Wet-Sundays

The vacuum of space in between leaving Cairns and arriving in Airlie Beach marked our first Greyhound experience... And in the same way that Sir Alex Ferguson will remember the 6-1 loss to City, I shall always remember this bus trip. I’d like to think of myself as quite experienced in the realms of 12+ hour bus trips, having entirely relied on them when trekking around Asia. But with full shame directed towards Australia, the Greyhound buses were a new level of terrible. With some sub-zero temperatures, compulsory 2am/4am half an hour stops, a driver with mild, yet frequent, fascist outbreaks, ergonomically opposed chairs and pseudo-Nascar driving style, the fact I accomplished a full, unbroken 10 minutes of sleep was actually impressive. Happily, the rest of the trips weren’t quite as terrible as this one, but still, I was glad to see the back of that coach and head to our hostel for the next night in Airlie.

Airlie is approximately the size of Yateley, or for those not lucky enough to be firmly acquainted with Yateley, it consisted of one highstreet and some bars and restaurants on the fringe next to, yet another, lagoon. It also, to this day, holds the record for most terrible balcony view of all time. To describe it as a view of a brickwall, rising above a corrugated steel roof and air conditioning unit is as complimentary as I can pretend to be. However, Airlie itself was only a base of operations for our Whitsundays cruise over the following 3 days. We were booked in for a few snorkelling trips, a trip to White Haven Beach (the 3^rd most beautiful beach on the planet; or so we’d heard) along with some more sunbathing deck time. We had a private island with some accommodation on it, to save us the prospect of having to develop some serious sea legs, and were all set for a record breakingly picturesque few days. And so begins our adventure of, as it shall from now on be known, Wet-Sundays.

I do not exaggerate when I say we saw sun for 2 hours in three days. My British blood tells me that, 2 hours in three days is actually not a bad ratio. My newly acquired Australian mentality tells me that we were victim to an archaic sea curse, perhaps laid down by pirates or maybe even mermaids (the debate is still ongoing). The first leg of the journey, from Airlie to the island, was fraught with disaster. We had a Chinese gent suffer a serious head wound after falling down a hatch which had come unsecured in the wind and waves, a pair of sunglasses was lost for eternity, dozens of people decided to part with their lunch over the side and we even nearly saw a Whisken and Ben cast overboard. Not quite the experience promised on the pamphlet, but an experience nonetheless!  The first night consisted of some organised drinking games to raise morale and convince our Chinese friend that legal pursuits are over-rated and needless, by the time 10pm came around, we were all ready for bed, ready for the early rise, preparing for a day which couldn’t possibly have worse weather.

The next day had much worse weather... like... impossibly worse. Strange to think Australia had it in it, but nevertheless, off we trudged to our luxurious yacht trip around the Wet Sundays! The snorkelling, to Australia’s credit, was unaffected with perfect visibility and a wide array of sealife still hanging around despite the seasickness. Even White Haven beach, which was lacking in turquoise water and proverbial sky-blue sky, was still in possession of sheet white sand, schools of manta rays and a mass of photo opportunities (not to say I shan’t be photoshopping myself into a few Google images to cheer myself up about the whole affair though!).  That following night was one of the types of evenings which salvages all from the brink of devastation. It was the night that they unleashed the karaoke... I shan’t hide the facts and shall admit that I did go up for more than one go, perhaps even more than 7 goes, but I am at least 50% certain that my appearances were welcomed by my adoring fans/captive prisoners. The highlight was clear and unassailable. A particular bromantic duet with Sim aboard a small wooden boat we managed to climb on top of, the video is out there somewhere in the Matrix, however my lawyers are working day and night to suppress it!

The trip back on our last day marked the first appearance of a rather strange phenomenon. A large, yellow orb of light and heat appeared in the sky. Although it was only spotted for 2 hours or so, it was most welcomed, and we attempt to uphold the legend of it to this day. It also marked the best snorkelling of the three days where I was literally covered head to toe in schools of curious fish, the raising of the sails (assisted by yours truly) for a purely wind powered return to shore and then the finest and most wildly anticipated hot shower in some time! We met up with our group that evening, and am glad to have made some damn good friends that night, but the highlight was without competition: A reunion with Lucy and Holly, who happened to be staying at the same hostel. With the famed sextuplet (use of latin there, not innuendo) strolled around Airlie, played some more cards, merged with Elizabeth and Sabrina, our new Austro/Germanic friends. However, the reunion was shortlived and just as emotional as the last time, so with a divine Mexican meal in our stomachs, we sat and waited for our 1am Greyhound bus, had another final game of cards on the bus platform and departed for the next stage of our adventure... 1770 and our Castaway island!

R