Don’t Go There! - a cautionary crocodile tale

Big Charlie was free!

Days of torrential rain dumped by a passing cyclone filled up ponds, spilled over banks and breached retaining walls in the wildlife sanctuary. In the muddy mayhem, slippery slides formed beneath holding fences, providing his means of escape. Away, away he slid, through the sodden undergrowth, careering down the hill like a bobsledder, launching out into the creek on an impressive bow wave. Charlie, the once contained major attraction, now a deadly threat. How events had turned. But let’s not go there. Yet.

In the murk of the swollen estuary amid fallen logs, bloated cow carcasses, and flood flotsam, Charlie found a new sanctuary among the detritus. He lurked on the edges, log-like, yellow eyes glittering just above the surface of the dirty water.

Don’t go there!

Further up the hill, keepers darted about, slipping on pavement slick as oil, panicked by the loss of their charges, by the chaos the ‘big wet’ had caused. The foetid stink of rotting plant matter and flood wreckage stung their nostrils. Small creatures lay drowned in vast pools, unable to escape the rising water in their pens. Some jumped, slithered and swam to find safe haven where they could, up trees, on top of huts, on drifting islands of rubbish. Nets and nooses recaptured a few. Others ran or flew toward their caretakers, seeking refuge. One animal, however, was nowhere to be found.

Up in the crocodile enclosure, despair, like the rain-heavy clouds above, hung in a pall over the bedraggled group of keepers as a grim realisation dawned with another bleak day. They stared down at the gaping hole beneath the ruined, compound fence. Crushed and flattened foliage exposed the tumble of rocks that had once been a wall supporting the enclosure barrier. A muddy chute yawned back at them.

‘Surely he can’t have …’ the head ranger began, voicing the fears of his companions.

’ … not all the way down into the creek?’ ventured another.

The ensuing silence brimmed with frightening possibilities. A five-metre crocodile loose in the creek of a popular beachside tourist destination. They could imagine the field day the press would have.

Don’t go there!

And what of the community? Charlie was not the kind of fauna they were used to cohabitating with. How could the animal sanctuary alert, but avoid panicking the population? At least the rangers had a few days up their sleeves to locate and recapture their star attraction. No-one in their right mind would swim or surf until swollen waterways cleared and the floods abated.

They had been warned: don’t go there!

An urgent war council was held. The rangers brainstormed strategies, made hurried calls to croc experts in the far north where Charlie’s kind was prolific. They sought advice on how to recapture him. Eager for some action, northern croc hunters offered to fly to their aid. Wrangling crocs was tough and adventurous work, the glory outweighing the danger for them. Hastily constructed steel traps were placed in the most likely locations along the creek banks, by men in flimsy aluminium boats glancing anxiously over their shoulders. Wide-eyed and watchful, they scanned the dark floodwaters around them. Ears attuned keenly for crocodilian grunts or rumbling growls; they expected their worst nightmare to explode from the creek beside the boat at any second. The men felt sure the traps baited with chicken carcasses would lure the escapee. At least, that was their desperate hope.

After two days of relentless rain and thorough searching, often at night with spotlights, there was still no sign of Charlie. No pinpoints of light signifying reptilian eyes in the darkness. No baits in the traps were taken. Could it be that he was feeding off bloated dead cows? Or perhaps he was just too well fed to be tempted.

Despite wildlife workers being sworn to secrecy by concerned sanctuary management, rumours of Charlie’s escape swirled through the community on an undercurrent of fear.  Reporters from the local papers deluged the wildlife sanctuary with calls, demanding to know if stories of Charlie’s escape were true. ‘In the interests of public safety, of course,’ they added sagely. Devoid of scales and fearsome teeth but no less predatory, they could smell a good story a mile away. Facing the press, the sanctuary’s media officer was asked if the community was in grave danger. She tried to feign reassurance with a smile and a pre-prepared press release, whispering to herself beneath her breath, ‘Don’t even go there.’

The outpouring confluence of king-tide and floodwaters gushing from high in the hinterland, created a perfect cover for the escapee. Everything was flushed out to sea, spreading a dirty stain along the coastline at the mouth of each river, every creek. Especially the creek next to the wildlife sanctuary on the hillside.

Charlie was very old, and some might argue wiser than his keepers. He seized opportunity where he found it. Through the swirling currents at the creek’s mouth as it spewed into the ocean, Charlie swam eastward, his tail a powerful rudder, strong webbed feet assisting it to propel him forward. He bobbed and surged, surfing the turbulence.

Onlookers in dripping rain jackets, watched the floodwater spectacle from the cliffs, pointing at the untethered tinnies, old chairs, the broken trees and other flood debris, flowing out to sea. They could not see the croc for the logs.

Would Charlie eventually be caught? And if he wasn’t found, could he survive in these subtropical waters so far from his natural habitat? Conservationists, fearful for his survival told each other, ‘don’t go there!’

After the flood, every visiting child to the wildlife sanctuary mourned the loss of Big Charlie. He had been numero uno for generations. From the moment they first saw him, his was their favourite enclosure to visit. While he was contained, Charlie enjoyed superhero status, but once no longer in captivity, he became the antihero. Now I ask you, who is really the villain in this edifying croc tale?

After Charlie disappeared swimming eagerly toward the open sea, he gained mythical status. For a long time, little children being tucked in at night asked, ‘Where has Charlie gone? Will he eat me when we go to our Nipper carnival, when we swim in the surf?' He was a spectre who would haunt their dreams for years to come. In soothing tones while reassuring their little ones they were safe, parents shook their heads gravely at each other. The look that passed between them over the top of sleepy heads, spoke more eloquently than words.

Don’t go there!