Authored by Claude 3.5 Sonnet, based on dot points by Alan (Sep/2024), based on a true story, circa 1990.
In the vast, sun-scorched expanse of the Australian outback, where the horizon shimmers like a mirage and the roads stretch endlessly into oblivion, Pop and Nan were embarking on what could generously be called an adventure. Their weathered caravan, a relic that had seen better days, trundled along behind their sturdy Landcruiser, leaving a trail of mutual exasperation in its wake.
On this particular afternoon, as the merciless sun beat down on the metal roof, Pop was struck by what he considered a stroke of genius. Nan, unsurprisingly, had other thoughts.
“Nan,” Pop announced with the gravity of a man about to solve world hunger, “I want to see what it’s like in the caravan while we’re moving. You drive for a bit.”
Nan’s response was a look that could have curdled milk. “Have you finally lost what’s left of your marbles?”
“Just do it,” Pop insisted, his tone brooking no argument.
With a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her being, Nan agreed. Pop pulled over to the side of the dusty road. They both got out, circling around the Landcruiser in a well-practiced dance of seat swapping. Nan slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting it with a few annoyed grunts, while Pop, still fit despite his years, nimbly made his way to the caravan.
He clambered in, shutting the door with a decisive click, and settled onto the couch, which exhaled a cloud of dust in protest.
Without waiting for further instruction – or, more likely, choosing to ignore any potential forthcoming idiocy – Nan started the engine and merged back onto the road, her muttered curses lost in the rumble of tyres on bitumen.
Pop’s self-satisfaction lasted approximately 12.9 seconds. As the caravan picked up speed, it transformed from a quaint mobile home into a hurricane of chaos. Cupboard doors banged open and shut with the regularity of a percussion section gone mad. Every loose item in the caravan seemed to have developed a life of its own, participating in a frenzied dance that defied both gravity and common sense.
“Crikey!” Pop yelped, clinging to the couch as if it were the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Nan! Stop the car!”
But Nan, cocooned in the blessed silence of the Landcruiser’s cabin and focused on the ribbon of road ahead, remained blissfully unaware of the pandemonium unfolding behind her.
Pop, his face now a shade of red previously unknown to science, began a desperate campaign to get Nan’s attention. He pounded on the front wall of the caravan, his fists leaving dents in the flimsy aluminium. He stomped his feet with enough force to register on the Richter scale, hoping the vibrations would somehow reach Nan in the separate vehicle ahead. “Nan!” he bellowed, his voice cracking like a rusty hinge. “For Pete’s sake, stop this bloody contraption!”
The gap between the Landcruiser and the caravan might as well have been a vast chasm, for all the good Pop’s efforts were doing. His shouts and banging were swallowed up by the noisy growl of the Landcruiser’s diesel engine and the persistent rush of wind around the vehicles. This thunderous combination created an effective barrier, preventing even Pop’s loudest yells from reaching Nan’s ears. She drove on, snug in the Landcruiser’s cabin, completely oblivious to the chaos trailing behind her.
As the situation reached its breaking point, Pop wrestled open a window, nearly decapitating himself in the process. “NAN!” he roared into the slipstream, his words instantly whipped away by the rushing air. “STOP THE BLOODY CAR!”
Pop, realising his shouts were futile, frantically scanned the caravan’s interior. His eyes darted from the bed to the cupboards to the battery-powered Dolphin torch on the floor. He considered chucking something at the back of the Landcruiser, but at this speed, he’d be more likely to brain himself than get Nan’s attention.
As the caravan lurched, Pop stumbled towards the front, desperately searching for anything that might help. His gaze swept the inside once more, and then he remembered something that made his heart skip a beat.
It was the old shotgun they kept for scaring off wildlife. With hands shaking like leaves in a cyclone, he retrieved the weapon, fumbling with the safety. In a moment of desperation that would make any action movie hero proud, he thrust the shotgun barrel out the window and squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The world exploded.
The resulting ‘boom’ was less a sound and more a physical force that seemed to momentarily pause the very rotation of the Earth. The blast echoed across the vast emptiness of the outback, bouncing off distant rock formations and startling wildlife for miles around. A flock of cockatoos, caught mid-squawk, took to the sky in a panicked cloud of white feathers and indignant screeches. The recoil nearly knocked Pop off his feet, sending him staggering back into the chaos of the caravan’s interior.
Nan, finally jolted out of her driving trance, eased her foot onto the brake pedal. The Landcruiser and caravan slowly decelerated, coming to a gentle stop at the side of the road.
As the dust settled and the ringing in their ears subsided to a dull roar, Pop emerged from the caravan looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a tornado and lost. His hair stood on end, his clobber hung askew, and his eyes held the wild look of a bloke who’d seen things no human was meant to witness.
Nan rushed over, her face a thundercloud of fury and concern. “What on Earth did you think you were doing?” she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut diamond.
Pop, still trying to remember how breathing worked, just shook his head. “I reckon,” he wheezed, “that wasn’t one of my better ideas.”
Nan’s glare could have melted the very sand beneath their feet. “You think?”
As they stood there on the deserted road, surrounded by the vast, indifferent emptiness of the outback, the sheer absurdity of their situation began to sink in. Despite their best efforts to maintain their annoyance with each other—a cornerstone of their relationship for many years—the corners of their mouths began to twitch upward.
Their grand tour of Australia, it seemed, was destined to be anything but ordinary. And somewhere, in the great beyond, the spirit of adventure was having a good chuckle…