looked out over the flat shimmering landscape, and the deeper he looked into the shimmering the more it looked like there was a lake out there, away in the distance.
‘There’s a stroke of good luck,’ he said, and hopped out of his car and set off, walking towards the lake.
The strange thing was, though, the further he walked towards the lake, the further the lake moved away from him. So at the end of the fourth day he concluded that the lake must have been one of those optical illusion things, and he decided that he’d better go back to his car.
He was surely blessed because it was a miracle that he found his vehicle. Still and all, by that stage he was absolutely perishing. It then struck him that the only water he was likely to find in a place like this was the stuff in the radiator. So he tapped the radiator. Now the radiator had anti-freeze in it, and what he didn’t know was that anti-freeze contains ethylene glycol. And one of the side effects of drinking ethylene glycol is that it could well cause brain damage.
Anyway, not too much later a car came along and took him into Birdsville where he went straight to the pub and commenced oral rehydration. At that stage the Flying Doctor Service was called and we flew out to Birdsville where we gave him some intravenous rehydration. To give you some idea as to how severely dehydrated this feller was, he was given three litres of fluid intravenously to get just one millilitre of urine out of him.
Later on, in Charleville Hospital, when he asked if there were any side effects caused by drinking radiator water, I explained that unfortunately the radiator had anti-freeze in it and that anti-freeze contains ethylene glycol.
‘And what’s the problem with that?’ he asked.
‘The main side effect,’ I said, ‘is that it could well damage the brain.’
‘Gawd,’ he said, with a worried look, ‘what do yer reckon the chances of me getting brain damage might be?’
I must say that it was a struggle to keep a straight face. I mean, you’d have to be brainless in the first place to attempt to drive across one of the most unforgiving parts of Australia, in the middle ofsummer, in a vehicle that wasn’t in any fit condition to do so, without spare petrol, water or food.
So I said to the chap, ‘It’s my opinion,’ I said, ‘that in your particular case, there’d be Buckley’s chance of brain damage occurring.’
‘Who the hell’s Buckley?’ he replied.
Break a Leg
Now I might get these couple of blokes into strife here if I mention their real names, so let’s call the pilot ‘Jack’ and the doctor ‘Don’. Anyway, the pilot who’s Jack in this story was the same bloke who taught me to fly. There’s a hint. And the doctor is also well known, especially around these parts. There’s another hint. But I’d better not mention their true names, like I said, just in case.
One night Don got an urgent call to go out to a seismic camp where a chap had reportedly been bitten by a snake. These seismic people were doing the survey work in preparation for oil rigs to move in. There were about thirty or so men in this particular camp.
Jack was a spot-on navigator, one of the best I’ve ever seen. So he stoked up the Navaho and they flew to Quilpy. That way may sound like the long way of going about it, but it’s a far surer way of finding someone out in the never-never than to fly to a known point then bear another heading. It shortens the distance and lessens the error.
So out they flew in the dead of night to find this camp, and when they came across it these seismic blokes were as disorganised as buggery. They were still running around trying to light up the bloody airstrip. So Jack circled the Navaho around for a while until he could get a good sighting of the runway. Then, lo and behold, just as they were about to touch down one of the idiots aimed a spotlight fair in Jack’s eyes, blinding him.
‘The plane musta landed itself,’ Jack has since
‘There’s a stroke of good luck,’ he said, and hopped out of his car and set off, walking towards the lake.
The strange thing was, though, the further he walked towards the lake, the further the lake moved away from him. So at the end of the fourth day he concluded that the lake must have been one of those optical illusion things, and he decided that he’d better go back to his car.
He was surely blessed because it was a miracle that he found his vehicle. Still and all, by that stage he was absolutely perishing. It then struck him that the only water he was likely to find in a place like this was the stuff in the radiator. So he tapped the radiator. Now the radiator had anti-freeze in it, and what he didn’t know was that anti-freeze contains ethylene glycol. And one of the side effects of drinking ethylene glycol is that it could well cause brain damage.
Anyway, not too much later a car came along and took him into Birdsville where he went straight to the pub and commenced oral rehydration. At that stage the Flying Doctor Service was called and we flew out to Birdsville where we gave him some intravenous rehydration. To give you some idea as to how severely dehydrated this feller was, he was given three litres of fluid intravenously to get just one millilitre of urine out of him.
Later on, in Charleville Hospital, when he asked if there were any side effects caused by drinking radiator water, I explained that unfortunately the radiator had anti-freeze in it and that anti-freeze contains ethylene glycol.
‘And what’s the problem with that?’ he asked.
‘The main side effect,’ I said, ‘is that it could well damage the brain.’
‘Gawd,’ he said, with a worried look, ‘what do yer reckon the chances of me getting brain damage might be?’
I must say that it was a struggle to keep a straight face. I mean, you’d have to be brainless in the first place to attempt to drive across one of the most unforgiving parts of Australia, in the middle ofsummer, in a vehicle that wasn’t in any fit condition to do so, without spare petrol, water or food.
So I said to the chap, ‘It’s my opinion,’ I said, ‘that in your particular case, there’d be Buckley’s chance of brain damage occurring.’
‘Who the hell’s Buckley?’ he replied.
Break a Leg
Now I might get these couple of blokes into strife here if I mention their real names, so let’s call the pilot ‘Jack’ and the doctor ‘Don’. Anyway, the pilot who’s Jack in this story was the same bloke who taught me to fly. There’s a hint. And the doctor is also well known, especially around these parts. There’s another hint. But I’d better not mention their true names, like I said, just in case.
One night Don got an urgent call to go out to a seismic camp where a chap had reportedly been bitten by a snake. These seismic people were doing the survey work in preparation for oil rigs to move in. There were about thirty or so men in this particular camp.
Jack was a spot-on navigator, one of the best I’ve ever seen. So he stoked up the Navaho and they flew to Quilpy. That way may sound like the long way of going about it, but it’s a far surer way of finding someone out in the never-never than to fly to a known point then bear another heading. It shortens the distance and lessens the error.
So out they flew in the dead of night to find this camp, and when they came across it these seismic blokes were as disorganised as buggery. They were still running around trying to light up the bloody airstrip. So Jack circled the Navaho around for a while until he could get a good sighting of the runway. Then, lo and behold, just as they were about to touch down one of the idiots aimed a spotlight fair in Jack’s eyes, blinding him.
‘The plane musta landed itself,’ Jack has since
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