A Croc Called Capone by Barry Jonsberg Page A

themselves.
    â€˜One thing I can guarantee. We will see some crocodiles today. This river has the largest concentration of saltwater crocodiles in the world. You might not see them right now, but they are all around. Most people who get eaten by crocs have no idea what’s happening until it’s too late. As you may have noticed, the water is brown and murky. Go fishing on the side of this river, make a few splashes in the water, throw in fish guts and there’s a good chance a saltie will be in your face – probably eating it – and you won’t have seen him coming.’
    Even Dylan was still paying attention and he normally switches off ten seconds after anyone starts to talk. Rose and Cy were all ears. A bit like Brendan himself. They were hypnotised. It reminded me of those old films about snake charmers – turbaned guys who play flutes and the snake’s head follows the movement of the instrument.
    The gel-turbaned Brendan gave us a rundown of the history of the estuarine crocodile, also known as the saltwater crocodile – not to be confused with the freshwater crocodile, which is smaller and doesn’t attack people. It seems the saltie had lived pretty much unchanged since the age of dinosaurs. The reason for this is that the saltie is a superb killing machine and has no need to adapt. Its only predator is humankind.
    I could almost hear Blacky snorting in my head.
    According to Brendan, the saltwater crocodile population in the Northern Territory was now very healthy, though he also said that until killing crocs was banned in the 1970 s, numbers had sunk to a dangerous level.
    â€˜There’s a proposal being considered by the government that hunting for crocs be reintroduced. But only by big-game hunters who are prepared to pay a lot of money for the privilege. This idea has provoked much argument up here. Some say it would inject money into remote communities and would have no impact on croc numbers. Others argue it is a barbaric practice, that we should leave the crocs alone. At present, it’s illegal to kill a crocodile. Unfortunately, we do get the occasional trophy hunter who is prepared to risk the severe penalties for shooting crocs – up to $ 55 000 in fines and a possible six-year jail term.’
    Brendan was being so interesting I was almost prepared to forgive his hairstyle.
    Then he paused. All the time he had been talking, his eyes had roamed the expanse of water. Now he fixed on one stretch of the river.
    â€˜Just checking, folks, because it’s easy to confuse a floating log with a croc. But if you look out to your left-hand side you will see we have company.’
    There was a mad scramble to get a good view. Brendan killed the engines and we all piled towards the boat’s railings. It was difficult to see at first. Then I spotted a V shape in the water heading straight towards us, the tip of a snout just breaking the surface. My nerves tingled. Julie – a blonde girl around Brendan’s age and dressed in those cack-coloured shorts and shirts you associate with rangers or celebrity crocodile hunters – bustled around, fishing something from an esky at the side of the boat.
    â€˜Guys,’ said Brendan’s voice on the PA . ‘Here comes Al. This stretch of the river is dominated by a very large male crocodile called Capone, or Al for short. And when I say he’s large, I mean large . This guy is well over five metres. You don’t get to be that size without being a ruthless hunter and also a fierce protector of your territory. No one messes with Al. Hence his name, like Al Capone of 1930 s gangster fame.’
    It was difficult to get a clear view. People were elbowing each other out of the way to get a line of sight. Rose and Cy were elbowing each other with considerable enthusiasm. Dad pulled me in front of him.
    â€˜You might have noticed that Julie is putting a chicken on the end of a rope, attached to a pole,’