I'm not willing to risk life and limb on the Gibb River Road again so in the morning I tell Dave I'm going straight to Kununurra. He's still keen to visit El Questro, no matter the road conditions. I wish I had his confidence. We agree to meet in Kununurra in two days time; if he isn't there by then I alert the authorities! Dave sets off early. It's a short ride from Wyndham to Kununurra so despite my relaxed start I'm there before lunchtime.
Kununurra is famous for the Ord River Dam which created an enormous man-made lake, Lake Argyle. I have to see this so I take the 70km (!) scenic drive to the lookout. It's an absolutely brilliant road leading off the highway. It winds through gigantic stone formations, towering above me like skyscrapers. In the distance I see the faces of the ranges surrounding the lake, though I still haven't seen any water. I pull into the Lake Argyle caravan park and there's a sign pointing up an extremely steep incline, promising a lookout of the lake and dam.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but I wasn't prepared for this. It looks like an ocean. The water stretches beyond the horizon, perfectly calm, an irridescent blue. The dam is so tiny! It's a mere pile of pebbles compared to the lake. The Ord River flows out beyond the dam, snaking through the steep gorges. It's quite a sight. It doesn't feel like an ocean though; there are no waves, no sand, no noise. It's sterile. I'm impressed but I don't feel like hanging around.
I roll back into town and head for the caravan park. Dave walks out of reception just as I pull into the driveway. He found the corrugations and river crossings into El Questro to be too much, so he turned back after visiting Emma's Gorge. This works out great; I've seen everything I want to see in Kununurra so tomorrow we can get moving again.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
If I Had A Hammer
Yesterday we spent the whole day in Fitzroy Crossing. I'm not pleased with the location - this is an unpleasant town - but I appreciate the necessity. Dave needs to get his badly mangled pannier bent back into shape so he wanders off in search of a panel beater. I start chatting to some fellow travellers; they snapped a leaf spring and bent an axle on their trailer driving the same road we'd taken. I realise how lucky we are to have suffered such minor damage.
Several hours later Dave wanders back into camp looking pretty pleased with himself. Although he didn't find any panel beaters he did meet a mechanic who had lent him a hammer. Dave has beaten the pannier back into a rough box shape. That's good news because it means we can get back on the road.
To make up for lost time we are riding straight to Wyndham which is at the opposite end of the Gibb River Road. It's a full day's ride and I know it will be exhausting. The morning is fine but by the afternoon I'm flagging. My seat has turned into an instrument of torture. The motorcycle gear traps the sun's heat and threatens to cook me alive. I stand into the rushing wind in an attempt to cool down but it feels like the convection from an oven against my body. I hide behind my puny windshield and think cold thoughts instead. It's times like these I wish I had a more convincing imagination.
The sun is setting when I reach Wyndham, bringing some welcome relief from the heat. It's an uninspiring town with many shops boarded closed and houses in various states of disrepair. The big tourist attraction here is the hill which overlooks the convergence of five rivers before they flow into the sea. Somebody invested serious effort into naming this attraction The Five Rivers Lookout.
However the real attraction to me isn't the lookout, it's the hill climb. After weeks of long, dull, flat, straight highways, punctuated only by the offroad insanity of the Gibb River Road, I'm enjoying this short section immensely. It's fairly steep and twists back onto itself so tightly that I can look over the sheer drop and see the road from mere seconds ago. The corners aren't well signposted which results in a hair raising moment as I barrel over a crest into a hairpin turn, going far too fast, so I brake hard while downshifting, blipping the throttle to keep it smooth. I power through the hairpin on a perfect line and I feel like a motorcycle racing champion. I'm not disillusioned in the slightest when a bus overtakes me; it's probably a turbocharged racing bus.
The lookout itself is a disappointment. One side overlooks the tired gray town. Another side overlooks the abandoned abattoir. The rivers are visible but it's still not high enough to get a bird's eye view. The busload of aging tourists that passed me earlier are standing on rocks and on benches, attempting to get better views, but I don't think another half metre is going to make all the difference. I stick around for the sunset before leaving.
The descent down the hill is made all the more exciting by the lack of light. I pull into the campsite in darkness and find Dave. He's talking about camping at El Questro resort tomorrow. That means riding the Gibb River Road again. I'm not keen on the idea. I'll have to sleep on it.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Gibbering Idiots
Yesterday we rode from Broome to Derby. There's not a lot to see or do in Derby but it's a stepping stone to the next stage of the odyssey; the Gibb River Road.
The Gibb River Road is a 660 kilometre bush track through the Kimberley. It's reknowned as an exciting adventure trail for 4WD enthusiasts. Many people have warned us against
doing the road on our bikes but we are brave and fearless!
The first 60 kilometres is sealed and quite dull but then the fun begins. Mud, sand, dirt, gravel, rock; it's all here on the Gibb. My initial apprehension fades away. This is so much easier than I had expected. I pick up the speed - 50, 60, 70 - and pretty soon I'm hurtling along at 80kph.
Then without warning I nearly have a disaster. The surface looks like the compacted dirt I've been riding all day but it is actually deep ruts filled with dust. The dust doesn't support any weight and the front tyre sinks up to the rim. I'm bucked violently and it's only by sheer luck that the dust section is very short. The momentum of the bike carries me through, the rear wheel finds traction, and with heavy application of power I regain control.
That was a wakeup call. I greatly reduce my speed and I pick my lines more cautiously. Despite my carefulness the same thing happens again. However this time I have less momentum so the bike bucks even harder. Only with the rush of adrenaline do I have enough strength to hold the bike upright.
Now I'm shaken and the Gibb heaps insult onto injury by shaking me further; the corrugations have just begun. Each corrugation hammers through the handlebars and into my palms which are soon aching. The front wheel has almost no traction such that even the lightest pressure on the front brake sets off the ABS. Going faster is dangerous because that reduces steering control but going slower makes the corrugations even more pronounced. My brain is shaking out my earholes and there's 550 kilometres remaining!
Dave has stopped at the next intersection. He's not enjoying this either. He says the dust we're finding is called Pindan dust and he expects more of it on the Gibb. He suggests we take an escape route back to the highway. Along the way we can stop at Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek Gorge. That sounds good to me.
Windjana Gorge is spectacular. It runs through an ancient coral reef (Napier Range) and reaches 100 metres into the air. The Lennard River runs through the gorge and native wildlife flocks to the water; birds, fish, bats, and freshwater crocodiles! Several crocs are lazing by the sands so Dave sneaks up on one, hoping to snap a photo, but he gets too close and it leaps into the air before diving into the water. Dave shits a brick and I burst out laughing.
Heading on towards Tunnel Creek Gorge the road starts to deteriorate. The corrugations are much worse and there is even more Pindan dust. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to handle the bike and several times I nearly lose control. This is beginning to worry me; I could get seriously hurt on this road. Only a short distance before Tunnel Creek Gorge I hit another section of dust and the bike starts sliding. Here's where the inevitable happens.
Man down.
No, not me. I ride the pegs and slide my bike sideways to a stop and I'm still upright. That was really close. Then I look ahead and see Dave's luggage strewn through the bushes and Dave standing near his bike. He rode into a big section of dust in front of me and his bike went down, spun around, tore off the right pannier, and threw Dave down the road.
The pannier is a mangled mess but thankfully Dave is not hurt and his bike is alright. The crash happened twenty minutes previously - I was riding relatively slow - and the pannier hadn't burst open as I'd first thought; Dave had emptied the contents so he could inspect the damage. It's pretty bad and we need straps to reattach it to his bike.
Dave is still shaken and it's another half hour before we start moving again. Our confidence is shot and we crawl along at a snail's pace. The road manages to get worse with water crossings, gigantic rocks, and long sections of agonisingly unrideable dust. Passing cars throw up huge choking clouds that sting the eyes. Several times I nearly drop the bike and I maintain control only by the skin of my teeth. This is just horrible.
We ride the last 10 kilometres in darkness, our headlights providing almost no clues of the surface ahead. When we reach the highway it has taken 8 taxing hours to travel 250 measly kilometres. We were idiots for riding that road with such minimal offroad experience. The outcome could have been so much worse. It was an utterly awful day of riding.
But I am enjoying the warm glow of accomplishment.
The Gibb River Road is a 660 kilometre bush track through the Kimberley. It's reknowned as an exciting adventure trail for 4WD enthusiasts. Many people have warned us against
doing the road on our bikes but we are brave and fearless!
The first 60 kilometres is sealed and quite dull but then the fun begins. Mud, sand, dirt, gravel, rock; it's all here on the Gibb. My initial apprehension fades away. This is so much easier than I had expected. I pick up the speed - 50, 60, 70 - and pretty soon I'm hurtling along at 80kph.
Then without warning I nearly have a disaster. The surface looks like the compacted dirt I've been riding all day but it is actually deep ruts filled with dust. The dust doesn't support any weight and the front tyre sinks up to the rim. I'm bucked violently and it's only by sheer luck that the dust section is very short. The momentum of the bike carries me through, the rear wheel finds traction, and with heavy application of power I regain control.
That was a wakeup call. I greatly reduce my speed and I pick my lines more cautiously. Despite my carefulness the same thing happens again. However this time I have less momentum so the bike bucks even harder. Only with the rush of adrenaline do I have enough strength to hold the bike upright.
Now I'm shaken and the Gibb heaps insult onto injury by shaking me further; the corrugations have just begun. Each corrugation hammers through the handlebars and into my palms which are soon aching. The front wheel has almost no traction such that even the lightest pressure on the front brake sets off the ABS. Going faster is dangerous because that reduces steering control but going slower makes the corrugations even more pronounced. My brain is shaking out my earholes and there's 550 kilometres remaining!
Dave has stopped at the next intersection. He's not enjoying this either. He says the dust we're finding is called Pindan dust and he expects more of it on the Gibb. He suggests we take an escape route back to the highway. Along the way we can stop at Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek Gorge. That sounds good to me.
Windjana Gorge is spectacular. It runs through an ancient coral reef (Napier Range) and reaches 100 metres into the air. The Lennard River runs through the gorge and native wildlife flocks to the water; birds, fish, bats, and freshwater crocodiles! Several crocs are lazing by the sands so Dave sneaks up on one, hoping to snap a photo, but he gets too close and it leaps into the air before diving into the water. Dave shits a brick and I burst out laughing.
Heading on towards Tunnel Creek Gorge the road starts to deteriorate. The corrugations are much worse and there is even more Pindan dust. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to handle the bike and several times I nearly lose control. This is beginning to worry me; I could get seriously hurt on this road. Only a short distance before Tunnel Creek Gorge I hit another section of dust and the bike starts sliding. Here's where the inevitable happens.
Man down.
No, not me. I ride the pegs and slide my bike sideways to a stop and I'm still upright. That was really close. Then I look ahead and see Dave's luggage strewn through the bushes and Dave standing near his bike. He rode into a big section of dust in front of me and his bike went down, spun around, tore off the right pannier, and threw Dave down the road.
The pannier is a mangled mess but thankfully Dave is not hurt and his bike is alright. The crash happened twenty minutes previously - I was riding relatively slow - and the pannier hadn't burst open as I'd first thought; Dave had emptied the contents so he could inspect the damage. It's pretty bad and we need straps to reattach it to his bike.
Dave is still shaken and it's another half hour before we start moving again. Our confidence is shot and we crawl along at a snail's pace. The road manages to get worse with water crossings, gigantic rocks, and long sections of agonisingly unrideable dust. Passing cars throw up huge choking clouds that sting the eyes. Several times I nearly drop the bike and I maintain control only by the skin of my teeth. This is just horrible.
We ride the last 10 kilometres in darkness, our headlights providing almost no clues of the surface ahead. When we reach the highway it has taken 8 taxing hours to travel 250 measly kilometres. We were idiots for riding that road with such minimal offroad experience. The outcome could have been so much worse. It was an utterly awful day of riding.
But I am enjoying the warm glow of accomplishment.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Hold On Tight
Yesterday we left 80 Mile Beach and rode into Broome. Now this is a tourist town! There are restaurants, shops, attractions, tours and beaches everywhere. Unfortunately that means it's incredibly popular, especially because it's school holidays, so accommodation is scarce and I don't have anything booked. At the visitor's centre a sandwich board lists about a dozen local caravan parks and they're all full. Luckily they find me a motel room due to a recent cancellation and I merely needed a third mortgage on my house to pay the astronomical charges.
Kirsten is flying home today so I leave Dave and Kirsten to their own devices. I have my bike booked in for a service which means I need entertainment within walking distance. I've found just the thing; an ultralight flight!
The pilot is a mad Englishman called Charles. He spent 10 years riding a Honda Goldwing around the world; crossed the Sahara desert on the same bike; drove a double decker bus through outback Australia; and now he's saving up for the next adventure by selling joyrides on his flexible wing ultralight. He straps me into the passenger seat, tells me to hold on tight, then he guns the engine down the runway.
!
I'm speechless. I've flown in fixed wing light aircraft once or twice and this is altogether different. There is no feeling of enclosure, just a deep void of space all around. Visibility is not obscured by windows or pillars. The wind blasts over my body. It's like stepping out of a car and onto a bike. This is the closest I've ever felt to flying without a vehicle: I can almost imagine the ultralight isn't here. Charles is obviously a professional; he swoops low over Cable Beach, giving me the best photo opportunities imaginable. The landing at Broome airport is smooth and unbelievably slow.
Back on the ground I can't wipe the ear to ear grin off my face. Later that night I'm still reliving the experience; that is something I definitely need to do more often.
Kirsten is flying home today so I leave Dave and Kirsten to their own devices. I have my bike booked in for a service which means I need entertainment within walking distance. I've found just the thing; an ultralight flight!
The pilot is a mad Englishman called Charles. He spent 10 years riding a Honda Goldwing around the world; crossed the Sahara desert on the same bike; drove a double decker bus through outback Australia; and now he's saving up for the next adventure by selling joyrides on his flexible wing ultralight. He straps me into the passenger seat, tells me to hold on tight, then he guns the engine down the runway.
!
I'm speechless. I've flown in fixed wing light aircraft once or twice and this is altogether different. There is no feeling of enclosure, just a deep void of space all around. Visibility is not obscured by windows or pillars. The wind blasts over my body. It's like stepping out of a car and onto a bike. This is the closest I've ever felt to flying without a vehicle: I can almost imagine the ultralight isn't here. Charles is obviously a professional; he swoops low over Cable Beach, giving me the best photo opportunities imaginable. The landing at Broome airport is smooth and unbelievably slow.
Back on the ground I can't wipe the ear to ear grin off my face. Later that night I'm still reliving the experience; that is something I definitely need to do more often.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Songs For The Deaf
The distances between towns are growing and the towns themselves doen't have much to offer tourists. In the past two days we've passed through places such as Karatha and Port Hedland and although the trains and ships are pretty cool, it's not holiday material. Most of our time is spent riding the long straight highways in the blistering heat, bleak scenery whizzing past, and I'm fed up with the sameness of it all. However today things are looking up because we're going to a resort at 80 Mile Beach.
80 Mile Beach is literally off the beaten track; there's a dirt road, covered in obligatory sandy patches, that leads from the highway to the coast. It takes me ages to complete the distance, sweltering the whole time inside my black jacket and helmet. I'm overjoyed when I reach the resort, my bike still scratch-free, so I overlook the fact that the "resort" is a second rate caravan park. It's an oasis in the desert insofar as I'm concerned.
The sun is setting when I arrive so it's a dash to the beach to watch the sunset over the ocean. The beach is huge and spaced every 20 metres are motionless fishermen, standing on the shore, fishing rods in hand. For some reason they remind me of the Easter Island statues. The sun disappears beneath the horizon and the sky glows a fiery red. As if on cue the fishermen all pack up their gear and shuffle silently back to the caravan park. What a bizarre hobby!
The gray nomads have organised night time entertainment for themselves. They have a mixing deck, speakers, mikes, and they're singing songs from their youth, apparently from the Baroque period. Not only do I not recognise the songs, the singing is awful; off-key and distorted badly by the tone deaf lady operating the mixing deck. I hide inside my cabin, earplugs inserted, pillow over my head, and try to get some sleep.
80 Mile Beach is literally off the beaten track; there's a dirt road, covered in obligatory sandy patches, that leads from the highway to the coast. It takes me ages to complete the distance, sweltering the whole time inside my black jacket and helmet. I'm overjoyed when I reach the resort, my bike still scratch-free, so I overlook the fact that the "resort" is a second rate caravan park. It's an oasis in the desert insofar as I'm concerned.
The sun is setting when I arrive so it's a dash to the beach to watch the sunset over the ocean. The beach is huge and spaced every 20 metres are motionless fishermen, standing on the shore, fishing rods in hand. For some reason they remind me of the Easter Island statues. The sun disappears beneath the horizon and the sky glows a fiery red. As if on cue the fishermen all pack up their gear and shuffle silently back to the caravan park. What a bizarre hobby!
The gray nomads have organised night time entertainment for themselves. They have a mixing deck, speakers, mikes, and they're singing songs from their youth, apparently from the Baroque period. Not only do I not recognise the songs, the singing is awful; off-key and distorted badly by the tone deaf lady operating the mixing deck. I hide inside my cabin, earplugs inserted, pillow over my head, and try to get some sleep.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Tyred And Worn Out
Yesterday was exhausting so today we all collapse around the pool. Dave and Kirsten attempt to set a record for Most Number Of Consecutive Hours Doing Absolutely Nothing. I compete until lunchtime but then I'm called away on urgent business as my rear tyre needs to be replaced. It had been mangled beyond all recognition when it reached Exmouth; thin as tissue paper and very nearly bald. It wouldn't have made Broome!
There are exactly zero motorcycle mechanics in Exmouth so I'm relying on a car mechanic to change the tyre. He disclaims any knowledge of bikes so I have to pull the rear wheel off. That's easy enough and the mechanic quickly attaches the new rubber to the alloy rim. Unfortunately now I discover what I like to call the Engineering Dilemma; it's always far easier to pull something apart than to put it back together.
For those who don't know, the Suzuki has a double sided swing arm. The rear wheel has a large metal rod for an axle that must thread through two spacers, a sprocket, the wheel, a brake unit, and the swing arm. Juggling all the pieces in mid-air while attempting to insert the axle is just impossible. I'm sitting in the blazing sun, dripping with grease and sweat, cursing loudly at the bike, while the car mechanic sits inside and pretends not to notice.
An enormous RV arrives, searching for new tyres, and the gray nomad inside shows an interest in my plight. He leans out the window of his battle tank and says "That looks like hard work". It is. "You need to align the holes for all of those pieces". I know. "Could you get a move on, you're blocking the driveway and I need new tyres for my RV".
I stare at the gray nomad in disbelief. My eyes wander to the 1 metre long axle wrench and I briefly entertain evil thoughts. Fortunately the car mechanic takes pity on me at this point; he holds the wheel up in place and the axle is quickly threaded. It doesn't take long to retension the chain and it's all done.
Overjoyed with this success and covered in grease, I head back to the pool. It feels great to have a new tyre. Now I can truly relax.
There are exactly zero motorcycle mechanics in Exmouth so I'm relying on a car mechanic to change the tyre. He disclaims any knowledge of bikes so I have to pull the rear wheel off. That's easy enough and the mechanic quickly attaches the new rubber to the alloy rim. Unfortunately now I discover what I like to call the Engineering Dilemma; it's always far easier to pull something apart than to put it back together.
For those who don't know, the Suzuki has a double sided swing arm. The rear wheel has a large metal rod for an axle that must thread through two spacers, a sprocket, the wheel, a brake unit, and the swing arm. Juggling all the pieces in mid-air while attempting to insert the axle is just impossible. I'm sitting in the blazing sun, dripping with grease and sweat, cursing loudly at the bike, while the car mechanic sits inside and pretends not to notice.
An enormous RV arrives, searching for new tyres, and the gray nomad inside shows an interest in my plight. He leans out the window of his battle tank and says "That looks like hard work". It is. "You need to align the holes for all of those pieces". I know. "Could you get a move on, you're blocking the driveway and I need new tyres for my RV".
I stare at the gray nomad in disbelief. My eyes wander to the 1 metre long axle wrench and I briefly entertain evil thoughts. Fortunately the car mechanic takes pity on me at this point; he holds the wheel up in place and the axle is quickly threaded. It doesn't take long to retension the chain and it's all done.
Overjoyed with this success and covered in grease, I head back to the pool. It feels great to have a new tyre. Now I can truly relax.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Smile, You Son Of A ...
Yesterday was, as expected, an agonisingly slow ride from Carnarvon. Even the gray nomads with camping trailers were overtaking us; I feel so ashamed.
Today I'm awake early - on holiday that's anytime before noon - because I'm going swimming with whale sharks! A bus arrives at an ungodly hour to take us to the boat ramp. I'm a little nervous because I've never been to sea before, I can just barely swim, and I'm about to strap flippers to my feet and jump into the deepest blue with sharks. This will be fun!
At the start there's a practice snorkeling session in the calm waters behind the reef. I assume this is so the organisers can identify the people who can't swim. With any luck I can fake competence long enough to fool the divemaster. I've never snorkeled before and it's an incredible experience. The water abounds with coral and brightly coloured fish. The fish swim casually around us, seemingly unfrightened by our presence. I'm completely relaxed; it feels uncannily natural to be breathing while face-down in the water.
The practice is soon over and we are back on the boat and heading out past the reef. The waves are bigger out here and my snorkel is frighteningly short. The crew is having trouble finding a whale shark despite the assistance of two spotter planes. We see humpback whales, dolphins, turtles and dugongs but the whale sharks are well hidden.
Several hours pass before whale sharks are spotted many miles away. The boat surges into full throttle and races towards the main attraction. When we reach the sharks it's like a military operation; the divemaster shouts "go go go" and a dozen people rapidly launch into the sea. All I can see are arms, legs and bubbles. My snorkel fills with salt water and I inhale the foul liquid just as a wave pushes me beneath the surface. My life flashes before my eyes but it wasn't that interesting the first time and I'm not particularly interested in watching reruns.
Somehow I crawl back on deck but before I can catch my breath it's "go go go" again. I get caught up in the rush of people and find myself back in the water. This time I swim towards the big crowd of swimmers, reasoning that they must know something I don't. The leader of our team is shouting to get back but I don't know why; I can't see t...
There it is.
It's huge. It's shaped like a stealth bomber, gliding through the water, heading straight towards me, and I'm frozen in place. Part of my brain is screaming "It's A Fricking Shark, Get Out Of Here" but the larger logical part is saying "you don't have a chance, give up now". In any event, I'm not moving out of the way so the team leader gets my attention by throwing her elbow in my face. I move backwards and the shark swims silently past me, less than an arm's length away. I'm dumbstruck and I hardly notice that I'm inhaling salt water again.
There are a few more dives but none of them compare to that first sighting. I learn that the sharks I saw today are babies; mature whale sharks are up to 18 metres long. It would be awesome to see something that large bearing down on you. I imagine being a fish in the ocean must be non-stop terror, always on the lookout for silent stealthy death machines like sharks. The only predators I have to worry about back on land are the mosquitos.
Today I'm awake early - on holiday that's anytime before noon - because I'm going swimming with whale sharks! A bus arrives at an ungodly hour to take us to the boat ramp. I'm a little nervous because I've never been to sea before, I can just barely swim, and I'm about to strap flippers to my feet and jump into the deepest blue with sharks. This will be fun!
At the start there's a practice snorkeling session in the calm waters behind the reef. I assume this is so the organisers can identify the people who can't swim. With any luck I can fake competence long enough to fool the divemaster. I've never snorkeled before and it's an incredible experience. The water abounds with coral and brightly coloured fish. The fish swim casually around us, seemingly unfrightened by our presence. I'm completely relaxed; it feels uncannily natural to be breathing while face-down in the water.
The practice is soon over and we are back on the boat and heading out past the reef. The waves are bigger out here and my snorkel is frighteningly short. The crew is having trouble finding a whale shark despite the assistance of two spotter planes. We see humpback whales, dolphins, turtles and dugongs but the whale sharks are well hidden.
Several hours pass before whale sharks are spotted many miles away. The boat surges into full throttle and races towards the main attraction. When we reach the sharks it's like a military operation; the divemaster shouts "go go go" and a dozen people rapidly launch into the sea. All I can see are arms, legs and bubbles. My snorkel fills with salt water and I inhale the foul liquid just as a wave pushes me beneath the surface. My life flashes before my eyes but it wasn't that interesting the first time and I'm not particularly interested in watching reruns.
Somehow I crawl back on deck but before I can catch my breath it's "go go go" again. I get caught up in the rush of people and find myself back in the water. This time I swim towards the big crowd of swimmers, reasoning that they must know something I don't. The leader of our team is shouting to get back but I don't know why; I can't see t...
There it is.
It's huge. It's shaped like a stealth bomber, gliding through the water, heading straight towards me, and I'm frozen in place. Part of my brain is screaming "It's A Fricking Shark, Get Out Of Here" but the larger logical part is saying "you don't have a chance, give up now". In any event, I'm not moving out of the way so the team leader gets my attention by throwing her elbow in my face. I move backwards and the shark swims silently past me, less than an arm's length away. I'm dumbstruck and I hardly notice that I'm inhaling salt water again.
There are a few more dives but none of them compare to that first sighting. I learn that the sharks I saw today are babies; mature whale sharks are up to 18 metres long. It would be awesome to see something that large bearing down on you. I imagine being a fish in the ocean must be non-stop terror, always on the lookout for silent stealthy death machines like sharks. The only predators I have to worry about back on land are the mosquitos.
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