The Big Swim for Science

Credibility is very important to adventurers. Without a specimen (alive or dead) of the scott, or irrefutable photographic evidence, we'd be the laughing stock of the scientific socmed community.

We set up a roster and refused to eat until we succeeded.

Leo kept watch at dusk each evening, in case the scott was a creature of habit. Archie patrolled the shoreline in case it tried to escape on land.

Lexie parked herself in an elevated position and continually photographed the lake, hoping to fluke some evidence. The view was slightly hampered by a Japanese maple. Consumption of Aperol Spritz was important for her to remain attentive and focused.

She did a remarkable job of keeping the camera pointed at the lake as she toppled over.

After three days of vigilance for no result, we ran out of Aperol and had to leave our posts. Around the shoreline from the shrine was a modest collection of huts inhabited by an Italian fishing tribe, where we bartered a fresco of Mary for some basic foodstuffs.

Lake Scomo is bordered on three sides by mountains that plunge directly into the water. Consequently, the fishing tribes have never been on flat land. They're either sitting on a boat or walking on the side of a hill.

Evolution has shortened one of their legs to make it easier for them to traverse the hillsides (in one direction). If these villagers ever venture onto flat land, their natural gait takes them in a semicircle and back into the hills again. Which is why this particular group have never managed to cross their continent.

We took thousands of photographs of the lake during the day and spent the nights poring over them looking for any evidence of a scott. There was great excitement when a waterborne creature was spotted on the edge of a photo, but upon zooming in it was blurry, and only a partial image.

Then, the moment we had been waiting for – a crystal-clear photo of a scott resting on the shore. We shook hands solemnly, and then gesticulated wildly. The local Italians joined in, waving yellow flags and dancing in a circle, which is their only option really, given their legs are different lengths.

Buoyed by our success, we vowed to catch one and bring it home to Australia with us – alive. We imagined a national tour with it, speaking at universities and pokie-pubs about this furthering of the scientific knowledge of humankind.

It was hard to tell from the photographs exactly how big an adult scott is, but we imagined it to be at least five feet tall. We spent the evening making a trap for it, using roadkill as bait.

At dawn, we crept down to the shore to set the trap and happened upon a mother scott with her three scottlings scuttling along after her. They were small enough to capture by hand!

Two of us immediately leapt into the lake to grab one, but one of us got out again to join the children for a socmed photo.

Once all in the lake, we dog-paddled madly to corral the smallest scottling. Even so, it got the better of us and broke through our tackles easily. We prevented it from reaching the shore, herding it into the middle of the lake where it would soon tire.

We dog-paddled after it for hours, eventually reaching the opposite shore, totally exhausted. The scottling simply turned around and went back to find its mum. Archie pointed at it threateningly, while Chester mocked it, hoping to lure it ashore for a fight.

We waded out of Lake Scomo with nothing but our boardies and bikinis. Alive, clean, wrinkly and one step closer to Florence.

Nearby was a medieval ferry terminal, which was obviously a popular place to recycle native wasps (Vespas Piaggius). Many had decomposed completely and returned to the soil, leaving their padlocks behind as a momento. It was a moving place, as it demonstrated the complete lack of respect by humans towards working animals, something we scientists and adventurers are very passionate about.

So, reader – did you spot the scott in this chapter? Which page?