Letter From The Other Side from Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
A trip on the ‘Yvonne Jay’.

Dear Del,
What stamina you display to be able to baby-sit on one day, drive all the way to Bendigo and back again the next and to still arrive in your studio early and sound fresh and ready to face your listening public.
After such a busy weekend I would be feeling tired and exceedingly exasperated with the world.
I said in my last letter I would relate some of the romantic idylls Teddy and I have attempted.
Like most couples, Teddy and I have succumbed despite our doubts and paid wads of money to experience the dreams the smiling travel agents and brochures promise.
I shall tell you how some of these forays into the world of pleasure seeking holidays turned out for us during this and the next couple of letters.


Like many young couples married during the nineteen sixties in Australia, we weren’t very wealthy and the only holiday we could afford was of the cheap and cheerful kind.
Teddy and I were however full of adventure and bravado as well as a naivety which with the benefit of hindsight put us in some excessively dangerous situations we were lucky to survive.

Our first weekend away was in a small cruiser on a river in New South Wales. The novelty of such a trip really appealed to us.
Teddy had only been in Australia a couple of years and although I was a country girl, I knew nothing about boats and come to think of it, I couldn’t swim very well either.
Neither of us had ever been on a cruiser or knew the river.
The man we rented it from assured us as he waved us off from the wharf that it was just like driving a car and we would be O.K.
We hadn’t mentioned to him neither of us could drive a car…. but what was there to know? You just steer and put the brakes on, where ever they were …didn’t you? We were not going to be deterred from having fun.

I can’t remember ever sharing this story with our children Del, perhaps until the grandchildren have grown up I’ll keep it between us.

The little boat was quite well equipped and after our few short instructions we set off up river.
The helpful owner, who probably assumed we knew our way around boats, did mention not to going down river as it would lead us to the sea and it was unwise to tackle that area.
The weather was fine and still and the water so smooth we could barely make out the bends in its course because the reflections were so perfect.
We felt as happy as a couple of old time explorers and Teddy sang some of his favourite Cliff Richard songs because he enjoyed the sound of his own voice as it echoed off the hills either side. He fancied himself as a possible rival for Cliff Richard at the time.
Whip birds called, and ducks and water fowl busied themselves in the reeds which grew along the banks.
As the sun set we pulled into a pretty little inlet and threw the anchor out.
It made a quick clumping sound and the attached rope didn’t move any further. On closer investigation we could see in the torchlight the curved hook parts of the anchor were just below water level and the shaft was bone dry and sticking up out of the mud.
Teddy dragged it back and heaved it as far as he could to a different place… with the same result.
It was too dark to move as rocks and sand banks jutted out from the cliffs either side.
We had forgotten, if we had ever actually thought of it, the one very important point about the river. It was a tidal river. We had no idea if the tide was going in or out.
As we gradually began to list to one side we of course knew. Walking about became impossible and lying down on a bunk meant we either felt crushed against the side or if we tried the opposite one, we rolled out onto the floor….or should that be deck?
The mosquitos descended in their thousands. It was before the days of affective personal insect repellents.
I pulled a sheet from a bunk and we made a tiny and largely ineffectual Bedouin tent over our heads as we sat on the floor of the galley, our backs wedged against the door jamb and our feet pressed hard against the base of a storage box.
The sheets excluded a lot of the mosquitoes but the smell of our nice fresh blood must have attracted them from miles around and inevitably as we slapped or moved a few determined ones kept getting through ‘hell bent’ on sucking us dry. The whine sounded like a violinist with no talent whatsoever trying to hold a constant discordant note.
We became tremendously hungry but I had no hope of cooking anything and to put a light on would bring even more insects, so we ate a can of cold baked beans, probably mixed with a few mosquito morsels.
The mud as it emerged from the water stank adding to our discomfort as we scratched and smacked in a futile attempt to discourage our attackers.
At last the tide began to turn and we could begin to relax our stiff joints. At first light we pulled the anchor in gingerly and waited until we thought there was enough water under us to start the motor. Slowly we inched out past rocks which still seemed far too close. We had been very lucky not to have scraped the bottom on them when we entered the inlet.
We didn’t dwell on what might have happened too much but even after a few hours of chugging upstream Teddy and I still felt more like Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn in the African Queen than Cliff Richard and his Living Doll. as we were constantly reminded of the myriad of itching mosquitos bites which covered us both.

We had almost another full day ahead of us before the Yvonne Jay was due to be returned.

We threw the anchor out into good deep water and took to the small aluminium dinghy. Teddy rowed us with difficulty against the strong current to a part of the river bank which was covered in lush green grass.
Remembering the tide, we pulled the dingy up as far as we could to make sure we weren’t stranded and felt quite satisfied we were quick learners at this boating game.
We strolled off for a walk toward a small settlement we had passed where we hoped we could get a light lunch, feeling a last we were experiencing some of the romance we had envisaged had been in store for us that weekend.
When we returned to the dinghy we realized our mistake of course.
True our dingy was safe, but now it was about thirty feet from the water’s edge with a wide expanse of oozing, smelly black mud between it, us and the water. Yvonne Jay floated lazily out in the river enjoying her day. She seemed a long way away.
To this day I have no idea why we just didn’t wait for the tide to come back in, but we didn’t.
Teddy as I said, had not been in Australia long and still retained most of his gentlemanly ways and wouldn’t hear of me helping to push the dingy out to the river’s edge. - He wouldn’t put up any argument these days of course, in fact he would probably insist I did help. - So at his insistence, I sat like Elizabeth 1 on a royal barge while he struggled and heaved us through the mud. By the time we reached the waters edge he had the appearance he belonged in a minstrel show.
The current was strong and Yvonne Jay floated unhelpfully up stream. Teddy was already tired from dragging the dinghy and me through the mud and it took an enormous effort to reach the boat. Twice we were almost close enough for me to grab the side and then just as I reach out, the current swept us down again.
He was almost exhausted when at last I lunged at the chain which held the back step…sorry I have no idea what that is called…and grabbed it.
Some time later after he was cleaned up and rested he admitted he didn’t want to have to ever row again because he thought he wasn’t going to make it back at all and we would have enjoyed a very brief but exiting marriage.

We arrived back at the wharf where the Yvonne Jay was berthed and of course never having pulled up to a wharf previously, we missed it altogether first time, second time we came in too slowly and were swept away by the current before we could get the ropes onto the bollards.
Third time we hit the wharf with a tremendous thump which shook the timbers hard enough to bring the owner running down to see the damage to his boat and wharf and expecting us to be calling for an ambulance.
She must have been a sturdy little thing as she survived the impact with only a few scratches as did the wharf and we only suffered a little bruising from the heavy jolt. It was our ears which rang for while from his colourful tirade about our lack of boat parking expertise.

Some years later we ventured onto another river boat which was a paddle steamer and our daughter Monica only three and already showing the early signs she was to grow into a ‘bringer home of lost causes’ sort of person, managed to encourage a wild and smelly Billy Goat on board.
But that‘s another story on another river.
I’ll tell you about our romantic trip to Paris next time Del. I suspect there may still be a few Parisians who remember us even after all these years.
Your ‘Land-lubber’ ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.