A tragedy of dire consequences befell us late last night. Consequences more dire even than our continued lack of television. Our washing machine gave up the ghost. We had put a load on when we got home yesterday evening, to wash while we comfortably relaxed watching some more episodes of ‘The Wire’. It was in a particularly quiet scene of the show that I realised that there was a distinct lack of the whizzing and whirring the likes of which we have become all too well acquainted with, coming from the other end of the van. Gone too was the gentle rocking of the van that the spinning drum of the washing machine generally causes. On closer inspection, there it was, all too clear to see. Lights were flashing, but not the ones that were meant to be flashing, and the drum was an inert barrel of soggy, half washed clothes. As you would all know, this machine is like our lifeblood. Without this machine, life as we know it is over. In fact, the sad loss of our little washing machine could well jeopardise the rest of the trip. Like I said, dire consequences.

We spent the next hour trying everything we could to revive our little buddy, almost flooding the van in the process when it released a rivulet of water as we opened the door. It was like a final gusher of blood from a severed artery as the life faded away from the machine.

A search on Google educated me in the art of reading the morse code like error messages depicted by the flashing of the front panel lights. This made things no better, when I decrypted the code to mean one of two things, both possibly fatal. It could either be a fault in the circuit board, or an electricity frequency issue. Without the diagnostic tools to check either, we up the creek without a washing machine.

Getting up this morning, I was about ready to ring the washing machine company, to see if they could shed any light on our problems, when Bec exclaimed: “Is that the time already?” I followed her eyes to the microwave, where I noticed the apparently late hour. I checked my watch to confirm, and before Bec knew it, I had grabbed her up in a big bear hug, smiling and laughing with glee. I think she thought I had finally gone mad, but then I explained that the time on the microwave was about 2 hours fast. That was a good thing, because it indicated that the 240 volt supply with which the park is being supplied most likely comes courtesy of a giant generator out by the roadhouse. I am assuming that overnight, when demand for power is low, the frequency increases, enough at least to cause the microwave clock to run fast, and possibly screw with the internal workings of the washing machine.

With baited breath and fingers crossed, we loaded up the tub with a pile of laundy, spun the dial and prodded the buttons. It sprung to life, brought back from the dead, whizzing and whirring like nothing was wrong. With a huge sigh of relief, we sat blessedly watching our clothing being tossed about as the machine did its thing and life, as we know it, returned once again to a serene state of normality.

With our journey now back on track, we loaded up ‘The Beast’ for an afternoon of adventure in Broome. Naturally, I couldn’t pass up a quick visit to Matsos to stock up on a couple of more takeaways to enjoy down by the beach. Todays drinks of choice was a ginger beer and a mango beer, which we will keep on ice until we hit the soft sands of Cable Beach.

Day Three, Visit Three.

From Matsos, we managed to find the veterinarian hospital, which was tucked down a little back street that ‘Shazza’ didn’t even know existed. I am getting seriously concerned about her status as our lead navigator, but we don’t have any other options. At the vets, Bec produced the crushed almost beyond recognition tick carcass, to have it confirmed as being a harmless brown tick. It was as we had imagined, but an audible sigh of relief was still released at the good news.

Cable Beach was next, where we again steered ‘The Beast’ out onto the sand and barreled along at the 15Km/h speed limit. We had learned something yesterday and that was that the 4WD friendly section of the beach is also dog friendly and clothing optional. So, today we had brought the dogs along for the ride, and I had made a pact with Bec. I would get my clobber off, if she would go topless.

We found a relatively secluded bit of sand to pull up along and jumped out. I was standing out behind ‘The Beast’, resplendent in my white and tanned brown, zebra striped birthday suit, when Bec emerged from the other side, still fully clothed and snapping away with the camera like a crazed paparazzi photographer getting a scoop shot of a naked celebrity. My white and tanned suit suddenly included a liberal dose of vivid red as I rushed to get my shorts back on. So much for our pact.

Well, that was how I imagined the whole getting naked on the beach thing going down, as I jumped from ‘The Beast, so I kept my shorts on, and was relieved when Bec emerged from her side of ‘The Beast’, still modestly covered. She was however gripping the camera exactly like in my vision, so maybe she had thought I would go through with it after all.

So, with skinny dipping off the table, we hooked the dogs up to their leashes and took them for a run along the beach and a paddle in the cool, refreshing waters of the Indian Ocean. They both had a ball in the water, scooting up and down, playing a game of catch me if you can with the gently breaking wavelets.

The not even close to Full Monty.

With the two dogs worn out, we hiked back up the sand to sit in the shade of ‘The Beast’, downing our cold beers, where we did spy a few people, mostly older and not so well figured guys taking full advantage of the clothing optional status of the beach. Yes, Bec was right, not such a good look after all.

Beers and beaches seem to go hand in hand.

We had to leave the beach before sunset tonight, so that we could drive across to the other side of town to witness yet another natural phenomenon for which Broome is known. The staircase to the moon, happens 3 nights a month from March to October. It is an optical illusion as the full moon rises over the mud flats of low tide. The ribbed mudflats reflect the fiery red orange of the moon in lines that look like a ladder of staircase rising up to meet it.

To get a good vantage point, you need to be early, as we were. That left us an hour long wait, at least able to sit in semi-comfort on the tailgate of ‘The Beast’ with a front row pew overlooking some low mangroves and the narrowly ridged surface of the mudflats, beyond which the moon was due to rise in all its glory.

Right on time at 6:14PM, the first glimmer of orange peeked its wide arc above the horizon, quickly continuing to become the engorged orb of a full moon. Just as advertised, a strip of orange was reflected up from the moistened mud, causing the staircase effect for which thousands of people had turned out to witness. It was indeed a spectacle, the likes of which I’ve not seen elsewhere. As shutters clicked, and inexplicably flashes fired, the full moon gently lofted itself into the night sky, trailing below it the glistening ribs of reflection.

Full…

…moon…

…rising.

And there it is, the Staircase to the Moon.

Standing proud by this stage, up upon the tailgate, I could look in either direction alongside me, where people were crushed inhumanely between the parked cars, the soft glow of digital camera screens creating an almost as unworldly sight as that of the rising moon.

Until next time, stay safe, have fun and don’t forget to write.