The second day on Fraser we awoke to beautiful weather, and three less spoons. You see, some of the girls were intent on cleaning the dishes the night before, so they waded into the water in the pitch dark and proceeded to lose an assortment of cups, bowls, and cutlery. And for good measure some of them got to meet blue bottles up close, a non life threatening jellyfish that leaves a nasty welt. Both of these dangers were made extremely clear to us before we left, as the ocean off the east coast of Fraser has not only a violent rip tide, but is chock full of jellies, sharks and other quick means to an end. Swimming is not an option. Neither, it would seem, is night time cleaning escapades. But no one seemed overly distraught over our cutlery catastrophe, so we broke camp and made our next stop at the wreck of the Maheno. Subject of many a photograph, the Maheno was a trans-Tasman liner that was headed for a Japanese wrecking yard when it got caught in a cyclone back in 1935. Eventually coming to rest halfway up the Fraser coast. Once again I was in photographic heaven and proceeded to burn through a couple memory cards, stealing every angle I could of the rusted wreck. It wasn't until I noticed every one was sitting in the truck, politely aheming, that I realized my love of the wreck was perhaps a bit more passionate than my camp mates. So with “just one more!” I put my lens cap back on and returned to the group.

The rest of our day was split between Indian Head, a place where you will see sharks, rays, whales and dolphins (cough.. bullshit.), and the Champagne Pools (which was more or less an hour and a half hike for a chilly salt water puddle). But life was good, and we enjoyed it all the same. Once again turning back down the coast, to race the tide, we met up with Team B, or Plan B as they preferred to be called, and set up for another night of camp. We watched with amazement as Plan B spent three hours to cook their food that night. We had eaten, cleaned up, and were well into our boxes of wine way before they could even dream of eating. During that time we got to know the members of B Team pretty well, a group of characters that we would end up sharing many nights with further up the coast. As night became morning, people eventually trickled off to sleep, but not before Kyle and Matt Damon decided a fire was needed. Unfortunately, fires are on the no list on Fraser, so the next morning we were treated to a visit by the ranger who didn't seem quite thrilled. A $50 fine later, and all was forgotten. And I must say, what a lame fire to get fined for. I saw the ashes and I was ashamed at my Canadian brothers. If you're gonna have a fire, have a fire. What they paid $50 for could barely light a cigarette. But oh well.

Our final day on Fraser was not so pleasant for some of our members. Thankfully I had passed out pretty early the night before, but others had made a pretty good go of the goon. And they had a full day of dunes and washboard ahead of them in the back of a bouncy truck. Poor buggers. Initially we were supposed to catch the 1:30 ferry back to mainland or something ridiculous, so we elected Anika to call the four-by company for an extension. After a little sweet talk we got the go ahead to enjoy the day, which we decided to spend at another inland fresh water oasis, Lake Wabby. The deepest of the lakes, Wabby is surrounded by massive sand dunes inviting people to trek body boards in for the chance to slide down the dunes and into the water. Most people, however, were happy to just sit in the sun and sweat off the previous night's excesses. And so that was Fraser Island. Another drive down that horrible bumpy road to remind us that we were returning to society. And back to Dingo's resort.

Then indecision came flooding back. Anika and Devin were off to 1770 to surf, ride silly little scooters and continue to enjoy life. But for Kyle and I, that dreaded broke-edness was ever present. After a dozen different plans, working at Dingo's, picking fruit, etc. I decided to fly down to Sydney to meet up with a producer I had met on Silent Hill (my chances as a financial planner are looking pretty slim), and Kyle decided to head up to Airlie Beach to look for work. So that's that. Good day sir. Good day ma'am. Kyle booked a bus and I jumped in Ceceecil headed south. By eight o'clock that night I was back in Brisbane (grr..). I met briefly with Emily who was nursing a cold, and made my way to the airport, where I would sleep in the van to wake for an early flight to Sydney.

Back to Sydney. I'm really starting to enjoy flying. Especially these short flights. And when it only costs around $120 to fly anywhere from Melbourne to Brisbane, it makes it pretty easy to jump on a flight last minute and change your surroundings in the hour or so it takes you to get there. Before leaving I called Andrew Mason, the executive producer of Silent Hill, and arranged to meet him the next day for coffee. In the meantime I contacted old Chad and told him I was rolling back into town. For a moment I heard the pause, wondering if I was sniffing around for a place to stay, but I was happy to return to the Bondi Hotel for a room all to myself. Because of some nonsense at the airport I was delayed until 3:00pm, so when I arrived in Sydney I had only a couple hours to get some things organized before meeting with Chad, Sam and the other Animals. Within that little window of time, I managed to print my first photo from Australia, on canvas no less, snuck into the wood shop of Sydney U to fashion a frame, bought a much needed change of clothes and checked into the Bondi. Not bad for a couple hours work. Showered, in clean, un-tattered clothes for the first time in a while, I went out and met with the yocals. It happened to be the going away party for another Canadian who worked at Animal Logic, so everyone was in good spirits, of both the emotional and alcoholic variety.

The next day I met with Mr Mason and had a coffee in a little bookshop in Paddington. It was good to connect and talk about a project that was pretty hard on everyone involved. We laughed and cried. He told stories of his vacation following the wrap of Silent Hill, and the festivities at Cannes that followed. I told him of my stories from Oz to date, of broken down vans, of the friendly ozzie spirit. After coffee I handed over my print of the Twelve Apostles as a bribe to consider me for any future work, and as soon as it had started, my Sydney trip was over. One hell of an expensive coffee, but glad I made the trip. Playing the role of jet setter, I jumped in a cab back to the Sydney Domestic terminal. Brilliantly, I showed up with no ticket on a Friday, so the next available flight was some eight hours ahead of me, so I shuffled into the Virgin Blue Lounge and waited. And waited. Had some complimentary soup. And waited. Managed to get the Lounge theater all to myself, and watched Seinfeld on a big screen. And waited. At some point it was time for my flight, so I shuffled to my gate. But my flight was delayed. So I returned to the Lounge. And.. well you get the idea. I arrived back in Brisbane roughly twelve hours after I booked my flight. Then back into the van again. Gotta escape Brisbane. Something about that city. Drive randomly north, to Noosa, and sleep.

Saturday, some early day in June, I drove from Noosa to Airlie Beach. All 1000 or so kms of it. And not a single complaint from the old girl. No blown engine. No sticky tranny. Bubbkiss. I returned to my pure driving state. It's a place I love to be. Happy to blow by towns I don't know. Eager to make more miles. Just drive. Gotta get there. Not sure why.. By ten I was in Airlie. I rolled onto the main strip and found Kyle within seconds. In fact everyone from past adventures seemed to be gathered in Airlie. All searching for warmer weather. Little plants bending towards the sun. It turned out to be a good night to arrive in Airlie Beach as Kyle was off to start a new job bartending on some little island the next day and it was also Rich's birthday, one of our new found buddies from Plan B. So back on the drink. Drink, drink, drink. Sometimes I wonder if these people do anything else. The night would be damaging for all involved, but a great laugh. And from it more friendships grew. Elina, a girl from Montreal on the same trip as the rest of us. Victoria, Rich, Danny, Ian, Jemma, all from the Fraser trip, the list grows. Odd how easy it is to meet people and take them as friends when your traveling. Not like back home. People look at ya funny if you say hello. But here.. well it's different. It's how it should be. I think I've spieled this spiel before, but I can't get over it. It's a time in my life that I will always look back at fondly.

And so Airlie was home for a week. At some point I ended up checking in to Room 19 at Koala's which became, for anyone who would pass by, 'the place to be'. A cool little dorm in the from of a beach hut. It would become hard to leave. As the the boys from Plan B would work, I would represent sloth, and read. And play guitar. And do what I pleased. Of course money was a problem. But there's always credit cards. And there's a van that can be converted into dollar bills. And I don't care. I'm sure many of you are shaking your heads once again. But then you know me well, so it should come as little surprise. And the happiness my wicked ways provide is worth a thousand bankruptcies. And so it continues.

There were a couple of eventful nights in Airlie. At one point I found myself with a hundred Brits celebrating a victory against Paraguay in the early rounds of the World Cup. Good lord. I thought hockey fans were animated. But seeing as I won't be seeing my Boys in Blue play hockey any time soon, and technically being half British, I joined right in. Yelling and cheering when it seemed proper. I have no idea what was going on, but we won. We WON!!! Yeah well... Near the end of my Airlie stay, it was the birthday of one Kyle “Digitty” Dawson, so I packed a bag and hopped on the next ferry to South Molle Island, one of the many islands that make up the Whitsundays. Most people would see South Molle and the surrounding areas on one of the sailing packages that whisk you around in luxury for a handful of days, but I was content, in the there and then, to make my way on that little water taxi. I arrived and proceeded to the bar at the resort to try to get the attention of the lazy bar staff. There was Dawson in his Hawaiian print shirt slinging singapore slings behind the bar. While Kyle finished his shift, I kept myself occupied watching some horrible movie with witches and Bette Middler in some place called Eastwick. No wait.. that's a different movie. This was set in Salem. I don't know.. what ever it was, It sucked. Once Kyle was free from his daily grind, he showed me around the joint.

The resort, which is currently in the process of rebuild, is your typical escape for what seemed to be a 40+ crowd. It's obvious why the resort needs a face lift, as it's really let itself go over the years. Unless it was originally built with grotty bathrooms and dilapidated staff quarters. But there's many qualities that still draw you in. The Island itself is a beautiful example of what the Whitsundays offer, with lush jungle and abundant wild life. Colourful little parrots dance throughout the resort and happily land on your shoulder to take fresh fruit from your hand. Kookaburras laugh maniacally as you hack your way through the 9 hole executive course that separates the resort and backpacker bar. And then there's the typical resort fare: rooms overlooking the ocean, sprawling lounges surrounding the pool, and cheerful employees in their Hawaiian print shirts. As the resort itself is beginning a rebirth of sorts, so has the staff. A new start meant axing more or less the entire staff, leaving openings in every position. So that's how we find Kyle looking up the ingredients for a mai thai, and wrestling cappuccinos from CoffeeBot 5000.

I quickly met Kyle's fellow bar mates who all share a small bungalow in the staff quarters, hidden away from the customers' eye. And quickly it became obvious why it's tucked away so. When not working, the staff make up for the serene setting of the resort, and whip themselves into a frenzy. We spent the beginning hours of the night celebrating Kyle's special day sipping cocktails by the pool and watching the Polynesian Fire show at the bar. Scantily clad men and women recreated traditional dance from Papua New Guinea to Hawaii, spitting fire and roping the odd sucker from the crowd to fumble through a hakka. All the while backed by a sedate three piece who played an inspired muzak rock. The bass player a dead ringer for Ron Jeremy. As the bar closed early with the help of a power outage, we continued out back with the other staff. As I was introduced to everyone under the half-joking guise of the new resort manager, we played pool, traded stories and even found time for a game of 'I'll hold the dart board, and you throw darts'. A game I didn't quite realize we were playing, but Kyle seemed to get his fill by hitting a bullseye on his first throw, and I managed to escape without any new holes. Eventually the laughter faded and sleep took over. After an aggravating game of golf (is there any other kind?), and a refreshing dip in the pool, I packed my bags and bid goodbye to my good buddy. One more night in Room 19 and I was back on a familiar stretch of road headed south.

By this point, several ads we had placed for Ceceecil had attracted some interest, so my self appointed mission was to find a new home for our seasoned travel van. Yeah, I know what you're saying.. Who would want to buy that piece of junk? Well, at this point the thing is basically brand new, so I can sell it knowing the next guy in line should actually have no problems. Although the end of the rainbow on this trip was Brisbane, my fevered pace up this way meant I had missed one stop I wanted to make. So this story ends where it began, at a little hostel called Cool Bananas in the town of 1770. And it is just what I needed. No drinking. Early nights. And lots of reading. From “Being There” by Jerzy Kosinski to “Stairway to Heaven” by Richard Cole. I enjoyed keeping to myself and burying my face in half a dozen books. I did indulge in one pleasure, due to a glowing review from Mark, our Spot On representative from Brighton. A half hour flight around 1770 and Agnes Water in a tiny two seater toy plane. And for $50 who could resist! As I met my pilot/guide, we drove to a tiny little grass airstrip and jumped into this odd little bird. Within seconds we were airborne, at the mercy of every little gust, and I snapped away like a maniac. Grinning from ear to ear as we climbed to 1500 feet and pulled 3 g's on deep dives and hard turns. I took so many pictures, that my eye rarely left my Nikon for the entire flight. Until, that is, I got my first waves of motion sickness. “Oh yea, I've seen more photographers get sick in planes.” said my pilot through the intercom, “Somethin' about looking through the eye piece that disorients ya.”. Yeah, well, thanks for telling me that now. Now that I'm on the verge of... ughh... can you hand me that plastic bag? Oof.. False alarm. Luckily we made it through unscathed. And I say “we” because the cockpit was so small that we were almost on each other's laps. If I was going to be sick, we'd both know about it real quick. Finally falling from the sky, coming to rest on stable land, I took a breath, and thanked my guide for the tour. Then crawled back to the hostel for a slice of hammock to shake the spins. Not sure why I chose a swinging hammock to try to silence motion induced nausea, but regardless of my wonky judgment, I finally drifted off to sleep for my last night in 1770.

From there it was another high speed burn to Barstow.. err.. Brisbane. And will you look at the time. Perhaps I'll close the book here. Hopefully the next time we speak I'll be on my feet, and Ceceecil will have a new home. Looking forward to parting ways with the old girl. At this point every thing I want to see is easier reached by plane or boat. And I sure wouldn't mind freeing up the dollars invested in her, to get above zero. We've had a hell of a trip together, and looking back I wouldn't have done it any differently. The troubles we've had have led to experiences that I never would found sitting in a Greyhound or Boeing. Fingers crossed, and looking forward to the next adventure.

Still smiling in Oz,
JB

For more pics from this latest leg:
http://jbradstreet.smugmug.com/gallery/1578358/1