Inspired by a family trip up the Murray on a houseboat

We kept a ‘ships log’ just for a joke. It listed departure times, and how many kilometres we were along the river. Occasionally, the deckhands would make observations about the weather and such, though this was rare; most of the time we were just too busy lounging, jumping off the roof (which was very much illegal), sitting back enjoying cold beer, or swinging from the lone rope swings attached to trees at random points along the way. Whoever happened to be at the helm kept our ship on course – a very demanding job which consisted of giving the helm a few turns to port or starboard every 15 minutes. A wonderful thing. It gave the helmsman a lovely sense of control without requiring too much responsibility, nor being too stressful. Was actually a nice bit of sport:

This is the closest I’ll ever get to being a pirate…!  

Ribald laughter and stirring pirate-talk. Swimming after dinner with the gentle moon, soft waters and swallows dipping above us. More jumping from the roof and forcing the ship’s dog to accompany us in the water, watching him scramble out in alarm and amusing ourselves over it. The whippet did not stand a chance. Some of the deck hands bedded down upon the poop deck, with the moon and her star behind the muggy clouds – much like Robert Louis Stevenson’s lines:

Bed in the bush with stars to see

Bread I dip in the river

There’s the life for a man like me,

There’s the life forever!  

Ship’s breakfast a standard affair and the ship’s cook did not fail to please. Mushrooms, bacon and eggs, tomatoes, coffee and bread. Being the beginning of the journey, rations were full to overflowing. Ale ran like the river, and ship’s biscuit descended like manna in the desert. The crew and deckhands ate themselves into oblivion and then came back for more – a long, drawn-out affair. After which, one of the cabin-girls stood at the sink for ages washing every plate, every coffee-stained mug that kept coming and coming… suds up to her elbows, sweat, dead flies in the water.      

Slight rain shower mid-morning and the deckhands did some more dodgy jumping from the roof once the sun came out. One young crewmember took the opportunity to run through the crew’s quarters, galloping out onto the forecastle and catapulting himself straight out into the green river. It turned out these sorts of antics were contagious. For only a little while later, the Captain himself felt inclined to plunge in, just for fun, and ended up faceplanting with a great splash: laughter from the ship’s Mistress, much spluttering, hacking and dripping from the Captain as he hauled himself on deck.    

Voices and laughter echoed off the cliffs, and we were plunged into utter silence as the engines were cut to allow for a quick retrieval of the Captain who began feeling quite uneasy as he saw where the boat was headed. Straight into the cliffs it was, for which an irresponsible deckhand got blamed and received a good cuff over the ears for his negligence:    

Hey! Who’s steering the old girl?

And one of the pretty young cabin-girls ran down to ascertain whether a second pair of hands was needed to avoid a disaster of the worst kind. With much dexterity, it was. No plunging into the cliffs for our happy seamen today!    

Manoeuvring and docking were the two activities that required much concentration and patience, especially with certain members of the crew. One crewmate took her turn at mooring, and amid shouts and a driving wind from the east, she managed to set her square against the bank, with much frowning and unnecessary, angry outburst of expression. And then:

Turn right! Turn right – RIIIIGGHT! Grab the robe – tie it to that tree over there…!

The helms-lady fighting the wind like mad to keep her straight for mooring, the boat’s stern whipping too far to port and then to starboard. More yells from the bank and an extra lad in the cabin for assistance and the boat was secured. The helms-lady received a few taps on the shoulder for her effort after it was all over and many warm encouragements, although she didn’t feel like they were warranted after her verbal tirade and poor attitude. She ungraciously accepted the congratulations and rose from the cabin. Later, she was seen up on the poop deck, comforting herself with an ale and a ragged copy of Newingston’s Adventures in the Sahara.  

The ship’s dog was not too intelligent, and some would have preferred a cat. But the crew made the best of it and Skinny-Whippet (or Skins for short) became a useful boating companion: getting underfoot and yelping for no apparent reason, timidly easing himself into the river only to come out stinking, rolling around in the sandy dirt and giving everyone the most pathetic stares:

Skins – come here Skins! Keep him out on deck, he’ll get the place filthy. SKINS, out!

Skinny-Whippet had slunk inside and had begun to vomit all over the clean crew quarters. This wasn’t good enough behaviour for a ship’s dog and Skins was ordered outside to be whipped. If that didn’t work, the ship’s Mistress would be forced to give him a good keel-haul to drive the rebellion from him. Poor Skins – wasn’t his fault, really – tagging along on this unseemly boat-ride only to end up feeling very poorly, and everyone giving him cuddles and kissing his soft ears whilst all he wanted to do was to roll around on some green grass and get some trusty ground under his paws. Even the one couch in the ship was forbidden him – he had to content himself with a mangey old basket, which he did – to his credit – with humble nobility and a great deal of character. He was, after all, a descendant of the great English whippet hunters and possessed a removed sort of dignity which no one failed to notice. His purity of manner was a credit to the ship.     

We remained moored in that place for hours, while the boat swung to and fro on her ropes and a rowdy card game ensued, during which the good Captain demanded a purging of vocabularies, many loyalties being tested and mateship under strain. Some of the crew dispersed to doze upon the poop deck, or to climb up and settle themselves in the crows-nest where they could keep watch of other boats on the river. After a few hours, all agreed to put out from our unsheltered position and find a better, as the ropes were taught to port and the boat rocked unpleasantly, causing a few of the crew to turn slightly green. I will not even attempt to describe how poor Skins felt, all wrapped around himself in his basket on the floor. With the night fast approaching, it seemed a risk to venture out into the brisk wind, but the Captain was a capital fellow and we trusted his ability unfailingly:

Oh well, we’re all hale and hearty – quite fit for an adventure,

said one of the cabin girls and so we put to with a strong south-easterly to starboard and all hands were engaged in getting her out of the banks and into the middle of the river. Passed Bow Hill on our starboard side, and kept our eyes peeled for a sheltered spot to spend the night.

***

‘Twas back to Bow Hill in the morning to exchange passengers – waved at people from the forecastle and they waved back. A little time of upheaval as the helmsman kept her steady against the bank. Attempting to dock that night, we sailed past many fine mooring spots, none of which allowed ships. Crudely painted signs were nailed up on trees, or swinging on ropes, and most all of them stated things like: ‘No houseboats – private property’ or ‘No mooring allowed’. We were hard put to find a decent shelter leeward when an opportune moment presented itself: a crewmember spied a little bank to port with two perfect mooring trees and only one suspicious looking wooden sign nailed to one of them. On closer inspection we read ‘Keep Out’ – which suited us perfectly since we were not really ‘going in’ anyway, only using the trees for mooring and keeping to our cabins as one does when confined to the limits of a floating vessel. We gingerly stepped off the gangplank to survey the area, not feeling particularly welcome although it was Crown Land.       

Well, I can’t say these river folk are very friendly!              

That evening, most of the deck hands slept stowed away rather than up on deck, the wind being too strong to starboard to warrant a good night’s sleep. Skins slept with the cabin-girls in the messroom and the others swung peacefully in their hammocks. All hands asleep by midnight. And just as well, for we had a deuce of a time getting her off the banks next morning. Some members of the crew ended up stranded on the shore for a minute or two after unmooring prematurely and the boat began to push off, untied, drifting with the river. The deckhands all paraded about in great ecstasy, enjoying the kerfuffle immensely – one lifted up Skins (who was complacently wondering about on the bank) and cradled him like a baby.

It’s oright! We can just eat Skins if we get hungry!

As the ship kept drifting, the deckhands on board grew slightly panicked and the Captain swore. Immediately, the ship was ordered aright and gently eased back onto the bank without any further incident; ropes were thrown on board, the gangplank raised up and lucky Skins did not end up becoming a sailor’s lean meal.  

So it was that we set out with a southerly blowing and the helmsman holding her steady – zig-zigging up the river on account of bad steering and unfavourable winds. Crew and deckhands becoming restless with inactivity and plunging into the water alongside the ship; stopping to swing off a rope swing from the cliffs amid whoops, belly flops and disastrous backflips that left the skin redder than the red sky at sunset. One such crew member was so proud of his marks, he drove up his trousers to show all who were in the vicinity his burning skin. But, for all the pain, it was definitely worth it – Ah, the pure elation of flying through the air and hitting the water at a fair speed!  

Another moonrise behind the hills with the pelicans gliding on the river. The cabin-girls stood out on the forecastle and watched the moon make gold ripples on the water as it grew darker. All hands retired below and, once inside, strange lights were seen aft, the yellow glow of two bright lights winding about in the distance, disappearing and then reappearing beyond the dark. The deckhands who were particularly superstitious positively refused to step out into the night.    

It’s the Min-min light! There it is, just through the trees. Now it’s gone… I’ll be d—ed if I sleep out on the poop deck tonight!

And so none of the crew dared the night skies – being too cold and the min-min light threatening in the south – the night stars shone unseen with nothing but the running river to witness their clustered multitudes.

The day on which we were to arrive at our home port came far too soon. Most of the crew, weary, irritable, but pleasantly filled up from their recent adventure on the high seas, were half glad to leave their confined quarters; some not so much and lamented the times spent up on the quarter deck surveying the foaming wake, or standing at the cathead with the breeze blowing through their hair, or jumping from the ships railing into the cool, green river.

Yep, it’s the river life for me, I think!

A collective decision. We were a bonny crew that morning, full of tall tales to tell and new songs to sing to the folk waiting back home. Travelling downstream for the last time and the atmosphere was somewhat subdued. For adventure, when it is written out like this, comes to nothing more than boisterous memories of glad times. Adventure is something of a myth and reality the hard master bearing the whip of truth. The crew knew this full well, and as we all stepped off the boat with Skins in tow, we began to see the point of home and a country to belong to and sturdy ground beneath our feet. We left our ship docked at the harbour and, with a few sad glances backward, started for home.