At the risk of sounding churlish, I’m wondering, am I the only person who begrudges the Westpac rescue helicopter, manfully searching for some poor lost soul, bobbing around the in vast expanse of ocean, more dead than alive? I mean how is one meant to quietly relish one’s peaceful nighttime idyll when it is constantly interrupted by the chattering of a glorified metal house-fly, packed to the gunnels with day-glo attendants, all gawping out the doors like over-fed budgies? This is the second night running that we’ve been subjected to the ‘spotlight’ chopper searching for some pissed fisherman who has failed to navigate the nimble ballet between rock and girth.
Perhaps what is more surprising is that these fishermen manage to find themselves in the ocean at all, given their propensity to almost entirely cover themselves and the surrounding area with a birdnest of nylon fishing line, leaving only a square metre of brown-edged toilet paper to mark their precise location.
I mean seriously, how often does that huge spotlight thing work? Having spent my holidays from finishing school spotlighting from the back of a ute, I can honestly say that unless Damo is looking straight at the light from a distance of about three metres then really, he’s Neptune’s smoothie. Unless of course the chopper happens to contain a couple of frustrated, half-pissed deer hunters, in which case Damo will almost certainly be ‘located’.