text: THE COACH IN THE MIST The crew was exhausted. It had been a long hard, 5-day slog to get what they wanted. And they were ready for landing at their home and home comforts; looking forward to wives, girlfriends and long cool drinks; not caring by this time about the quality or integrity of their individual and combined efforts. Those had long been discussed and conjectured about hours earlier during their buffeting and uncomfortable journey back. Suddenly, dragging each one of them out of intermittent bouts of sleep, there was an electronic click. The Captain, First Officer, whoever - the crew couldn't care less, came on and said “I’m sorry guys” - it was a light aeroplane and the film crew were the only passengers with only a few empty seats - ‘guys’ was acceptable terminology - “but we’ve just had a weather update from Air Traffic and Sydney is fogged in and closed to all light traffic for the time being. We don’t have ILS* like the big international boys, and we don’t have enough fuel for a Sydney alternate, so we’re diverting to Canberra.” The Captain / First Officer of the twin engined Islander let all this sink in amidst the moans and groans from the Director, the first assistant, the sound guys, Producer, the whole shooting match, who had been on their feet in the hot sand on the other side the Great Dividing Range for the best part of 12 hours each day in the baking heat. The youngest of the crew, a work experience trainee, thought that this was just another exciting facet of his future career. The electronic click filled the cabin once again. “Now I know that y’all know that Canberra is famous for local fog, but today Air Traffic tells us that it’s clear. So that’s where we’re putting down.” The aircraft banked gently to one side. The public address system droned on for a while: “If you look below, you’ll see the sheep stations.... “ the flight deck’s usual monologue when on their finals to wherever. None of the hardened, time-weary crew looked out of any window, with the exception of the work experience trainee, who scoured the ochre terrain below them for sheep stations. The rest of the crew faded into disgruntled and superficial sleep. In a short while, the Islander’s wheels bounced on the tarmac of Runway 12/30 at Canberra International and the aircraft unloaded its passengers and enough camera and sound equipment to film Ben Hur. Most of the crew headed sluggishly for the terminal building leaving the work experience trainee to supervise the transporting of the equipment and baggage, which he was only too happy to do, even though no instructions or recognition were accorded him. The Producer, by now the only person with enough wakefulness in him to think reasonably clearly, sat on an airport plastic chair next to the pile of everything that had been discharged by the Islander. He looked up at the wide awake work experience trainee and said “Craig, go and find us a coach or something. We’re not going trust all this to a bunch of taxis up to Sydney. Fog or no fog.” The trainee nodded in enthusiastic agreement. He had a name now. He was Craig. So... off Craig went, scouring the innards and the far-flung reaches of Canberra airport, and, after much footwork, questions, dead ends and despair he located an ancient long wheel base vehicle which, at some point in the mists of time, had been converted into a 30-seater ‘coach’ with the over optimistic plan of transiting passengers from terminal to aircraft and vice-versa. It was parked at the back of a maintenance facility, along with, miraculously, its equally ancient driver. Borrowing from the drive of his lord and master, the Producer, he offered the driver fees, commissions and fame throughout the Australian film industry to get the thing started and, over an hour later, coach and coach driver arrived at Arrivals. He was not thanked or offered any recognition for his efforts. He knew that as a ‘go-for’ it was expected of him. Slightly disappointed at the welcome his arrival received however, he assisted with the supervising of shifting the equipment, baggage and personnel into the vintage vehicle. Craig knew that his efforts, not to mention his presence, were ignored, but within the hour, the bizarre and exhausted assembly was settled into the bizarre and exhausted coach and it was soon heading out of the airport onto the M23 and on its way to the still fog-bound Sydney. The ACT** twilight turned gently darker, and some erratic and flickering lights appeared overhead of the dozing crew. Craig sat and watched the road ahead, lit by dull and dipped headlights, through the half of the front windscreen that was available. The other half, the driver’s half was unavailable to anyone who might be interested because of a grimy, plastic concertina blind at the back of the driver’s compartment so he wouldn't be blinded by the headlights of cars coming up behind. The old vehicle bounced and swayed and the engine misfired occasionally, causing everyone to lurch forward momentarily then slump back in their seats ensuring that no-one slept fully. The journey up to Sydney, which would normally, in a normal coach, in normal weather take three hours or so, had already used up those three hours and a glimpse out of any of the side windows showed only the faintest wisps of fog that was supposedly enshrouding Sydney. Craig watched the road ahead through his ‘half’ windscreen and saw that the tired headlights were losing their grip on the road. The journey time was expanding more and more, accompanied by the dull throb of the diesel engine. The speed dropped as the wisps of mist turned into a gradually thickening blanket. Craig kept looking out of his side window but saw nothing - for a long time. ‘That’s strange,’ he thought. ‘Surely we must be on the M31 by now, heading up towards Sydney. But where were the road signs that would confirm this? Where were the signs for Murrimba and Hanging Rock? And where were other cars with cautious headlights fighting the gloom?’ There were none. Craig shifted uneasily in his seat. No-one was fully awake - or fully asleep - on this uncomfortable final leg of their return from the outback. But the eagle-eyed Producer was ever awake and aware. - It was his job. “Craig”, he commanded, over the noise of the diesel engine somewhere below them, causing the crew to surface suddenly from any slumbers they might have managed, “Get up there to the front and ask this guy how much longer is this nightmare going to take.” Craig eagerly stood and walked unsteadily up to the front, holding the grab rails to steady himself. With his back to the entry door, he stared into the darkened driver’s compartment. Ten pairs of eyebrows were raised, as if helping and encouraging him with the question he was about to ask, and with the expectation of the answer they wanted to hear. Craig, a blend of puzzlement and alarm showing on his face, turned slowly to the raised eyebrows and said hesitantly, “There’s... no-one here.” *Instrument Landing System ** Australian Capital Territory