The hum of the Cessna had me reminiscing of maths classes in high school. I'd lose my concentration to an audible drone and try to sing up the major scale over it, sure i was a nerd but i wasn't a mathematician...
Flying over billabongs and mountain ranges of red dirt and scattered scrub, the phrase "classic croc country" kept coming into my head and making me giggle to myself. I don't know exactly where i had heard that phrase but it helped me tune out of the reality of my circumstance...that is, being 6,500 ft above the earth in a tin can with wings bolted on the sides. The things we do.
We arrived on the island of Elcho (or Galiwin'ku), it was about lunchtime and the weather had me longing for a swim. They tell me it's not a good idea to swim up this way due to crococdiles, box jelly fish and the reef tip sharks. So i risked my ankles and walked out to a little sand island and there i was in the 'top end'.
Sons of Korah and i played some music on an outdoor stage that night and the locals came out and sat around campfires. I had a sword fight with a young fella who taught me a few moves and then proceeded to chop off my arms and legs, then send the plastic, flashing sword straight through my gut...no-one could have prepared me for that.
