JOY-FILLED NEWRY ISLAND CHRISTMAS CHAPTER ONE

Newry Island....during calm weather (Here where I now live we've just been through the mayhem caused by the unwelcome, uninvited visit by Cyclone Alfred. We were without power, and all the problems that caused, for a week, and longer. No water, no flushing toilets, contents of fridge and freezers tossed, no phones, no everything! But, there were/are folk worse off than I was/am. Fortunately, here where I live we didn't suffer any flooding. Many, many trees were destroyed by Alfred's uncaring fury) In the early Nineties I lived, alone, on Newry Island. To be honest, not entirely, alone, “Pushkin” and “Rimsky” my two cats were my constant companions and bedfellows. The island lies within the Great Barrier Reef World Heritage Area. Since 2001 only camping is allowed on the island. The buildings were demolished; only shells of their former selves remain. Once upon a time, back in the early to mid-1900s, Newry Island housed one of the earliest resorts in that northern area, albeit a very humble, small resort. In some ways, “resort” isn’t the correct description of what was on offer to visitors. Newry Island lies between Rabbit Island and Outer Newry Island; with Acacia and Mausoleum Islands nearby to its south-east. Newry sits in the azure waters of the Coral Sea, 25kms north of Mackay; and few kilometres north of Seaforth, as fish swim, or as seagulls fly. A well-maintained boat ramp at the 22km long, meandering Victor Creek, 4kms north of Seaforth is the main departure point for Newry Island. Under my care were the island’s basic accommodation, bar and dining facilities, along with running the generators (one large generator, and one a little smaller), as well as keeping a close eye or two on the dam that supplied water to the main building and the cabins. It was my job to handle everything it took to run the small, unsophisticated resort. From my first sight on the first day I crossed from the mainland to the island, an island I’d never visited before, I fell in love the run-down resort with its cabins built close to the foreshore facing the ocean; its simple, straightforward, unrefined main dining/bar area in need of repair harboured many stories between its walls. The buildings reminded me of the seaside as it used to be when I was a small child; a long time before our coastal areas and tropical islands became clones of Hawaii, Florida, and similar glossy, “plastic” holiday areas. No rain, or very, very little, had fallen during the nine months since my arrival on the island. The dam was at a disturbingly low level; it had gone beyond hovering. Daily its level decreased. Lowering the dam’s pump became an everyday chore for me to enable water to flow down to the main building, the guest cabins, and to the outside public amenities block. Eight self-contained cabins, the bar/dining/kitchen area, and a camping site were serviced by the dam’s water supply. Fortunately, visitors to Newry understood my dire water shortage. In most cases, they happily obeyed my requests to not waste the precious commodity. Christmas was drawing close. The eight cabins were booked out for the Christmas/New Year break; all by family groups. My plans for the “Silly Season” were well underway. The larder and bar were being stocked. I made sure I had more than sufficient supplies of diesel for the running of the generators. The main holding tank was full, and I had a couple of spare drums…just in case! Everything was running smoothly…I was on top of it all. The drums of diesel had to be ferried across from the mainland on the island’s large wooden raft, which was moored reasonably close inshore. Cyclone Joy formed out in the Coral Sea, off the coast from Cairns on 18th December, 1990. Joy, with the promise of little joy, slowly travelled westward before she remained hovering off the coast of Cairns for almost a week, causing rough seas and high tides along the northern beaches between Port Douglas and Cairns; teasing everyone’s equilibrium. With little or no forewarning, on Christmas Eve, tiring of the Cairns’ area, Cyclone Joy picked up speed and headed southwards. From the outset of Cyclone Joy’s appearance on the 18th, I’d been monitoring her activity and progress daily; not only by my air-sea radio, but also by frequent telephone contact with friends who lived at Clifton Beach, north of Cairns. When living on a tropical island, or at any of the coastal and nearby coastal areas in North Queensland, it’s mandatory to keep track of a cyclone’s erratic movements. They enjoy keeping us mere humans on our toes. My commonsense kicked into gear a week or so before Christmas. I knew I'd need someone to give me a hand through the busy time ahead. A couple of weeks earlier I'd met a very nice young girl, Alice, who had visited the island for a weekend with her young boyfriend. Alice's father, Ian, was a guest on the island at the same time; so the young folk joined him for a couple of days. Rick, Alice's boyfriend was a nice young lad. He was working as a jackaroo on a property out from Sarina, south of Mackay. Rick was also “off the land”. His family were beef cattle folk, running a large property in the Kingaroy region. Alice had taken a gap-year off from her university studies in Melbourne, having decided to travel around Australia, much to her mother's dismay. Alice had been working as a governess at another cattle property outside of Sarina, but when I met her she was no longer employed in that role. Biding her time, deciding what she would do next, Alice was staying at a backpackers' hostel in Mackay, run by friends of her father, Ian. I had a light bulb moment. Alice would be my ideal work companion throughout the Christmas/New Year period. Fortunately, when I offered her the job (a very low paying position...I couldn't afford to pay her much over and beyond her board and keep...including access to the bar!), she jumped at the chance. I collected her up by boat from the mainland the following day. No time was wasted dilly-dalllying. Alice and I had ball together. She and I had clicked from the first moment we’d met. We had so much fun. I was old enough to be her mother, but we got on like a house on fire. She was a great, intelligent young woman with a zest for life. After a few days Alice asked if it would be okay if Jill, her mother, came to the island to spend Christmas. They'd not seen each other for a while. I agreed, of course. Jill lived in Melbourne. Alice’s mother was thrilled at the invitation. Mother like daughter, Jill wasted no time in heading north to Queensland...and Newry Island. I planned to pick her up Christmas morning along with other guests, day-trippers, who had booked to come across to the island for Christmas Day. All was set in place. What could go wrong? Christmas Eve arrived on Newry Island, bringing with it a clear blue sky and gentle sea breezes. The temperature was around 28C…perfect summer weather; perfect Christmas weather, with not a hint of a storm on the horizon, let alone a cyclone. My day was filled with a multitude of chores as I prepared the following day’s Christmas lunch for my expected 30 guests. I kept patting myself on the back for having the good sense to ask Alice to be my offsider. She was a smart, intelligent young lady who was wonderful with people. She was the life of the party. I couldn't have wished for more. My Christmas lunch menu consisted mainly of cold fare, accompanied by few hot dishes. The final preparation of the menu I’d complete on Christmas morning after I'd picked up the balance of my guests. Two boat trips were planned for Christmas morning across to Victor Creek on the mainland to collect some guests who’d booked to stay on the island for a week, intending to enjoy New Year on the island as well as the day-trippers. Among the day-trippers were some overseas backpackers. My holidaying guests who were booked for a few days or more were mainly family groups with little children. Along with the family groups, a couple of young fellows aged within the mid to late twenties, who often stopped off at the island during their fishing expeditions, chose the island to be their Christmas destination, as well. Early Christmas Eve morning, with broad smiles across their friendly faces, they arrived by their own boat, a 12-foot runabout. They anchored it close inshore. I suggested to deaf ears that it would be more sensible to anchor their boat out near where my boat was moored in the deep waters of the channel between Newry Island and Outer Newry Island; but I’m a woman…what would I know? Christmas Eve evening we partied a bit, of course. Later on in the night once the guests returned to their cabins after spending a fun evening mingling at the bar enjoying a few Christmas spirits of the liquid kind after a seafood laden barbecue, Alice and I finished decorating the extensive, temporary buffet table that was to hold the elaborate luncheon feast. The table was adorned with palm fronds, banana leaves and bougainvillea blooms; along with various other specimens of indigenous greenery befitting a tropical island. Once satisfied with our efforts, we stood back and admired our excellent creativity. The long, decorated table looked spectacular. The Christmas tree stood proudly at one end of the dining room. Alice and I had found a suitable dead, weathered remnant of what had once been a living tree. Sprayed white, it had been given a rebirth; a second life. It looked festive; sparse, but it stood proudly in its place. Glimmering silver, white, red and green baubles hung from its spindly limbs; the glistening balls of varying sizes reflected the moon’s rays as they shimmered through the full-length windows that looked out across the beach to the softly murmuring sea; a perfect ending to a perfect Christmas Eve. I felt excited about the day ahead. The Christmas spirit on the island was alive and well; it was contagious. Those who had children assured the little ones that Santa knew where they were. Lemonade and slices of my “island-made” rich fruit cake were left on the end of the bar for Santa’s anticipated arrival during the night. My luncheon preparations were all but completed. Feeling confident everything would run smoothly, my first Christmas Day on Newry Island couldn’t arrive quickly enough. I could see only calm waters ahead. By 8 am Christmas morning I’d already completed two return boat trips between the island and the Victor Creek boat ramp to fetch the balance of my guests, including the day-trippers who were intent on returning to the mainland later in the afternoon after a leisurely tropical island Christmas lunch. In all, including the guests already settled in the cabins, on Christmas Day the final number of guests increased. Each and everyone was keen to partake in my special luncheon fare, and the island’s ambience. Among my guests staying beyond Christmas Day were five young children; and among those kiddies were twins, aged around 20 months. After my second group of visitors disembarked, I motored out to the mooring to secure my 21-foot Trojan De Havilland, powered by a 175hp motor. I then rowed ashore in my little red tender. The little dinghy had two wheels beneath its stern, making it easy for me to pull the boat along the sand. Upon reaching the beach, I pulled the dinghy right up to the foreshore, and tied it securely to one of She-Oaks fringing the beach. Once satisfied everyone, including Jill, Alice's mother, was happily settled in and relaxed, I raced into the kitchen to begin finalising my luncheon preparations. Alice kept an eye on the bar because I couldn’t be in two places at once, although I felt I was actually in a hundred places at once! Along with my two regular fishermen guests, my much appreciated assistant tended to everyone’s requirements if needed. So that end was well-covered therefore taking a lot of pressure off my shoulders. I had no concerns anyone would take advantage of the situation. My guests couldn’t go anywhere. They were on an island surrounded by water; with me the sole operator of the boat. I was their only means of escape. From the moment I stepped into the kitchen, I didn’t see daylight again until around 11.30 am when I emerged from the galley to begin laying out salads and various other cold platters onto the long buffet table in the dining area, in readiness for the hungry hordes to descend. Glancing towards the ocean, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The weather was unrecognisable to what it had been only three or so hours earlier when I’d returned from my second trip to the mainland. The conditions had rapidly changed for the worst. A frenzied sea was being whipped up by a boisterous, unrelenting wind. The gale whirled erratically and wildly. The once clear sky was now covered in low-hanging, steely-grey clouds that groaned and moaned from their heavy load. The burdensome clouds threatened to explode at any moment, and dump their cargo. I hadn't the time, nor did I have the ability to row out to my boat on its mooring in the channel. To try to do so would have been madness. When I first arrived on Newry months previously, I’d been advised that in the event of a cyclone, or similar wild weather, for me to anchor the island boat securely away up in the far reaches of the creek across the channel; the creek that ran through the neighbouring Outer Newry Island. The turbulent system now racing southwards was moving too quickly for me to act.

NEWRY ISLAND TALES

 

Me on the right with a guest as we fooled around entertaining other guests!

 

 

 Posing with a couple of guests out front of the restaurant, bar, kitchen building.  Pushkin's, Rimsky's, and my  "quarters" were upstairs

21ft De Havilland Trojan with 175hp motor

The humble little “resort”….using the description “resort” is, perhaps, a little extravagant…on Newry Island might have been a run-down, “past its use-by date island resort”, but it had many things to offer that the fancier resorts couldn’t or wouldn’t.

Because of my regular, abundant supply of seafood supplied to me by various visiting trawlers, my island guests were catered to with large feasts of fresh fish, prawns and crabs at a very low cost.

Sometimes, when yachts were anchored out in the channel between Newry Island and Outer Newry, the yachties collected oysters from the rocks on Outer Newry Island, and brought them across to me. I would lay-out piles of shucked oysters on large trays, sprinkle them with Worcestershire Sauce and diced bacon over the top, and then place the laden trays under the salamander (grill). It was worth every shucking moment just to see the looks on my guests’ faces when I presented them with the large, metal trays filled with Oysters Kilpatrick. Not only would I present oysters in this manner, but I would cook some on the barbecue in their shells and, also serve others natural, of course. It was an “eat as much and as many as you like” attitude barbecue with cold beer or wine to wash them down, or soft drinks, if preferred.  

Just outside from the bar area on the concrete deck looking out to the ocean and neighbouring islands was the area where I cooked on many of the evenings when I had guests on the island. A large six burner gas barbecue held pride of position, together with a couple or so outdoor tables and chairs. The moment I fired up the barbecue my two cats, Pushkin and Rimsky, were right there, salivating, eagerly awaiting the evening’s fare. They knew what was to follow. They weren’t silly. Their diet was mainly seafood, with some fresh meat thrown in for good measure. Pushkin and Rimsky didn’t even have to get their paws dirty as the guests willingly peeled prawns for them. What a life!  My two cats never concerned themselves with the wild life.  Sometimes at night, they would quietly sit on the window sill upstairs where “bedroom” was and watch the possums play on the roof, only two or three feet away from them.  Never did they make any attempts to interrupt the possums’ playtime.  At one stage, little birds built their hanging nests on a window at the rear of the upstairs area, and proceeded to raise their family in their safe, “within reach” home/haven.  Pushkin and Rimsky showed no interest whatsoever.  The birds were safe, and I believe, they knew they were.

During the day, the guests swam in the calm waters of the Coral Sea; relaxed with a book; some fished, others lingered under the palm trees fringing the beach contemplating their lives or whatever, or went for walks across the island through the forest. The children played freely and safely on the beach.

One morning a koala decided to join in the leisurely lifestyle by comfortably perched in a low tree all throughout the weekend at the start of the trail across to the other side of the island. My island guests, particularly the children, were delighted by its appearance. I asked everyone to look but not disturb or touch the beautiful animal. My request they adhered to, happy just to look. The koala remained in his spot until the Tuesday, when the winds changed direction to south-easterly. Once the winds arrived, he moved further inland.

Even though I was busy most of the time, running the bar, catering, driving the boat to and from the boat ramp at Victor Creek across on the mainland, ferrying guests and bringing provisions to the island, and doing my other daily chores, I relaxed too, as my guests weren’t demanding. Often during the afternoon, I would build a fire on the beach. After the evening barbecue, the fire was lit, often a guitar or two would magically appear, and a sing-a-long inevitably started, mingled with lots of conversation and laughter.

The beach in front of the bar and dining area was relatively safe for swimming. When the tide went out, it went out a long, long way leaving mud flats out far to battle. However, when the tide was in, the water flowed gently over the clean, golden sand that caressed the shoreline, making it an ideal swimming spot.

Because of the position of the bay and the distance from the warmer waters of the mainland, the island didn’t have a box-jellyfish problem. The stingers are more prevalent in the warmer, coastal and estuary waters. Similar conditions applied at the main beach at Hinchinbrook Island Resort. Pulling into the boat ramp at Victor Creek on the mainland one day, as I jumped out of the boat I spotted a large box-jellyfish languishing in the shallow water at the bank of the creek. I stayed well clear of it.

I hated having to take the De Havilland Trojan the island boat with a 175hp outboard motor, out when it was low tide, as I would have to plough through the mud to reach it, not being able to row my little boat out to where it was moored. The De Havilland was always moored a couple of feet out from the bank of the deep channel between Newry Island and Outer Newry to make it permanently sea-worthy, particularly if, God forbid, an emergency arose. Naturally, I tried to organise all my boat trips to the mainland around the high tides. This was not always possible, of course.

A few day-trippers arrived each day over the Easter weekend, setting up their own picnics along the beach or at the tables under the trees. Fishermen came and went after a couple of cleansing, refreshing cold ales at the bar. The island was alive with happy, trouble-free holidaymakers. That is, until Easter Sunday night when a “tinnie” bearing four, drunken, young fishermen arrived. I’d never set eyes on them before, or after, for that matter.

They staggered noisily up to the bar shortly after 9pm demanding drinks and food. In no uncertain terms, I told them I thought they had had enough to drink by the looks and sounds of them. I wasn’t happy about having to feed them. There was no way I was going to start cooking them a meal at that hour of the night.  By this time, my island guests had eaten at the barbecue, and were by then up along the beach enjoying each other’s company around the fire.

The rowdy infiltrators demanded something to eat.

“All I have left are meat pies. I will heat some up for you,” I told them, reluctantly. “But, I’m telling you this…if I see the pies again…you guys will be cleaning up the mess, not me!”

I didn’t need a crystal ball to know I would “see” the pies again! Of course, I was right in my assumption! I handed the young fellows the hose, and made them clean down the deck where the regurgitated pies covered the concrete. When they finished cleaning up their mess, I asked them to leave immediately.

Upon noticing the fire up the beach, the renegades informed me they were going to join the guests.

“No, you’re not!” I said firmly. “They’re my paying guests enjoying time with their children. They’re entitled to their privacy. You will not go up there. You’ll get into your boat and go back to wherever you came from! You will leave them alone! Now, get going!”

They mumbled as they staggered down the beach towards their boat. I watched from the deck as they manoeuvred the she-oaks and palm trees. Hitting the centre of the beach, they veered right in the direction of the fire and my guests.

Letting out a growl, I headed off after the pests, catching up with them just as they were approaching the guests. Steering them about face, I marched them back along the beach. They didn’t notice that I was walking at an angle, forcing them closer and closer to the water’s edge. They were too busy cursing me. Far too busy calling me every name they could muster to notice with each step they were getting into ankle-deep water. My feet were still dry.

“I’ve heard it all before.” Was my non-interested reaction to their abuse.  “Say what you wish, but you are not staying here!”

Continuing with their diatribe, one of them blurted out for me to take care of a particular portion of his anatomy that is akin to male poultry. As quick as a flash, without thought, I retaliated with a very apt reply, which embarrassed him in front of his mates. Without another word from any of them, like meek little lambs they stumbled into their boat. Without a backward glance, they headed back out to sea. I had no idea where they’d come from, and I’m sure they had no idea where they were headed.  It was not my worry. If they were stupid enough to travel at night in their little “tinnie” in the state they were in, I wasn’t going to be their keeper, nor was I going to accept their abuse.

Their bravado was restored the further they travelled from the shore. Their infantile abuse re-commenced. Around and around like the idiots they were, they circled one of the trawlers anchored out in the bay, shouting and yahooing.

By this time, the men guests joined me. The fellow who had donated the crabs, agreed with me in that we hoped “Rollo”, a rather gruff trawler-man who never set foot on the island, but always anchored out in the channel before heading to Mackay, would wake up. “Rollo”, like all trawlers, carried shot-guns on board. How we wished “Rollo” would wake up. I reckon those four fellows shouting abuse would have sobered up pretty damn quickly and high-tailed it away from there while crying out for their mothers!

I joined my guests around the fire after the unwanted disruption. The women informed me they’d told their husbands to give me a hand. Their husbands all said, “Naah…Lee’ll be okay…she’ll be right! She’ll take care of them!”

“Thanks, guys!” I laughed.

They would have been there for me if I had needed them, but I preferred to handle situations like that myself, where possible if or when they arose.

From the direction my inebriated, bad-mannered visitors had headed out to sea, I think they probably ended up on the west coast waters of South America!

By the Tuesday, everyone had departed. Once more I was alone on the island except for Pushkin and Rimsky, and of course, the koala, and the rest of the native population.  It had been a wonderful Easter, unwelcome visitors notwithstanding.

I settled into a peaceful few days until the next boat arrived, or my next trip to the mainland to meet new guests. I was grateful for the respite as the south-easterly winds had arrived. The winds always made it difficult for me to row my little dinghy out to my island boat, the 21-foot Trojan De Havilland, moored out in the channel. It was a sight to behold, me trying to “marry” my little row boat up to the bigger motor boat with strong south-easterlies blowing!

The link below gives you a bit of the history of Newry Island.

http://www.abc.net.au/tropic/stories/s1128222.htm

https://www.mackayandwhitsundaylife.com/article/annette-kellerman-a-mermaid-in-our-midst (This link will take you to a bit of the history of Newry Island that is linked to the swimmer, Annette Kellerman..."Million Dollar Mermaid" starring Esther Williams as Kellerman. On 24 August 1905, aged 19, Kellermann was one of the first women to attempt to swim across the English Channel. A dover ship pilot said Kellermann was not permitted to swim any further on her attempts, despite his opinion being that she could have kept going for much longer. After three unsuccessful swims she declared, "I had the endurance but not the brute strength." The first woman to attempt a Channel crossing had been Austrian Baroness Walburga von Isacescu, in September 1900. She had made a previous effort the month before alongside Ted Heaton, but had to leave the water several miles out in the channel due to sea-sickness. Kellermann later challenged and defeated von Isacescu in a Danube race. Annette Kellerman's sister and her husband lived on Newry Island back in the 1930s. The story goes that Annette swam from the island across to Seaforth on the mainland. https://beachsafe.org.au/beach/qld/mackay/seaforth/newry-island-3

FURTHER TO MY PREVIOUS POST....

                            

                                           

 And this is a photo taken of my friend Joy (on the left) and me at last Sunday's market.  We were having a most enjoyable catch-up over over coffee, sausage rolls and a custard tart.

See!  We've not changed a bit....since last Sunday!  

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