Blades (whole four-part series)

By J. William Turner

Blades....The four-part autobiography of a rescue-helicopter pilot
Part 1 STREET KID
Julian Moreland, aged 12.75 years, moves from tropical Darwin with his widowed father, Craig. to Melbourne. A series of traumatic events finds him an orphaned homeless street kid in hospital recovering from burns saving a bay from a burning car. Here, he makes friends with the first four men to help him at the scene, a photojournalist (the baby's cousin), two policemen, and the doctor now treating him. Three of these four men are the main teen characters in the prequel series Dangerous Days.
When told that Julian's an orphan, the wealthy grandparents of the baby offer to foster him, and pay for helicopter flying lessons when he is old enough.
PART 2 HIGH COUNTRY
Julian, an 11th grader at private school, is now 17 yo., and doing his helicopter training. His instructor quickly sees Julian is a 'natural'. Soon qualified, he accompanies his photojournalist friend to Central Australia as his pilot on an aerial assignment, meets a holidaying American family, the Cliffords, and becomes attracted to their 15 yo daughter, Alison, and she to him. That night, he, Alison and two kid brothers Barry & Colin save a young child taken away by a wild dog. Next week, he reads news reports that two of the Clifford boys, Colin & kid brother, Dale, are lost in mountains. Guessing where they might be, he flies to a valley near the search area, finds them as the weather gets bad so can't fly out. Colin has a bad gash on his leg. It goes septic. When the weather abates, he flies them out. Colin is very ill. In thanks, the Cliffords invite him to visitthem in Los Angeles as their guest.
PART 3 CALIFORNIA DREAMING
He arrives in L.A. to be met by the Clifford family, except Colin, who is in hospital with kidney complications. He is pleased to see Alison. They drive to hospital to visit Colin. Alison drives him next day to Venice Beach, where he frees child who has been left locked in a car in the sun. He then passes flight exams to fly helicopters in USA. A family friend of from radio station, KMAC, lets Julian fly their helicopter while the pilot is away. Julian does traffic reports daily. His accent makes him popular with listeners, as his feelings for Alison deepen.
Due to a dry spell & strong hot winds a brush fire breaks out north of L.A. KMAC tells Julian to fly three reporters there. He is one of the first to arrive. Next morning fires flare up. His helicopter is requested to assist. In the morning, he carries fire observers who spot an arsonist. They watch from the air as the massive fire engulfs a town and save the life of a woman fleeing the fire. Later, he assists a ground team looking for missing backpackers.
For the next 4 days, he carries fire spotters and fire fighters. All the while, he thinks of Alison. The Cliffords see him on TV and are worried about him. On day 5, the weather eases. He is sent back to L.A, exhausted and welcomed home by the Cliffords especially Alison. Next evening at L.A. Airport, there is an emotional farewell. Julian takes Alison aside, tells her that when they are older, he wants to marry her, She is happy, and says "yes", but it will be their secret until then
PART 4 AFTERMATH
Back home he is plagued by bad memories of what he had seen there, which leads to nightmares and a alcohol abuse. All the signs of a problem are missed by adults in his life, and his slide into violent alcohol abuse continues, until he assaults his best friend on New Year's Eve, suffers a mental collapse, is diagnosed with a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and placed in detox for three weeks. With a lot of support, he comes to terms with his demons, graduates high school, becomes a commercial pilot, and gets a U.S. Green Card. Finally, he marries Alison three years later and starts flying water-bombing helicopters over wildfires. But eventually, he moves away from fire-bombing to become a rescue-helicopter pilo

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. William Turner
• Release date: Jan 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466059160

J. William Turner

See above website for author info plus the website http://www.eloquentbooks.com/DangerousDays.html Also, search these titles on Amazon Kindle along with author name:- Storm Ridge, Paddle Hard, Outback Heroes, Enemies Within, Street Kid, High Country, California Dreaming, and Aftermath.

Book preview

BLADES

(THE WHOLE SERIES)

The autobiography of a rescue-helicopter-pilot

‘As told to’ JAMES TURNER

Copyright 2012 by (James) J. William Turner

Smashwords Edition

Street Kid, High Country, California Dreaming & Aftermath

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1A – Street Kid (Travelling South)

Chapter 1B – Street Kid (Living Rough)

Chapter1C – Street Kid (New Friends)

Chapter1D – Street Kid (For a Child’s Life)

Chapter 2A – High Country (Learning the Ropes)

Chapter 2B – High Country (Red Centre)

Chapter 2C – High Country (Storm Front)

Chapter 2D – High Country (Waiting for the Lull)

Chapter 3A – California Dreaming (Seeing the Sights)

Chapter 3B – California Dreaming (Eye in the Sky)

Chapter 3C – California Dreaming (Furnace)

Chapter 3D – California Dreaming (Shell Shocked)

Chapter 4A – Aftermath (Coming Home)

Chapter 4B – Aftermath (Sliding Down)

Chapter 4C – Aftermath (Hitting Bottom)

Chapter 4D – Aftermath (Climbing Back)

Epilogue

These stories are fictional. Any similarity to historical events, or to any person, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional

Preface

My name is Julian Moreland and I am an Australian helicopter pilot who is married to a beautiful young American woman. My nickname since primary school has been Jac, after my initials standing for Julian Alexander Charles. Relatives and close friends have always called me that or Jules, whichever they preferred. Recently, in August 2009, I became a father of twin daughters, Susan and Jewelia.

Until then, I was based in Los Angeles, California, working as a pilot for a contract aviation company that leases water-bombing helicopters to the Californian fire authorities from May to October, and the Australian fire authorities from December to March.

I am the son of a military helicopter pilot who flew dangerous missions during the Vietnam War and in a later anti-terrorist operation in Australia in 1982. My late father, Colonel Craig Moreland, an instructor, loved flying helicopters and was considered to be a ‘top gun’ by his fellow pilots in Darwin. It would be fair to say that I have flying in my blood. The idea to become anything other than a pilot never entered my mind. It was my destiny from birth in the early 1980’s. My other destiny was being a recreational fisherman, another of my father’s passions. Living in the Northern Territory in tropical Australia, there were frequent opportunities for my father and me to go fishing. Sometimes we flew to local, hard-to-access places. My mother having died from cancer a month after my sixth birthday, he and I were very close.

I was only twelve years old when my father chose my favourite remote fishing beach at Gunn Point to give me the news that was supposed to represent a new start for us. Instead, it destroyed his life and changed mine completely, testing my self-reliance, integrity, and survival skills in a very difficult way, until fire almost killed me. And even when I thought my life was in order as I approached adulthood, I was tested by fate and fire once more in the wilderness areas of Central Australia’s outback and southern California’s Sierra Nevada mountains. For it was in these places where I confronted horrors no seventeen-year-old should face, horrors that almost destroyed my mind.

So this is the story of my youth, with its tragedies, traumas, accomplishments, loves, and new friends. The most significant of these new friendships is with a young, investigative reporter and photographer named Wesley Auld, whose own unique story has been recounted in his autobiography, ‘Dangerous Days: The Autobiography of a Photojournalist’. Also documented by J. William Turner, Wesley’s story is almost a prequel to my own. It was my involvement with this man that led me to meet the mother of my children and love of my life.

BLADES I

STREET KID

(The autobiography of a rescue-helicopter pilot begins)

(Original version copyright 2004 by (James) J. William Turner)

Our move south from a small tropical city to a large metropolis when I was twelve-years-old was supposed to be a new start for my father and me. Instead, I found myself alone, living by my wits, with only happier memories of fishing and helicopters.

Chapter 1A – Street Kid (Travelling South)

Sunday, 17th December 1995 - The warm late-afternoon breeze blew gently from the north along the remote and unspoiled beach at Gunn Point in the Northern Territory. With a stretch of mangroves and wetlands behind it to the east, the beach was splashed by small waves coming from the deep-blue water of the sea. These waves, having broken over a sandbar, washed across the gutter to the sand.

Along this gutter, a hungry barracouda swam against the current. It had a torpedo-shaped, silver body weighing four kilograms and was a metre in length. Its open mouth showed rows of long, sharp teeth, some two centimetres long, as it prowled for live food in the crystal-clear water. Intent on filling its belly, the fish cruised over the sandy bottom only a few metres from shore, unaware that it had become the prime target of a land-based hunter, me.

As it moved slowly in my direction, I watched the barracouda’s outline through Polaroid sunglasses shaded by a black baseball cap with an embroidered, helicopter design. My pale-green shirt and khaki shorts made me hard for it to see from the water. I was not going to leave anything to chance as I wanted the fish for a barbecue at home that night. I crouched down when the fish was ten metres away, as my dad had always taught me. Ignoring the sticky humidity and persistent flies getting in my face, I watched and waited. As soon as the fish had passed my position, I rose and walked quickly into the shallows up to my knees close behind it. I swung the fishing rod I was carrying over my head, and released my finger that had been gripping the line in front of the reel attached near its base. That was how I flicked a shiny heavy piece of moulded stainless steel covered with stripes of blue paint over the head of the barracouda.

With a slight splash, my lure landed in the gutter fifteen metres ahead of the unsuspecting fish. I began winding the handle of the reel to retrieve the lure diagonally across its path. Twisting and wagging as it was dragged through the water, the lure’s metal surface flashed sunlight complimented by the blue stripes.

I muttered to myself, Come on, come on, take it.

Instinctively, the barracouda charged with lightning-speed at the silver and blue to clamp its wide, bony mouth down on what it thought was just another small piece of fast food. Rows of vicious teeth as sharp as razor blades closed around the metal. At that instant, I struck, forcefully lifting the tip of my rod upwards and backwards, jerking on the line and embedding the barbed points of the lure’s hooks into the sides of its mouth.

At the same time, the water exploded in a frenzy of splashing as the fish panicked and fled, and a screech came from the fishing reel as line peeled off its spool. I held my rod firmly during this first escape attempt as I jogged along the beach after my catch. When the initial run ended, I began winding in the line that had been taken. The barracouda did not struggle until it saw me, taking flight and stripping line from the reel once more. But I was able to bring it to a halt and guide it back towards the beach. Backwards and forwards, the fight lasted for nearly ten minutes, ending only when the barracouda, exhausted and beaten, was dragged away from the water after being beached on the sand by a wave. I was the last thing it saw before dying, its human captor and executioner. Also worn out, but victorious, I stood over my quarry, and raised my Polaroids so they rested on top of my cap. Years spent fishing under the tropical sun had darkly tanned my limbs and face. But my large blue eyes perfectly matched the colour of the sea, and my short pale sandy hair, the colour of the beach.

With my right hand, I drew a knife from its sheath on my belt. Less than a year old, the knife had been a twelfth birthday gift from Dad. Although far from having been the biggest kid in my Year Six class before school broke-up, I was by no means puny or weak. I knelt down and firmly grasped the weakening creature behind its gill slits. With just three quick strokes of my knife’s blade, I beheaded the barracouda to give it a quick death.

Slitting its belly all the way to the rear vent, I scooped out its guts. These I threw with the severed head into the sea, a feast for small fish and crabs. I then carried the carcass into the water for a final rinsing, before cutting it into several thick steaks. I placed the flesh into a plastic bag taken from my pants pocket, and swirled the knife in the sea. When every bit of bloody gore had been washed from its blade, I wiped the knife dry with the bottom of my shirt and re-sheathed it.

I was so wrapped-up in my task that I failed to hear the crunching of footsteps in the sand. A tall stocky man had approached me from behind wearing a large wide-brimmed hat on his head and an automatic pistol on his hip. The man must have stood silently for several seconds with his hand resting on the gun as he watched me finish cleaning the fish.

Put up a good fight, ay, Jules? he said at last. We’ll get a lot of meat off that.

Startled at first as I looked around, I relaxed quickly and smiled. Yeah, best fish I’ve caught for a while, Dad. He almost got away.

Colonel Craig Moreland nodded and patted his firearm as he watched me. Dad had also been watching for salt-water crocodiles. There was always a risk of one emerging from the mangroves to threaten his only son and heir. I was the son and heir whose life he was about to change radically when he told me it was the last time that we would fish there for many years.

My smile faded. I was suddenly confused and worried by my father’s remark, and almost demanded to know what he meant. The answer I was about to hear was the last thing I ever expected when Dad put his hand gently on my shoulder. There was going to be no easy way or good time to say what he had so say, so he was going to be straight with me.

He was forty-nine years old, had completed thirty years service in the military, including a year in Vietnam, and was entitled to a full pension. Thus, he had been privately looking to change his life and career while he was still young enough.

He told me that he had just been offered a civilian job, the same as what he was already doing in the military, but with a guy named Arthur Cameron. He felt that it was perfect for him, and since I was due to start high school the following year anyway, the move from Darwin wouldn’t be too disruptive.

The thought of leaving the only town I had ever known worried me even more. I asked nervously, Where is this new job?

The answer was Gold Star Aviation at Moorabbin Airport.

The expression on my face must have told him the question was still unanswered. So he told me that Moorabbin Airport was very close to where he grew up in Melbourne.

I took a big step back in shock. Melbourne was so far away and with all my friends in Darwin, I would never see them again. Dad saw the tears quickly forming in my eyes. He murmured that he knew how I felt, but that it couldn’t be helped.

The new job was due to start on Monday, January the twenty-second, and he would be submitting his resignation from the army tomorrow, December eighteenth, effective from January twelfth. It would take us five days to drive the four thousand kilometres there. He apologised if the news upset me because we had had a good life in the North, but it was a done deal and I would just have to get used to it.

I sighed angrily as Dad continued by adding, If your mother was still alive, she would support me.

I glared up at him. Well Mum’s not here, so how do you know that?

Dad told me that Mum always knew and accepted that families stick together, no matter how hard it gets. I looked away silently, so Dad ruffled my hair and told me it was time to go home.

The heaviness and dark feelings inside of me matched the heavy dark clouds and low rumbling that warned of an approaching storm away to the east. I shuffled my feet in the sand and said nothing as I followed Dad slowly back along the deserted beach. This had been my favourite fishing spot for many years, not only because of all the fish, but the wild beauty of the place. Its distance from Darwin, though, and absence of access tracks had always kept visits there to only half a dozen each year.

For what I thought was the last time, I gazed sadly at the sea, the scrub, and the birds as we approached a small two-seater helicopter resting on dry sand above the high-tide mark. I placed the barracouda steaks in an ice-chest behind the pilot’s seat with the rest of my day’s catch, while Dad stowed the fishing gear.

By now, the time was nearing six o’clock. Hunger pangs suddenly churned in my gut as I climbed into the left-hand seat and fastened the harness. With lightning visible in the distance, Dad wasted no time in strapping himself into his seat and completing the pre-start checks.

The fact that a helicopter was the only means of access to this beach was the other reason I liked going there. My mind was fuelled by a passionate love of helicopters, as was my desire to become a military pilot like Dad as soon as I was old enough.

Despite the shock of Dad’s news, I watched him closely, as I always did, memorising every aspect of helicopter operation. Dad let the rotor blades turn slowly for two minutes as a warm-up, before applying full-throttle

The open-sided helicopter rose quickly and gracefully into the air, before moving forward over the water. Darwin was thirty-five kilometres to the south and west, so he moved the stick to the left and pushed the left-hand pedal. The helicopter responded with a bank and turn in that direction as it accelerated along the beach, chased rapidly by the storm. I felt the pleasurable rush of warm air in my face as I leaned from the aircraft to rest my left foot on the skid. And to take my mind off the changes that were to come, I counted the crocodiles I spotted in wetlands below during the fifteen-minute return flight to Darwin.

Our army residence in the suburb of Winnellie was a short drive from the airport, and we arrived home as the orange sun approached the horizon. Half an hour later, the close friends and neighbours Dad had invited earlier that day arrived. They were to feast on my catch of fish currently sizzling on the barbecue under our wide verandah. After the meal, Dad intended to break his news.

As we were eating, the storm moved in with a vengeance. Lightning lit up the tropical night, and thunder echoed through the trees as a deluge of wind-driven rain lashed the city. To our visitors, this was just another Christmas-time storm in the tropical North. But Dad and I knew this was most likely one of the last such storms we would experience together for a long time. We savoured its awesome power and magic as it continued on past Darwin out into the Timor Sea.

The son of two of our guests, Shane and Maria Booker, was Brian, the sole survivor of premature triplets. He and I had been each other’s best friend since our first week of primary school, and we were very close.

Brian was slightly bigger than I was and really outgoing, but always sensitive to the feelings of others. He obviously saw the difference in my attitude during dinner, as I was quiet and withdrawn, and did not smile. I think Brian was worried I might be ill. After the meal, we went to my bedroom, its walls covered with posters of both military and civilian helicopters.

Normally distracted by the pictures, Brian ignored them this time and took me by the arm. Jac, are you okay? You’re not feeling sick, are you?

I lowered my gaze, sat on my bed, and shook my head. Brian sat beside me. He asked again, his normally husky sort of voice rising in pitch. What’s the matter? Something bad is going down, isn’t it?

In the six years we had known each other, he had probably never seen me looking so grim. I told him about Dad’s resignation from the military and our move to Melbourne three weeks later to start his civilian flying job. I reckon my unexpected answer must have hit him like a hammer blow.

Like me, Brian had bright-blue eyes. But they quickly lost their shine as I told him the news. He whispered in a sad voice that was almost pleading, No, Jac, tell me you’re kidding. You can’t go. You’re my best mate.

I shook my head slowly, for there was nothing I could do about it.

I’ll ask my parents if you can live with us, he answered in desperation.

It was a response that was typical of Brian through and through. I guess that’s why I loved the kid, like a brother, that is. Grateful, I smiled slightly at an offer I knew would never be accepted by the adults in our lives, and put my hand on his shoulder. Forget it, Bri. We’ll just have to hang out as much as we can from now on.

We said little more about the move, and eventually returned to the veranda just as Dad was about to tell the others of what was happening. He called for their attention so as he could make the ‘important announcement’ and explain the reason for the night’s get together.

They went silent to listen, except for Shane Booker. He must have sensed for many months Dad’s restlessness with military life, and pre-empted what was going to be said with the question, You’re leaving the army, aren’t you?

Dad was accustomed to Shane’s habit of thinking aloud, although it often irritated him at times. He confirmed his friend’s guess, before adding what he referred to as the important part. I’ve been offered the position of Deputy Chief Flying Instructor for helicopters with Gold Star Aviation at Moorabbin Airport in Melbourne.

The news took the other adults equally by surprise. It was Maria who spoke first, the mild shock evident in her voice, asking when we would be leaving. Dad gave her the same date he had given me, Monday, January fifteenth, so his guests offered him their best wishes on his retirement and new career, especially Shane, who stepped forward to offer his hand, also. Sorry if I stole your thunder just then, but the writing’s been on the wall for ages. My bad habit, I guess.

Pain in the butt, more like it, Dad grunted with a smile as he accepted the handshake, saying that he hoped he didn’t live to regret the move. These were to be tragically prophetic words, as I was to find out the following month.

Shane patted him on the arm, saying that if Dad really wanted out, and Gold Star Aviation was a good outfit, it might well be the best decision he had made in a long time.

Brian and I had listened gloomily to Dad’s words. After six long years of friendship and growing-up together, we were to be suddenly torn apart and separated by a huge continent. We did not know when we would see each other again. Our whole world was about to change, and we hoped for, expected even, some sign of protest from the adults, but there was none. Instead, all we saw were smiles and handshakes, and all we heard were words of encouragement. To us, as kids, they were traitors, all of them. It was as if nobody cared how we felt about the move or how it would affect us.

We had stood by after the announcement respectfully silent. But now I was enraged by Shane’s last comments to Dad, and said very loudly, I don’t think it’s a good decision, Major Booker! I think it sucks!

Without another word, I turned and almost ran from the now-silent veranda. And as he went to follow, I heard Brian also vent his feelings, but in a more reserved voice. Dad, Colonel Moreland. Jac’s really cut-up about this, and so am I. It does suck!

Brian left the others and found me slumped on my bed. I was miserably staring up at a large poster of an Apache attack-helicopter on the ceiling, and muttering repeatedly, I don’t want to go. It’s too far away.

Brian didn’t want me to go either, but accepted there was nothing he or I could do about it. I rolled away from Brian onto my side. I asked him to tell my dad that I wanted to be alone and was going to have an early night. Brian stood beside my bed looking at me for a few seconds. Although he could hear nothing, he must have known that I was crying. I felt his hand gently patting my shoulder. Finally, I heard him turn, walk to the door, and stop to glance back. Okay, see you tomorrow, Jac.

I could hear his footsteps returning to the veranda. He must have seen expressions of disapproval on the faces of his father and mine, because I then heard him say, Don’t look at me like that, Dad. How do you reckon I feel? You always tell people what you’re thinking, and this time, so did I.

He then relayed my message to my dad. Following a brief pause, Brian added his own comment that I was on my bed, crying, and that I hadn’t done that for a long time.

Leaving the adults to their own business, and wanting to be alone, also, Brian walked inside the house and switched on the television. He stayed there for the rest of the evening, probably sullen at the news of the coming separation from me, his closest friend.

Although my departure was no fault of Shane’s, Brian must have felt really betrayed by his dad’s open support and strong encouragement for my dad’s move to Melbourne. He said nothing when Shane called him from the lounge room at the end of the evening. He told me later, that he went straight to his bedroom as soon as they arrived home.

It was, therefore, a surprise to both of us when our parents seemed to understand how we felt. An expected punishment for my bad behaviour after Dad’s announcement never happened, and Brian wasn’t punished, either, and his dad could be quite tough, like mine.

Monday, 25 December 1995 – Monday, 1 January 1996 - From that night onwards, the days passed too quickly for Brian and me. Christmas Day came and went. I received all the presents I had been hoping for that year, even more than expected. I reckon it must have been Dad’s way of trying to make up for the coming changes in my life. But they did little to ease the constant inner-pain I was feeling at the thought of leaving Darwin and all my mates.

New Year’s Eve soon followed, and with it the traditional party on the base. This was only the fourth time that I had been allowed to stay up to midnight for the singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. A happy occasion in previous years, this night was of special importance as I sang the words, Should old acquaintance be forgot…

The next day, Dad began the task of sorting and packing our belongings. Collection by the furniture removalists was due nine days later on the Friday. This was to be followed by a transfer of the goods to a temporary storage facility in Melbourne.

With the use of a stepladder, I removed my helicopter posters from the ceiling of my bedroom. Even though my heart was not in the move, I insisted on packing my own things. A large number of similar posters adorned the walls of my room. Slowly, gently, I removed each poster, peeled off the pieces of sticky Blu-Tack adhesive, and rolled them up. Except for a telescopic fishing rod and small container of tackle, most of the other items were boxed just as carefully.

Friday, January 12, 1996 - With a loud revving of its engine, the furniture van reversed into our driveway on the morning of the move. The two removalists took less than three hours to load all the furniture and cartons, our whole life. This left Dad and me with a large suitcase each. In addition, I had my rucksack with a small amount of fishing and camping gear. Booked into a local motel for the weekend, it was all we would require for the next seven days. I could never have guessed how important my camping and fishing gear was soon to become.

The truck departed just before noon, and after checking every wardrobe and drawer for missed items, Dad locked the empty house. For a brief moment, the two of us stood at the front gate and looked at what had been our home, until finally turning our backs and getting into our vehicle. Dad then headed directly to the base, where he returned the door keys and his gun, and signed some documents. Then, as a civilian, he drove us out through the security gate for the last time and we checked into the motel.

When we had carried our suitcases into the room, Dad held me gently by the shoulders and gazed down into my saddened eyes. He acknowledged that the previous three weeks had been hard for me, that I had done my best to deal with it, and that he wanted to say thanks. Then he asked a question. Is there anything I can do to make this last weekend here really special for you?

Although Dad’s offer was unexpected, my answer was immediate and without hesitation. I want to go back to Gunn Point, me and Brian, together one last time. He’s got some spare fishing gear we can use. Will you fly us there tomorrow?

Dad nodded, but due to prior business said it would have to be Sunday if a helicopter was available and Brian’s parents consented. I briefly put my arms around his waist and thanked him.

Sunday, January 14, 1996 – The day dawned humid and overcast at Darwin Airport when Brian arrived with his father as Dad and I were finishing the pre-flight inspection of the four-seater helicopter . He had a broad smile on his face and enough fishing gear for all of us, plus a sun umbrella and three beach chairs. Dad told Shane we would be back by three o’clock because the helicopter had a prior booking. Shane said, Okay, wished Brian good fishing as he rubbed the boy’s curly hair, and left the helipad area without waiting for us to take-off.

We climbed aboard and fastened our seatbelts. Brian had flown with us before, and he was pleased with this last opportunity. I could tell that his heart was racing with the excitement as Dad started the engine and the helicopter became airborne. The aircraft rose effortlessly into the tropical air, and Dad set a north-easterly course for the short flight back to Gunn Point.

Upon arrival, he circled the area twice and chose a beach further north than before. He turned his head and said over the intercom, Hey, Jules, how’d you like to have your twelfth birthday present one more time?

The offer brought a huge grin to my face, for I knew what he meant, although Brian didn’t. Dad nodded when I asked if he was serious. So with the smile on my face undiminished, I stripped down to my underwear as Dad descended rapidly to place the helicopter into hover mode two metres above the sea and fifteen metres from the beach.

What’s going on, Jac? Brian exclaimed. What are you doing?

In answer to his question, I unbuckled my seatbelt, said, See ya, screamed, Yahoooo! and jumped from the helicopter into the warm tropical sea.

Jac! I heard Brian yell out. He said later how he leaned across, looked down, watched me rise to the surface of the water, and start swimming towards the beach.

Sand blew into the air when Dad landed nearby. The smile was still fixed on my face as I left the water and approached the helicopter. The spot was in the middle of a three-hundred-metre strip of beach between a rocky area and a long sand-spit protruding into the sea. When Dad shutdown the engine, Brian disembarked, somewhat speechless at what he had just witnessed me do. The stunned look on his freckled face was classic and priceless, and to this day is a treasured memory.

After I had dried and dressed, we quickly began assembling our rigs. As soon as they were ready, Dad called us over for an important briefing. We had just four hours before our departure time. He had picked this area of the beach because it appeared free of crocodiles and he no longer carried a gun. So while he was casting baits there, Brian and I were to fish on either side of the helicopter between the rocks and the sand-spit, but no further.

He pointed to the landmarks as he spoke, and I answered impatiently for the both of us, Yes, Dad, we’ll stay close. Can we go now?

Dad nodded. Sure; go catch my lunch.

We chuckled at his demand, and we headed down the beach like startled rabbits with our tackle towards the rocks.

With a warm gentle breeze blowing in his face, Dad watched us for a few seconds as we jogged quickly away. He then opened the sun umbrella and folding beach chairs near the helicopter. He was less hurried than we were as he assembled his fishing rig, placed a thick slice of squid on the large hook, and cast out from the beach. With the rod then mounted at an angle in a rod-holder stuck in the sand, Dad sat back in a chair under the umbrella, relaxed, and occasionally brushed away flies from his face. To his left, he could see us casting lures near the rocks, and would have smiled to himself. Like me, he knew that he would miss this beach and the Northern Territory as a whole.

Despite the death of Mum to cancer, life in the North had been good to us. He reflected on the wisdom of such a big change in our lives. But as he had told me at Gunn Point before Christmas, time was running out for him if he intended to pursue a career in civilian aviation. Dad understood the reality that it was now or never. My move into high school provided the best opportunity to lessen the effects on me, not that I really cared at the time.

For half an hour, I reckon he sat and thought about what our future would hold, until being startled by a loud squeal from the rocks. Dad was on his feet immediately, staring down the beach. But his concern was probably replaced by amusement when he saw Brian engaged in a tug-of-war with a big fish. But as he laughed to himself, his own rod bent double, and the reel screamed as line was peeled off. Most likely uttering an obscenity, he grabbed the rod to commence his own battle with an unseen adversary. Five minutes later, he beached a large trevally. Dad drew his knife, and cut a long fillet from each side of the fish at the water’s edge. The remainder of its carcass was tossed into the sea in the hope of attracting more fish.

After placing the flesh in the ice chest, he baited the hook again, recast, and sat down once more under the umbrella. But he caught only a few more small fish from then on, none worth keeping.

At midday, Dad wound in his line, and walked into the scrub beyond the beach to collect firewood. A few minutes later, we returned from the rocks. Each of us carried two big reef fish that I had bled and gutted. This was something Brian hated doing, and would usually chicken-out if he could.

Dad removed their heads and tails, and placed two of them on ice. The third and fourth were wrapped in aluminium foil, and baked in the hot coals of the fire. Eaten in such beautiful surroundings with a gentle breeze, the tasty flesh made an enjoyable meal. This was one big part of life here that I knew I would really miss.

After lunch, and with just over an hour left before we had to leave our special place for the last time, Brian and I walked out onto the sand-spit to cast more lures. Here, the fishing was not as good as at the rocks. I was the only one to hook-up, and brought in a large, salt-water barramundi, but we didn’t care. Without saying it, all that really mattered to us was the short time we had left together.

At two o’clock, and in no hurry to return, we reluctantly shuffled back to the helicopter where Dad was waiting. For Brian and me, the homeward flight from Gunn Point was too short. We pulled into the driveway at Brian’s house just after three o’clock. Maria invited us all inside for a cold drink, grateful for the day’s outing Dad had given Brian and the gift of the fish.

While our parents talked in the lounge, we went to Brian’s bedroom and played computer games. Eventually, as evening approached, the time came for Dad and me to leave, and Shane called out to us. This was the moment we had been dreading. Without a word, Brian shutdown his computer and turned it off. But as we walked to the door, he stopped and looked deeply into my eyes. They were full of tears, same as his. Brian was seldom lost for words, but the pain of our separation cut deeply through both of us.

Tell me your address and phone number when you get to Melbourne, Jac, he sniffed finally, so I can write to you, and call, maybe, if Mum and Dad don’t mind.

I nodded. Sure thing, Bri. Maybe you can come visit, and we can go fishing, or hang out at a video arcade.

Yeah, Jules, that’d be cool.

On an impulse, before leaving the room, we did something we’d never done before. We hugged each other, and then briefly held each other’s faces after we had parted. Outside, under the verandah, Maria kissed me on the cheek before I got into our vehicle. With a final wave, Dad drove us away. That night, we dined together at a local restaurant on a meal called Buff & Barra, which was half water buffalo and half barramundi.

Monday, January 15, 1996 - It was early this next morning when Dad locked the door of the motel room behind us as we left. I waited patiently in our station wagon while he returned the key to reception and completed the checking-out formalities. As soon as they were finished, he walked briskly to the vehicle, got into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

Hesitantly, I asked if he would do me a favour before leaving Darwin, to drive past our house one more time, saying that it would only take a minute. Dad nodded, but added that this was to be the end of it. I agreed not to say anything more about the move.

Our old street was only a couple of hundred metres from the Stuart Highway, the main road out of Darwin, and ran parallel to it. Dad let the oncoming traffic pass, then turned right into a side street. We cruised down to the second road, our road, and turned. A hundred metres along, we stopped, and I gazed silently for a minute at the only home I had known as many good memories came back to me. Dad then put the vehicle into ‘Drive’ and we moved off slowly.

He drove on down our old street to the first intersection and turned left. But after a hundred metres, I asked him to stop again. He pulled into the kerb outside the local primary school. I had complained a lot about going to school and doing homework, but I liked it there. I only hoped that my new high school would be good, too. Dad ruffled my hair when I told him. I’m sure it will be, son. Time to go, eh?

I sighed again and nodded, and we continued on back to the Stuart Highway, turned right, and headed for the hotel in Elliott. Eight hundred kilometres away, it was the first overnight stop on our long journey south.

Friday, 19 January 1996 - It was late in the afternoon when our station wagon cruised southwards down the Warrigal Highway in Melbourne’s south-eastern suburbs. We had been travelling for nearly forty hours during the five days since leaving Darwin. The air-conditioning in the vehicle had made the final day’s motoring only slightly tolerable as strong north-westerly winds blew in scorching hot dry air from the deserts of Central Australia.

I had grown-up in the warm humid atmosphere of Darwin where temperatures rarely climbed above thirty-five degrees Celsius. The unbearable heat of the outback, I had expected. But with today’s forty-one degrees, moisture-free air had blasted me during our lunchtime stop at Horsham three hours earlier.

Biased from the minute Dad told me of our move on the beach at Gunn Point, the first of many irrational fears about going to Melbourne had been confirmed in my mind. The climate was really lousy and I supposed there was snow in winter (which there isn’t). I was just hoping my new school and the fishing around there wasn’t lousy, as well. And when I had seen the city’s skyscrapers as we approached over the Westgate Bridge, I knew we were entering Australia’s second largest city. With its population of three million people, I yearned for the atmosphere of a smaller Darwin and the surrounding hinterland.

Despite my growing hunger, the one phrase, Big mistake, repeated itself in my mind over and over again. This only reinforced my continued resentment that had grown with every kilometre of the journey. But now, ahead of our vehicle and to the left as we drove up a short hill, I saw a steady stream of aircraft climbing and banking after take-off from what I assumed was Moorabbin Airport.

Dad had also seen them and pointed. Not far to go now; about three kilometres I reckon. We’ll stop off and get the keys to the house that Gold Star have arranged near the airport.

I’m hungry, I interrupted. Can we eat first?

It was to be the worst request I was to make in my life, ever. Dad shrugged and agreed. He had seen some shops on our left halfway up the hill, and there was a convenience store.

He pulled into a parking space just past the shop, grabbed his wallet from the dashboard, and gave me a one-hundred-dollar note. Tell the man inside your dad says sorry, but it’s the smallest he’s got. I’ll have a burger with the lot and a Coke.

I nodded, stepped from the vehicle, and was again struck by the blistering hot wind. There was no shade on our side of the road. The heat almost took my breath away as I walked back towards the convenience store.

When I reached the door, a noise of loud blaring horns and screeching tyres echoed along the busy road from behind me. Instinctively, I swung around and saw a large truck careering out of control down the hill. I watched, without moving, as it swung wildly from one side of the road to the other without any sign of reducing speed. But there was no sound of emergency braking, and I could clearly see the driver in his cabin wrestling with the steering wheel as he struggled to avoid an accident. It took only five seconds for the truck to reach us, but it seemed to me that everything was happening in slow motion.

Onwards, the big truck rushed into the section of the highway serving the shopping strip. At the last instant, and without warning, it veered directly towards our car. I was horrified and panic-stricken. Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream as I saw the unstoppable tragedy that was about to unfold.

Dad! I screamed at the top of my voice. But my words were drowned out by the explosive noise of the impact as the truck slammed into our station wagon.

The passenger compartment was crushed by a massive weight as the vehicle was pushed backwards with great force into a power pole. The front wheels of the truck mounted the smaller station wagon and came to rest on top of the rear seats.

There followed a brief and eerie silence as dust raised by the collision swirled in the gusty wind, until the commotion started. Passers-by ran to the vehicles as others called for help on mobile phones. But the body of the truck crushing our station wagon completely blocked the view of people trying to see if there were victims trapped inside.

A man yelled loudly, Is anyone in there? Can you hear me?

He then called for silence as he listened in vain for a response. The driver of the truck, which was only slightly damaged by comparison, opened the door of his cabin and leaned out. Shaken but uninjured, he wordlessly climbed down onto the wreckage, jumped to the bitumen, and sat in the gutter. There he remained with his head buried in his hands as he mumbled over and over again, I had no brakes. I had no steering.

Meanwhile, as I witnessed this, I stood frozen with horror at the scene of the carnage. My lips mouthed the word, No, repeatedly for several seconds, but I was too shocked at first to utter a sound. Finally, I broke into a run, yelling, Dad! Dad! Dad!

I shoved my way past bystanders near the wreckage. Pounding the crumpled panels of the station wagon with both fists as tears streamed down my face, I screamed for Dad.

A young man with a camera, a reporter I supposed, took several dramatic photos of the emotional moment that graphically showed my grief. But with the wreckage unstable and the smell of leaking fuel in the air, there was a clear and present danger. As another man dragged me away, I yelled hysterically, My Dad’s in there! Get him out! Do something! Let me go!

I struggled violently, also, and thrashed around, but the man was too strong. He restrained me, saying, Calm down, son. Help’s on the way. They’ll get him out as soon as they can.

It was not until the timely intervention of two Italian women, that I ceased my struggles. As they put their arms around me for comfort, my yells and screams gave way to deep sobs, and I blurted out, My dad’s dead, isn’t he?

Come now, sweetheart, we don’t-a know that, the older lady said reassuringly as she held me closely. As soon as firemen come, they get-a him out, si.

All the while, that reporter kept taking photos. He only stopped when another man pushed him away and threatened to punch him. The women kept holding and comforting me as the sound of approaching sirens grew louder. Finally, she escorted me to a public seat where we sat down together.

Two fire trucks, two police cars, and an ambulance arrived almost at the same time. The first emergency workers on the scene shook their heads at the sight that confronted them, and immediately radioed their base for specialist assistance. Meanwhile, other fire fighters sprayed foam over spilling fuel. Fearing an explosion may occur, they asked the police to keep bystanders well back.

As this was happening, the truck driver was breath-tested by a policeman after an examination by the paramedics. It was obvious from the reaction of the officer that no alcohol was present. There was little else that could be done.

Shortly afterwards, a ‘Road Crash Rescue’ truck from the State Emergency Service (SES) and several on-call volunteers arrived. It was equipped with special hydraulic cutting gear, but there was nothing they could do immediately, either. A heavy mobile crane had already been called for to lift the truck from the station wagon.

While her colleagues began interviewing witnesses, a young policewoman approached the two kind-hearted women and me. She said to the older lady, Excuse me, I’m told this boy is from the crushed car.

The woman nodded. In heavily-accented English, she said that I was on the footpath, that my Papa was in the car, and that I had witnessed the crash, so was very upset. When asked, she identified herself as Mrs Francesca Restifa, her non-English-speaking friend as Gina Mondo, and added that they had not seen what had happened as they were in the post office.

The policewoman squatted down in front of me, gently held my hand and asked my name. When I didn’t answer, she repeated the question, but I still said nothing, and she patted me gently on the shoulder. Okay, mate. You’d better come with me. Ladies, if you would help him to my car, please.

We stood up, and they slowly shepherded me to a police vehicle. The officer placed me in the back seat of the car, and sat on one side while the English-speaking Italian lady sat on the other. She tried as gently as she could to question me again. But I was deeply traumatised and totally incapable of speech. I failed to respond even to the simplest of questions, including my name and address.

Concerned that I may be going into shock, she left the vehicle and approached the ambulance crew for assistance. A paramedic sat down beside me, spoke in a calming voice, and felt for a pulse in my wrist. At first, I withdrew my arm, and any further attempts at an examination were strongly resisted. Finally, with the compassion and encouragement from Mrs Restifa, I surrendered and nodded to the paramedics. As the examination began, they asked my name once more. I sobbed quietly, Julian Moreland.

Then I was asked where I lived, but could only say, I don’t know. Dad and me came in from Darwin today. We’re supposed to live somewhere near Moorabbin airport.

When asked about my mother, I started crying again. She died six years ago!

Oh, Mamma Mia! Mrs Restifa then gasped. You poor boy!

The paramedics’ examination found nothing to be concerned about. So the policewoman told me that a place would be found somewhere for me to stay the night until other relatives could be contacted.

There aren’t any, I sniffed. It’s just me and Dad. What happens, now? Who’ll take care of me? All my dad’s mates are back in Darwin.

I was then informed that the Department of Community Services (DoCS) would find emergency accommodation overnight and a foster family sooner or later. Until then, I was to be taken to a local police station and given something to eat. Not caring about food, I glared at her, wide-eyed, and said there was no way I was leaving until my dad had been removed from what was left of our vehicle.

The officer sighed, That’s going to take a while, Julian. This is no place for you.

In my distressed and confused state of mind I was in no mood to argue with anybody, and snapped back, I’m not going! And you can’t make me!

Even though I had deeply hated Dad’s decision to move to Melbourne, our bond was undiminished. Both sharing a love of flying and fishing, we were seldom apart, always spending most of our leisure time together. To leave now, before Dad’s body was freed from the wreckage, I felt would be like abandoning him, and that was just not acceptable. My decision was final. The firm determination would have showed in my piercing eyes as I looked back squarely at the policewoman and repeated in a snarl, I’m not going!

The officer