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schoolroom. We might be able to salvage something out of it. Lucky for us the holidays start soon!’
    Mac, Uncle Mungo, Sam and George headed off in the Land Cruiser, a coil of fencing wire, a chainsaw and tools in the back. The ground was relatively dry as the rain hadn’t lasted very long. The storm had dropped trees across several fence lines, and they spent a couple of hours sawing them into sections and dragging them away with the vehicle. As they repaired the last broken wire and strained up the fence, George’s stomach rumbled loudly.
    ‘We’ll drive across to Deception Point and check out the damage over that side,’ said Mac, ‘and thenwe’ll go home for lunch. I can’t hear if the chainsaw’s running properly with George’s stomach making so much noise.’
    Everything at the campsite looked storm-lashed but otherwise intact. Sam and George headed down to the beach. It was low tide, and lots of debris had been left behind by the retreating waters. They fossicked along the shoreline, finding among the trash of driftwood and rubbish a tangled length of fish net and some splintered planking. George found a waterlogged school atlas. He put down the water bottle he was carrying, and picked up the soggy book.
    ‘Hah! Looks like ours wasn’t the only school that got wrecked last night. I wonder how this got here?’ He tossed it aside.
    ‘What’s that thing out on the reef?’ Sam shaded his eyes and peered out to sea. George did the same.
    ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Looks like a heap of seaweed maybe, or …’
    ‘No, it looks like a boat or something. Hey, Dad!’
    Mac and Uncle Mungo appeared over the edge of the dune.
    ‘Look, out there on the edge of the reef. Can you see that black shape?’
    The two men squinted in the direction Sam was pointing. There was definitely something there. The fourof them carefully made their way out onto the exposed reef. The black shape was indeed a boat. Or it had been once. The hull had been badly damaged, and it leaned drunkenly to one side on its keel. The remains of the wheelhouse and deck hung at odd angles, splintered and shattered beyond repair. It had obviously been through a bad storm, no doubt the same one that had battered Brumby Plains.
    ‘Where do you reckon it’s from?’ said Uncle Mungo.
    ‘No idea, but it must be old. See that wooden tiller? You don’t see many boats like that anymore. I saw one in Darwin once that had this old-fashioned steering system.’
    Sam was poking around nearby. There were bits of broken planking, scraps of cloth and wrought iron bolts crusty with age. He stopped and bent to pick something up.
    ‘Hey look – a saucepan!’ It was a blackened pot. The heavy cast iron was cracked on one side, and the handle held on with wire. He tossed it into the hull where it landed with a dull clunk. There were some battered cooking utensils scattered around, but not much else. George climbed into the hull. It rocked alarmingly and Mac told him to get down.
    ‘There’s a name painted on the side – see?’ said Sam. The words didn’t make any sense to anyone.
    ‘Looks like a foreign boat,’ said Mac finally. ‘It could have been a dinghy come adrift from a trawler – we get a lot of illegal fishermen up here.’
    ‘There was a piece of netting over on the beach,’ said George.
    ‘Flamin’ illegal fishermen,’ snorted Uncle Mungo. ‘Flamin’ foreign thieves comin’ here and takin’ our fish. The navy oughta blow ’em all outta the water. Y’ better let Customs know, Mac.’
    ‘Yeah, I will. We should get back. The tide’s already coming in.’
    As they climbed up the dune to the camp, Sam turned to gaze at the wreckage. There was something else in the water.
    ‘Dad …?’
    ‘Holy hell, will you look at that!’ Uncle Mungo had seen it too. An enormous crocodile was cruising slowly around the edge of the reef, just metres from where they had been standing a few minutes before.
    ‘Hey, that’s old Lumpy! The croc we