The Thousands

Over the weekend I was splashing about in a lovely section of creek, deep in Kelly country. I got to talking with an old man who was cooling his feet nearby. He pulled at his pipe and told me of another swimming hole over yonder.

As we drove through the rolling hills the next day, the old man’s words swam through my ears: “Polly McQuinn’s”, “10 k’s away”, “place to swim”. It was all very mysterious. But before too long we arrived at a swimming hole complete with waterfalls, rapids… the whole nine yards. Better yet, I spied a big rock with a staircase and a seemingly purpose-built diving board set into it. As if on cue a couple of ten year olds turned up, climbing the rock and leaping off in quick succession. I asked them if it was safe. “It’s got no bottom,” said one.

I jumped off the rock many times that day. Upon returning to the internet, I learned that McQuinn was in fact an early settler, nicknamed Polly because he couldn’t grow a beard. Driving home in his horse and jinker one night, he fell into the bottomless water and disappeared, never to be found. I thought of the kindly old man who told us of the place. Face smooth as a baby’s bottom.