It was only after Castaways that I admitted to myself that I can’t drink the way I used to. Or maybe it was just that goon was lethal. Either way, I admitted it to a guy on Tinder who in turn called me a ‘Cadbury.’
WTF is a ‘Cadbury?’*
*Cadbury (def.): A cheap drunk (A glass and a half full)
But this post isn’t just about how I got really drunk and done myself a mischief, it’s also about the lesser known 1770 Castaway excursion. Before arriving in Australia we had no idea this thing existed. In fact… it wasn’t until we met a few people in Noosa that we found out about it. Rumour had it you were piled into a propeller plane and whilst flying over the sea, the crazy pilot fakes an engine failure.
Haha, yeah… “Rumour.”
On 27th June 2015, we each packed a rucksack with pants, food, sun cream and insect repellent to last us two days. We rolled up our sleeping bags, we filled up our water bottles and we collected our death goon of choice. We were ready for this adventure way before anyone else. We had been preparing for this for weeks.
Being ready early meant that we were allowed to fly first. Bruce’s plane could only take three passengers at a time. This was the same for Woody’s. We split into two groups (as there were six of us in our party for this trip) and we boarded the tiny air crafts. We were with Woody.
The noise of the propeller was deafening, I couldn’t hear anything. Sat in the back my view was a little obscured too, but the experience was like nothing else I have ever experienced. Apart from maybe the pirate boat ride at Alton Towers.
You know when you think to yourself…
“I know this is going to make me feel ill, but seriously though, how ill could it make me? Let’s just do it.”
And thirty seconds later you’re screaming to get off, because it hurts and you think your intestines are bursting out of your ears. But then you let go of the bar in front of you because you’re a fearless bastard, and you regret it instantly. Because you think you’re going to die.
At the end you get off of the ride and you run around and queue to do it all again.
The joyride in the propeller plane was a bit like that. Only you were falling out of the sky.
We didn’t get to have our engine switched off because Woody was concerned about the high winds, but Bruce is bat shit cray, so the other three plummeted to their almost death.
After a quick run through with camp supervisors, JD and Little Bear, we strode out into the sea to find the caves. Which were somewhat disappointing.
And I cut my feet a lot.
When we returned, we were offered a guided hike through the bush. Us lazy ones stayed behind. Little Bear and a few others brought the motor boats back to take us to a romantic grove not far away. It was described as, “like that scene from the Little Mermaid.” It also didn’t involve walking, so I went.
Most people by this point had got changed into dry clothes after our swimathon to the caves. Which was unfortunate.
Because full scale water war broke out. Each boat had a container in to be used when you appeared to be sinking. But we used them to pelt each other with salt water instead.
When everyone had had enough of the action, we drove back to shore. I plotted up safely on the beach with my goon cup in hand, watching the sun set and talking utter bollocks with one of our fellow campers.
I was sick and passed out before dinner came around. Which was somewhere around 9PM. My friends hoisted me up into my tent and left me there to sleep off what was going to be a mega hangover for the next 24 hours.
What happened next can only be considered as a disadvantage to being a ‘Cadbury.’
I woke up, desperately needing to pee. But of course, I had no idea where I was. I had no idea that I was in a tent that was put up on a stilted platform, 3ft higher than the ground.
I had no idea.
The next thing I remember is being face down in the dirt. When I looked up, I could see the lights of the camp kitchen but they looked miles away. They were blurry. I remember being totally unaware of my real situation.
What just happened? Must have been a rabbit hole. (A RABBIT FUCKING HOLE?) A big rabbit hole right in the middle of this inconveniently unlit path to the toilet. (I seriously thought I’d encountered a rabbit hole.)
BLADDER: I still need to pee.
Not now bladder, I’m eating dirt.
It was when I tried to get up that sobriety stepped in.
HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK, I’M DYING.
I was laying in the dirt again. Screaming.
The next day they told me that Katie found me under the platform that I had obviously just fallen off of (not a rabbit hole). They don’t know how I got underneath it, but I’m going to take a stab in the dark and say that I tried to get up, fell down again and rolled around a bit just to get across how much pain I was in. I’m not sure.
I don’t remember.
My brother picked me up off of the floor. I was sobbing. I could feel floods of tears drowning my face. My eyelashes were welding together. There was snot everywhere. I had dirt on my face, in my hair, on my hands…
BLADDER: I still need to pee.
ARGH, really? Can’t you wait? I CAN’T FUCKING WALK.
BLADDER: No man, seriously… I still need to pee.
For fucks sake.
I dropped my trousers there in front of whoever was watching. Not one flying fuck was given by me at that moment in time. Apart from maybe for my little brother, who very probably saw a lot more of his sister than he wanted to.
And probably definitely had to step in her wee to get her back up into The Danger Tent.
I took six paracetamols and three antihistamine tablets that night in the hope that it would knock me out and in the morning I would realise it was just a twisted ankle.
It’s just the goon. The goon is making me a blubbering mess. The pain’s not even that bad. Look, I’m sleeping on it.
I woke up crying in the middle of the night. I needed to wee AGAIN and someone had done the tent up to the top. I couldn’t reach it from the floor and I couldn’t stand up.
I just sat there crying.
The next morning, I crawled out of The Danger Tent and over to the kitchen. I’m not easily embarrassed but this was one of those times where I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole… and preferably deposit me in a hospital.
I tried to eat but the cous cous was minging. I craved coffee. I craved sugar. I craved everything you could ever want as comfort food… but I was on an island with no shops and all I had was mandarins and stupid cous cous.
I crawled off to pee on myself behind someone else’s tent.
And then I crawled into my tent and laid there for the majority of the day.
People came to see me and Guy gave me a couple of piggy backs to and from the kitchen so that I didn’t miss out too much. First Aider JD said it was probably a bad sprain and bandaged it in a support wrap thing.
Okay, bad sprain. Cool… it’ll be okay in a couple of days.
Guy brought me dinner in bed that night. For the two nights you are there you pay an extra $10 for beef stew and the campers have to cook it. Luckily for us we had a couple of foodies in the house and they did an amazing job. This was the first real food I had eaten in days.
I fell asleep again. Full and no longer feeling like drug and alcohol induced bile was going to seep out of my eyes.
The next day, my foot wasn’t any better. I was carried halfway across the expanse of beach to the planes. The other half I had to crawl. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the new arrivals weren’t all walking past me with horror in their eyes.
I imagine they were terrified as to what they had actually signed up for. I told them to watch out for the bush turkeys.
Safely back on the ground in Agnes Water I visited a medical centre.
My plan was to just bear with it and see how it went. I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s holiday and I sure as hell didn’t want to waste money on doctors’ appointments if it was just a case of applying ice and keeping it elevated.
The doctor took one look at it (pre taking the support bandage off) and said, “oh yeh, that’s very broken.”
After taking the bandage off? “Yuhuh, that needs surgery.”
So that’s it… not even a month into being in Australia and I had broken my ankle. The bit that irks me is that it wasn’t a rabid lizard, or a poisonous spider, or a man eating snake that landed me in hospital. It was a fucking tent.