Before he dived into his restaurant, two friends had removed a window screen to stop it from washing away, scrabbling at it with their feet as they sat on the boat and clung to the roof’s awning. Ms. Lawson recounted how, the previous day, she’d swum inside to roll up the blinds to stop them from getting wet. Every little bit counted.
The community spirit that Australians are known for, banding together in times of disaster, was on full display. As Mr. Osmotherly and his friends inspected his restaurant, locals drop by in boats, sharing news and supplies and offering assistance. A neighbor waded over to have a chat while standing waist-deep in water.
They spent the rest of the day driving around in their boat, checking in on stranded neighbors and ferrying supplies. With phone lines down, they relied on “bush telegraph” communications — messages passed between neighbors passing each other on boats or standing on the edge of riverbanks.
At Mr. Osmotherly’s house, which was on high enough ground to mostly escape damage, a dozen people milled around, some cooking up a mass of bacon and eggs — stock from the restaurant that he had to use up before it spoiled after the power had gone out.
“We’ve got a bit of a temporary soup kitchen going on,” he said. “Everyone looks out for everyone out here. We’re so far away. We can’t rely on emergency services like other people can.”
Besides, he added, helping each other kept them busy and distracted from thinking about what they were going through, how big the losses were.
Still, the last couple of years — bush fires, coronavirus, two consecutive floods — had taken its toll on the community, even as it had bonded people through adversity. Determination that they could survive anything warred with an undercurrent of fear of escalating disasters to come.
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