Cruising in the Backyard of Crocs

“Ah, yeah,” Max countered. “But that was a year ago.” My legs felt weak.

“Any salties then?” I asked faintly, using the vernacular for saltwater crocodiles.

“Naw,” Max replied. “A tourist was eaten by one in the Whitsundays, but that’s way south.” What kind of country was this where marine killers creep around in six inches of water?

“What about the salty you saw today?” asked Julia. Scratching his chin, Max said, “Right on yer, but that’s Croc Fred, a baby. Five feet tops. He’s more scared of you than you of him.”

I was struck mute, and after declining their offer of whiskey and tanned croc paws, we anchored the dinghy. I gazed forlornly down into the clear water, trying to collect myself, for I knew I was going in.

Masks in place, we eyed each other with--- what? Alarm? Exhilaration? Then we slid beneath the surface as quietly as we could.

Underwater, giant clams large enough to swallow dogs whole spilled out of white shells with emerald-green lips. A cloud of blue drummers surrounded us, enveloping us in their synchronized dance as we finned along, upside down. They flashed away as though the symphony’s final movement had just concluded. Peter’s eyes grew big inside his mask: Speeding torpedoes were approaching. Sharks? Crikey! Instead, enormous groupers with teacup-sized eyes crowded us, huddling beside pumpkin-colored corals. They lounged about, never really going anywhere.

We hiked over to Blue Lagoon to look for Croc Fred, but we returned to the majestic groupers, just to watch them hanging out. However, it took several visits before we could relax to the point at which the splendor was able to overshadow the “lions and tigers” conjured up by our fearful minds.

My husband, Peter, and I were aboard our 44-foot catamaran, Scud, which was anchored off Lizard Island, along Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. Suspended in blazingly turquoise water over giant orange cauliflowers, we were eager to snorkel unhindered by tourists in neon–pink fins paddling about like bumper cars at the circus. Yet all is not sweetness and light here: In years past, Lizard was the setting of a tragic episode, and today it’s home to a plethora of menacing denizens, including box jellyfish and saltwater crocodiles.

One Mary Watson lived here in 1880 with her husband, baby, and two Chinese servants, working the sea-slug trade. They built a homestead on Lizard, unaware that the island was a sacred site of the Aborigines. While her husband was away fishing, the Aborigines attacked the camp. One servant was found murdered in the garden; the other was wounded by flying spears. Mary and her child escaped to sea in a slug pot, the story goes, drifting about until they died from thirst.

And the menacing denizens? Box jellyfish drift in these waters, killing more people every year in Australia than do sharks, stonefish, and crocodiles combined. The likely symptoms of an encounter are pulmonary edema, cardiac failure, or brain hemorrhage, to name just a terrifying few. For protection while snorkeling, we donned suits that covered our heads, hands, and feet.

Saltwater crocodiles can run close to 10 miles per hour, but since they can’t turn quickly, we were told to run in crooked lines if chased. They will eat you, we were told, so before taking the plunge, we sought local wisdom from the skipper of Mad Max, a rusty Australian trawler anchored nearby. An old salt of the reef outback, Captain Max grinned infectiously when I nervously asked him, “Any jellies in these waters?”

“No worries, mate! Not windy enough off the mainland,” he shouted back, even thought winds were gusting 20 knots.

“What about that man who was airlifted out in a body bag after a jellyfish poisoning?” his wife, Julia, interjected.

April 2007