unconsciousness.
The sun was high in the sky when he eventually came to. His head swam in the oppressive heat reflected off the rocks and any movement made him feel the jagged ends of bone buried in his muscles of his leg. Twisting his torso he managed to achieve a sitting position with his back against the cliff. Twenty metres in front of him he could make out the ugly hump of the croc’s snout and the ripples it created as a gently moved its tail to maintain his position against the tide.
“Now,” he hissed. “If I can get rid of you, you bastard, half my problems will be over.”
He had one round in the breach. He checked his shirt pocket for the other six he had stuffed in there back at camp, but his search for the six revealed only one. The others had obviously scattered in the mud during his fall.
He let his head fall back against the rock face and inwardly cursed. Two shots. Probably more than he would be able to get at the big lizard anyway, though it would have been nice to have had more. He carefully checked the rifle, scraped the baked mud away from the barrel, stock and trigger. Using the spare bullet he cleaned the muzzle and sights before propping the rifle up on his good leg.
If he could kill the crocodile, maybe he could float up the creek to where the sheer sides dipped low enough to provide easy access to the ground and back to camp. Maybe he could slide himself along the ground or if he could stand, use his rifle as a crutch. Once there he could try to raise help using his CB radio.
Licking chapped lips with a swollen tongue he trained the sights on the twin lumps that drifted with the tide. The water was only a meter below the base of the rock, within easy lunging distance for an attacking crocodile. It would only be two-and-half hours before the water lapped at his feet.
Slowly he squeezed the trigger, pain spreading from his finger through his injured wrist. That shot rang out and a burst of water erupted between the two lumps that slowly moved to become two separate sticks. He stared open mouthed in disbelief. In his dazed state he had shot the wrong target!
Twenty metres from the separating sticks a swirl of water showed where the croc had quickly submerged at the sound of the shot. The rifle clattered against the rock has his sweat soaked body slumped in defeat. One shot and no reason why the croc would not attack at any time. The water was close enough to him that at any moment a mad flurry could mark the last moments of his life.
Within an hour the water was breaching the top of the rock. His head ached from the glare and concentration of watching the croc. Several times the quarry had submerged. Each time his furtive searches of the rising water had been rewarded as he saw the tiny ripples caused by the surfacing in reptile. The dark snout barely showed above the water.
It could have easily been a fire-darkened panadanus fruit floating there, but half a metre away the twin lumps of the eyes were just visible. Most of the six-metre body was hidden as the crocodile ever so slowly pushed forward towards its prey on the rock. But it was much closer now, perhaps only 15m away, its tail now visible as it gently moved against the current towards the man.
He knew that a shot now would be useless. The angle and the thick bony skull would result in a ricochet. His only chance would be when the croc came closer, but it would be a gamble as to how long he could wait as the croc would use all its cunning after his wasted shot.
His injured leg had swollen and strained at his jeans while the exposed skin at the top of his boot was blotched purple. He knew that delirium would soon affect him. Lack of water meant that if the croc didn’t get him, dehydration and blood poisoning would.
It was now he started thinking about his final bullet. Should be wait and try for a final shot at the crocodile, one that might fail and his life end in further pain and drowning as the attacker grabbed him and dragged him back into the water, or use that final shot to take his own life quickly and painlessly…
A swirl 10 metres away brought him out of his stupor has the crocodile suddenly submerged. The man, panicking and thinking that this was the final attack, backed up against the wall and swung the rifle to a spot he anticipated to the croc would emerge.
“Come on you bastard,” he screamed. “Come on and we’ll go together!”
Minutes went by and the man slumped as fatigue and pain took its toll. He closed his eyes in half-consciousness and rested his head back against the cliff.
Through ringing ears the deep throb of an old single stroke engine dragged memories from his youth when his father had taken him fishing in a boat with an engine just like that. Slow, reliable and easy to work on. A smile split his cracked lips at the boyhood visions that filled his head. His father sat at the tiller while he sat in the bow with a breeze in his face and gazing across the sparkling blue water as they puttered across the lake to their favorite fishing spot.
He stiffened suddenly and was brought back to the present with the realization that he was not imagining the thump, thump, of the old motor of his boyhood. Cocking his head he was sure it was real and it was getting louder.
It was with some disbelief as he watched the faded aquamarine boat, low in the water and with scarcely any free board come around the bend in the creek. The brightly painted rail and red eye painted on the bow was not typical of the normal boats that plied these waters.
A chuckle escaped him as he realized he was about to be rescued by a party of Indonesian fishermen poaching trochus shell. A search for fresh water would have been the only thing to cause them to come up this isolated creek.
Frantically waving his arms he shouted, even though would have been impossible for them not to see him in this creek no more than 60 metres wide. An excited chatter greeted him has the boat finally drifted to a bumping halt against his rock. With agitated gestures he outlined his story.
The crew listened then moved to the far side of the boat where an animated discussion started. The crew’s conference on board the boat seemed to last forever as the crew argued amongst themselves whether this half-crazed Australian was with rescuing.
“Take me on board,” the man gasped through his pain as he struggled across his now wet rock towards the boat. “PLEASE!”
One of the crew, a young man dressed in a tattered Nike tshirt turned to him. “You wait, we decide,” he said in faltering English.
“What do you bloody well mean, decide?” the man replied incredulously. “If you leave me here I’ll be dead before you clear the creek!”
“You wait,” was the simple reply. The chatter and argument continued, with the crew casting constant glances at the man and occasional pointing in the direction of the creek mouth. Eventually they seemed to reach a decision.
“We take you to Australia fish boat we see yesterday. But you must promise us,” said the Nike man.
“Yes, yes, anything!” the man pleaded.
“You make fish boat captain not say we here, we need shell. Understand?”
“Yes, yes of course. I will stop them from reporting you and I won’t say anything till you have gone home.”
The Indonesian fishermen considered a moment.
“OK, we hurry, get good water first. All water go from here soon, “ he said pointing towards the mouth of the creek. “Hurry, Hurry.”
Several crew members leapt onto the rock and the man found himself being hoisted on board, his trusty rifle quickly spirited away as the old motor once again beat into life.
Two hours the crocodile lay on the bottom, warily sensing the thumping vibrations of the old motor as the aquamarine boat passed overhead.
Shaded by the wheelhouse, the now delirious man felt no pain has he was once again lost in the boyhood memories as the old thumping motor pushed the aquamarine boat towards the creek mouth and the open sea.
Footnote
Crystal Creek is a real place and is shown on the book cover. It is located on the far north coast of the Kimberly region of Western Australia. The author visited the site of this story in 1989. A big crocodile was sighted during his stay and the sand flies and mosqui
toes were very much in evidence! Access to the location is no longer possible since the area has since been returned to its traditional owners. The big croc is probably still there.
About the author
Matt Eliason has traveled Australia extensively and has had more jobs than he has fingers and toes, including: police officer, journalist, government communications person and currently business owner. He has three children and lives an abnormally quiet life in a small inland city in Queensland, Australia.
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