Who would have thought that a weather report could be so influential on travel plans? Possibly influential at least, to people so inclined to read such things. Had I have been less otiose and looked into the prevailing conditions, I would have been scared off from ever going to the Whitsundays. Rain for the last month solid, and no sign of reprieve for the duration of my intended visit. Queensland, beautiful one day, then shithouse for over a month! Now there's a truthful advertising campaign condemned to die straight after conception.
Signs of concern developed noticeably on all Virgin Blue passengers when aircraft turbulence nearly rearranged everyones seating position. Fear of death was probably stronger at this point than the thought that crap weather could ruin the holiday. An aborted landing, then a bouncing landing that should have been aborted, answered the prayers of safe passage. God was only answering the big ones today though, as prayers for decent weather were consigned to the heavenly waste bucket.
An old friend of Mattys, Jim, picked us up from the airport and took us to his pad in the wannabe thriving metropolis of Aislie beach. That the small towns name had the word 'beach' in it, did wonders for the dreams of fun and frolicking I had been entertaining. That I never saw a 'beach' in the time I was there, did nothing for fulfilling those dreams and left me with an aftertaste probably undeserved by a place beautiful in the absence of such inclement weather.
Luckily enough, Matty and I came armed with a sufficiently large quantity of beer, no schedule and a penchant for carnage. The first night set the standard with Mattys life threatening dance manoeuvers scoring him a one way trip out the pub door, (coincidently and misleadingly called 'Shenanigans' considering their displeasure at Mattys enthusiasm) minus the shoes he had thrown around in his ebullience. Getting out of the taxi once home, I snapped the top knuckle of my middle finger back in the closing door. Too liquored to care, I then ignored previous rooftop experiences that were hampering my efforts to get up on to the garage roof and woke Jim's flatmate to let us in. Ever so cautiously I then fell off the roof, fortuitously landing on my feet and suffering only a scraped elbow for my bravery / stupidity.
Upshot of the first nights proceedings; Matty spent most of his weeks budget on crap pizza and Jims flat mate moved out never to be seen again. Jim's younger brother Jeremy, or Jem, joined in when we moved to a lush pad that Jim had to house sit for the weekend. Jem's phenomenal guitar skills inspired me to want to learn to play music and the bass is where I am setting my sights. This is for no other reason than appearing to the uneducated like me, as being an easier option. Not as easy as learning the harmonica, but far more cool.
Second night was very low key thanks to Jim “folding quicker than Superman on laundry day”, according to Jem. The third night started ominously when Matty had declared mid afternoon that he couldn't stop himself from “just guzzling piss”. Sure enough, it ended with Matty voluntarily getting sprayed by a bouncer with a fire hose and spending $60 in the same pizza joint. Molly the pizza shop owner even managed to sell Matty a t-shirt and cap, and mislead a certain drunk vegetarian into eating 3 slices of ham covered pizza. Fern, a very recent convert to the team, took her half chewed ham pizza slice a lot harder than I did. Possibly because it was the first time it had happened to her as a vegetarian, whereas I have lost count how many times it has happened to me in my 9 years of being a lettuce lover. That indiscretion was equaled the following day anyway, when a strong taste alerted me to the presence of a considerable beef injection in my pastie.
The highlight of that night for everyone, was the drop dead stunning German backpackers Jim, and the notoriously unlucky Jem, managed to pick up. These 2 Thelma and Louise impersonators had stacked their holidaying car registered in a friends name and ran from the scene of the crime. Their car was a wreck held together by duct tape. An $800 insurance cheque was immediately sent for the hospital bill, but the liquor store got that cash instead of the hospital. A few other unroadworthy car related fines, that the girls plan to smokebomb out on, mean their unlucky friend who left them the car will undoubtedly struggle to get back into the country if she ever tries. Jim and Gem obviously thought themselves so lucky to have scored them, and didn't concern themselves with the fact they were technically harboring known criminals.
These outlaws joined our steadily increasing posse to witness a pole dancing comp the following night. Pole dancing being a euphemism for standing next to a pole and wobbling your bare breasts around. An unpopular local girl and a German guy had no chance of upstaging an American lesbian who sealed her $250 winnings by forcing her girlfriend to come onstage and do her victory dance for her. All of which Matty tried to video tape with the camera turned off.
Jem had skipped work to spend an extra day with his prize catch but the fifth night saw his departure, as Matty and I took a boat out and went camping on South Molle Island with a school friend and her partner. Matty celebrated his return to solid ground with a generous round of regurgitation that finally ended the punishment he had dealt his own body the night before. It is freely admitted by this tales protagonist that camping was an unusual activity to undertake given the conditions. While being overcast the entire time though, the rain held long enough on the first day to be able to spend more time outdoors than just walking from residence to drinking establishment. We snorkeled in water that was warmer than the air above it, and much warmer again once I tried to give its azure blue colours more of a yellow tinge.
My drinking intake that night, comparative to the booze free night Matty was having, earned me the nickname Guzzletron! I take my hat off to Mattys prodigious intake of the stuff, so while the moniker did induce one of the holidays many laughing fits, I did all I could to ensure the name didn't stick. Copious intake was necessary that night because I knew that 4 people in a 3 man tent would only work at a swingers party, an idea of mine that was considered but ultimately rejected. So I slept under a tarp. A tarp that often hung vertically thanks to the gale force winds. My saving grace was my -10c sleeping bag that still maintained a modicum of warmth while soaking up all the water in a 5 metre radius.
I got up the next day, rang the water out of my grundies and thanked the rain for continuing long enough to convince everyone that we should leave straight away. The freezing cold boat ride back was the longest amount of time we were to spend outdoors for the trip. Or perhaps it just felt that way because I was frozen to the bone and constantly getting a face full of ocean love from the tinny smashing through the rough seas.
That night was my last and a relatively low key affair was planned for Jims place. I had nominated myself as cook for the trip, as at least that way I could guarantee the food would be ham or beef free. My reputation from the previous meals enticed Fern to try and pick my brain for some tasty recipes. Unfortunately Jim had brought some weed that day and I was far too stoned to cook a decent meal, let alone explain to anyone how to do it. End result, vegetable risotto with THE sweetest caramelised onions ever included in a dish. It didn't matter though, as everyone else was too bent to notice.
I awoke the next day to a trashed house that I felt somewhat obligated to clean. Most of my possessions had dried sufficiently enough and time had come to leave. A few kilometres towards the airport, a familiar face finally showed itself; the sun. By the time we arrived at the airport, there was nothing but blue sky. Matty was to stay for another four days, and I'm sure he was thankful that I was no longer there to use his Bacchanalian excesses as a relative measure to make mine look less anarchic.
