Planes, banes and automobiles

We’re headed for Queensland for a motor home holiday. My wife, Kate, has planned our trip with all the precision of a military operation - and somehow, Kate has packed most of our house into three suitcases and a pram.

“We need sleep NOW,” she says. “DO YOU COPY?”

I copy alright. I sense we’re headed for hell. I flop into bed and snore as loudly as she does.

Early morning and we’re sitting in the back of the plane with all the other young families. It’s creche at 30,000 feet. Three hours later, our spent force arrives at Brisbane.

We hit the road in our state-of-the-art, six-berth motor home equipped with a microwave, a fridge, a kitchen, a shower and toilet, an air-conditioner, and everything else that technology has to offer - except a GPS navigation system. We’re lost in record time.

Somehow hours later, we stumble into Noosa Heads. It’s Friday evening in low tourism season, so there’s no rush to find digs. We have dinner and muck about without realising that Friday evening is actually the beginning of the weekend for every would-be angler within 200 kilometres of this beautiful place. By the time we reach the caravan park, there’s no room for a tent.

Eventually we find a caravan park half way back to Brisbane. By now, Darcey and Grace are feral as goats. They crash into bed. Kate and I crack a bottle of wine to celebrate the first day of our holiday. We take two sips and collapse into a coma. The last thing we mutter to each other is that at least the kids will sleep well.

Well not quite. At 3am Darcey’s Frizzly Bear has worked itself into the deepest, darkest corner of the motor home. Darcey is distraught. The lights go on. Frizzly is found but Grace awakes and demands breakfast. She will not be denied.

At 6am birdsong invades the campervan. There must be more Rainbow Lorikeets outside than crows in a Hitchcock movie. Grace demands morning tea.

9am: We’re away. I head north and hear the fridge contents go east. Grace demands lunch. We try to convince her it’s too early but she can see salami and cheese all over the floor so she is insistent. Thus begins our Griswold-type adventure. More than once in the next seven days I’m reminded of the words of a wrestling commentator: “four people in a cage – who will get out alive?”

They say the mind has a way of protecting itself from traumatic moments, but somewhere along the way I remember all hell breaks loose as Darcey sneaks off and does a number two in the motor home toilet. Call us anal, but we’ve gone to the trouble of booking an ensuite in every caravan park along the way to avoid the chore of emptying the toilet at the end of our trip. Regardless, the space-age toilet is an unexplored frontier for Darcey. “That’s one small poop for Darcey, one huge clean-out for Dadkind.”

Eventually, maybe three days later - it’s all a blur now - we arrive at Tin Can Bay where the mosquitoes are as big as fruit bats and threaten to lift young Gracie out of her pram. The last thing we mutter is that at least the kids will sleep well.

Do I need to go on? Frizzly is lost at three; the lorikeets fire up at dawn…

It isn’t all bad of course. In fact, apart from falling down the motor home step and nearly breaking my ankle one evening, it’s all good - in a moshpit sort of way. We’re sweaty and a little battered and bruised for the experience but we’re mindful that we’re sharing something unique. There are even several stand-out moments - like when the girls catch up with their grandparents and their great grandmother and aunt. I take a photo of the whole lot standing together, mindful that that there’s four generations in my viewfinder.

And for a couple of days we even settle in a slice of heaven called Hervey Bay. It’s late winter but the beach is as warm as toast. There’s no-one around for miles because the Queenslanders think it’s too cold, but we Melburnians plod happily into the soupy sea. We chase the whitebait through six inches of water and marvel at the pelicans on a nearby pier. Grace and Darcey build sandcastles and laugh like Kookaburras. Kate and I crack a bottle of wine and neck it down before the moment is lost. “Ah, now that’s a fine vintage,” I say, “it’s almost good enough to do it again next year, isn’t it?” Kate gives me a stern look. “Almost.”

By Bruce Atherton

This article was first published in Australian Family Magazine, November 2006.