I uttered an expletive “sh..!” which I reserve for extreme situations. I lay there for seconds before slowly getting back to my feet. My head was aching from the blow and my whole being was in shock. I gave up on rendering assistance and walked slowly back to the car. There I sheltered from the wind until Alex eventually returned to the boat.
“The operation has failed. The boat is still stuck on the rocks,” he explained.
Late in the day, a twenty-ton excavator arrived on the scene. I spent the day bent over holding a rubbish bag, picking up rubble from the boat. Haru trotted around me enjoying being freed from the confines of the house. The excavator approached the boat like a giant menacing dinosaur. I grabbed Haru by the collar and removed myself to a distant spot on the other side of the boat. I could not face another industrial accident. The hand of the excavator grappled the mast and moved it to a safe spot on the rocks. I watched the dinosaur make its retreat back to the road while I maintained a hold on Haru’s collar.
The following day a second twenty-ton excavator descended onto the beach. The first excavator lifted the stern while the second lifted the bow. Slowly, the airborne boat was moved off the rocks and onto land. I was invited to view it, but I couldn’t face seeing the destruction of our home. That evening, I ventured out to the paddock where the boat now rested high and dry, like a beached whale. Amongst the devastation, I retrieved the remains of my dressing gown, which had somehow become entangled in the bow.
Over the next few days, I continued to return to the beach to extract boat rubble from the shore and pull up items of clothing and bedding from the sand. Alex drove down to the beach in his off-road vehicle, and we loaded up the tray with bags of rubble. Different items washed ashore each day.
Salvaged shoes. Photo Courtesy: Alan Nobel
The bump on my head continued to heal, only feeling pain when touched. The bruises on my legs changed colour as they too healed. And eventually the bay would heal too. We continued daily beach clean-ups. Seven odd shoes were salvaged, an odd snorkel fin, and odd gloves. Two months later the other fin washed up, but none of the missing shoes ever made an appearance. We continued to fill our off-road vehicle, and rubbish bags, with debris. Our beloved nautical home sat out of place in a paddock awaiting salvage. We came away with a renewed appreciation and respect for the destructive power of the ever-changing sea, but it would take more than a broken boat to diminish our desire to sail again. For now, our sailing adventures were on hold, but once we had the opportunity, we would again return to the sea. This would not be our final voyage.
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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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Sisters and friends and the author with horses, Whisky and Macka, outside Grandma’s house, in 1972. Photo Courtesy: Judith Stephens.
December 1972, Adelaide
I opened the fridge, pulled out some carrots and put them into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I headed into the backyard shed to retrieve my saddle and bridle. I slung the saddle over the handlebars of my bicycle and placed the bridle in the basket. Then I cycled to the first gateway to the riverbank. I left the bicycle by the fence and walked up the riverbank to find my bay steed, Macka. I couldn’t see him. Then I returned to my bike and cycled to the next entrance to the riverbank and looked for him. Still no Macka. When I entered the third entrance, I spotted him grazing by the river. I pulled out a carrot from my back pocket and held it out to him on my flattened palm. He pricked his ears, looked at me and headed towards me. He picked the carrot up with his soft lips and started crunching it. I slung the reins over his head, placed the bit in his mouth, and bridled him. Then I led him to a spot by the river where I could take advantage of the slope to stand higher than him and jumped on his back. I could never fatten him up, and his backbone pressed into my rear as I sat on him slightly askew. I regularly fed him chaff, and he grazed all day, but like some people, he remained forever thin. I rode him back to where the bicycle was, saddled him up, and trotted and cantered along the riverbank towards the sea.
This was my daily routine after school. Homework was rarely set, so I hardly ever studied in the evenings. Why would you study when you had already been at school all day? Sometimes my black labrador Jason accompanied me. In those days there were no rules about keeping your dog on a leash, so Jason would follow me, even if this meant swimming behind Macka and me to cross the river.
January 1973, Adelaide
“Meredith!” came the voice from my window at 5 am. It was my best friend, Debbie. Debbie owned a 16-hand piebald heavy horse, taller than her, called Whisky. Debbie knew that without pressure from her I would not rise this early. On this occasion, rather than being on the riverbank, Macka was stationed in the corral that Mum and Dad had built in the backyard.
I rose, dressed, and made my way to the corral to bridle Macka. Then I led him to the front yard where Debbie was waiting for me on Whisky. Today we were riding bareback, because our destination was the beach, and we were going to sit astride our horses as they swam. We headed to the riverbank and rode a kilometre to the mouth of the river. Then we rode across the sand and entered the water. When the horses started swimming, we started floating above them, my legs rising above Macka’s sides. I grabbed his mane so as not to part company with him. Then we turned the horses back towards shallow water. Once Whisky had found his feet, Debbie turned around and stood on his rump. From there she dived into the sea, quickly swam back and mounted him again. I wasn’t confident enough to attempt the same feat on Macka. Next, we headed back to shore and dismounted. We lifted the reins over the horses’ heads and held them while they rolled in the sand, thrashing their legs in the air. Then we jumped back on them, and galloped along the sand, before retracing our steps upriver.
August 2025, Monarto, South Australia
We were visiting the largest open-range safari park outside of Africa, Monarto Safari Park, an hour’s drive from Adelaide. Of all the African animals, I was most looking forward to seeing the giraffes and was excited to find myself a place on the giraffe tour. I took a seat on the bus and listened to the guide’s spiel as we made our way to the giraffe feeding station. The guide provided a bucket of carrot sticks for the tourists to feed to the giraffes.
I dipped my hand into the bucket, retrieved a carrot stick and offered it to the giraffe. He inclined his neck towards me, extended his enormous blue tongue to the carrot, gently took it between his lips, and started crunching it. I stood back in order to give the other tourists a chance to do the same, and a few came forward. In the next interval, I retrieved another carrot stick and offered it to the first giraffe. I stood back again for the other tourists, but few were interested. I ended up giving most of the carrot sticks to the giraffes because no-one else seemed to be as engrossed with this as I was. As soon as the bucket was empty the giraffes lost interest and gently loped away. I realised that the reason I was enjoying this so much was that I was reliving the experience of over fifty years earlier of feeding carrots to Macka.
In the years since the 1970s, although I never lost my love of horses, motherhood and working overseas took precedence over riding. My early years of daily caring for Macka felt like a distant dream. And yet in a distant time and space, I sometimes yearned for a simple life where I could care for large herbivores. I cannot return to 1973, and am unlikely to own a horse again, but at least I could re-experience the thrill of feeding carrots to gentle giant herbivores at Monarto Safari Park.
Feeding giraffes at Monarto Safari Park in 2025. Photo Courtesy: Cathie Noble.
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.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
