Three hundred miles later I was skimming the surface a foot or two above a waterway parallel with the coast. It was wild, rough country, with dark-green feathery-leaved trees overhanging the water's edge. I put up two big flapping birds, like flamingos, only white. I followed one close behind, and it could keep ahead at 70mph, flying frantically with its great spread of jagged-edged white wings and its long pinkish legs streaming behind it. Suddenly it checked itself, its legs dangled limply, as if broken, and it crumpled and dropped as if shot. I expected it to hit the water in a burst of feathers, but it suddenly took flying shape again and made off in another direction.
  The Brisbane River was puckered and wrinkled by a breeze. I flew up-river to the bridge and alighted there. When I came to take off next morning it was foggy with a light rain. There was not a breath of wind and the muddy water was as smooth as glass. I tried taking off up-river and down-river, I tried every trick I knew, rocking, jumping and porpoising, but I could not unstick the floats. It was nervy work, for I could not see far ahead in the mist, and there were ferry-boats, steamers, rowing-boats, buoys and moorings to be avoided. After repeated failures to get off, I tried up-river again, for the full length of the straight. I reached a right-angled bend and, although it had been drummed into me that a seaplane must be kept dead straight in taking off, I swerved slightly to obtain a few more yards' run. My hands were on the throttle to shut off when I thought that the floats rode a little easier. That was tantalising just at the bend where I must stop. I had a wild feeling, and I swerved hard to starboard. I could feel the port float lift; for an instant I straightened out, and then swerved hard again to starboard. As I straightened again I could feel that the starboard float had risen a little in the water. While still rounding the bend I lifted her off the surface. She was heavily stalled, but she was in the air, and stealing up-river. I learned something new about seaÂplane flying that morning.
  I swung round, and flew the length of the river to the sea, then skimmed the passage between the mainland and Great Sandy Island. There were a lot of little flat islets, and I enjoyed jumping them. Then the screw-cap of the front cockpit petrol tank flew off the filler-pipe, which projected through the fuselage. A little safety chain held it, but I was afraid that this might break, and that the cap, hurtling back in the slipstream, might smash the tailplane. I had to come down, so I turned into wind above a stretch of water I thought suitable, and I was just about to settle when I noticed a snag sticking out of the water. I dodged it with a hurried swerve and came down on a narrow strip of shallow water between the mainland and a long sand-spit. There was a light breeze of 8mph from the south. There was no trace of man; alighting there was an indescribable thrill, and the silence and solitude were a balm. I screwed the cap on and let the seaplane drift sternwards until about to ground on a sandbank before swinging the propeller and taking off again. Some hours later I flew up the Fitzroy River to alight just below the bridge at Rockhampton.
  Rockhampton was a queer place, though full of character. There were a lot of odd-looking boats in the river and I had difficulty in persuading boatloads of youths not to jab at the floats with their oars, or grab the wings to hold themselves against the current. In the afternoon I worked on the motor and refuelled, finding it awkward with my bandaged finger. This seemed to hit everything, and dip alternately in oil, petrol and the muddy river.
  There were steam trams in Rockhampton puffing about the streets, and everyone there seemed to spend a lot of time in asserting the equality of man. In the evening I was driven out to a pub, given a glass of beer, and set on a beer barrel to answer countless questions. When at last I got to bed I found that I had left behind the copy of Homer's
Odyssey
which I was reading.
  In the morning, I succeeded in taking off from the river, but I had hard work through 60 miles of heavy rain before flying into fine weather. I was then inside the Great Barrier Reef, through the reef itself was still 150 miles to seawards. At noon I reached the Whitsunday Passage, which stirred a romantic feeling at the thought of Cook's discovering it. I wanted to come down there myself, but with a fresh breeze blowing from the East it was difficult to find a suitable spot. If the water was sheltered there was not enough take-off run to clear the land ahead or else there was a sea running or reefs showed their dirty brown teeth. After passing one of the bays I decided that it would have suited me, but I would not turn back to it. I was getting hungry and impatient, but at last I reached Gloucester Island and came down on the passage between it and the mainland. The seaplane, once down, drifted back fast, and I could see a seething tide-rip which had looked negligible from the air. I hurriedly threw out my anchor, and although it jerked and bumped a bit, it held in time. It was lovely and peaceful there, and all the land in sight seemed uninhabited. I sat on the front wing edge, dangling my feet, and eating. Then I smoked a pipe and lazed â this was what I had dreamed about, complete solitude in the sunshine, and silence except for the friendly slip-slap of wavelets against the floats. But I had hundreds of miles to go before nightfall, so I had to tear myself away. I expected an easy take-off with the loppy sea and a good breeze, but to my surprise the seaplane stayed heavy in the water and when she struck the open seas beyond the island she suddenly swung to starboard. I thought that she was going to capsize and jammed on full opposite rudder. She righted, and finally bumped into the air. I wrote in my log, 'Horrible! Cannot understand it. I must have been flying atrociously, yet did not think so.'
  After 450 miles I had the greatest difficulty in keeping awake, and I was tempted to alight at a beautiful little settlement on Palm Island. But I had to get on to Cairns to refuel, so I made myself go on. With 30 miles yet to go the petrol gauge showed empty. I knew that there was still some left, but to be on the safe side I began climbing so as to have a glide in hand in case of need. I flew over a watershed to see Cairns River within gliding range, 4 miles ahead. It had taken eight hours flying to cover the 623 miles.
  Cairns was a surprise to me in more than one way. From the air it looked beautiful, lying in a horseshoe basin split by the river, and almost encircled by ranges with a dark-purple bloom. But as soon as I alighted, a launch rushed up. It was loaded with tourists clicking cameras. They stopped dead in my lee, and the seaplane promptly began drifting on to the launch. I jumped for the wing root, switched on, sprang to the float and began frantically swinging the propeller. Fortunately they could not hear my swearing at them. I started the motor just in time, and taxied away. As I was rigging my anchor at a fresh spot the launch came up again. Then the petrol agent arrived, and told me that I could not anchor there; I had been ordered to moor on the other side of the estuary, almost out of sight of the town. I asked with wasted irony if they suspected the
Gipsy Moth
of being loaded with dynamite. Next, I had to go with the agent to the storage tanks for petrol, so that I finished emptying ten 4-gallon tins of petrol into the tanks by torchlight. Finally, when I did reach the town, the petrol agent told me that I would not get a bed: I thought he was joking as Australia was then in the middle of a slump, but I was turned away by the first three hotels. When at last a kindly Mrs McManus squeezed me into what I think must have been a housemaid's cupboard; I was grateful. Further, she fossicked some food from the kitchen, and Australian tea that makes one's hair curl. Apparently anyone in those parts who expected food after 6.30 p.m. was regarded as crazy.
  I had to be off early again next morning, and my hostess generously got up to cook me breakfast, and she gave me a tin of sweetcorn, some bread, butter and jam and a magazine to take with me. Soon I was roaring north. The Great Barrier Reef was now within 20 or 30 miles of the coast, and there were detached reefs everywhere. The water over them was dark blue or pure green, and the sun struck through to the reef as if through plate glass. I flew 80 miles across Princess Charlotte Bay, out of sight of land for part of the crossing. Near the mainland I noticed a school of sharks in the lee of Cape Sidmouth, swirled round and alighted on top of where I had seen them, then cast anchor. It was so hot it made my eyes lazy. I took off my clothes and lolled about the seaplane. I was disappointed not to see any sharks, though splashes I heard showed they were still near. From above, I had seen through the water as clearly as if it did not exist, but on the surface I could see only the bottom immediately below me. After eating and smoking I finally tore myself away, for I had to reach Thursday Island before dark. For hundreds of miles it was like flying along the coast of a desert. Once I spotted a wretched kind of shelter with the thatch beginning to collapse, and once I saw a group of horsemen on the beach. I came upon a lugger with sails drooping limply in the hot still air. It seemed black from a distance, and when I flew up to it I found it was covered with black natives. They were a strange sight, dotting the deck, and leaning over the bulwarks, with a string of them twisted up the mast, feet to woolly pate. They all kept utterly still as I flew up to them, and only twisted their heads to look at me as I flashed past.
  I headed out to sea from Cape York, the northernmost point of the Continent, for the group of islands 14 miles off. Thursday Island was not marked on my chart, but the whole group was only 20 miles across, so I did not expect difficulty in finding it. And sure enough I recognised the island at once by the mass of luggers alongside it. As soon as I alighted near the jetty and cast anchor, a dinghy put off with two aboard. One was a man called Vidgen, who turned out to be a pearl merchant. He said that he had a mooring buoy ready for me in the lee of the jetty. He gave me confidence, and I liked him. I hauled in my anchor and stowed it, restarted the motor, and taxied slowly against the strong current to within a few feet of the buoy. I switched off, hopped quickly out of the cockpit and caught the rope thrown to me by Vidgen before the tide bore the seaplane out of reach. We were fast to a proper mooring in just a few seconds without any shouting, swearing or fuss. It was a pleasant change. People came down to the jetty to look. The Australian aborigines fascinated me with the absolute blackness of their skins, and their hair like thick black mats. I dropped one of my watches from my breast pocket and its pale face reproached me through the green water as it sank. The previous day I had lost the oil dipstick. While changing the oil I was scared of dropping the sump-plug into the sea.
  Vidgen invited me to spend the night with him. He had a dinner party for a Dutch captain from the Aru Islands. The manners of the party were gentle and punctilious, after the Dutch style. We had a huge, excellently cooked dinner, the sort of feast that one had fifty years ago in an English country house in the middle of winter. They asked me what I proposed doing if I came down in headhunter country. I said that I had a ·410 double-barrelled pistol, and had made the shot solid with candle grease. 'What range would it kill at?' 'Ten yards,' I said. This caused a general laugh. I asked what the joke was. I was told I would never see any Papuans, who kept behind the trees; they would shoot poisoned arrows at me from 200 yards, and would not approach until I was dead. Further, the Papuans used arrows barbed both ways, so they could not be pushed through or pulled out. They seemed a nice bunch.
  There was a small wooden bank building on Thursday Island and I walked through the heated air to it full of hope. But no money had come for me, and I had to leave with only £18 to see me through to Manila. Vidgen collected some mail for me to take to Japan, and I was asked to keep a look-out for a lugger that had been stolen from Thursday Island. I said I guessed that none of them had ever tried to identify a stolen lugger from an aeroplane. Oh, but it would be quite simple, they said, and to help me they gave me a photograph of another lugger which was like it, but had a mast two feet longer. I said good-bye to Vidgen the pearl merchant with regret, and left Thursday Island soon after noon to cross the Torres Straits. My first water hop was to Deliverance Island, 50 miles. The seaplane was awkward to trim which I think was because I had loaded her noseÂheavy, filling the front petrol tank full, and leaving the rear tank empty. I thought that she might take off better with the weight forward, and I believe she did, but in the air she was so nose-heavy that I had to use three fingers to keep the control-stick back while I held the log-book between my finger and thumb. Deliverance Island was an atoll with smooth water inside the ring, and it was soon passed. I flew on, and rather suddenly realised that there was land below me; I had seen it for some time, but thought it a cloud shadow. Soon I was flying along a broad, shallow, muddy shore and I shall never forget the fantastic sight below. Hundreds of crocodiles basking in the shallows went crazy with fear as I flew over, and sheets of liquid mud flew wide into the air to right and left as they lashed their tails with great writhing strokes until they reached deep water. Some of them by my float shadow were 15 feet long. I always thought that crocodiles lived in fresh water, but this must have been a sort of crocodiles' Brighton beach. Flying over one little sandy cove I saw a sailing boat drawn up on the beach, which looked like the stolen lugger. It would have been the perfect hide-out if a small seaplane had not happened to be flying through that part of the world. I reported it, and it turned out that it was the stolen lugger, and a police patrol recovered it as a result of my report.
  Merauke was a tightly packed settlement in a space cleared from dense tropical growth. The river flowed in front of it, wide, smooth and muddy. Studying the layout as I flew overhead, I could see natives pouring on to the jetty and river bank, some white figures embarking in a launch, and I presently picked out the bright tricolour of the Dutch flag nodding from a drum buoy. I came down, and I think that there must have been 2,000 Papuans on the jetty and river bank. All the white men of the settlement were there too; three missionaries with long beards straggling to their waists, who seemed glad to see a stranger although none could speak English or French; the
gesaghebber
, or Dutch official, and the doctor, who could speak a little English. It was an exotic place, packed tight with flimsy wooden or bamboo structures crowding narrow streets. There were one or two Chinese stores, surprisingly well stocked. I bought some petrol from one in unbranded tins, but I could not get any suitable oil, and was glad that I had brought a spare gallon tin with me. I had no map or chart for the next 1,000 miles of my route, expecting to have been able to get one at Merauke. But there was no map to be had. I should have been badly placed if the
gesaghebber
(doctor) had not generously given me his own map.