I hugged the center of the small rivercraft, unlike my foolish companions who were leaning over the side and peering into the muddy water, trying to film crocodiles as we progressed up Australia’s Mary River.
Before crossing the Pacific on my current Grensfeld assignment, I watched every YouTube video available on the topic of 'animals in Australia that can kill you.' Saltwater crocs were featured prominently. I had seen videos of the monsters launching themselves vertically out of the water to snatch food out of the air.
With the risks the others were taking — leaning over the edge of the small craft — I was fully expecting to see a close-up reenactment, leaving me ‘down’ a companion. What fools. They had not done their research.
I had traveled to Australia’s Northern Territory to record some video footage of a gold mine being opened by Grensfeld Industries. I was to appear at some point in the film, but I had instructions to say nothing. With me were Reggie and Jim, a video director, and a film crew of four.
Jim, Reggie, and I had flown directly from Los Angeles to Sydney in one interminable flight. It felt like an entire day spent in a tightly packed library that served booze. I was considering emigrating just to avoid the flight home.
After staying in Sydney for a night — or a day — I’ll confess I was struggling to tell the difference at that point — we flew on to Darwin, in the Northern Territory. It was an aptly named city, for all of evolution seemed to have taken a unique turn there. Everything in the natural environment seemed capable of deliberately ending your existence, by land or by sea. I was terrified to step out of the airport.
We were whisked off immediately, to a place called Humpty Doo. (I’ll bet you think I made that name up, so I’ll wait while you look it up. Do you feel bad for doubting me?). There we were stuck, for the better part of a week, at the Humpty Doo Hotel. It seemed that the final water leg of our journey required a lift on a contracted boat. The boat’s availability had been delayed, so we were left to cool our heels.
The days drifted by as I floated in a foggy haze of exhaustion and insomnia. By the time a crowd of zealous locals arrived to howl on open mic night, I was so sleep-deprived that I was sure I had arrived in hell.
Just when I had finally started to recover from my jet lag, and began to wake up at noon like a normal person, I was told we would be moving on. Once again my schedule was upset, and so was I. I was tired of traveling.
We drove some distance down the Arnhem Highway, past hour after hour of reddish soil and scrubby trees until we reached the Mary River.
We clambered down a steep wooded bank, and onto a small boat tethered close to the highway crossing. Once our equipment was onboard, we set off.
Come to think of it, this is where I started this chapter, wasn’t it? I can’t think of much I’ve left out. Jim got yelled at by the boat’s pilot once, for straying too far from the boat’s centerline, since nobody could counterbalance his weight, and the pilot seemed anxious not to be ‘eaten by bloody Crocs.’
We spent some time under a blistering sun, gliding along, annoying some birds with the noise of the engine, until we arrived at a small dock constructed in the river.
We unloaded the boat and headed up to meet our Grensfeld contacts.
As the mine was in an ecologically sensitive area, the operation was required to have a minimal footprint. Only the barest necessities were constructed above ground, while of course the bulk of the project was hidden underground. The film crew sent up a drone, but aerial shots of a mine entrance — just a hole in the ground — aren’t compelling footage in a hype video.
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To make up for the scene's deficiency in visual appeal, a thirty-foot tall inflatable kangaroo had been erected by the employees and tethered to the ground by a dozen cables. Now that’s entertainment. Throw in some shots of people wearing hard hats, and you’ve got something to keep investors’ attention.
Eventually, the wind picked up, and the drone had to land, so the film crew switched to traditional camera work. The manager led a tour of the facility for the viewers, while I stood around waiting for my turn to appear.
The workers were all gathered to watch the filming take place, so I joined them and got to know them a bit. Friendly people. I liked them.
As the breezes grew stronger, I saw the wind pick up the giant kangaroo like a sail. It was straining against its ties. I went over and placed my hands on one of the ropes, amazed at how taught it was.
One of the members of the film crew saw me touching the rope and thought I was trying to reorient the kangaroo to a better angle for the next shot, so they came over to help. Before I could stop them — almost before I realized what was happening — they had loosened the knot on one of the far ties.
I looked up with concern as the humongous plastic beast was beginning to lean over me. It looked heavy. Some workers dashed over to the loose rope, making a valiant group effort to hold the line, but another strong burst of wind tore it from their hands. Then another tie-down broke.
The kangaroo was now wobbling in a sweeping orbit as if drunkenly hopping in place on one leg. All hands at the site were now racing forward to deal with the looming disaster, while I raced away.
Another particularly strong gust of wind hit at the worst possible time, and the kangaroo snapped free of its last tethers. All thirty feet of it began to tumble along the ground in the direction of the approaching workers, who immediately reversed course and began to flee in terror from the rapidly approaching wall of kangaroo.
Hitting a vehicle in its path, the kangaroo was launched upright and airborne. The workers froze in place and watched in awe as the huge inflatable soared over their heads, before coming back to earth, and smashing into a brick maintenance facility, shattering the windows. The impact forced the kangaroo to ricochet back in the direction of the terrified workers, who once again began to flee for their lives in the opposite direction, all while releasing a torrent of swear words in several different languages.
A positive development was that the collision with the building had torn the kangaroo’s plastic, and the beast began to slowly melt before our eyes. After a few more minor collisions with company equipment and much shouting, it finally deflated to the point that it could no longer be moved by the wind.
When the horror ended, a stunned silence fell over everyone. Nobody could quite believe what they had been through. It was being in a Godzilla movie and having your character make it through to the very end. Everyone felt shocked at being alive. A positive outcome hadn’t seemed very likely, for a while.
To my relief, when the top manager launched an immediate investigation into the cause of the disaster — pre-supposing my guilt —the workers had my back, revealing that it was a member of the film crew who had unleashed the Kraken.
As nothing could be filmed outside anymore, my scene was ultimately shot inside the mine. I stood next to a seething manager, in front of the camera, both of us wearing glued-on smiles. The manager read some very lame joke about the mine hopefully being as lucky as me, which had been prepared in advance, as it was clear that he now considered my presence a curse.
When the filming was done, we were hurried into vehicles and driven off as quickly as possible. We had been on the road for a brief time when I realized we were heading away from the river.
“Why aren’t we heading back the way we came?” I asked the director.
It was then that I learned the boat journey had been completely unnecessary. The film crew had merely been trying to get B-roll footage of the local wildlife. It turned out we could have simply driven to the mine, all along.
A week bored to death in a hotel and half a day spent cooking myself alive on a boat, all so one of these fools could film a crocodile? I was incensed.
Emily would hear about this.
But not before I spent another disorienting day traveling back to Los Angeles. This time, my flight had to refuel in Honolulu. It is a cruel thing to do to people. In the middle of a long airplane journey, you touch down in paradise for an hour and force the passengers to stare mournfully out the window at it, never leaving their seats. Then the endless flying begins again. I found the experience soul-killing.
When I crawled into my bed at journey’s end, it felt like heaven (though I noted it didn’t smell like heaven. It was time to change my sheets. I would let Reggie know.)