Weekend gone with the wind
YOU'VE got your earthquakes, tsunamis and iSnack 2.0s, but here in Far North Queensland, hell %u2013 we've got an entire season dedicated to natural disasters.
If there’s anything we like having bragging rights about living in this special part of the world, it is the fact that come every November, we are geared up for the mother of all atmospheric phenomena – cyclones, which have the power to rip an entire house to shreds with powerful wind speeds of more than 280km/h.
Every now and then a cyclone will leave the kind of lasting impression Larry did in March 2006, in its attempt to wipe us off the map.
The rest of the time, however, cyclones come and go, and receive the kind of regard that the latest Australian Idol winner might receive, having visiting our fair city far too frequently.
There is a moment, however, when you switch on the telly or radio and that you realise that teeny little low that was forming in the Coral Sea has actually metamorphosed into a fully fledged cyclone, and oh no, it’s heading your way:
Saturday, 8.30am: Wake to the news Cyclone Neville was a fizzer. Cue sigh of relief, as today is the day I am driving from Cairns to Townsville, and being at the end of a washing cycle, I seriously doubt I could have withstood another rainfall drenching without clean undies.
Saturday, 10am: I cast my eyes skywards. Dark, grey ominous looking clouds fill the sky. I go and fetch the dog from the backyard and batten down the hatches, leaving her inside with plenty of water and a bloody huge doggy bone to play with. I suddenly realise as I turn down the street, that I forgot to close the door to our bedroom. Goodbye socks.
Saturday, 11.30am: Crossing the Johnstone River, the water level is suspiciously high. Thinking nothing of it, I roll on.
Saturday, 12.15pm: The Tully River is up as well. By no means is it lapping at the banks, but it’s enough to make me switch on the radio and check the news updates.
Saturday, 12.16pm: My mobile phone rings. A mate in Townsville has beaten me to it – there’s a new cyclone on the way, and she looks angry. Olga is apparently headed straight for Cairns. Dammit.
Saturday, 12.20pm: Phone call to the girlfriend, who has up to this point been enjoying a man-free weekend with the girls. Get thee to the supermarket and stock up on water, duct tape, batteries, and another tub of that Sara Lee Ultra Chocolate ice cream, while you’re at it, I decree.
Saturday, 12.30pm: Those nice folk in the weather bureau reckon Olga is going to make landfall tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, the ABC is broadcasting a flash flood warning from Cardwell to Cape Flattery. I flashback to this time last year, and the loooong lines of cars stretching beyond the horizon waiting for the floodwaters to recede. With several problem spots still to go, I step on it.
Saturday, 1.24pm: I’ve stopped the car and am waiting by the side of the road near Ingham. I’ve just had a thought. If the floodwaters are up, there is no way I will be driving back to Cairns the next day. Do I keep heading south, or do I press on, risking being trapped in Townsville?
Saturday, 1.28pm: After frantic phone calls to assess the situation, I’m led to believe yes, things are likely to get very wet in the next 24 hours. With 75 per cent of the Australian continent taking a sickie on Monday in the lead-up to Australia Day, I believe a cyclone is as good as a reason as any to join them, especially when it is a legitimate excuse. Townsville it is, Captain.
Sunday, 5am: Wake up in the spare room underneath mate’s Queenslander, next to a creek. Unfortunately, the spare room is a recent addition to the house, and there is a big gap in a wall yet to be filled. As a result, the resident population of mosquitoes from the nearby mangroves are 20 times bigger after feasting on my exposed flesh during the night. I use the early (and itchy) start to the day as an opportunity to check the latest information on the cyclone. It appears Olga is still angry and is making a bee-line for Port Douglas. Maybe she, too, was burnt in one of Christopher Skase’s business ventures during the 1980s, and is coming back for revenge.
Sunday, 8.30am: After four cups of caffeine, I’m Willie Nelson, on the road again. With the river levels still up, I’ve been advised by my mate who’s been following Olga with the kind of feverish obsession a criminal profiler tracks a serial killer, that I’ve at the very least, got to get to Tully before midday.
Sunday, 8.45am: I am 5km from Townsville. The rain is so intense, I can hardly see the car in front.
Sunday, 8.47am: The rain stops.
Sunday, 10.30am: I am sailing along at a comfortable 100km/h, suitably broody music playing through the speakers to reflect the atmospheric mood outside. Just south of Ingham, bizarrely, it seems I am the only car on the road. Uh oh.
Sunday, 11am: Driving past a flooding hotspot at the Seymour River. If was going to be stuck anywhere, undoubtedly it would be here. At this point the water levels are still up – the supply of gummi coke bottles in the centre console seemingly the only thing going down.
Sunday, 12.45pm: Few more cars now, but the skies have opened up yet again, and there is torrential rain absolutely smothering the Bruce Highway on that long straight south of Innisfail.
Sunday, 3pm: It appears Olga had run out of puff by the time she reached the FNQ coast. Maybe she found out Skase had made a break to Majorca. If I lived in Spain, I would start taping up the windows.
Meanwhile, I've arrived home.
Sunday, 3.15pm: The only sign a cyclone was anywhere near the city is the bin containing our hastily gathered palm fronds has been blown over. That’s it. Not even the washing I forgot to take down off the line has been blown off.
Sunday, 3.16pm: Ex-cyclone Olga may have left the building, but it has been replaced by a far more serious weather system: Cyclone Tilly, a full on category 5 unmitigated disaster.
The dog indeed found the stash of socks in the bedroom. She also ripped a number of books to shreds and somehow found time to gnaw a hole in the leg of our antique dining room table.
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Gulf isolated after Olga passes
KARUMBA and Normanton in the Gulf could be isolated for weeks in the wake of cyclone Olga as swollen rivers continue to rise, cutting off all roads.
Cyclone Olga reaches 110km/h
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