got a bad case of crabs

I’ve got a bad case of crabs

I was really looking forward to the weekend. Everything seemed very rosy indeed. The truck was serviced, the rations all fixed up and the hay boxes were packed solid with ice and tinnies. This was going to be a real cracker.

We finished our work about 11am, showered, got our kit ready and drove round to the cookhouse to pick up the scoff.

There were only about 6 of us this time so the accommodation wasn’t going to be too overcrowded, there’d be more than enough to eat and with the amount of brew on board I couldn’t imagine there’d be too many sober conversations by midnight.

Everything loaded, including fishing tackle for the “Fresh rations” and off we set to “Virg Inn”. Miles away from what civilisation there was. No one to cause us any grief, just 36 hours of “let it all hang out”.

As always the journey was bumpy, hot, and in the back of our truck, uncomfortable. That would all be forgotten in a couple of hours.

Virg Inn was not your actual Savoy, but it was a great place to spend the weekend unwinding. The structure was basically a roof, an attempt at basic walls, and plenty of floor space for crashing out. The whole thing raised slightly on stilts to keep unwelcome guests at bay.

The sand and surf at this place had to be seen to be believed. It was heaven. A bit dodgy if you got too near the reef when the waves were going at full tilt (see Sammy Kirk’s stories), but if you were careful, no problem.

Cooking was normally carried out over a bed of blazing coconut husks, washing up was done by just holding your plate and eating irons in the surf. It had its own built in scouring pad.

I remember that the day went a treat. Plenty of swimming, fishing, drinking, drinking, drinking and even a mouth full of food now and again.

The washing facilities were zero. A block of special salt-water soap and the sea.

The Toilet facilities were another thing altogether. All that consisted of was a caravan type “Honey Bucket”.

Positioned about 50 metres behind the Inn. No privacy, just stuck out in the Ulu awaiting visits from the uninitiated and unwary.

My policy therefore was “hang in there Chatty, until you’ve got no other option”. This I thought was a very clever move.

As dusk was approaching I felt the “need” coming on, so I slipped quietly away to spend a wee while contemplating my navel so to speak.

What a sight it must have been, one very inebriated squaddie, shorts and “skiddies” around ankles, flip flops waving in the air, trying to appear casual and unconcerned.

I wasn’t unconcerned for very long. Was I hearing things or was that a rustling sound? I strained my eyes in the diminishing light and there, in fact every bloody where, were enormous land crabs all heading from every direction in my direction.

No need for laxatives now, pal.

Soon there were literally hundreds of them all surrounding me, who by now was really doing some serious contortions.

The top of the “Honey Bucket” couldn’t have been more than a foot across. I can assure you it is extremely difficult to get 1 medium sized male buttock + two size 10 feet balanced on an unsecured piece of rusty tin. Especially when your sense of balance is impaired by a large intake of booze.

Now wasn’t the time for either courage or coyness. I hollered like I’ve never hollered before. If I wasn’t rescued in the very near future there wouldn’t have been a lot left of me in the morning.

“What the bloody hell’s wrong with you, Chatty?”

“I’m surrounded by rampaging Landies. I need rescuing.”

“Where are you?” It was getting quite dark by now.

“On the Thunder Box.”

After a quick recce by one of the others it was decided that yes, Chatty had problems.

“We’ll back up the truck, try and climb on the tailboard.”

Soon the sound of the truck could be heard approaching, driven by an alcohol soaked squaddie.

I now had two problems. The predatory crabs, and a drunken squaddie reversing blindly towards me.

Explain that to the Coroner.

“Well, Sir, he was perched precariously on this Thunder Box surrounded by Crabs, and we thought we’d back the truck up to rescue him.”

“It was dark, Sir, we didn’t realise we’d hit him till we saw his flip flops appear from under the front of the truck”

Luckily, my shouts of frantic guidance were heeded and soon the truck was within inches of my quivering form.

One of the most difficult tasks I’ve ever had was getting from my perch up into the back of that truck with my shorts and skiddies gripping my ankles like a pair of handcuffs.

You can’t imagine the ribbing I received after that little episode.

Thankfully that’s the one and only problem I’ve had with crabs.