Growing up I lived in Bunya, a rural residential estate approximately 20 km north west of Brisbane CBD. We lived at the end of a cul-de-sac in a street that branched off the main road, the road dropped down to a creek and then up. Our house was on top of the hill with cattle farmland behind us, and the street’s houses below us.

There were little to no fences on our street growing up, and I was free to wander about it with next to know boundaries. I would often go on adventures, either by myself, with my father or with my mates. The farm behind us had some bones in it that were pretty cool I thought. They were from cows, but whenever my mates came to visit I would show them my own Elephant’s Graveyard, taking my inspo from “The Lion King”. Sometimes we would even trek to the stockyard of the farm, where the steers and cattle mainly hang out. Once I remember my dad being afraid we were about to be charged. Another time with a mate, we tried to get inside the shed only to find one of the farmers there drawing a bead on us. Needless to say, my mate and I ran home, with a great exhilaration.

But the place this story is based around is the creek at the bottom of the street. A low must have set in, and it had been lightly raining for a couple of days. With my mother dressing me up in a jeans and a jumper as well as my wet weather gear (Disney raincoat and gumboots), I set out on another adventure, this time with my best mate (Becky a staffordshire bull terrier).

I was always warned about the danger of culverts, but the rain had been relatively light, so I wasn’t worried. I headed straight to the creek cause this was were the action would be. I took to playing with the wet dirt and clay. I knew the creek well in the dry and was completely comfortable. Despite the title of this piece, I don’t believe I was really inspired to jump in any puddles (we had a pool which I spent hours in and was far more interested in bomb dives than puddle jumping).

When dry, the creek bed is flat, but this day I fell into a puddle that was deeper than I was tall. I could feel my cloths quickly become saturated and the weight of the cloths pull me down. I was clamoring to get out, but the clay all around me was too slippery, I kicked as hard as I could but it wasn’t very effective. Becky was there with a concerned expression I know, but if you know staffys you know they are not too confident around water.

Eventually, I kicked off a gumboot and I think I got hold of a tree root. I was shaken, an ability I took for granted (swimming) was tested in an environment that I thought was safe. I was alone and had no help, only the solace that a boy’s dog provides.

I did not run home on this occasion, but headed there with one gumboot for the comforts of my mother.

After the weather past I returned to the scene, the creek bed was flat once again as if nothing had happened. I returned on several occasions often armed with a shovel. But I never found that lost gumboot.