Sheltering the Unborn, Surviving the Unseen – Julie Brimson

small area, to our Jeep. How we opened the Jeep doors, I cannot recall, but we did. My side was parked close to the wall, and to this day, I cannot recall how, at 8 months pregnant, I managed to climb through a narrow opening into the vehicle. Frank somehow managed to open the outer Jeep door, thankfully with Alecia still safely tied to his front.

Once in our Jeep, we sat drenched to the skin, scared and in shock, not having a clue what to do next. The noise was deafening; we could hardly hear ourselves yell. Frank placed our daughter in the back (with little windows in the back and a strong shell, she was as safe as could be that night). Frank and I sat in the front two seats, watching in horror as the houses in the street behind us blew to pieces and objects, trees, and iron flew past.

Bright blue lightning flashed continuously across an angry sky, the rain was salty, and the wind was a relentless gale, picking up anything in its path and tossing it into the air as if it were light as a feather. We were living a nightmare. Of course, being pregnant, I needed to wee, and fortunately, there were holes in the floor of the Jeep, so I had no choice but to wee on the floor. Alecia slept in the back, covered with a blanket and safe (well, we could only hope). To the best of our knowledge, she was totally unaware of what was happening around her.

I have no idea how long we sat in our seats, not speaking, just in shock until an eerie silence prevailed; this we knew was the eye passing over. We did know that much; we had listened to the broadcasts. Somewhere we heard voices and banging, but I threatened my husband not to leave us, and he didn’t. We sat in shock, not daring to move. Then, slowly, the wind picked up again; the rain hadn’t ever stopped. The ferocity of the storm erupted like nothing we had imagined. It felt far worse than before, if that could have been possible. The Jeep rocked from side to side, the wind throwing everything at the vehicle; and we sat and prayed. Crouching in the front seat, we had no thoughts as to what was happening elsewhere, nor did we consider that at any time anything could come careering through our front windscreen. That thought didn’t enter our heads, nor the thought to move to the back with our daughter.

I recall Frank telling me, “Whatever you do, don’t go into labour,” as we sat petrified in the front seats. And, as if to reassure me, he also yelled, “If our house is gone in the morning, it will be okay; we have friends in Stuart Park, we can move there for the time being.” At this time, we believed the cyclone had forced a path through the northern suburbs, with the Darwin CBD and our friends in Stuart Park missing the worst. They would only get wind and rain. How wrong we were!

More wees, more prayers, and more parts of houses, cars, fridges, and objects flew past at the will of this horrendous wind. The houses behind had been reduced to floorboards, our clothesline had long gone, but, as alien as we were to church, we kept praying. It must have been about 5:00 am when the wind started to recede, and we heard voices. Still not sure what to do, as light crept in and the howling slowly gave way to an eerie dawn, Frank made the decision to open the car door and take a look. Tentatively, as we didn’t know if this was another eye or if the cyclone really had passed (we had never been in a cyclone before), we didn’t know anything.

Gingerly stepping out, he took a look around, the horror etched on his face. Stepping back into the car, he said, “You just won’t believe it; there is nothing left—even the lawn has been gutted.” Suddenly, we heard someone yelling out. I can’t recall the exact words, but it was something like, “Is everyone okay? Please call out.” Frank left the vehicle, stepping over planks of wood, iron, and tree branches as he made his way to the front of the house. There was no way anyone could drive on Yeadon Circuit; it was littered with debris of all kinds—broken vehicles, ripped trees, and power lines dropped at will.

I didn’t take my eyes off Frank, just in case this monster returned and I was alone with Alecia in the vehicle. But, of course, it didn’t. Frank did return, though, making his way back to the car with the information he had gathered from whoever he spoke to. To this day, I have no idea who it was. Frank said, “I have been told we have to make our way to Moil Primary School, where people are gathering. Someone will try and work out what to do.” At this time, we still thought Stuart Park was a safe haven.

But before we attempted to move, Frank made his way to our back storeroom, which, thankfully, was intact. Tentatively, he opened the door to find a very wet and scared dog and kitten huddled on the floor. They didn’t move until he carefully carried the kitten out, and the dog followed. How were we going to feed them? We had no idea; we didn’t even know how to feed ourselves at this point. We made the choice to go to Moil Primary, then come back for our pets. It was impossible to make a plan longer than that.

Gathering Alecia from the back of the vehicle, we continued to stare in some form of stupor at what lay before us. “This cannot be real,” we kept saying, “we cannot believe what we are seeing.” Then, as we slowly made our way down the driveway, I saw the cover of my latest record, “A Hot August Night,” stabbed by a branch—the only remainder of my record collection. No record, just the cover. And in the backyard, we saw our large freezer on its side, the top prised open by an odd-shaped lump of wood. Our round above-ground pool, full of water, was nowhere to be seen, only the sand pattern underneath giving rise to the fact there once stood a pool. Albeit, the small plastic filter box and pipe stood tall beside what was once our pool. Now how did a pool full of water get blown away and a plastic box still stand?

Looking at our house—or should I say, what is left of it—we could see one bedroom with walls half remaining, everything else was a jumble of twisted and fallen walls, iron, and broken glass.

Looking at our neighbours, Yogi’s house was still standing; almost entirely intact, but the house of our interstate neighbours was raised to the ground. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it turned out to be one of the many freakish things about this cyclone—one house demolished and one intact, standing side by side. I am sure my thoughts were jumbled that morning, all the time hoping I didn’t go into labour. We checked our neighbours, all alive; Yogi and his wife, thankful their house stood the test of time, were offering help to everyone else. The other neighbours, in shock but alive, were working out their next few steps.

After making sure all nearby were okay and not needing immediate help, we slowly picked a pathway to Moil Primary, thankfully only a very short distance away. There, we found others, just as shell-shocked as us, slowly gathering. We could hardly talk as we stared at each other, not knowing what to say or what to do. There was a lady calling out for people to gather in one area and for the men to look for clean utensils to catch water. She seemed to be in charge and didn’t appear quite as shell-shocked as the rest of us.

I cannot recall what Alecia and I did, but I knew I had to be strong for my daughter, so I kept reassuring her, “It’s all fine; we are alive and well and will work this out.” She didn’t seem overly worried and wasn’t crying. She did ask if Father Christmas had been, to which we said, sadly, no, not this year, the storm blew him off course, but he may come later. She was 2.5 years of age.

Frank asked if I felt strong enough to stay at the school with Alecia while he returned to the house. He had parked his small motor scooter in the storeroom, and this, along with our Jeep, had not been damaged. Our Jeep was completely sand-blasted on the outer side, but not even a window was broken, and it was still drivable. He wanted to go and check on friends in Alawa and then on to Stuart Park, where he intended to arrange for us to move there; little did we know! Frank headed off, and Alecia and I remained at the school, talking to others, trying to be positive, while all the time not really having a clue as to what we would do. This lady in charge was fabulous, keeping people calm and organising the men to help with making a clean space (as much as they could) while also trying to gather water in clean utensils. It was still raining.

There was some concern that this storm would head inland, turn around, and return to Darwin, and this made everyone nervous. Of course, in reality, this couldn’t happen, but it wasn’t a time for rational thinking. Whenever there is chaos and panic, rumour is rife, and that is what happened that morning. Everyone had stories to tell, everyone was scared, and everyone

was worried the storm would return. Thank heavens for the lady who took control, and interestingly, she was someone I knew from my early Adelaide days. She and her family, like me, had moved to Darwin. She was a quiet girl when I knew her in Adelaide, but now she had turned into a strong, caring, and capable leader at this time of complete chaos.

I fail to recall how long it was before Frank returned; it would have been some hours, but he eventually drove his scooter back home and walked to Moil School. He told me he had to manoeuvre all sorts of rubbish, iron, steel, roofs, and whatever else lay on the road to find his way first to our friends in Alawa and then to our friends in Stuart Park. He said it was so hard to find streets, let alone friends’ homes, with all names gone and any recognizable houses demolished. And guess what? There was no way we could share our Stuart Park friends’ house—it wasn’t even there. This cyclone had devastated Darwin! So what now? But he did share that our friends in Alawa had been visited by her brother, who had a flat in Gardens Hill, and his flat had largely been untouched; so we could all bunk down there. Oh, what a relief—a shining light in the midst of a night and morning of horror. We at least had somewhere to go, and I was so thankful, especially with a small daughter and at 8 months pregnant.

But what about our families in the south? How could we let them know what had happened? All phones were out. Unknown to us, they were all aware of what had occurred—they just didn’t know if we were alive or dead. The news that Darwin had been devastated by Cyclone Tracy was major news across Australia; we had no idea that anyone outside Darwin would know anything. To our way of thinking, no one would know or give a care, being Christmas morning. But it wasn’t so. Our families well knew the news and were worried sick as to whether we were alive or dead, whereas our worry was just letting them know what had occurred. Can you believe that?

Luckily, our freezer, blown from the kitchen, had landed in the backyard, and without power and the lid off, had already begun the defrosting process, so Frank managed to extricate some meat for our dog, and leaving him a bowl of water, we promised to return the next day and work out what to do. He sat looking at us, just as bewildered as we were, as we prepared to leave. I am unable to recall what time we made the trek to Gardens, but it was later that day. How we made our way on the debris-strewn roadways, I fail to recall; I am sure it was a slow process, but we eventually reached this small, untouched flat—our safe haven.

There in the flat, Max, Denise, their two young boys, Denise’s brother, and Frank, Alecia, and I, along with our kitten, gathered to share this small safe haven. We didn’t care it had only one bedroom; it was dry and safe for the moment. Denise’s brother had a transistor radio, which he was eventually able to tune to a station providing information. Day 2, and we continued to listen to the radio broadcasts, and by this time, there appeared to be some semblance of order happening in Darwin, although maybe it was day 3—I am unable to accurately recall. I know Frank went back to our house, checked if he could find any clothes (minimal), and fed our dog, but it was fast becoming obvious we would not be able to keep our dog.

As he made his way around, Frank managed to find a public phone still working in the Darwin CBD, and stood in the long line of others to make a brief call to our southern families, advising them we were alive. Such a relief it must have been to all the relatives to know we had survived; my mother, having recently survived a cancer operation, burst into tears on hearing our good news. At this point in time, we had no idea how many people had died, what infrastructure damage existed across the greater Darwin area, or what was happening in the wider world—I just wanted to go home to Adelaide. We were safe and well, relieved we had been able to find all Darwin friends who, like us, had survived; some even driving out. And I was scared about going into labour. Where would I have the baby if this happened?

As we lined up at a working fire hydrant on Gardens Avenue, waiting to collect water and have a brief wash, we shared stories with those in the queue—everyone patient, still in shock, and wondering what would come next. Thankfully, Denise’s brother had food in his flat, so we had something to eat, and with water from the fire hydrant and a working transistor radio, we were doing okay. Also, Frank had managed to find our camera amongst the debris of our home and was able to take a few pictures—pictures to remind us of the worst night of our lives.

The broadcasts continued, providing information for women and children to make their way to a number of high schools, where they would be picked up by buses for travel to Darwin Airport (who knew there were buses around?). For Alecia and me, it was Casuarina High. Then from the airport, women and children would be literally loaded onto any form of plane and flown to southern cities of our choice.

The authorities didn’t need anyone around who would be giving birth; they had enough to deal with, with people injured and already hospitalised. So Frank made sure to get me to Casuarina High School sometime within the next few days (just cannot recall how many). We were allowed to take one bag, and mine had only what clothes we could find for Alecia (none for me) and a few of her toys. As Frank dropped me at Casuarina High, there was a man signalling for the men not to stay but to head out of the school grounds—there just wasn’t the room. Meanwhile, a gaggle of exhausted, shocked, and bedraggled women stood with their children in an orderly queue, waiting to board buses to Darwin airport.

I have no recollection of how long Alecia and I waited, but it seemed only a short time before we were on a bus, waving goodbye to a few crying men who had managed to stand nearby. No one knew when they would see each other again.

Arriving at Darwin airport, there appeared to be organised chaos, but the line of women and children awaiting planes was well managed, even at this time. Everyone waiting looked dishevelled, scared, tired, and still in shock. There were wonderful Salvation Army volunteers handing out water and bush biscuits, and they were our angels. There was no asking where you wanted to go—it was out on the first plane ready, and in you went. There were planes landing and taking off like you have never seen. It was hot, humid, and scary.

For Alecia and me, Adelaide was our destination, but it would take all day. Holding a 2.5-year-old on what was left of my 8-month-pregnant lap on the plane was a squeeze, but I didn’t care; we were leaving for safety. Our first stop was Mt. Isa. But before we alighted, someone came onto the plane, asking for anyone feeling ill or pregnant to come forward. I said I was 8 months pregnant but not in labour, so I was okay. From the plane, we were taken to a large shed where, once again, Salvation Army volunteers became our angels. One by one, they took our names, last Darwin address, handed us cash, took our children and bathed, dressed, and fed them, giving them also a Christmas present, while we were well looked after. All I needed was a pair of thongs, as I couldn’t find any shoes in the rubble of our home.

Back on the plane now, wearing thongs, and this time holding Alecia nursing a teddy bear bigger than her, and still having to sit on what was left of my lap! Next stop, Sydney, then on to Melbourne, and finally Adelaide. Adelaide airport was absolutely full of worried family members, unsure of whether their relatives would be on board this plane or another one. No one knew who was on any manifest. Some people had been there for days, waiting.

At the back of the airport, I spied my mother and stepfather, and suddenly, I let loose and cried. I had held it together for Alecia all this time, and now the relief overwhelmed me. We were safe, despite having no idea when Frank would be able to leave. As it turned out, he remained in Darwin for a week or two, helping with the clean-up, arranging for our pet dog to be destroyed, before finally climbing aboard our sand-blasted Jeep and driving to Adelaide. And our second baby, another little girl, Kristin, was born in Adelaide on 3 February 1975, a few days late—Cyclone Tracy had put a stop to her being born a Territorian. But we had survived. Although having lost everything, we were healthy and well and would rebuild our lives, and we did. We returned to Darwin in February 1976, 12 months later. Cyclone Tracy was something I will never forget! I now live in Queensland, but Alecia and her partner have made Darwin their home.