Syd Soyley is a True Blue outback backpacker, licenced professional adventurer, and genteel vagabond. He travels the world bringing his readers the grundiest travel log and extreme vacation guide on the Net.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part IV
I assured Father O'Lecher that I was not currently, nor had I ever been, a copper -- though I once went home in the back of a divvy van after getting into a bit of a blue at the local boozer. Happens to the best of us, luv.
"Aye," he said, fixing me with an appraising look. "T'is a bit queer, though, a stranger showin' up just as I'm makin' me monthly visit. What did ye say ye did, again?"
"I'm the Outback Backpacker, mate," I explained. "Perhaps you've seen me web site?" He stared blankly. "Do you have a go at the net, much?"
His bushy brows twitched like an epileptic in a strobe light factory. "A go at Annette? How would you know who I has a go at?!" he roared. "If anyone, I mean! I'm a priest for frigsake!"
He was as mad as a cut snake. "Relax, mate, no worries!" I said, taking a step back. "I mean the net. You know, the Internet."
"Ye speak of strange things, boy-o," said Father O'Lecher, apparently deciding he wasn't going to bail me up after all. "Ah, Annette ... the Seductress of Cow Bay, " he sighed. "She tempted me mightily." He grasped the large, thick silver crucifix hanging around his neck and unscrewed a cap from the top. "To Annette," he said wistfully, raising the crucifix to his lips and taking a long pull.
"Er, cheers, mate," I said, feeling uncomfortable.
"But I never had a go at her," he said, glaring at me. "Yet," he muttered.
The drink seemed to brighten his spirits. "Aye. Well boy-o, time's a wastin'," he said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and setting off down the gravel road at a quick pace. I hurried after him.
On the way down to the cove, Father O'Lecher had several more toasts to Annette. He also drank to the fond remembrances of the fair Renee, the fiery Kathleen, the sharp-tongued Sherry, and a half a dozen other sheilas whose names I didn't quite catch.
By the time we reached a rocky outcropping overlooking the small, sheltered harbour, Father O'Lecher was lurching noticably and drinking out of a Coke bottle wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. This adventurer can perhaps be forgiven for doubting its contents were one-hundred percent Coca-Cola.
The bottles of "holy water" in his satchel clinked together loudly as he nearly staggered over the edge.
"Easy, mate," I said, grabbing him.
"I'm perrrfectly fine," he slurred. "Ah, there's me wee humble boat," he said, pointing off to the left.
Bloody hell! A hundred yards up the shore was
the fanciest racing yacht this 'ere bruce had ever laid eyes
on. Glistening white, with blue and purple trim. Quite the
tinny!
"The Sweet Jeezus," Father O'Lecher explained. "Fastest boat on the Shagwater Peninsula."
I started to ask how he could afford a boat like that on a Priest's salary, but just about then Father O'Lecher let loose with a technicolour yawn in the bushes. Not a bad idea. Rule Number One in the thick bush, backpackers: always mark the way you came! Too right!
"Lord, we thank Thee for Thy Bounty," he uttered, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. "Come on laddie, we're almost home, just a wee hop down to the beach."
Looked like about ten meters to Yours Truly. He took another swig from his bottle for good luck, then started over the edge.
"Er, wouldn't it be easier to unload your swag if you used the town wharf?" I asked, following after him carefully. Reminded me of me time amongst the cliff-dwelling Nambi Pambi nomads of Outer Svobolia. Extinct now, sadly.
"Oh. Ah. Well, I wouldn't want ta be in the way of the locals," he said, as he half-climbed, half-fell down the rocks to the "beach". Dirt Cove may have had plenty of dirt but they were a bit short in the sand department. The beach was nothing more than rocks, most of 'em fist-sized and up. "Besides, men of The Cloth appreciate their privacy," he added.
We trudged up the shore towards the boat. "So, if ye'll just give me a hand unloadin' some supplies ... um, when it gets a bit darker, perhaps," he said, squinting up at the Sun as if noticing it for the first time.
This whole thing was starting to sound a bit dodgy, backpackers. "What sort of supplies, exactly, mate?" I inquired, as we reached the vessel.
"Uh, Holy Water, and medicine for some ... uh, sick youngsters! Yes!" he said, clambering aboard with some difficulty. "And some other stuff. Uh ... sacramental wine. I've got a couple o' dozen cases of that," he pointed out, as I hopped from the rocks on to the deck. "Ye know, regular priest stuff like any other priest would have on his speedboat."
The cargo hold was piled high with wooden crates, lashed down and covered with an tarp. Some of the crates were stamped. Syd Soyley doesn't parlez-vous much Francais, mates, but even he knows what "rhum" means.
Fair suck of the sav! This priest was a booze smuggler! A rum-runner!
Father O'Lecher explained that he was a "coastal priest". "A lot o' the folks 'round here, they lives in what we call 'outline' communities. The parishes aren't big enough to have to have a priest assigned to 'em year 'round, so I takes it upon meself to service their spiritual needs." He gazed heavenward. "And make a few deliveries on the way, praise the Lord."
We spent the afternoon aboard the Sweet Jeezus, waiting for nightfall. We drank imported beer and listened to Father O'Lecher's police scanner. Not much action, mostly the locals talking dirty to each other over the marine band.
I plied the priest with questions about Dirt Cove, but he was a little bit hazy, and had a gutful of piss, to boot. He did elaborate on the origins of the sunken U-boat, though. Apparently, after torpedoing the town's paper doily factory, the sub struck a rock in the harbour and started taking on water. The crewmen abandoned ship and tried to surrender. "But the enraged townsfolk beat them to death with sticks!" said O'Lecher, gesturing with an empty rum bottle. "Sticks that they cunningly fashioned out of wood!"
After the Sun set, Father O'Lecher fired up the engines and moved us a half a click or so up the shore closer to town, not too far from the hill where Uncle Wally's pub sat.
We unloaded a couple of small crates of "holy water" and started carting them up the hill. I had trouble keeping up with Father O'Lecher -- he strode along like a man on a mission. "Uncle Wally's the man to ask about Dirt Cove," he said over his shoulder, huffing. "Been Mayor for twenty-one years straight ... ever since he opened the pub."
At last we reached our destination, a small, boxy, weatherbeaten establishment sitting in the middle of a gravel lot. A faded "Black Horse" sign on the front proclaimed this to be "Wally's." It'd been quite the day, and I was looking forward to a few coldies and a yabber with the locals.
"Ah, if it's all the same to you," said Father O'Lecher, as I approached the entrance. "It'd probably be best if we went in the back."
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