Hope and Disaster on the Discovery Coast

In the dead of night, just before the witching hour, massive bolts of lightning tore the sky apart; thunder, following close on the heels of each pyrotechnic stab, shook foundations and rattled windows; and the wind shrieked its rage in the inky blackness. I woke with the first crash, heard the wind, and lay mesmerised by the strobe-light brilliance that offered brief exposures of the world outside. And in the midst of the tempest, my thoughts turned to the fleeting nature of hope and the ever present threat of disaster on this, the Discovery Coast.

Osprey Dreaming

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the storm’s violence moved out across the bay, taking both its lightning and wind with it. In the aftermath, all that remained was an eerie silence, and the intermittent sound of water drops in the galvanised downpipe outside. I lay awake in the darkness and pondered the likelihood of a day on the road. I thought about the osprey with its fledgling family in that ramshackled gum-tree nest down by the Urangan Sea Wall; and wondered if it had weathered the storm. And somewhere in the silence, I must have drifted off because, when I surfaced again and tapped the face of my Iphone, it was 5.07am. 

Running on Empty

Early morning is invariably the time of day when I tend to be running on empty; nicotine and caffeine wise. So, I slipped stealthily out of bed, dragged on a pair of jeans, grabbed for my cigarettes and lighter, and felt my way along the downstairs hallway towards the front door.

Outside, the air was crisp and clean; washed and somehow purified by the intensity of the storm. Overhead, a myriad stars punched tiny holes in the velvet purple blackness; and the cross hung low to the sea. I tapped out a cigarette, held a flame to the business end and took a long draw; the first draw after a night of abstinence makes my head spin, but I like that. Then, being well on the way to satisfying my nicotine urge, my thoughts turned to coffee and the establishment I’d frequented each morning.

Coffee Quest

On the Esplanade traffic was all but non-existent and street-lights added a sheen to residual moisture on the worn smoothness of asphalt. Early morning joggers had already started to pound the pavement along the cycle track while sporadic groups of walkers strode purposefully northwards. I strode with equal purpose southwards towards the domain of my favourite barista; well, my favourite barista in Torquay, anyway.

A Blast from the Past

I arrived to discover that I wasn’t the first customer; a thirty-something guy in a black Gasoline Alley Harley Davidson T-shirt was already at the counter. And, when he turned to find a table, his face lit up.

‘Hey Mate,’ he said with a grin. ‘Didn’t expect to find you here.’

‘Or me,’ I replied. You based here now?’ I asked.

‘Nah . . . been up the coast on holidays. Just heading back to work.’

‘So where’s work for you these days?’ I queried.

He pointed at the print on the front of his T-shirt. 

‘Gasoline Alley Harley Davidson,’ he said. ‘You still in Darwin?’

‘Yep . . . reckon I’ll be there till they turn the lights out,’ I returned.

This was a guy I knew from way back; we used to do enduros at Adelaide River and race dirt bikes at Campbell Park. We moved to a table out front, under the awning, and chewed the fat about Darwin, dirt-bike racing, and the people we knew in common.

Movement at the Station

By the time I got back to Chez Margaret and David it had gone 7am; and Mel was up and about.

‘Hey Mate, not a bad day for a road trip . . . I reckon we ought to take one,’ I suggested.

‘And what makes you so full-of-good-cheer at this time of the morning?’

‘ This time of the morning?’ I queried. ‘Day’s half gone Mate.’

‘Only for old donkeys like you with a nicotine habit. But, you’re right about one thing . . . it seems like a good day for a bit of a gallop.’

On the Road Again

By a little after 8 am we’d packed, loaded and were ready to get on the road. Margaret and David seemed a little forlorn. I suspect, if they’d had their trusty Hundredth Anniversary Heritage Softail with them, they might even have joined us on the road for an hour or two; perhaps even a day or two.

We headed out via the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the complex, and onto a road running parallel to the Esplanade. Margaret and David had heard from friends that the osprey nest had not weathered the storm; and we wanted to see if there was anything left of that ramshackled nest and it fledglings.

Disaster and Resilience

Coasting in to the curb at the northern end of the Urangan Seawall, we left the bikes leaning on their side stands and cautiously approached the old gum-tree; erstwhile residence of the osprey family. Sure enough, up in the branch where the nest used to be, a lone osprey perched and surveyed the wreckage. And on the rocks that buttressed the end of the seawall, the remains of the osprey nest lay in a dishevelled heap.

With distinct heaviness of heart, we moved closer to see if there was any sign at all of the offspring. Judging from the state of the heap of twigs and sticks on the rocks, it didn’t seem likely that any of them would have survived.

‘They’re still alive,’ said a voice from behind.

‘Are you serious?’ I asked the swarthy complected Wildlife Officer standing custodian over the remains of the nest.

‘Too right! Tough little buggers them little ones,’ she said.

Cautiously, we moved closer and, sure enough, we could hear them; chirping to each other.

Symbols of Hope

Almost immediately, Mel was on the mobile to Margaret and David; to confirm destruction of the osprey’s home but also to relay the good news about the survival of the fledglings. We hung about for a while chatting with the Wildlife Officer and with others who’d gathered. There seemed to be universal concern for the wellbeing of the osprey and family; I suspect that the magnificent bird had become something of a mascot for the locals along the Hervey Bay seaboard. While we saw the osprey and its fledglings as a beacon of hope, we’d be reminded soon enough of the constantly lurking threat of disaster along this Discovery Coast.

Eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, we headed back to our motorcycles; fired up; U-turned on the Esplanade; worked our way along until we reached the Pialba-Burrum Heads Road; and headed north. Above, the sky was impossibly blue and virtually cloudless; traffic was light; and a gentle sea breeze carried with it the tang of saltwater, seaweed and mudflats. At Old Toogoom Road, we took a left and headed west towards Torbanlea where we picked up the Bruce Highway, and headed north. Then, a few kilometres after crossing the Isis River we throttled back on the outskirts of Childers, and cruised into town.

Childers

Childers itself is a charming rural centre situated inland from the coast on the Bruce Highway between Hervey Bay and Bundaberg. But, the name will always remind me of the blaze that destroyed the Palace Backpacker’s Hostel; and with it, the lives of 15 young people who were asleep in the hostel at the time. 

The Fire

The fire started around 12:30 am in the downstairs recreation room, and quickly spread up the walls and into the stairwell. Smoke filled the area and the blaze took out the building’s electricity. The first emergency call, made from a pay phone across the street, was logged at 12:31; emergency services arrived at 12:38 and spent the next four hours battling the fire. 

Eighty-eight people were staying in the building that night. Of those who died, seven were British; three were Australian; two were from the Netherlands; and one each was from Ireland, Japan, and South Korea. An incomplete hostel register made identification of the bodies difficult; and the fact that the fire had damaged or destroyed most of the passports didn’t help matters. At the inquest that followed it was revealed that in one upstairs room [where all occupants died], a bunk bed blocked an exit door and the windows were barred.

So, how the hell did that happen? 

Makings of a Tragedy

Well the building was old, wooden and tinder dry but that was the fuel, not the catalyst. The cause was a fruit-picker who’d moved into the hostel on March 24, but had subsequently been evicted for non-payment of his tariff. ATM records indicate that Robert Paul Long, the fruit picker, remained in the area during the week before the blaze. He had, it seems, expressed a hatred of backpackers, and had previously threatened to burn down the hostel.

At around midnight, on the night of the conflagration, two guests saw Long in the backyard of the hostel. He had, apparently, asked to have the door left open so he could assault a former roommate; an Indian national. Although the guests refused to comply, Long said that it didn’t matter, because he still had a key.

Another guest reported that he had woken to find Long downstairs near a burning rubbish bin. When this resident expressed concern, Long took the bin outside, and the guest went back to bed; he later woke to banging sounds, shouting, and thick black smoke.

A Quantum of Solace

Long’s movements immediately after the attack are unclear. However, five days later, locals reported that they’d seen him in a cane-field. Police subsequently arrested Long in bushland less than 32 kilometres from Childers. During his arrest, the fugitive stabbed a police dog and one of the arresting officers; a second officer shot Long in the shoulder.

The court found Long guilty on two charges of both murder and arson, and sentenced him to life in prison; with a minimum parole period of 20 years. Although 15 died in the fire, officers only charged Long with two deaths in order to facilitate a speedy hearing; and also to allow for further charges to be brought in the event of an acquittal. In 2002, Long’s appeal was denied; and in February 2021 his application for parole was rejected.

Now, if you turn this over in your mind a bit, it’s almost inevitable that you’ll come up with a question or two about justice and the law. And the big question is, has justice been served for the deaths of fifteen young people; people who had their future’s extinguished, their life’s promise unilaterally thwarted? I would have to say that, if I’d been a parent of one of those killed, I wouldn’t have thought so; but then, it’s quite possible that I’d have been looking for retribution rather than justice. 

Insane Coffee

In any case, whenever I ride through, stop or, for that matter, hear the name, I find it impossible to avoid thinking about that fire. Childers certainly doesn’t deserve that blight on its name and reputation; it’s a lovely little town in a very pleasant, bucolic part of the world. 

And right there, on the main street of that pleasant little town, is Number 79, purveyor of fine food and Insane Coffee, housed in what was once probably a warehouse or bulk store. We idled to the edge of the road and parked under the spreading branches of an old oak. I dawdled so that I could have a cigarette while Mel made a beeline for Number 79; to check out the menu, no doubt.

From across the street, Number 79 looked more like a Jack Daniels’ Bar than a trendy coffee shop. A substantial two-storey structure in double brick with a rendered facade fronted the road. The structure shading an expansive front verandah was painted black with the establishment’s logo proudly emblazoned on the hoarding; No 79 Insane Coffee. I stubbed out the remains of my cigarette and headed across the street.

The Old Warehouse

Inside, countless years of robust usage had worn the original aggregate concrete slab almost smooth; in more recent times, it had been stained the colour of weathered jarrah. The old clay brick walls had clearly been bagged, back in the day, and coloured with a thick limestone wash that had yellowed with age, cracked and peeled away in places. Green engineering-shop lights hung from exposed hardwood beams; clearly substantial enough to support the floor of the second storey. And dual split-system air-conditioners wafted a cooling draft from their position on a solid, aerial crossmember.

Coffee tables and a couple of long benches, evidently constructed from repurposed timber, were quarantined from each other via a strategic use of potted plants, ferns and overhead hanging baskets. In stark contrast the servery asserted itself in frosted, patterned glass and stainless steel; with reconstituted stone as the bench-top.

Kicking Back

By the time I arrived, Mel had already placed the order; and the coffee component of that order had arrived. I have no real idea what Insane Coffee actually is. Perhaps it’s a bit like the word wicked, which, when used in certain contexts with a particular demographic, can mean something approximating excellent. So, if the understanding was that a similar interpretation should be used in respect of Insane, then I would have to agree – it was insane. And, judging by the brisk trade, I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

In any case, after a couple of coffees, a few very tasty vegetarian snacks, and some desultory conversation between us, we took our leave; sauntered across the road to our trusty motorcycles; fired up; and took to the road. And the road for our purposes was Childers Road towards Bundaberg.

Heading North

Once out of town, we accelerated to an easy gallop and cruised past the Elliott State Forest and on until we crossed the Burnett River just short of Bundaberg. We skirted the city and continued north until we reached Oakwood, where we took a right onto Rosedale Road. Then, at an easy pace, we pushed on through Yandaran, Watalgan, Rosedale and Berajondo.

Overhead, the sky had a crystal clarity that only ever seems to happen after a comprehensive thunderstorm. And perhaps because we were riding roads less travelled, our journey north was almost free of traffic. A cooling breeze took whatever harshness there was out of the noonday sun; and the whole place seemed impossibly green. All in, when it came to optimal riding conditions, we couldn’t have hoped for much better.

Fingerboard Roadhouse

At Berajondo, we took another right onto Tableland Road and rolled on through Mount Maria and Taunton. We pulled in briefly to the Fingerboard Roadhouse to refuel before heading back out onto Round Hill Road towards Agnes Waters and the Township of 1770 on the Discovery Coast.

After the Fingerboard Roadhouse, Round Hill Road left behind the flat land and worked its way through a series of low ranges past Arthurs Seat State Forest and the Eurimbula National Park, both on the left. Then, after a brief climb we skirted Round Hill on the right and commenced a leisurely descent into town.

Agnes Waters

A coastal town in the Gladstone Region, Agnes Water is located about 80 kilometres south-east of the Bruce Highway, it is the closest access point to the southern Great Barrier Reef. Before European settlement, this region was home to the Meerooni tribe, who formed the southern part of the Gurang nation. Fortunately, the natural beauty of this area has largely been preserved through the establishment of the Eurimbula National Park and the Joseph Banks Environmental Park.

The town itself actually takes its name from a pastoral holding first leased by Daniel Clowes in 1883. He named his holding after the coastal schooner Agnes, which was lost at sea in the area; the schooner departed Bustard Head on 15 June 1873, en route from Mackay to Brisbane. Clowes remained on the property until his death in 1891. The gravestones of Clowes and his wife are near the present township.

During the 1890s timber milling took place in the area, and the wide beach became popular; particularly as buggies could be driven onto the sand. Over the years, the area became popular as a holiday destination, and weekend residences were built; notably on the lower slopes of Round Hill. The town, however, continued to be regarded as somewhat remote until the road was sealed in the mid-1990s.

Seventeen-Seventy

The neighbouring township of Seventeen Seventy, also known as the Town of 1770, was built on the site of James Cook’s second landing in Australia on May 24, 1770. After several unfortunate encounters with the Great Barrier Reef, Cook beached the Endeavour for repairs in the lee of Bustard point. Originally known as Round Hill the name was changed on 24 June 1936 to recognise the historical importance of the town.

Sited on a peninsula, with the Coral Sea and Bustard Bay on three sides, Seventeen-Seventy can be reached by a sealed road through Agnes Water. The town has a small number of permanent residents; but a large itinerant holiday population visits to take advantage of fishing, Great Barrier Reef trips, and other marine activities. The northern tip of the peninsula lies within Joseph Banks Conservation Park.

All that being as it may, it was late morning before we throttled back on the outskirts of town, and idled down to Seventeen-Seventy. The broadwater was a tranquil and inviting aqua-blue; a steady onshore breeze made the day pleasantly cool; and a light smattering of high, mackerel-back cloud did almost nothing to take the edge of expansive blueness of the sky.

Bustard Point

We cruised along the waterfront on Captain Cook Drive, up the steep gradient past the Captain Cook Memorial and on to the parking area for the Bustard Bay Lookout. Then, leaving our trusty iron steeds leaning on their side stands, we strolled about along the walking track; past the Countess Russell Anchor, the Wave Lookout and on to the Cape.

1770 Marina

By the time we’d spent the best part of an hour wandering about and taking countless pics, which never really do justice to what you’re actually seeing, we’d worked up a pretty fair sweat. So we retreated to our motorcycles, fired up and headed back down the winding pavement to the 1770 Marina. There, we acquired a couple of ice-cold soft drinks and found a bench overlooking the marina in the shade.

The whole scene was unbelievably placid. Protected by Bustard Point, the broadwater was calm except for a myriad tiny ripples; highlighted and burnished by the mid-day sun. And a few million dollars worth of moored watercraft whispered a tale of well-heeled privilege. The only real downside was that the Cape quarantined the whole area from the onshore breeze; it was almost hot enough to be mid summer.

Interesting Turn of Phrase

Then, and without warning, the sound of a few hurried footsteps, a thud, and tinkling glass floated across the water. For a few brief seconds there was absolute silence, and then a stentorian voice, edged with frustration, reverberated across the water. 

‘Aaaah . . . for fuck’s sake!’ it exclaimed.

Then the silence and tranquillity returned, undisturbed by further comment. I looked up to see Mel staring at me. Clearly, he was not acquainted with this particular expression of exasperation.

‘I don’t think whoever that was is not having a good day,’ I observed with a smirk.

Mel exploded with laughter . . . so did I.

After yarning and generally cooling our heels for the best part of an hour, I slipped off to have a cigarette before we got back on the road while Mel finished off his can of soft drink. And, when I got back from adding pollution to the pristine atmosphere, he was still chuckling to himself.

‘Well Mate,’ I said. ‘Maybe we ought to consider heading back to Agnes Waters; so we can find an air-conditioned coffee shop, and get a bite to eat . . . for fuck’s sake.’

Chinaman’s Beach

So, after an exceptionally pleasant interlude by the broadwater, we repaired to our motorcycles, fired up and cruised along the waterfront and then headed up the gradient towards the commercial centre. At the intersection with Round Hill Road, we took a left onto Springs Road and headed down towards the ocean; any waterfront will be replete with coffee shops and eateries, right?

With the mighty Pacific Ocean on our left, we idled along a tree-shaded sealed road through Chinaman’s Beach and past Springs Beach until we arrived at the starting point for a well-signed walking track to Red Rock. Now, I have no doubt it would have been a pleasant enough stroll, but we were hungry and there was no sign of either an eatery or a purveyor of fine coffee anywhere. Clearly, my theory about the coexistence of waterfronts and coffee shops was seriously flawed.

Great One Day . . . Perfect the Next

The whole beachfront area was, however, spectacular. Mel must have thought it sufficiently worth our while to stop, because he eased in under the friendly shade of a couple of spreading gums, and shut down. I didn’t lodge any protest at this delay to our food acquisition because I was ready for a cigarette.

Down towards the beach a river meandered its way to the sea and, in doing so, created a sheltered broadwater where children could play without fear of sharks, breakers or the undertow. Overhead, a sun-bleached faded blue spread, uninterrupted, to the edge of the ocean where a benign bank of white cloud hovered just above the horizon. Along the shore and at times waist deep in the river, people were dwarfed by the massive expanse of sand and water. If I had to imagine a perfect site for a lazy day, that would have to be it.

Search for Sustenance

But, because we were on a mission to find sustenance, we climbed aboard our bikes and headed back along Springs Road towards town. At the intersection with Round Hill Road, we took a left and headed towards what I guess you would call Downtown Agnes Waters; though the shops, supermarket and service station we actually sporadically perched on a rise above most of the rest of the town.

Mel was first to sight a cafe-come-diner; he has excellent instincts when it comes to sourcing dining possibilities. We cruised into the expansive customer car park, left our bikes in the shade under a vacant car port and wandered across to check out the menu; well, Mel went in to check the menu while I skulked about outside to have a smoke.

Apart from the excellent coffee, I don’t actually remember what we had. On offer though, was an excellent range of vegetarian and vegan fare; and, as a bonus, the place was air conditioned. I can only assume that the food and service were considerably better than average; if the food had been poor or the service average, I would have remembered.

Miriam Vale

 By the time we were done with food, excellent coffee, easy conversation and air-conditioned comfort, it was probably getting on towards mid-afternoon. We left the coffee shop, exited the parking area, found our way to Round Hill Road, idled along until we reached the town limit, and then accelerated south towards the Fingerboard Roadhouse.

Then, just past the roadhouse we took a right onto Fingerboard Road and headed toward Miriam Vale. During the late 19th century the timber industry was the economic mainstay throughout this area. In those early days, lumberjacks cut Hoop Pine in the mountains and ‘shot’ the logs via chutes down to the foot of the range where bullock drays were waiting.

Of course, by the time we cruised through the area, those days were long gone; most of the district’s timber mills had been closed by the end of the century. The Miriam Vale area is now best known for its cattle and dairy industries.

Although we slowed, in deference to the speed limits and local constabulary, we didn’t stop in Miriam Vale. Instead, we joined the Bruce Highway and headed north. The hefty beat of our engines and exhausts settled in to become the heartbeat of our journey through the afternoon as our wheels rolled on towards our digs for the night.

Bororen Hotel

In the west, just above the ranges, the sun worked its way steadily towards the horizon as we thundered over Three Mile Creek and past the Koorawatha Homestead on the left. Then, just as the heat was beginning to leach out of the afternoon, we spotted a billboard; Bororen Hotel; Take a Break, Rest a While, it said.

We throttled back when we saw the first sign of a built up area, and idled into town. And right there, at the intersection, sat the Bororen Hotel-Motel; our digs for the night.

The hotel sits on the corner of Douglas and Marshall Streets; Douglas Street is actually the Bruce Highway once it gets out of town. Facing the Bororen Hotel just across a Memorial Park is the railway line. And, on the far side of that line is Lester’s Road; if I’d known, I would have ridden into town on it.

Town with a History

Both a town and a locality, Bororen seems to have been there for a while. The town Post Office was opened in 1898 and the local school was established in 1900; formally recognised as a State School in 1909. In the middle of the Bororen Memorial Park, just off the Bruce Highway, sits a War Memorial in remembrance of those from the town who served in one, or both, of the World Wars; we could see it from the Verandah.

Looking at the pub from Douglas Street, I’d have to say that a bit of money has been ploughed into the place. The corrugated iron roof and paintwork looked recent; the floorboards along the verandah were newly lacquered.

Digs for the Night

Access to the pub’s accommodation was via Marshall Street. And once we rode through the covered entrance it was difficult not to feel nostalgic for the ambiance of the pub. The motel accommodation was definitely mid-twentieth century, utilitarian. That having been said, our room was spotless and spacious, the beds were comfortable and the air-conditioning was both efficient and relatively silent; and, out front, there was undercover parking for our ponies.

After unloading, carting our T-bags inside and generally settling in, Mel headed for the shower; I slipped outside to the aluminium setting against the wall for a quiet smoke. Then, while Mel set to organising his paraphernalia, I slipped into the shower to wash off the road grime and sweat of the day. Then, dressed and refreshed, we grabbed the room keys and headed out.

Pub Meals

In Australia, there isn’t much of a twilight; it’s broad daylight, the sun sets, and within a few minutes it’s dark. Well, it was about that time, between day and dream,  when we emerged from our digs and wandered off towards the older part of the establishment – the pub.

The bar was almost empty; after-work patrons had probably headed home before they got into a world of trouble, and the evening crowd had yet to arrive if, indeed, they were going to. I wandered out onto the verandah while Mel, as he is wont to do, gave his full and undivided attention to the menu; written in beautiful copperplate on a chalkboard fixed to the wall next to the servery.

Traffic along the Bruce Highway, or Douglas Street as it was known while on its way through Bororen, had dwindled. Even the semi-trailers seemed to have taken a break; perhaps it was dinner time for truckies too. Darkness had fallen over the whole town; and particularly so the scrubland behind the railway line. But light from the dining room and bar spilled out onto the verandah, down the steps, and across the road. The heat of the afternoon had dissipated; wafted away by the lightest of cooling breezes from the east. It was a perfect evening in country Queensland.

By the time I’d finished my cigarette and headed back inside, the food had arrived; I’d asked Mel to order two of whatever he thought was a good thing. Lee Kerniaghan’s Boys from the Bush was thumping from the sound system behind the bar; insistent but not unsuitable, unpleasant or intrusive. And it was Chicken Schnitzel times two; a pub meal mainstay almost anywhere you go in this great country of ours.

End of the Day

One of the many things I like about motorcycle road trips with Mel, is the natural ebb and flow of our conversation. We’ve come to know each other well over the last ten years worth of road riding; both our strengths and foibles. Like old friends, we’re accepting of each other’s idiosyncrasies without any desire or need to pursue alteration or change. There are no fronts to be maintained, no egos to protect, and no agendas to promote. And, when our discourse dries up from time to time, there is no awkwardness, no embarrassment, no desperate urge to fill the silence.

And that’s pretty much how the evening went. We were just a couple of old mates who also happened to be brothers, holed up in a tiny country town where neither of us had been before.

Later, we adjourned to the aluminium chairs and glass-topped coffee table outside our room. Our sporadic conversation continued and I made us a couple of cups of fairly average Blend 43; well, that was all that was available at the time. We yarned about the day on the road, about our stay with Margaret and David in Hervey Bay and, inevitably, about our Dad and the extraordinary life he’d lived. And much later, we slipped quietly into the room.