Sydney to Cairns – Part Three

The Scottish sea captain was waiting to show us to our houseboat, which bobbed serenely in the inky black night-time waters of Sanctuary Cove. This was a gem of a rental that Chris had dug out from the cobwebs of the internet. Stepping aboard we discovered a slick interior, several bedrooms, furnishings fit for a prince and a spacious sun deck. Already this promised to be the Boat that Rocked!

We stocked up with hundreds of dollars of food and drink from the shops near the marina and ventured on board, vowing not to return to dry land for three days. Katie cooked a big pot of chilli for everyone in the ship’s galley. Beers were quaffed. Memories of this first evening on the boat have been pushed out by what followed, but I assume it was pleasant.

The next day the sea captain returned and fired up the houseboat’s engine. The ropes were cast off and we were out into the ocean. Luxury mansions drifted past and the skyscrapers of Surfers Paradise appeared on the horizon. We travelled maybe fifteen miles down the coast to a secluded bay and dropped anchor.

The boat towed a small dinghy for trips to shore. After a brief instruction on how to start its engine, the captain left the dinghy and boat in our semi-capable hands. It was time to unpack the beach towels and have a dip in the ocean.

Despite the afternoon sun, the water was quite cold and choppy. Dave and I experimented with floating a cheese-plate in the sea. It ended in disaster, with several crackers and a selection of continental cheeses heading to a watery grave. Such is the price of decadence.

That evening, we threw another party. This was an ‘un-birthday’ celebration as several of us had birthdays due. We drank some more and listened to recordings of a band performing Queen songs in Japanese. The Japanese Freddie amused us with his theatrical panache. I retired quite early and missed the birthday cake, but Caz ensured everyone else got a slice. From what I understand she turned quite sinister.

I awoke very early the next morning and spent several hours writing and watching the sun rise. Once the others had risen, six of us – Alex, Dave, Chris, Lindsay, Katie and I – decided to take a trip on the dinghy to the nearby sand island. We spent a carefree hour on the kilometre-long needle of unspoilt sands, in the brilliant sun, chasing the swarms of tiny blue crabs which scampered from our Godzilla-like footsteps.

The problems came when we tried to return to the houseboat. The boat’s engine wouldn’t start. We tried all the advice the sea captain gave us and nothing worked. Nightfall was only a couple of hours away and the houseboat was too far to swim. The dinghy held four people so we needed to make two trips to ferry everyone back. Chris cranked the engine frantically for around five minutes before we finally got it going. He, Lindsay, Katie and I were in the boat.

The following five minutes were a blur of adrenaline and survival instinct lunges. I was nearest to the motor and pumped the throttle to keep it alive. Stuck it in forward gear. The boat surged wildly across the incoming swell. A wave hit. I pulled at the rudder. We careered off the other way, into deep water. Where the hell were we going?

Another wave hit. We began to take on water rapidly. The boat was vanishing under the waves. One of us grabbed the bucket and began bailing it out. The rest of us lay on the boat to prevent it capsizing and scooped out water with our hands. Somehow we didn’t sink and made it back to tie up at the houseboat. Alex and Dave, stranded on the island, were brought back by some kindly locals.

A stiff drink was needed. When I turned to look back at the island, the area was swarming with boats and concerned people searching the sand. ‘A bunch of tourists in too deep.’ It must happen from time to time. I wonder if we made the local news. The dinghy bobbed innocently in the ocean like nothing had happened. I dare say the bastard was cursed.

Not to be outdone by its smaller cousin, the houseboat was providing its own share of technical wobbles. The grey water pump malfunctioned and regurgitated foul-smelling effluent through the shower’s plughole. The ship’s toilet, already an experience in avant-garde noise art and sphinctral discipline, was now full up and beeping madly. A meaty wave from a passing ship struck us and the boat began listing oddly to one side. Add all of these ingredients together and you’ve got a bad package holiday to Sharm El-Sheikh. I think we were ready to return to dry land.

Nevertheless those three days on the houseboat were magical and unforgettable. Next day, as we chugged back to the marina, the group reclining on the sun deck was a picture of contentment. Caz had failed to apply suncream and turned bright pink like a lobster. We all envied her colour-changing abilities.

Everyone had ‘sea legs’ for days afterwards. The world span slowly round us as if moored to a buoy in a serene maritime bay. Next up: another day in (Surfers) Paradise. Katie cooked sausages in the hostel kitchen while I sorted out my travel plans on a borrowed laptop. I was to part ways with the group in a few days.

We celebrated our return to dry land with yet another piss-up. Hitting the pubs and bars of Surfers Paradise, everything seemed eerily reminiscent of Blackpool. It was full-on. Let’s be under no illusions: Surfers is not a quiet glass of red wine by the fire and a discussion about philosophy; it’s an evening doing shots of tequila through a fire-hose in a crack den. Dressed as a priest.

Never mind, the slap-up breakfast the next morning, in an all-you-can-eat fry-up cafe, made up for any perceived trauma. We strolled to the vans, hungover, taking photos on the golden sands. The views were stunning. I wasn’t taken with this huge, bristling elephant of a tourist resort, but Surfers has an absolutely fantastic beach.