In 1958, our German migrant family lived on a small farm at Oakville, NSW. Mark, the owner, had engaged my father as the farm manager and he sold Dad an old V8 Packard, enough room for our tribe of eight.

For three years, our family lived and worked on the farm and my father was eager to explore more of the area. Mark told him that there was good fishing at The Entrance. Dad wanted to test the Packard on a longer drive, so he and my older brother Manfred decided to visit. I was nine, and company for Manfred, so I was allowed to go, too.

Manfred stowed the fishing gear into the car while Dad studied the road map. ‘We’re going via Wisemans Ferry,’ he declared. ‘It’s quicker.’ At 6pm, with most of the farm work done, we left home. Mother had prepared sandwiches for our dinner, and for Dad, Bushell coffee in a quart sized vinegar bottle.

We drove for almost an hour before arriving at Wisemans Ferry crossing. The ferry was a huge floating piece of machinery; we watched as it slowly crossed to our side of the Hawkesbury, the river wider than we envisaged. On the other side, the steep, single-lane, winding gravel road challenged other cars, but not the Packard. 

We arrived at The Entrance at around 8.30pm. Dad hired a small rowboat. We piled our fishing tackle and sandwiches into the tinnie and set out onto the water.

The Entrance was in darkness, but the bioluminescence around our fishing lines amazed me. I didn’t bother fishing. I passed sandwiches around, played with the oars, and watched the glowing water. Dad smoked his mini cigar. We fished, drifted, rowed, and fished some more. We didn’t catch anything, but we were having fun just being out there in our little boat. 

On the other side of the lake, people were in the water with lights, yelling and shouting. We didn’t know what was happening — perhaps someone was lost or drowned. 

Dad said it was getting late, so we rowed back to the jetty, where a man told us that people were prawning. That explained the lights.

Dad drank his coffee. We jumped into the Packard and headed back via the Pacific Highway. Manfred and I each had a bench seat, blanket, and pillow. We talked for a while, then the gurgle of the V8 engine lulled us to sleep. The three-hour journey home was a breeze. 

That trip was an adventure for all of us, including the Packard.