Hamish's story

It’s 2000-and-something and you’re Hamish Heal. Future Mog Brewer, current model schoolboy.

And right now, you don’t want to miss the school bus. 

You might not be licenced to drive this 5k stretch of dirt passing itself off as road but as a matter of pride rather than timing, you won’t be walking it.

Because it’s pissing rain and you’re staring down one mother of a puddle where a playful creek used to be. An inconvenient, temporary moat of mother nature’s design. 

It’s a journey you’ve made over a thousand times; home, ute, front gate, school bus, school. No moats. Never any moats.

Better call dad. 

He doesn’t want you to miss the school bus. He  swears “she’ll be right” and to get on with it. 

But what if dad didn’t factor in the rain in Strathbogie? Didn’t count on the tens of thousands of gallons pulsing their way down the Sevens and into the  creek?

You unbuckle - just in case -  and throw it in first. 

Somewhere, about 2ks away, with any luck, if he has any sense, if he’s spoken to mum, dad’s started the tractor. Because there are only two things getting the ute out the moat. The tractor and a kelpie with more ambition than brains called Bo.  

Dad loves the water, really. 

It wasn’t his first time fishing.

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