Blacky Blasts Back by Barry Jonsberg Read Free Book Online Page B

weren’t even on the water, their expressions turned to glee.
    â€˜Ha! Losers.’
    â€˜Eat my shorts!’
    One of the boys dropped his dacks to moon us, but the movement caused the raft to wobble alarmingly. The rest of his group grabbed and steadied him.
    â€˜C’mon, Marc,’ said Dyl. ‘They’re going to beat us.’
    â€˜No, they’re not,’ I said. ‘Watch.’
    I loved the way the expressions of the boys on the raft changed from triumph to despair. They had forgotten one thing. Adrift on the river, they had no way of steering. The current caught their raft and took it gently downriver. The other bank was only ten metres away, but it might as well have been ten kilometres. They drifted off into the distance.
    I held up the long poles I had been saving as a way of pushing us across the river. We could have used John for the same purpose, but I figured he might resent it.
    â€˜Wave goodbye, guys,’ I said.
    The four of us waved at the dwindling raft in the centre of the river. One of the other group even waved back. ‘Bon voyage,’ I yelled. ‘Send us a postcard.’
    After that, it was simple. We stepped carefully onto our raft, making sure it wasn’t going to capsize. I handed one pole to John and kept the other. Then we carefully punted our way across. When we landed on the opposite bank we’d only moved a few metres downriver. One by one, we stepped onto land.
    â€˜Yay! We won.’
    There was jubilation. We punched the air. We gave each other high-fives. We slapped each other on the back. I gave John Oakman a playful thump between the shoulder–blades.
    We were tight. We were pals. We’d bonded as a group.
    Unfortunately, as my hand made contact with John’s back, he stood on a slippery stone. His foot slid. And then it was like one of those old films I’d seen of tall trees being felled. I was tempted to yell T IMBERRRR! I didn’t.
    I watched as he fell into the icy cold water.
    I watched as he got to his feet, dripping wet and starting to shiver.
    I watched as he turned to glare at me.
    We were loose. We were un-pals. We’d come unstuck.
    Oops.

It was evening and colder than a polar bear’s armpit.
    We hadn’t got the kayaks out, though we had gone on a two-kilometre hike into the bush. There hadn’t been time for everything. Firstly, the other group had to be rescued. Jimmy and Phil threw them a rope and towed them to shore. Pity in a way. I’d kinda been hoping for a waterfall. Then we defrosted John. He looked like an icy pole. I reckon it was the only thing that saved me. He’d have killed me if he hadn’t been frozen to the ground. I thought it was good odds we’d have to take a blowtorch to him. We didn’t. Instead, our guides built a small fire, then wrapped him in blankets and stuck him in front of it. I was going to suggest putting up a couple of split sticks over the fire and turn him on it like a spit, but kept the idea to myself.
    Now we were all wrapped in our warmest clothes and huddled around a huge open fire. Overhead, the sky was packed tight with hard, bright stars.
    â€˜Reet, ye big jessies, ya wee girls’ blouses,’ yelled Jimmy. He appeared to have got his volume control stuck. Whatever he said – and none of us could understand much anyway – was said at maximum decibel count. ‘Nae carry-oot here. Ye want tae eat, ye cook yersen.’
    â€˜Time to get the barbecue going,’ added Phil. I think he realised he was also translator.
    â€˜Phil?’ I said, as we put kindling under the barbecue grill and Jimmy lugged out a big esky with meat in it.
    â€˜Yeah, mate?’
    â€˜Where is Jimmy from?’
    Phil smiled and tugged at his earring.
    â€˜Having trouble with the accent? Scotland, mate. Glasgow, originally.’
    â€˜So he’s only just come to Australia?’
    â€˜Been here thirty years.’
    I was