Splendid Isolation on Hinchinbrook

Posted by Melissa M | July 27, 2010 | 14 Comments

Day One

“Welcome to Splendid Isolation,” says the large wooden sign posted over the dock. As our boat slows to a stop, I get my first up-close look at Hinchinbrook, the island just a couple of miles away from the Great Barrier Reef where my husband, our four children, and I will be spending the next five days. It’s just like the pictures on the Internet: moon-curved, pearl-colored beach fringed by lush rainforest, waves lapping the shore, green hills rising up beyond the trees. I congratulate myself on having found the perfect place—billed as a family-friendly eco resort—to end our long anticipated dream vacation to Australia. Sure, we’ve had cold, wet, miserable weather our entire trip so far, but here, in paradise—in our own, reasonably priced beach cabin, no less—we’re sure to have better luck. I can already see myself sipping passion fruit juice by the pool, frolicking in the surf with my children, hiking through the rainforest, and, of course, snorkeling and diving on the Reef.

Day One, Ten Hours Later

We’re trekking back to our cabin after dinner. Turns out that “eco resort” means no paved roads, no TVs, no heated pool, no telephones, one finicky generator powering the entire compound, and an overflowing septic tank next to the restaurant, which, due to the odor wafting through the dining room, my children have named “the poop deck.” Oh, and our “beach cabin” is actually a 70s-era trailer—complete with a rusty corrugated tin roof, a stained shag carpet, yellowed curtains, paneled walls, giant white ants crawling on the inside of the kids’ bedroom window, and saggy, sand-filled beds—surrounded by rainforest, a quarter-mile’s walk from the main lodge. Splendid isolation, indeed.

It started to drizzle as soon as we got off the boat, then the drizzle turned to rain as we slogged our way down the long, dirt road to our cabin. After being bitten by sand flies and rained on at the beach, we spent the rest of the day in the lodge’s loft, where we huddled together and played cards and watched the island’s only TV, then tromped downstairs to the deserted open-air restaurant, where we ate a lukewarm, greasy dinner while the wind gusted around us and the rain poured down in sheets. Now we’re making our way to our cabin in the dark, tripping over tree roots and stepping over puddles and huge fat frogs while my eight-year-old clings to me and whimpers and I try not to think about the death adders, giant goannas, and pythons lurking in the bush. Waves are crashing on the beach and the bush is full of strange night noises, and raindrops slide off of the trees and slither down our necks.

Back at our cabin, we discover a frog in our toilet; he scoots up under the toilet rim when we turn on the light and no amount of poking or flushing coaxes him out. I somehow manage to get my eight-year-old, whose bladder is about to explode, to squat over the toilet while she holds onto me, crying, and then the rest of us take turns squatting in terror, as well. When I close the curtains on our windows, the curtain and curtain rod fall on my head—not once, but three times. And when my husband and I finally crawl into our tiny double bed, the bed is so saggy that our hips practically touch the floor.

As I listen to the rain pattering on the roof and try to ignore the certainty that something is biting my legs, I remind myself that we have four more days to go, and, gritting my teeth, will myself to fall asleep.

Day Two

The rain pounding on our roof signals the beginning of another dreary, wet day on Ghetto Island (as my seventeen-year-old has affectionately dubbed it). It’s so humid that our pajamas are damp and cold and our hair is plastered to our heads and the windows are covered with condensation. My eleven-year-old has woken up with seventeen mosquito bites (I just hope they’re mosquito bites) and he stomps around the bedroom, whining and complaining and asking to go home until he bumps his head on one of the bunk beds, setting off another round of wailing.

After breakfast we head up to the lodge, where we spend the day reading, emailing, and playing Phase 10 and Scrabble while it rains and pours and eventually drizzles all day. Since we’re wearing shorts (thinking longingly of those winter clothes that we left in our rental car back on the mainland), we wrap towels around our legs and sip peppermint tea to keep warm. At 6:00 we go downstairs to the poop deck for another mediocre dinner (what is that greasy stuff they keep putting on our garlic bread anyway?), after which we return to the loft to play Phase 10 until bedtime.

Back at our trailer (let’s face it: this is no cabin), my husband turns on the bathroom light to see our little frog friend scooting up under the toilet rim. We decide to name him Timmy.

Day Three

Rain, drizzle, rain, and another day spent in the lodge playing card games and watching The Parent Trap for the fifth time (one of the lodge’s three DVDs). Tomorrow is our last full day on the island, and we’ve yet to visit the Reef because no boats will run in this weather. Although I grew up in Australia, I never visited the Great Barrier Reef as a child, so I’m as desperate to see it as my husband and the kids are. But toward late afternoon, when we learn that the weather will still be too rough for boating tomorrow, my husband and I sit in silence as we realize that though we’ve come halfway around the world and are staying mere miles away from the one of the world’s natural wonders, we won’t get to actually see it. I try to come up with a contingency plan—perhaps we could go back to Cairns a day early and take a boat to the Reef from there. But my husband reminds me that it’s raining in Cairns, too, and besides, we have nowhere to stay in Cairns. It looks like we’re stuck on this wretched island for another two days. Hinchinbrook, we wish we knew how to quit you.

There is one bright spot in this day, however: tonight we’re eating in. Back at the trailer, I heat water in a pan that I borrowed from the restaurant kitchen, then cook spaghetti noodles on the little two-burner stove in our tiny kitchen. The kids have congregated in their bunk room to play cards and talk and I can hear them telling jokes and laughing while I fix dinner and my husband runs up the road to the resort’s sole ancient laundry room. As I putter about the kitchen, my eight-year-old pops in to get a drink, and says, her eyes bright, “It’s not so bad staying here after all; it’s actually kind of fun.” We eat plates of spaghetti and cheese as we sit on our beds, then we turn out all the lights and gather in the bunk room to tell stories by flashlight while the rain drums on the roof.

Later, as I drift into sleep, I snuggle against my husband and listen to the waves caressing the shore. Somewhere in the darkness, a lone whip bird whistles.

Day Four

Still raining.

Alas, tragedy strikes this morning when my fifteen-year-old flushes the toilet and, too late, sees Timmy swirling down the drain. We have a moment of silence in Timmy’s honor.

We’re tired of being cooped up in the lodge, so after lunch we decide to hike through the rainforest, rain be damned. We set out for Shepherd Beach, following the trail through groves of ghost gums and paperbacks until we enter a dense, shadowy forest thick with liana vines and huge ferns and palms, tall Blue Quandong trees with their buttressed roots, and moss-covered logs sprouting cream and orange toadstools, iridescent in the dim forest. The only sounds we hear are the patter of rain on the canopy overhead and the occasional bird call.

We arrive at a long, deserted stretch of creamy sand left smooth and flat by the outgoing tide and covered with thousands of tiny bubbles created by small, opaque, ghost crabs. It’s stopped raining, though it’s still cloudy, and a brisk breeze is blowing. We’re the only ones on the beach. We explore tide pools, scramble over boulders, and run up and down the beach, arms outstretched. It’s just us and a mile of pale, smooth sand; the gray ocean, stretching out forever; and the sky, luminous as a pearl.

Later, we eat our last dinner on the poop deck. As usual, our steaks are mostly fat, the mashed potatoes are too garlicky, the bread is greasy, and the desserts are bland, while the septic tank fumes wash over us in waves so thick we can taste them. Yet, somehow, tonight we don’t mind.

Day Five

Of course, today the rain slows to a drizzle and then eventually stops, and the clouds are breaking up—looks like it’s clearing up at last. No doubt there’ll be a boat out to the Reef tomorrow. I try not to think about it as I wash our breakfast dishes in the little kitchen sink.

After lunch, the Hinchinbrook ferry arrives and idles in the little cove. Long before the boat is due to leave, my fifteen-year-old runs to get on the boat, calling for the rest of us to hurry. No chance this boy is going to be left behind.

After we board and the boat pulls out, I snap a final picture of the “Splendid Isolation” sign. When we head out to sea—now smooth as satin—we can see the Reef, just barely out of reach. I sigh. My eight-year-old leans her head on my shoulder and, with complete seriousness, says, “That was my favorite place to stay of our whole trip. Can we come back someday?”

I choke back a laugh. “Maybe,” I say, when what I really mean is, “Not a chance.” Still, as we skim over the ocean toward the mainland—and decent meals and hot baths and crisp clean sheets—I look back one more time at Hinchinbrook, at its green hills rising up out of a silvery sea. And I smile.

Tell us about your most memorable vacation. Have you ever had a trip that didn’t go as planned (or, any that did go as planned)? What were some of those unexpected moments and how did they enrich your experience?

Comments

14 Responses to “Splendid Isolation on Hinchinbrook”

Tasha
July 27th, 2010 @ 10:59 am

Oh my goodness, we’ve had some family vacations like that too! But I love the lessons they teach us – that vacations aren’t about where you go, but who you’re with.

Thanks for sharing your funny story! It made me chuckle and remember some adventurous vacations of my own.
Eliana
July 27th, 2010 @ 12:36 pm

After the first few lines I didn’t want to keep reading, cringing at what I felt coming. We survive these family activities and then love them in retrospect.
Thanks for sharing. And RIP Timmy.
Merry Michelle
July 27th, 2010 @ 3:49 pm

What an awful vacation! But what bliss to see it from a child’s eyes and feel that it wasn’t a disaster after all.

When I was about 7 my family decided to camp in the Rene forest in France for the weekend (we were living in Belgium at the time). As my Dad was putting up the tent, a terrible thunderstorm rained down in sheets with gusts so powerful that some of my younger siblings were literally being blown away.

My Mom shooed us to the station wagon where we fogged up the windows watching my Dad struggle again with the elements–only to get poked in the eye by an escaping tent pole. And then our entire tent blew away, and my Dad came back to the car swearing in multiple languages.

We drove in silence until we came to a lovely little restaurant that served us a decadent creamy French meal, complete with an orange sorbet served in a hollowed out orange half. I didn’t even have to share with any of my siblings.

I woke up the next morning in a charming French “Bed and breakfast” that my parents had found while we had all dozed in the car. I still remember it as one of my fondest vacations while my parents remember it as the vacation where everything went wrong. It’s funny how childhood seems to zoom in on the joy and fun of the most trying circumstances.
Cath
July 27th, 2010 @ 4:11 pm

This was “splendidly” written Melissa! These unusually hard things in life (whether at home or on vacation) somehow bring us an odd sense of satisfaction and reward. We realize what we experienced was a gift – an unexpected one – but a gift – unique and incomparable.

Your imagery is palpable. “raindrops slithering down your neck”, the rainforest flora, the overcast beach, and squatting in terror over Timmy. I loved it all.
Johnna
July 27th, 2010 @ 4:33 pm

More fun to read about than live through, and makes me hold all my own varied family vacations more dear. Thanks!

Hope you make it to the Great Barrier Reef someday.
Stephanie2
July 27th, 2010 @ 5:27 pm

For our 10th anniversary, DH carefully chose a Bed & Breakfast after much research. It was only our second time away from kids overnight (the first was our 5th anniversary). We drove up to find a trailer in the woods. It smelled so bad, I didn’t last 5 minutes.

So, we drove away, called to cancel (because we’re cowardly like that. I’m glad we did because the lady yelled at DH), and found a lovely cabin B&B about an hour later (and I was sick and slept through most of the weekend).
mormonhermitmom
July 27th, 2010 @ 5:40 pm

My dad would have called that “an adventure you’ll never forget”!
Katarczyna P
July 28th, 2010 @ 7:27 am

Melissa, it is my last week of summer camp and I was starting to feel a bit homesick. I actually checked a couple days ago to see if you’d written any blogs while I was gone. So I was delighted to find your splendid isolation story this morning. Even though I had heard the oral version of the story, your polished prose made it fun and fresh again. It truly brightened up my day, even if I have to face fried pork cutlets and boiled potatoes for a few more days. I did have an opposite experience this summer. I kept warning my sister about the rustic mountain lodge I had booked towards the end of our adventures in June. When we reached the rustic mountain lodge, it turned out to be a gorgeous brand new resort on a lake with a view of a medieval castle and wifi internet service. Sometimes travel is just a gamble…. Thanks for giving me something to smile about this morning and I will see you soon!
Melissa M.
July 28th, 2010 @ 10:48 am

Thanks so much to those of you who commented. I’m glad this post helped some of you reminisce about your own adventurous vacations. Thanks for sharing your story, Michelle, and you’re right, a child’s perspective on a trip can be vastly different from a parent’s. I need to try more often to view unexpected glitches in my plans with that childlike openness to new experiences and sense of fun, so that those experiences become “unexpected” gifts, as Cath said.

Our stay on Hinchinbrook continues to be one of our fondest memories of our trip to Australia (in retrospect, of course). I think it all boils down to this: “Vacations aren’t about where you go, but who you’re with.” So true, Tasha.

And Katarczyna, what a pleasant surprise to see you comment here! Can’t wait to hear about your latest adventures when you get home! =)
kyliemm
July 30th, 2010 @ 2:30 pm

RIP Timmy indeed! It sounds like a lovely, amusing vacation. And I hope you make it to the Great Barrier Reef someday too I’m sure you will!

Thanks for the lovely story and picture
Selwyn aka Kellie
July 30th, 2010 @ 6:06 pm

As soon as I read “Hitchinbrook” I thought “Oh no!” I went there for a few hours when my naval ship was just offshore… Never so glad to smell the diesel back onboard!

My most memorable (in a good way)holiday was when I went to the States this June/July. Best holiday of my life, no doubt, and because of the people I met, and having my boyos with me.

Come back to the Whitsundays, Melissa, and I will take you to the Reef! (Oh, and now there is a stay at the reef option which looks gorgeous – http://www.reefencounter.com.au/ )
Selwyn aka Kellie
July 30th, 2010 @ 6:11 pm

Couldn’t resist – this one is closer to me (and Hitchinbrook if you want to return!) http://www.fantasea.com.au/page/reefsleep/index.html
Melissa M.
July 30th, 2010 @ 11:16 pm

Kellie, how fun to know someone else who has been to Hinchinbrook!

Those Reef stays look gorgeous—oh, the wisdom of hindsight. It’s definitely my dream to come back some day and actually see the Reef!
Kay
July 31st, 2010 @ 3:49 am

We have been married for 14 years and have only had 2 holidays in that time when it hasn’t chucked it down with rain. In fact we have a rule that as soon as we book a holiday we tell all our friends when and where we are going, we wouldn’t want any of them to get wet and miserable for a week along with us. Usually we stay in England but once ventured to the little spanish island of Menorca for a week. Menorca usually has amazing weather in August, you can guarantee it. Of course, we had thunderstorms so bad they scared me. We always pack double clothing, some for good old fashioned sunshine and some for rain and cold because we know we will need it. Yet, we still go away hopefull every year and come back with some good memories.

By the way, the Peak District in England is to be avoided at all costs during the second week of August. We will be there having an ‘outdoors’ kind of holiday in the rain!