Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [23]
But it was Tasmania's scenery and adventure sports that had caught Chris's attention. He had read about the island's glorious beaches, great swimming, and incredible surfing—and he mentioned seaplanes and scuba diving. It sounded exciting. Too bad we wouldn't be doing any of that stuff.
“We're pretty much focusing the trip around the tiger,” we said. “Its natural and cultural history, its iconography, the possible veracity of eyewitness reports.”
We were trying to make our plans sound as boring as possible, but Chris's face betrayed a hint of alarm. “There are tigers in Tasmania?” he said. Apparently Alexis had failed to brief him on the thylacine aspect of our trip.
“Don't worry,” Alexis shouted across a plate of pad thai. “They're ex-tinct—probably.”
For the next hour, Chris and Dorothy returned to their discussion about art. The tiger receded into the background.
When it was time to head off for the ferry, Chris explained he hadn't been able to book a cabin and was flying into Devonport, the Tasmanian city where the ferry docked. He would meet us there the following morning.
“So, what's the agenda?” he said. “Can I have a copy of the itinerary?”
“Uh—” Itinerary? “Well, the day after tomorrow we're going to see devils … hopefully.”
This time Dorothy looked at us strangely. Then she said, “Those are animals, right?”
Twenty minutes later we were at Melbourne's Station Pier, entering the ferry's cavernous bowels. Hundreds of cars were creeping on board and stacks of pet-filled cages were being rolled off to an unseen kennel area. Because of Tasmania's island status—and freedom from many of the exotic species that plagued the mainland—restrictions on bringing in plants, animals, even certain types of food were taken very seriously. We joined a line of passengers waiting to have their luggage checked. Every bag was opened, poked, and occasionally thoroughly searched. According to a pamphlet we had been given, the inspectors were primarily looking for fresh fruit and illegal animals, such as foxes and pythons. But Alexis looked nervous.
“Did you bring the P-O-T with you?” we whispered loudly.
“Shhhhhhh …I was afraid to bring it on the plane from Sydney. But I got some more here. It's way down in the stuff sack of my sleeping bag.”
When it was Alexis's turn to have his bag searched, he suddenly became oversolicitous and hyper. “Do you want me to open that for you? No problem. I can undo that strap. Do you need me to unzip anything? How about this? This? No, thank you.”
When we heaved our bags forward, however, the inspector gave us a piercing look. We had been selected for extreme searching. She carefully opened each compartment and removed our things: clothes, underwear. Then she pulled out a stack of books we were carrying and stared at the title on top. We hoped it was something like The Future Eaters, an irreproachable ecological history of Australasia. But when we glanced down, we saw it was Cryptozoology A to Z: The Encyclopedia of Loch Monsters, Sasquatch, Chupacabras, and Other Authentic Mysteries of Nature.
“Okaaay, then,” she said, rapidly shoving our stuff back inside our bags. “You have a nice trip.” We followed Alexis and Dorothy onto the upper decks.
Ahhhh, it felt good to be on board. Behind us were the glass skyscrapers of Melbourne. In front of us open water. Our adventure was about to begin. We passed a ship's officer wearing a blue blazer with brass buttons.
“Do you think this will be a smooth crossing?” we asked. The Spirit of Tasmania was designed to handle waves as high as twenty-five feet. It had recently replaced a high-speed, wave-smashing catamaran that—though reducing the ferry trip from fourteen hours to six—had been decommissioned after earning itself the nickname “Vomit Comet.”
The officer looked at us blankly. “The waves should only be up to thirty meters tonight,” he said. Mother of Poseidon! We started to do the math. Thirty meters was