THE WETsunday ISLANDS

The boats we passed along the way were tall, polished, lovely things, bobbing at their docks, and the sky overhead was a beautiful blue—divided by an ugly patch of condensation that clotted the distance.

Between half-smiles and the occasional belt of laughter, everyone was frowning, leery eyed and dubious, and eventually even the shirtless guys put on their tops—no tans today.

I was of them.

"Spank Me" is docked toward the end of the line, heralded by a brightly colored title at its prow and a large canvas sail. The captain is standing at the wheel, looking the part, preparing himself for the let down speech—I'm afraid we're in for it, folks.

A crewmember takes our flip-flops and shoes as we board and stuffs them into a large plastic bag.

Katie removed her sunglasses and glared at the clouds. She'd given me an apple earlier, as I was famished, and Becka had also given me a box of nuts. A small box, I might add, but it's the thought that counts I guess.

They’d want me to mention it.

Katie and Becka had been on Fraser Island with us—world-class gossips, information sleuths, and masters of wit—and here they were again! And here WE were again, reunited by chance amid a group of 25 and an experienced crew of three, about to embark on a three-day voyage to the Whitsunday islands.

Also.

A hurricane was looming and it would probably rain the entire trip.

The ropes were untied, slung on deck, and we drifted out of dock, gently rolling.

Tom and I secured a bed that was located—by chance—beside Katie and Becka’s—a decision we would regret after having our pillows stolen multiple times throughout the night, not to mention the unbearable heat and lack of ventilation in that specific spot.

The captain piloted us into open sea, and everyone crowded on deck. This was when I met Theo (pronounced T.O.) and Laura, a German couple on their way up the coast from Sydney. Theo is tall and broad shouldered; he has a solid jaw, heavy brow, short hair and the beginnings of a goatee on his chin—looking grim, though his eyes are easy going. Laura is Spanish by blood and looks it in every way possible; she has nice, even features, raven hair, and clear, wide set eyes. She’s lovely.

The two provide excellent company over the course of the trip—being educated, interested, good fun, and above all—decent.

The boat rocked and the hoisted-sails creaked, and we came to a stop along an island where we were taken, nine at a time, via raft, to a reef for snorkeling.

It was my first time, Tom’s as well.

We sat facing each other in our ridiculous looking stinger suits and bulky goggles, and fell backward—first into space and then, with a splash, into the ocean.

Snorkeling: battering your way through the water, breathing through a short plastic hose while looking down. There were colonies of fish, swimming, floating, associating in coral temples, houses, cities, and office buildings—purple, grey, green, blue and orange. Fascinating, tiny, little villages formed from strange mushroom shaped life forms, pulsing, underwater willows throbbing, bobbing, dancing in the gentle current.

It was nice.

After an hour we were pulled back into the raft and returned to the ship for dinner.

The cook—Finn was his name—prepared spaghetti. I ate two helpings and four pieces of garlic bread. It was good. Some of us cracked a beer and found a seat, only just getting comfortable when, at last, it started to rain.

That night I didn’t sleep well. Too damn hot. I would wonder up on deck and let the rain and wind prepare my body for another hour of distressed sleep below—a brief blessed downpour.

The next morning we woke early, breakfast was simple, we ate, and we’re carted onto Whitehaven Beach.

Here is the best part of this story.

After a hike and wondering the beach, eight or so of us were on the shore when we discovered a small, very hard coconut, shaped like a double-sided, uprooted pyramid. I don’t know who had the idea, but some idiot (probably me) suggested we play a rousing game of hot potato—I.E. Scream like desperate, depraved lunatics while radically tossing the item from person to person as if it where the foul, stinking remains of a diseased leper—with this peculiar and painful-to-catch object.

The game became wild and violent and only worsened—to our sadistic glee—when Katie discovered a larger, more unwieldy coconut. We played with this, nearly crushing heads or breaking fingers and toes, until we got bored with it and graduated to an extremely large and disproportionate tree stump. This had sharp projectiles—former limbs—and was genuinely terrifying to catch.

Unfortunately, we had to return to the ship before any blood was spilled.

We scuba-dived twice more that day—we saw further coral and thousands of fish and the sky was still grey. It got dark, we ate dinner, and Laura asked me to tell a story—Katie also.

As it was, on deck, while sipping Ciders, I let loose with a few.

I’ll never forget, midway through, looking up—to find everyone on board was listening.

Their eyes were wide.

Priceless.

The next day the storm blew in and we returned to Airlie Beach.