We’d made the trip through the dunes, through the dry creekbed, around the spinifex and straggly creeping wattle, up the big sandhill and down the big drop. Sand burning hot on our feet, dancing the cockroach-on-a-hot-plate dance of the determined and pigheaded barefooter, who realised too late that there were some conditions that warranted footwear, and, more to the point, that midday sand of a temperature of approximately 1000 degrees was one of those.
At the high tide the surf was no good. But with the arrival of the dry season the winds had shifted to the east, blowing offshore, so we had the rare luxury of waiting for the tide in the middle of the day. Sure enough, with the dropping of the tide the lines of swell rolled up, and there, near the low lying rockshelf at the end of the beach, a perfect wave started breaking. So I stuck my board under my arm, hiked the length of the beach and paddled out.
The advantage of the low tide is that the swell breaks on the rocks, and creates a wave. The disadvantage of the low tide is that, well, the swell breaks on the rocks. It’s waist-deep in the best-covered areas. In the lesser-covered areas you better pull up your feet real quick-smart. Fortunately the rocks are old and tired, have been lying around there for a long time being washed over and scoured out, are stretched out long and low and flat, and have given up on the idea of being sharp and pointy a long time ago. They’re not overly well-endowed in the razor-blade department. On a bad wipe out it is quite possible to manage to hang on to a reasonable amount of skin.
With no one else out I had the place to myself, so I lined up the sets, eyed them off for the perfect moment, paddled and jumped and dropped down into a beautiful little laneway of blue and green, heading off to the right along the rocky ridge. This is where astute judgement comes in: bail out at exactly the right moment, seconds before the wave finishes and the hard reality of rock begins, pull your knees right up to your chin for good measurement, haul on that leg rope as fast as possible to prevent the board from committing suicide and going to shattered-fibreglass heaven, and jump back on again without looking down too closely. Sometimes it’s better not to know too much. Your toes will scrape along the barnacles, and you’ll be patching up the cuts tonight, but for now the waves are rolling in, and that’s all that matters.
I had caught a great set of waves, and left elated, with a big smile on my face, keen to do it again the next day.
You’d think it was a log floating around out there.
The next day we stopped in our tracks at the top of the dune, and had a bit of a stickybeak around. Something didn’t feel right.
We found a good vantage point high-up, and surveyed the scene with a sinking feeling. The tide was very high, leaving very little beach to get around on. But that wasn’t the issue.
The water was crystal clear, azure blue under a burning, cloudless tropical sky. You could see straight through the water at great depth.
And there, about 35 m offshore and clearly visible, was a log, floating around. Brown, long: a good four metres. Not a baby size by any stretch of the imagination. Big fat boofhead with two cold reptilian eyes at the front, staring out into the world, looking for something to either fight, fuck or feed on, or all of them, and not necessarily in that order.
He appeared quite still, showing no signs of aggression, floating around languidly and placidly on the current. But that’s what they do for a living. They show no sign of life, interest or agitation until you put your first foot in the water, they decide they want you for their breakfast, and they’re on top of you in two seconds flat. With a one way ticket to their gut.
I swore at length with conviction.
The incoming tide would carry him away on the south-bound current, and the dropping tide would bring him floating back in again on the north-bound current. As long as he didn’t feel motivated to take his destiny in his own hands and actually make an effort one way or the other, he’d be there all day, lazing around like a tourist on a li-lo. What a life.
 We knew the day was forfeit. The tide would go out, the wave would start breaking perfectly on the rockshelf again like it had the day before, and that bastard crocodile would hang around there, mere heartbeats away, like an old jilted boyfriend at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding, plotting revenge, retribution, and an embarrassing meltdown and shouting match.
After an hour or so a tiny rubber duckie turned up, with a cage-like structure on its bow, and started cutting zig-zag lines across the bay, 40 metres offshore. We watched them bemusedly. It was hard to imagine the inflatable rubber tubes putting up much of a fight against the 5000 psi crunching power of the saltwater crocodile’s jaws. Back in the Territory we used to have one that ate outboard motors just for a light snack. We figured there’d be a few parks and wildlife rangers swimming pretty manically towards the shore in the next little while. They tried to bait him with molasses, dead chickens, crocodile porn and a new iphone. No cigar. Every time they came anywhere near him he ducked down and showed them his tail, playing cat-and-mouse with them.
Two hours later the rubber duckie was carving aimless, slow doughnuts through the water. They had no idea where he was anymore.
Another hour later the helicopter turned up and started doing laps of the blue sky. The big guns were coming out, and they had no hope in hell of catching him.
We packed up and left, dry as a bone. When there’s a croc in the break, don’t paddle out.
