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It was a tough year for Gayndah. In front of Pete's employment agency was a permanent line of backpackers camping out, hoping to get a shot at the town's most wanted job. But as Pete kept repeating, mandarin season was late. Not many of us were getting lucky, and the rest were piling up in the Caravan Park day after day, waiting for a much-awaited picking season that would take us out of our misery. There wasn't much to be done at the Caravan Park. And if it wasn't for Dan's coming, me and Corinne, my traveling buddy of the time, would've probably turned on one another, only because of boredom. But Dan had come, and he'd given us purpose. From the moment he'd showed up in the communal kitchens with his unusual proposal, we knew that it was only by devoting ourselves to our mission that we could defy the flatness of Gayndah's endless days. “I found a boat”, he said. “Do you want to help me fix it?” Corinne and I didn't even have to confer. That was the day things changed. Gayndah, trap for desperate backpackers, turned into Gayndah, gracious little town stuck between the mountain and the river. Pete would let us know, sure, but in the meantime we spent our last savings on giving an abandoned fishing boat the chance to float on water once again. There's a big DIY warehouse in town, and in the following days we searched it top to bottom to find what we needed. First we tried with duct tape, then liquid glue. It didn't look like such a titanic undertaking, at first. But somehow the river always managed to sneak in or straight up knock down our barricades, still too weak. In the end, after five days of hauling from the warehouse to the riverside, crossing the tall grass potentially hiding snakes and spiders and tending, with much effort and love, to the wounds of that delicate walnut shell, caulk does the trick. It floats. Our boat, small, yes, but perfect for three. It lasted one more week. The glory days of Gayndah. That first day, the day of our boat's rebirth, we had reeled in a huge catfish, wrapped it in foil and cooked it to commemorate our success and friendship. And from that point on it was only rolling away on the waves and drinking the sunshine, far from the loud backpacking folk and their parties. A quiet idyll of sailing, fishing, playing our instruments. Until reality finally called. Corinne and Dan were washed ashore and embarked on the far less privileged life of the farms, down south in the blueberry fields of Lismore. For a few days I questioned whether I should set off like they did. And yet there was no job waiting for me in no faraway land, and Pete kept promising the coming of ripe seasons and abundance of work for everyone. And I kept believing him, and so focused was I on the new quest of finding a job that I spent every morning and afternoon in Gayndah and surroundings, forsaking the riverside. Only when I finally decided not to put up with Pete's lies anymore and go my way, only then I could bring myself to check in on the boat and say my goodbyes. The boat wasn't there. My chest grew tight with tears and a great sense of emptiness, and I looked one way and the other imagining to see it floating away golden in the sunshine. All around was only red mud and slimy water. I made my way through the familiar tall grass along the riverside, following the current. Ten minutes of heavy plodding later, I turned up on a small beach . There scattered around on the soft sand were the remains of a heinous crime. Empty bottles and cans. Plastic bags. At the center, a circle of stones and a mound of ashes. And at the furthermost corner of the beach, our walnut shell, half-buried in the sand and innocent, cracked.