Zigzag Formation
January 7th, 2009by Brad Listi
LOS ANGELES-
In 1995 my friends Chris and Judd and I were in Australia on a semester abroad. We arrived in Sydney in July and then ventured up to Brisbane where we studied at the University of Queensland. During one stretch of the semester we flew up to Cairns to scuba dive at the Great Barrier Reef and when that was done we wound up staying at a youth hostel in the jungle in the Daintree National Rainforest. Daintree is the only rainforest in the world that directly abuts an ocean. There are saltwater crocodiles living in abundance, and they swim around in estuaries and rivers and wander through the jungle and can even be seen on the beach from time to time.
I can’t recall the name or exact location of the hostel that we stayed at, but I do remember that it was buried way back in the forest, which was part of its allure. There were snake warnings and crocodile warnings (a common occurrence in Australia), and there was an outdoor bar with a thatch roof and all sorts of travelers milling about.
To get to the hostel you took a gravel road way back into the forest. It wound around for miles.
As fortune would have it, there was a music festival in the jungle while we were there. An outdoor party in a clearing at the base of some lush green hills. The festival was miles away from the hostel. We caught a ride down there somehow and stood around listening to bands in a light rainfall for an afternoon. There were Aboriginals in the grassy parking lot, and they had painted themselves chalk-white, and we all took turns having our picture taken with them.
We were nineteen then; maybe twenty. Not a care in the world. This wasn’t exactly our peak in the realm of common sense. And I remember as it got dark we began to realize that we didn’t have a car and that we somehow had to find our way back to the hostel along the muddy gravel road that ran through the jungle. And so we set out at dusk and quickly came to understand that a rainforest is incredibly dark after sundown and that gravel roads in wilderness preserves don’t tend to be outfitted with, say, streetlights or torches. And furthermore, we kept reminding ourselves that saltwater crocodiles were roaming the jungle, swimming around in the various waterways and hunting through the underbrush for prey.
“Do you think they hunt at night?”
“I think they hunt at night.”
“They’re like cats. They can see in the dark. And they definitely hunt at night.”
(Actually, crocodiles are not explicitly nocturnal and will hunt during either the day or night. They’re flexible.)
It was a little unsettling, I gotta say. Warranted or not, there was the sense that we were doing something stupid and potentially even dangerous. We couldn’t see hardly five feet in front of us, treetops shrouding us from the light of the moon and the sounds of wild kingdom ringing out in all directions.
I could already see the headlines back home:
THREE AMERICAN COLLEGIANS MAULED BY AUSSIE CROC
JUNGLE HOSTILE: CROCODILE FEASTS ON THREE AMERICANS
DRUNK TEENS MUTILATED BY ANGRY REPTILE
We had been drinking beer all afternoon, among other things, and this, too, was playing a critical role in the quality of our analyses. At one point we even concocted a battle plan: If a crocodile or some other vicious predator lunged out of the darkness with intent to kill, we would immediately break into a zigzag formation. Crocodiles, we told each other, were tremendously fast in a straight line sprint, but they couldn’t do turns very well.
“If we zigzag it won’t be able to catch us.”
“You go left, I’ll go right.”
“Then where do I go?”
“Up the middle.”
Occasionally the gravel road would dip down and cross a waterway. Bridges were scarce along this road. Waterways were generally shallow. Two or three feet deep. Motorists rolling along this rocky path were expected to plow right through.
Naturally the waterways were always the worst. This, we knew, was prime crocodile habitat. Males on the prowl. Mothers laying eggs. Sometimes we were wading. Ankle-deep. Shin-deep. Stepping on rocks. Staring into the blackness, looking for glowing eyes.
“I think I see one.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m serious, dude.”
“Keep going.”
And then, somewhere up the road, it happened. We were crossing a waterway and out of nowhere came the sound of thrashing animal. Ripping through water. A lunge. We took off. Wordlessly. The adrenaline surge was severe. I was moving. All three of us were moving. Dead sprint. Incredibly quick. Running with fear for our lives. The fear of being eaten by a savage, angry lizard.
And what made it so funny was the fact that we were actually sprinting in zigzag formation. We were executing our half-assed plan to utter perfection. All three of us, scared totally out of our wits in the pitch-black dark, running wild through heavy jungle, many times nearly colliding.
“Run!”
“Zigzag!”
“Fuck!”
“Go!”
I can’t really remember how far down the road we ran, but I do know it was a pretty good ways. Long enough to be sure that nothing homicidal was chasing us. I remember we were all pretty shaken up.
Was it a giant crocodile? No telling. My guess is that it was something else. Something smaller. Something far less murderous in its intent. A furry little critter of some sort. A woodchuck. Or a beaver.
With the benefit of hindsight, it seems likely that an actual saltwater croc would’ve nabbed at least one of us. Those crocs can kill deer, for godsake. They can sneak up on mammals a hundred times faster than a human being. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe our adrenaline served us well. Maybe our plan was actually brilliant. Our immediate zigzag formation.
We’ll never really know.
I do know that we continued walking through the jungle for about an hour until eventually we felt the glow of headlights from behind. A couple of half-drunk girls weaving through the jungle on their way to the hostel. We flagged them down. Wildly. Stood in the road. Begged for a ride. They were kind enough to oblige. Saved us from certain peril.
The rest of the evening was spent at the thatch-roofed bar on hostel grounds, drinking Victoria Bitter. (Or was it XXXX?)
I can’t quite remember, to be honest with you. Those Queenslanders do love their XXXX.
Anyway, it was beer. We were definitely drinking beer. In the jungle. Alive.
-BL
Tags: 1995, australia, Brad Listi, Cairns, Daintree National Rainforest, funny nature stories, saltwater crocodiles, The Nervous Breakdown, TheNervousBreakdown.com, youth hostels
Brad, I’m positive that your brilliant zig-zag plan outwitted the vicious croc who was trying to eat you all. Brilliant thinking!
What can I say? We excel at survival strategy.
Brad:
According to wikiHow, you created a number of errors in your attempts to survive an encounter with a croc:
1) “Stay away from infested waters.”
2) “Be aware of your surroundings.”
3) And here’s the biggie: “The commonly-repeated instruction to run in zig-zags is useless: the quickest way to put distance between the animal and you is to run away in a straight line.”
And, God forbid, had you been bitten don’t forget that a crocodilian’s mouth harbors a tremendous amount of bacteria.
But I’m sure that a few of those XXXX beers would’ve killed all that nasty stuff.
Heh. Touchè.
Perhaps our strategy wasn’t so brilliant after all.
Anyway, we survived.
Deep in my heart I suspect you have become the favorite story of a bushman. Who after a few XXXX at a music festival in his youth, decided to make sport of 3 drunken wandering yanks, by tugging on a bush in the dark. Bushmen have quite a sense of humor, however I do not think anything in the world could have prepared him for 3 yanks zig zagging through the dark like madmen! Come on now, you didn’t really think those photographs taken of yourselves with bushmen came without a fee!
Great post!
Possible. We would’ve been prime subjects for that sort of practical joke.
Everyone knows the quickest way to subdue a crocodile is to jump on its back, tie its mouth closed, and then remark about how beautiful it is. I think this only works when cameras are rolling.
Pffffffft.
“…how beautiful it is.”
ha!
Hahahahaha! Man oh man! Seriously funny Phat B!
And punch it in the eye. That’s the other thing one must do when battling a croc. Be prepared to punch it in the eye.
Or…so I’m told.
Actually, that’s probably a bunch of cockamamy, too. I read a story about a mountain lion that attacked an older man in Yosemite(?). While it had its jaws on the man, the guy’s wife was busily stabbing it in the eye with a Bic. She broke the Bic, although the lion did eventually leave.
I dunno - zigzag formation, Bics…I’d be pulling out all the stops, too.
Indeed. I’m sure I’d do whatever I could to maim the thing in that instance.
Do crocodiles have balls? If so: I’m reaching down and yanking on those things. In a violent, nonsexual sort of way.
But really, have you ever seen male genitalia on a croc? For some reason I’m thinking they have some weird apparatus. Like, it’s an innie or something.
Anyway…
Ah, the language was deft, muddy gravel and saltwater crocodiles and all zigzags aside the beautiful notion that shines through was while you were zagging - did you ever feel so alive in your life?
There is no such thing in Australia as “a woodchuck”. Or “a beaver”. But I can guarantee you one thing….. if we did have variations of those creatures Down Under— they would be poisonous and deadly and have happily chewed the flesh from your silly, drunken Seppo bones.
And washed you down with beer.