Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON
We are all water diviners, in one way or another. We seek it, we need it, we depend on it. When we camp, we seek some form of running water to sustain us. When our ancestors built villages that grew into modern cities, they did so on the banks of mighty rivers.
I live in a country where drought has prevailed for many years. I have seen hundreds of great pictures that illustrate the cruel grip of Australia’s drought. I have read many news reports that evocatively captured the trauma of a dry red land. But then I read the story of a toddler on a New South Wales farming property.
At the time the story appeared in print, he was coming up to his second birthday – and he had never seen rain.
I learnt very early in life to appreciate the value of water. When I was about eight or nine years old, I had my tonsils removed and I can vividly remember coming to in a hospital bed. My throat was severely constricted and I asked for a sip of water.
I live in a country where drought has prevailed for many years. I have seen hundreds of great pictures that illustrate the cruel grip of Australia’s drought. I have read many news reports that evocatively captured the trauma of a dry red land. But then I read the story of a toddler on a New South Wales farming property.
At the time the story appeared in print, he was coming up to his second birthday – and he had never seen rain.
I learnt very early in life to appreciate the value of water. When I was about eight or nine years old, I had my tonsils removed and I can vividly remember coming to in a hospital bed. My throat was severely constricted and I asked for a sip of water.
The doctor nixed my request because he was scared I would throw up. I endured the grip of choking thirst for as long as I could, but I remember asking again and again, through the fog of anaesthetic and discomfort, for a sip of water to slake my burning thirst.
I did not cry. Much later that afternoon, I was given the medical thumbs-up. I could have a sip of water, but no more than a sip. I am a father of three now, but I have often told my children the story of how I raised my head and treasured the feel of the white china feeding cup (as they were called then) against my lips.
I did not cry. Much later that afternoon, I was given the medical thumbs-up. I could have a sip of water, but no more than a sip. I am a father of three now, but I have often told my children the story of how I raised my head and treasured the feel of the white china feeding cup (as they were called then) against my lips.
Eyes half-closed, I can still remember how I sought the spout and how, swallowing carefully because of the operation, I savoured each drop that passed down my sandpaper-like throat.
Now I live in a land famous for its wine and beer, but I still drink water. Some years ago, I drank nothing but water – or Adam’s ale, as it is known – all the way from Melbourne to Vancouver, flying business class on Cathay Pacific. With each meal the flight attendant, wearing a broad smile, tried to get me to agree to a glass of fine Australian riesling or chardonnay, but each time I grinned back and asked for a refill of my water glass.
About ten days later, with a particularly spirited (in every sense of the word) group of journalists, I was the only sober one each night, ensuring that they all got back to the cruise ship during a memorable trip to the Alaskan ports. My colleagues all made sure I had a full glass of ice water, and told everyone how I had christened the drink an ``Alaskan cocktail’’.
On the last night, a wonderful American couple asked me to join them for a drink. ``I’m a cheap date,’’ I said, ``I only drink water.’’
They sat there, gobsmacked. ``You’ve led the singing in every Alaskan pub, every night of the cruise – and you were SOBER?’’
Yup. That’s what these Alaskan cocktails do to me.
