Marty Drummond lowered himself into the flooded drainage culvert. The wet weather had begun again in earnest, the headlamp on his helmet illuminating the swift needles of rain against the gloom of the night. Clad in a wetsuit and lifejacket and strapped to a safety line tethered to the embankment, he began slowly treading across the churning waters of the open, concrete-lined channel. A slight tug of the line told him the second rescuer had entered behind him.
The headlights from one of the SES – State Emergency Service – trucks cast a sickly glow across the surge, revealing his destination some ten metres ahead to his right: a man perched precariously on debris, stranded in the middle of the drainage channel, his life raft consisting of nothing more than a tangle of tree branches, rubbish and silt that had built up against some kind of obstruction in the flow. Any second and the island of wedged in materials could fall apart and wash away, taking its occupant with it. Despite the rain, a straggle of onlookers had gathered to witness the rescue operation, their phones out recording, pointing to the trapped man and shouting out directions, as if Marty needed instruction.
Mentally cursing, Marty pushed on. He had no idea how the man had ended up here, but after six years of volunteering for the SES, nothing the general public did surprised him anymore. It didn’t matter that it had been raining for weeks or that the entire Northern Rivers region of the state was the subject of rising creeks and flood warnings. People still took no heed, risking their lives in floodwaters for all sorts of inadequate reasons, like being in a hurry. He had a feeling tonight was going to be one of those nights. Just a few hours ago, he had been enjoying a beer and a round of Xbox with his mates. Now, barely half an hour into his shift, he was already hip-deep in the drink…
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