We had moved to the town during a January heat wave and consoled ourselves with occasional trips to the air conditioned café nearby. Fortunately, the Caravan Park was small. Having the facilities almost to ourselves and with a short walk to town, we settled into this temporary life for a few months while we found a house to rent, buy or build. When the heat subsided, the rain began and after many days we listened to the stories of the ’49 flood that raged through the town, sweeping houses out to sea and people lost. It wouldn’t come to that for us, or would it? Could it? The river was already rising and would cover Belgrave Street at the rail crossing. The deafening sound of that rushing water was a surprise to me and I could see the dangerous and unforgiving torrent as a real threat, daring cars to cross. But we were further up the street and felt safe there so we put the children to bed at the usual time.

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It was after midnight when we were woken by activity going on outside. Stepping out of the van into inches of moving water made us realise we had to get out. And straight away! I worked quickly to rouse the children and bundled them into the car. With the rain pelting down we packed all our belongings inside the van, and with urgency took down the annex and pushed it in on top. Hooked up and ready to go, several dramas in the incessant rain delayed our anxious departure from the park.

After what seemed like an age, we crawled ahead of rising waters which almost covered our wheels by the time we drove away.

The church urged us to use their small hall in the town heights so we headed for that dry place, exhausted, but relieved to be out of danger. Next morning the children, now uninhibited, ran up and down the hall and we all laughed at the large dry space. Alan left us to take up his duties with the Water Brigade, formed after the last major flood. The corner of the hall was our new temporary home.

With cot and playpen installed, I laid out all our saturated things, starting with bedclothes and towels. I quickly learned how a town comes together in such emergencies. The ABC radio was the hub. Suspending all programs, it was the link for the whole district. All information was reported to them and relayed across the area. We heard which street was next to be evacuated, when cows had to be moved to high ground, when fodder was delivered and which roads were cut. After helping to stack furniture for one family, Alan was assigned to take the bread delivery by boat downstream to Gladstone and Smithtown, a dangerous journey on the boiling river, dodging powerlines and flood debris. I listened for news. It took some hours, but I cheered when the radio told me the bread was arriving for those communities, relief for us both.

When the drama was over and the river within its banks once more, we rushed to Sydney for the remainder of the school holidays. On our return I was shocked to see the state of the town. I must have expected it to be clean and tidy as before, but instead there was flood debris everywhere, hanging on wire fences and mud on the roads, the dust and tumbleweeds giving a different picture.

The caravan park had been covered with five feet of water when the torrent rushed through and took bits of the buildings as it went. Recovery for that town was not an easy process.

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