Published: 5 Dec 2019

Lewis woke with a start as the caravan rocked and groaned, bringing him from slumber to terror in an instant. He drew back the curtain above the bed to the sight of coconut palms twisting this way then that as the anger of nature took control, then the wind died. “Huh so that was the storm.” Lewis laughed aloud but barely had the words left his lips before there was a mighty crack and a gust that moved the caravan sideward. Lewis in an instant grabbed his overnight bag and abandoned the van, quickly starting his car he headed for the highway. He was alone without another vehicle on the long ribbon of road. Even the park owner had fled the scene; his bravery eventually failed, leaving with the winds first gusts.

Lewis had hardly travelled a mile before the storm increased to a second level, buffeting his car, crabbing it across the road with such force he could barely hold his course. Tree branches were falling all about with large quantities of foliage crossing the vehicle’s bonnet obscuring his vision through the windscreen, one such branch tore away both wipers then a thick branch hit the vehicle’s roof with a loud thud. Lewis was now terrified and thought back to his encounter on the mountain. “Why didn’t I take the advice?” he cried into the howling wind but only received its fury.

A short distance ahead a tree had fallen across the road blocking any further advance towards the south but off to the right was a dirt track leading to a derelict sugar mill. The mill’s structure had been reduced to but a metallic frame with a scattering of iron sheeting clinging to a rusting skeleton, while scattered around the foreground were a number of huge iron vats. Lewis quickly turned onto the dirt road completely forgetting his fear of such passages and sped towards the old mill, helped on his way by a tail wind that he believed could launch a Jet.

Reaching the mill he deserted the car and threw himself into one of the vats, prostrating his body to the rusting, dirty bottom of the vat. As he lay he could hear his heart pounding in his ears and fear brought a flow of tears to his closed eyes. “Shit!” he shouted angrily at the storm and it answered his fear with more fury. “Shit, shit shit!” he repeated as a loud crack and a thud, with the sound of crushing metal and breaking glass came from somewhere outside his sanctuary as the storm intensified further. Now even his vat began to vibrate and rock but it held its ground against the wind. Then there was rain, arriving like the sound of a steam train as it pounded his shelter and ground beyond, loud even over the howl of the wind. All he could do was remain spread across the bottom of the vat, his eyes closed to the developing disaster which grew stronger with each passing minute.

Three hours passed as a lifetime and still the storm howled beyond the vat and still Lewis remained spread across its base but now his confidence in survival grew as he waited for the storm’s eye. Knowing after a short pause the wind would turn and attack from the opposite direction and last as long. It was during the fourth hour that the wind suddenly arrested as did the rain while his world took on a bizarre silence.

Lewis waited for the eye to pass but instead of wind from the opposing direction a shaft of sunlight came through the small opening of the vat. Cautiously he moved to the opening and peered out into the day. The storm had gone. It had changed direction and headed south east, away from the land, taking with it the eye, instead to reap havoc on the sea and the coral reef.

As he hauled his aching body from the vat, the full extent of the disaster gripped his senses. Most of the trees around the old mill site had been flattened, while those that remained standing were skeletons, without a single leaf to hide their nakedness from the welcomed sunlight. As for the metallic framework of the old mill, most of the cladding had been blown away and spread into the depleted forest beyond, while the framework lent at an unsustainable angle.

Lewis moved to the rear of the vat where he had deserted his car, gasping as it came into view. A large tree had fallen on top of it length ways, crushing it almost to ground level, rendering it unrecognisable. Lewis’ face grew pale as he looked upon his pride in disbelief.

“Shit!” he barked at the destruction.

“Fuck fuck!” he shouted loudly, realising what would have been the circumstances if he had sheltered in his car.

“What do I do now?” Lewis anxiously said while coming to the passenger side of the crushed vehicle in search of his overnight bag. It remained on the rear seat but like the car, crushed and tightly pinned beneath the trunk of the tree while the force had broken it open and torn the zip. Through the tare Lewis could see his wallet, which he retrieved, finding it saturated by the rain but intact, the remaining contents but a soggy mess of water, dirt and twigs.

“Well at least I have money,” he confessed loudly, realising that on this day money was almost useless.

Lewis expelled as much dampness as possible before pocketing the wallet then scanned the horizon for any signs of the storm’s return. There wasn’t any. He lifted his head to the blue vault, allowing the warmth of the fresh morning sunlight to sink deeply into his face. Closing his eyes against the glare he drank deeply of the sweet smelling air. He was alive and for that moment that was all that mattered.

Once back on the highway, the full extent of the storm’s destruction became apparent. Hardly a tree remained proud between the road and the beach front, making the view ahead sharply blue instead of the usual tropical green. Where there once stood acres of ripe sugar cane now displayed flattened fields and as far as the eye could see appeared as a ocean of pick-up-sticks and like the trees and cane many houses were also flattened, some lost only their roof, others had blown off their tall stumps to crash sideways to the ground beside, their backs broken, their contents scattered.

There was another difference across that sea of devastation. Lewis listened, realising it was a creeping silence that overshadowed everything. Not a song bird or motor engine could be heard. It was as if the entire earth had become void of life while taken on sorrow and after its tears had been shed, nature buried its head in silent mourning.

Lewis found the silence deafening and wanted to shout out loudly. He did so, sounding more like the howling of a dog then the distress of a human. Somewhere in the distance a lone dog greeted him with an equal howl, bringing the first smile to his face, at least ironic humour prevailed. He again howled, laughing loudly as the lone dog plaintively replied, he wasn’t alone in the world, he had a canine friend.

Lewis slowly walked in the direction of Cairns and as he travelled found the highway to be blocked by a multitude of fallen trees and branches. Even the corrugated iron roof of a house sat comically across both directions of the road, while most of the house’s contents spewed across the bitumen surface and the adjacent cane field. A child’s tricycle stood alone mid road upright and undamaged, as if abandoned as the storm hit, while books and newsprint scattered like southern snow.

Something caught his eye as it glinted in the sunlight. It was a silver photo frame, its glass cracked, containing a picture of a family gathered under a large tree, appearing to be enjoying a barbeque or some reunion. Lewis retrieved the picture, he cleaned the glass, then gently placed it on a fence post, imagining the family’s happier days, while wondering if they had fled the storm, or were buried somewhere among the rubble. After a quick search he found nothing believing the family had long gone.

Eventually he reached the Barron River and the wooden bridge that crossed. To his surprise it had survived although fallen trees had piled up against its supporting timbers giving the appearance of a beavers lodge but it still defiantly held.

At the bridge Lewis encountered a young farmer who was surveying the bridge’s strength, testing the planking while the river lapped just below the woodwork.

“Hi there,” Lewis called as he approached, bringing the young man to turn, surprised that there was at least one other person alive to greet the day.

“Is it safe to cross?” Lewis asked as he came beside the farmer.

“I dunno’,” answered the farmer softly, grimacing and slowly shaking his head against the rising water.

“Morris Gibson,” The farmer stated offering his land-toiled hand.

“Lewis Smith from Mareeba,” Lewis greeted and accepted the farmers offer like one meeting an old and loyal friend.

“I’m from up the hill there,” stated the farmer pointing past a field of flattened sugar cane. “See that pile of timber?” he asked still pointing towards the hill, “that was my house.”

Morris placed both hands on the bridge rail giving it a good shake then commenced to jump up and down on the bridge’s timbers. There wasn’t movement, giving belief it would be safe to cross, while even as he tested its strength water trickled onto the tarred surface of the bridge and where there were holes it surged through, resembling small fountains.

“I’m game if you are,” declared the farmer while commencing to cross with Lewis close behind. By the time they had reached a third of its span and feeling the force of the river trying the bridge’s strength, their fear took control and a slow careful walk became a gallop. Soon they were on the south bank looking back and laughing as their tension unwound. The bridge held firm but was now flooded by the torrent beneath.

Once clear of the bridge and to the east they encountered the Cairns airport and void of aircraft, except for a single Piper Cherokee, which had flipped onto its back at the far end of the strip, lodging its fuselage between two large trees, while tearing away both wings. As for the control tower it had lost most of its windows, while the terminus building was roofless with a large tree through the external wall on the highway side, while a flurry of travel brochures and ticketing spread to the highway, now as still as the air about.

“Most of the air traffic had the good sense to clear out before the storm,” Morris stated as if reading Lewis’ thoughts, “that one over at the end belongs to Ray Harrington, he’s down in Brisbane on business,” Morris paused, “I bet he will wish he had flown,” he paused again and sarcastically continued, “the bugger has plenty of money, he can afford another.”

Once past the airport and reaching the outskirts of Cairns they were surprised to find the damage to the City was minimal. There were trees down and houses missing roofs but generally the storm had been kind to the tropical city. Even the buses were running and free of charge, while people were, where possible, about their usual business.

“So what are you to do now?” Lewis asked the farmer as they caught a bus into the city.

“I’ll head for Gordonvale, my wife and kids went down there before the storm to stay with her parents,” he answered displaying a measure of relief, “what about yourself?”

“Suppose I’d better book into a hotel and catch the morning’s rail motor back to Mareeba,” Lewis replied as they parted company in Lake Street.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why do you say that?” Lewis asked.

“There won’t be a rail service for a day or two, the Kuranda range was also in the storm’s path, I heard the news on my transistor this morning,” Morris retrieved the small radio from his pocket, “batteries have now gone flat.”

Firstly Lewis would have to find a telephone and contact a neighbour to let his mother know he was still alive. Then he realised his list of telephone numbers was on a scrap of paper and in his sodden wallet. Retrieving the wallet from his jeans pocket he carefully plied apart the scrap of paper which acted as address book. It remained in one piece but the ink had smudged, making most of the numbers ineligible. Only one number was clear and that was that for the Graham Hotel.

Lewis knew there to be a bank of telephone boxes out side the Cairns post office so he headed to Abbott Street, only to find a queue of at least thirty people waiting to use the telephones. He joined the queue behind a large woman in a floral dress, whose appearance gave the impression she had been caught in the storm.

“There’s a bit of a wait,” Lewis spoke to the woman in the floral dress as he joined the line.

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour,” she answered impatiently, her arms folded across her breasts while clutching a black leather shoulder bag beneath their fold.

“Were you caught in the storm?” Lewis asked making conversation to pass the time.

“Yes we were at Holloways Beach,” she paused as tears filled her eyes, she bravely continued, “we lost everything the caravan the car, all our clothes – everything. The woman gained composure, “my husband is in hospital with a broken leg.” She sighed sadly shaking her dishevelled hair, while holding back a well of tears, “I guess we have our lives and we can replace the car and van.”

“Where are you from?” asked Lewis as the queue shortened by three and they moved a few paces forward.

“Ballarat in Victoria,” the woman answered opening her bag, collecting a bright red purse to count her change. She had plenty.

“I am originally from Melbourne and I’m going back one of these days.” Lewis offered.

“To be there now,” the woman whimsically answered.

The common ground brought conversation between the two making the wait seem less. Eventually it Lewis’ turn to make his call. He fed coins then dialled the Graham Hotel’s number. It answered. He pressed the ‘A’ button releasing the coins into the collection tin; they fell with a hollow sound. Soon the voice of Sandra the Graham’s barmaid came clearly through the earpiece.

“Hello Sandra its Lewis Smith,” he spoke loudly into the receiver.

“Lewis where are you?” she asked.

“Cairns, I’ve just gone through that cyclone,” he said quickly in fear of running out of time.

“Are you okay?” Sandra asked showing disquiet. She was the kind of girl who worried about everyone and everything, sometimes her concern and generosity was overwhelming and became adverse to her intentions.

For now there wasn’t time to explain the full extent of his experience as his coins were quickly being devoured by the apparatus.

“Look Sandra I’m about to run out of time, could you let mum know I’m okay?” Lewis rapid fired into the receiver his voice rising with the tension.

“Sure, in fact she is in the ladies lounge with Gladys, do you want me to get her for you?” said Sandra.

“No I’ll talk to her tomorrow, I’m running out of phone time just let her know I’m okay,” Lewis quickly replied, as the sound of disconnection beeps came across their conversation.

“Sure,” Sandra answered as the line became silent.

Lewis replaced the telephone and vacated the phone box to the next in line. It was now that the full extent of the experience overcame him. The line’s silence drew him back to that period after the storm when his whole world was void of sound; it wasn’t the wind and its metallic howl that gave him reflection, nor the rain and falling trees but the silence he encountered after the storm had passed.

A cold shudder while Lewis realised what could have happened if that tree hadn’t fallen across the highway to block his escape, or if the abandoned sugar mill wasn’t at conjunction with the heavy vat, or if he had remained in his vehicle. Another shudder as the image of destruction he had encountered on the road to Cairns and what may have eventuated if the storm hadn’t had a mind change and instead of heading out to sea, travelled those few extra miles to Cairns.

Now the loss of his car became paramount as he reflected on the condition of his pride and how flattened it had become under the fallen tree. Again the thought what could have been the outcome if he had taken sanctuary within the vehicle instead of the vat but most of all how would he get around without his car? It was insured but the insurance would only cover the loan, not what he had already paid, or replace the vehicle. Still he was thankful he was alive and for now he would have to put his mind to finding lodgings for the night and purchasing a train ticket for the following morning.

The Cairns railway station was crowded as Lewis approached the booking office but few were purchasing tickets, mostly sitting about the platform with their few belongings, shrouded in an unnatural silence. He approached the ticketing booth.

“Could I have a ticket for tomorrow’s motor to Mareeba?” he politely asked the somewhat indolent officer, disturbing him from reading the previous day’s new paper.

“No way mate – you can catch the morning’s Sunlander south to Townsville or beyond but the Mareeba line is blocked by fallen trees until at least Monday, possibly longer, and you will most probably have difficulty in finding accommodation as well, that’s why all these people are sitting around the platform,” the ticketing officer’s negativity concluded with a simple sorry before returning to his reading.

After visiting the Station Lewis returned to the city, firstly he tried the Criterion Hotel, then the Railway Hotel and as many guest houses he could find. All were the same, not a room was to be had in the city of Cairns.

Night set in with a cooling sea breeze as Lewis walked along the waterfront. With the breeze came the strong smell of salt and rancid mud from the esplanade, as Cairns was built on reclaimed mangrove land while its sea front lacked even a grain of sand. Instead it was a stretch of mud flats and with the tide out and debris drawn in by the storm the air was more pungent that usual.

Lewis found a bench seat where he sat with the court house to his rear left and the police station to his right, he felt safe there in the bosom of the law as he once again reflected on his lot. Before him Trinity bay and the mud flats of the esplanade with a multitude of mud crabs walking towards the sea wall but never arriving there. Often men would be found in flat bottomed boats pushing themselves through the fetid mud to collect the delicacy but this night the crabs walked free without the fear of the cooking pot and with the storm surge there was much for them to scavenge.

In the distance could be heard the hum of human activity, sounding like a drunken corroboree as a group of aborigines from the Yarrabah mission drank questionable beverage from containers wrapped in brown paper bags. The group was seated around a small fire while arguing freely on where they would get their next handout, cursing all who chanced by, sometimes in language, sometimes in English but always abusive and aimed at white man’s injustice.

This mob was enjoying its nightly gathering oblivious to the passing of the wind. In their belief it was but nature’s way of cleansing the environment of the sick and the weak, while removing dead trees to refresh the natural world. Destruction and loss were the white man’s words which brought them sorrow and despair; to the aborigines it brought joy, excitement and a way to a new tomorrow. It was said, ‘if you don’t own anything then you can not grieve for it loss.

A part of Lewis wanted to join with their drunken singing to dance his white man’s loss into another dimension. He wished to share in their drunkenness and shout at the world, I survived but his upbringing and perceived superiority kept him from participation. Instead he progressed to the Criterion Hotel where he purchased a small bottle of Bundaberg rum. He didn’t much like rum or spirits of any kind but it was cheap and strong, promising him a quick departure from the previous night’s events.

By the time he had returned to his waterfront bench the natives had settled, their conversation lowering to but a distant murmur, punctuated by the occasional lifting of a voice in argument, or the shrill of a woman in defiance of a sexual suggestion or insult. If they had learned anything from their white invaders, it was how to drink and swear and they did both profusely.

By midnight Lewis’ rum bottle was all but empty and a warm glow settled over him taking away much of his care for the loss of his vehicle, bringing a soft tune to lips and was so engrossed in his out of tune singing, didn’t notice the approach of a tall, thin man wearing shorts and an opened to the waist silk Hawaiian shirt.

“G’day,” the stranger greeted in a broad Queensland accent as he sat without invitation on the bench seat alongside Lewis. Lewis refrained from answering as he downed the dregs from the bottom of the rum bottle then tossed it into the bin beside the seat.

“Where are you from?” the stranger asked inquisitively, receiving a nervous giggle from Lewis, who although aware of the stranger’s presence wished for solitude. Conversation only dragged him back from his carefree state, into the world of conflict, loss and reality. There he would find the remains of his wrecked car and the loss of Ian and the unwanted love of Sarah. This night he wanted only Lewis and what Lewis stood for, even if he had no idea what that may be. Now a stranger was attempting to rob him of his serenity.

“I’m Rodney,” the stranger introduced as he offered his hand across the length of the seat. Lewis rejected the offer.

“I’m no-one,” Lewis answered with an intoxicated laugh without lifting his eyes from the mud flats before him. The mud crabs were mesmerising as the slowly walked towards the shore but never arriving.

“Then No-one what are you doing out here on a night like this?” asked the stranger. Lewis didn’t reply but from the corner of his eye could see Rodney moving further into his comfort zone. He could smell his aftershave, sweat and strong, more so that that of the frangipani flowers that bloomed along the street behind and fading them away from his senses.

“Have you anywhere to go for the night?” the stranger nervously asked.

“I’m already there,” Lewis answered irritably.

“I’ve a spare bed if you wish,” the stranger offered while fiddling with the hem of his broad leg shorts. Lewis turned towards the stranger and noticed that he had removed his member and was lightly stroking it as he spoke.

“Are you related to Ashley?” Lewis asked sarcastically.

“Who is Ashley?” Rodney asked and reached across cupping his hand over the crotch of Lewis’ jeans.

“Fuck off Poofter!” Lewis demanded then flung the uninvited hand back towards its aggressor. The stranger recoiled and quickly vacating the bench seat at a trot, disappeared into the darkness towards the now sleeping aborigines.

“Shit!” Lewis exclaimed as he rearranged his crotch, which had gently expanded under Rodney’s touch. There had been a part of him that welcomed such an advance but was well governed by a thousand emotions along with the day’s experiences.

Once again alone Lewis stretched along the bench while gaining as much comfort as the wooden slats would allow. He was asleep and dreaming, the sound of the wind took precedence yet the drunken song of the aborigines overrode the wind. He felt something tugging at his zipper, he tried to void off the aggression but too late he was exposed and his dimensions disappeared into a warm vacuum of ecstasy. Then he exploded into a multitude of sensations and was awake – but alone.

“Fuck!” he declared from his semiconscious state, realising he had been but dreaming and the weather had turned to the fall of light rain and his underwear swum in an ejaculated mess.

Taking himself to a nearby toilet block Lewis removed the soiled underwear then after cleaning away the remains of involuntary pleasure, discarded the underwear into a bin near the door. Still quite drunk he staggered under the cover of a shop awning. Rodney may have gone back into the night but his suggestion had worked its way into Lewis’ imagination, crept past his denials, or possible because of them, to force pleasure into his sleep.

It was most confusing and coming with the day’s events, or because of them he could not afford to return to sleep, he did not wish to again hear the wind, feel the rain, see the mangle wreck that was his vehicle and each time he closed his eyes they all returned. Maybe he should have taken the stranger’s offer of bed and comfort, as he had been had by Rodney anyway, if only in dream.

As Lewis reached cover the rain increased, falling warm and heavy without the slightest breeze to distraught its fall. Blurred vision peered towards the aborigine’s camp fire as it loudly sizzled. They were now animated and complaining, their language even more abusive. Some headed for cover while others drew tattered, dirty blankets about their person, on the flat side of a cardboard box marked Gold Top, brewed in Cairns. The tropical shower stopped and they once again they gathered about the still sizzling fire, stoking it with old cardboard and palm fronds while huddling closer to its meagre warmth.

With the abusive words forming on the page Lewis smiled, as the text did not suit his present mood, he had already mended his emotions while except for the loss of his mode of transport, was quite excited by the whole ordeal. He lifted his pen and with a lighter spirit continued.

Once again he read what he had written and in wit wondered if he had used enough bad language to describe the situation, he then with a chuckle closed the book, replacing it in the security of its locked box.

Gary’s stories are all about what life in Australia was like for a homosexual man (mostly, long before we used the term, “gay”). Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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