We leave the ship anchored at the mouth of the King George River as we prepare to board the zodiacs - the resilient dinghy's made famous by Jacques Cousteau, to cruise down the narrow inlets and gaping gorges of the waterway. On the way, the crew throw out nets in order to secure the evening meal which we will retrieve on the return journey and this exercise is repeated each day to ensure the freshest fish. As we journey down the river, the gorges narrow only to enlarge again as we emerged through the openings dividing the 500ft cliff faces that tower over us.

The majesty of this area is hard to adjust to straight away - there is no sound but for the engines of the zodiacs as we speed along this untouched terrain, unreachable by land and also by sea during the wet season. The series of deep gorges have been hewn from millions of years of erosion and the vast rock monoliths that loom menacingly overhead have been carved over an astounding 2 billion years. Some of the formations are precariously balanced upon each other at right angles to the main structure like experimental sculpture that threatens to collapse at the slightest touch. It won't of course, it will be here long after we have gone, just as it has weathered the epochs before our arrival. We cut the engines just as we near the end of the craggy gorge and float towards an enormous dry waterfall that gushes millions of litres of water a second during the 'wet'. Leaning over the side of the dinghy, I trail my hand in the waters which are warm and clear to the point of transparency and many metres below, schools of fish can be seen swimming in and out of the underwater caverns. We pull up next to the walls of the gorge and Bruce, the ship's Mate, takes out a tomahawk and penknife to hack off the layers of briquette sized oysters encrusting the mammoth pillion. They are enormous, very salty and we eat them straight off the rocks as fresh as they will ever be...

All the mythology - the magnitude, the colours, the age, the criss-crossing contradictions of geographical extremes; of sweeping barren wildernesses and glistening river tributaries boastfully fit to burst their banks, the supremacy of the natural order, the seductive quiet and the immortalised beauty and terror of Terra Australis, is contained in one area in the most North Western tip of Australia known as the Kimberley coastline. Here the fishing is unsurpassable - one cast of the line can reel in a barramundi of folkloric proportions, the waters are warm and the deepest of aquamarine hues, the beaches of the hundreds of beckoning islands are deserted, most having never seen a footprint, the skies are clear, cloudless and each day as dependably celestial.

Despite the halcyon allure, this untamed region is not a holiday destination: there are no resorts in amongst these ancient land and sea scapes although not for lack of interest by developers. An aeroplane cannot land anywhere; all you will see is the occasional reconnaissance pass of the coastal guard, the seas and lagoons give preference of passage to crocodiles and sharks. There is indeed water everywhere, in the gushing waterfalls of the 'wet' season and vast expanses of cobalt ocean but nary a drop to drink unless one is equipped with a desalination system and anyone indiscriminately landing upon those beautiful sandy shores would be rather akin to a latter day Ulysses facing the lure of the sirens - beautiful to admire from a distance but very dangerous on further approach. This is crocodile territory and nature's obstacles have successfully kept the white man at bay for thousands of years.

There is one way to capture this unique opportunity though few have thus far availed themselves of it. Sailing from the far northern port of Wyndham, the luxury cruise catamaran, the Kimberley Explorer cruises 11,000 nautical miles through the reefs and inlets of the Kimberley coastline down to the old pearling town of Broome. It is an adventure quite unlike any other - experiencing some of the wildest and most hostile terrain in the world from the suitably luxurious decks of the former viewing platform of the America's Cup. It is an irony not lost on the passengers and neither is the knowledge that this passing parade is infinitely more spectacular than a winged keel.

By virtue of the very small, 1.5m draft, the twin hulls of the 'Explorer' can venture through gorges and passes and negotiate unchartered reefs with the aid of its advanced radar system, allowing it access to places that would wreak some nasty damage upon an improvident vessel. And it is no 'African Queen'. The thirty-two passengers are accommodated in spacious cabins and staterooms outfitted with video, radio, ship's sound system, desks, ensuite bathrooms and most importantly, large glass picture windows replacing the visually restricting portholes of old. But the journey to reach this luxurious cruiser is a culture shock to say the very least and not a small proportion of the 'fun' of Trans-Australia travel. Check any airs and pretensions at the baggage counter in Perth for retrieval on the way home.

We have arrived - hot and dusty and not a little disorientated after the aerial acrobatics of a thrill seeking pilot - in Kunnunurra, a short distance from the Northern Territory border. We are markedly out of place in this desert town as the population sit, swatting flies and watching the milk runs take off and land. We stay here overnight to be transferred the next day to Wyndham where the Explorer awaits.

We are collected by John, dangerously reminiscent of that well-known cinema personality, replete with that hat and armed with several de rigeur tales of the outback which thrill the American constituency on board the bus. The Melbourne chapter peer out of the windows quietly watching the boab trees go by. An hour later we arrive at the Explorer moored in Wyndham, once a thriving port but now, after the closure of the meatworks, rather broken down with an air of the ghost. John points out that just around a bend, an enterprising local has started his own crocodile feeding tourist business which consists largely of heaving chunks of meat on the sand at certain times and running away quickly to watch them feed from a safe distance. Gasps from the United States. It is clear what they have come to see. Blast you, Mick Dundee. The crew come out to meet us and lo and behold - a private cruise! There are just eight of us; Milton and Barbara from San Francisco, Mary from Naples (that's in Florida) and her sister Jane from Washington State, Vive's photographer , myself and, arriving in a cloud of dust straight from a safari in the Bungle Bungles, comes the effervescent Eva and Bob also from Melbourne. We are met by Captain Jim Solomon in the main bar whereupon we have the first of the many cocktails we will enjoy on our six day odyssey, as we raise anchor and head out to sea down the Great Cambridge Gulf.

Over a smorgasbord lunch prepared by French chef cum professional sailor Bruno Gicquel on his maiden Kimberley cruise, we get to know each other. We will live, eat and explore the Kimberleys together for six days - although the others will remain on board for the two week cruise - and as such mere pleasantries simply will not suffice. By the time that we left the ship, we will know a good deal more about the United States and they will know and have seen parts of Australia that most Australians will never visit, and perhaps there is a slight patriotic injustice in this. We chat merrily away as we steam steadily towards King George Sound where we encountered the majestic waterways and towering grandeur of the King George River, our first expedition and a gentle orientation to the following assaults on our visuals and senses.

We cruise back through the gorges and into an inlet, known to harbour crocodiles. A sighting is urgently required to pacify the croc-hungry passenger contingent. We wait patiently stalking our prey (another irony) but to no avail and we are forced to wonder whether they do in fact exist.

At dinner that night, universal disappointment is expressed at not spotting any crocodiles on the first day but there are hearty assurances that they will surface even if they must be forcibly summoned. We retire to the main deck for after-dinner drinks and spot a lone yacht moored nearby. We are seemingly the only two vessels in existence and we take our posts near the railings to watch our new world go by. A lone seagull trails the boat - the only audible sign of protest at our presence. I am struck by the feeling of expanse, the sheer space of the panorama. The rocks and mountains in the distance are dressed with an overpowering mauve tinge as the first of the many pyrotechnic North West sunsets that we will grow to expect performs for us. The fires alight as if a switch had been pulled on cue. It is a brief flash of brilliance and then very dark and completely and utterly silent. I wake up just before dawn to a black blanket of sky and the gentle rocking of the boat. The moon turns from red to orange and then disappears into the sea.

Before each cruise, the captain and his crew take the Explorer on a factfinding exploration tour of their own. "We constantly explore", says Captain Jim Solomon. "We hear about particular sights or certain places when we are on land, perhaps through friends of the crew or a yachtsman in port and if we think it is interesting then we will follow it through. If it is really special then we make it a permanent feature of the trip". As the bulk of 'Kimberley Explorers' have, to date, been largely international and mostly American, it is interesting to ascertain their response to such 'typically Australian' terrains, vistas that they would not have seen anywhere else in the world no matter how well-travelled they may be.

"These people are the types who have been almost everywhere, done almost everything and they are looking for something very different which of course, the Kimberley region is", says the Captain. "This is certainly the most isolated wilderness within Australia and probably the most remote region in the world where one can go with relative safety. There are probably more remote regions in parts of Africa but the politics there are a little dubious and the safety of a traveller cannot be guaranteed whereas at least the only dangers that we have to look out for here are the crocodiles and the sharks!"

"The passengers are always amazed; there is mile after mile of islands and beaches each of which is clean and the fact that apart from a few roving yachtsmen, there is nobody else around. The only people who ever come out here is the occasional barramundi fishermen and the Navy. We are way off the international shipping lanes. Early in the year we did a number of trips where we saw absolutely no-one, not even remnants of tracks".

Such isolation can take its toll on the crew who are hand-picked not just for their skills but for their ability to communicate easily with the international passenger. They are knowledgeable and versatile in that they are called upon to do many different jobs on board and off. Doug the bartender is equally at home steering the rudder of a zodiac as he is mixing the Bloodiest of Mary's. "Where possible, the skipper chooses his own crew", says Jim, "but as you can imagine, being out in this wilderness all the time, when someone tells you that they would like to leave, all we can do is radio contact the office and set them about choosing the appropriate person. There are probably a lot of people who could do any of the jobs on board but because of the type of people whom we have as passengers - usually very wealthy and used to the best in life - we try to choose crew who have had dealings with these sorts of people. Perhaps educated rather than sophisticated".

We were fortunate enough to explore several 'new' sites on this trip; amongst them the very peaceful and serene, Tranquil Bay, named by the staff for obvious reasons. As we alight from the zodiacs, we tread gently on the virgin sands and head towards the lagoon at the foot of the cliffs. Clusters of pink and mauve rocks sit cautiously guarding the inhabitants of the caves behind the lagoon as a wallaby peaks out suspiciously from behind a plateau. The refuse of a wandering artist lies conspicuously in the scrub; weathered paint brush, some rope, a few tins ... We are relatively safe here as crocodiles are most active at night and the beach has been thoroughly checked for the telling drag marks but, as a precautionary measure, we are still unable to swim in the lagoon despite its tempting lure. Passengers opt for the distinctly safer activity of shell collecting. Looking out to sea, the ship sits majestically between the heads as the crew throw out lines and nets to haul in the day's catch. What a Hemingwayian method to write, perched on the foreshore with no sounds but the gentle hum of the cruiser moored several hundred metres away and the waves pulling in to shore.

Lone mangrove shrubs sit isolated amongst the sand dunes, as green as a hothouse flower. It is beautiful but it is not quite the idyllic tropical island. Deserted yes, but there are no coconut palms in this moutainous, rocky terrain: survival longer than a few marooned days would be unlikely. As we approach the boat, faint strains of jazz music filter up from the vessel announcing cocktail hour. Hemingway was never like this.

One lunchtime, John spots a humpback whale playing in close proximity to the boat. Both crew and passengers, virtually take flight up the stairs to the deck and we all watch in silent awe for several minutes as the whale alternates between surfacing and allowing us teasingly brief glances before plummeting in a shower of spray once again. If I didn't know better, I would swear he looked back and winked before finally submerging. The ultimate natural showman.

If any human has a right to be here, it must certainly be the aboriginal evidenced in the ancient remnants of their culture, art and the most preponderant presence - their mysticism, a slender sense of which blankets each site we visit. Their mark is everywhere from the abstract cave paintings executed thousands of years ago to the barely detectable tonal whisperings of the Dreamtime. We make a quite remarkable expedition through scrub to visit the crew's most recent find although there is some hesitation from crew member Nola in doing so. She is very familiar with Aboriginal custom and folklore and seriously respectful of its mystery. Our destination is the sacred ceremonial site of the Kadarchi men - the magic men of the tribe to whom the duty fell of executing tribal justice once sentencing had been determined by the Elders. Tribal law is extremely harsh according to Nola, contemporary offenders even opting to face the white man's justice systems with their comparative leniency. This site is particularly sacred: no women were allowed to go there or even knew its location. As we approach the ceremonial ground, Nola tells me about the circles of stones laid out in formation within which the accused had to stand whilst spears were thrown at him. Then she drops her voice and warns me not to step inside the circles.

It is hot and still as we follow the captain through the bush to what seems to be a dry lake bed, the cracked pink earth, sparsely dotted with thirsty trees. The captain tells us that the last time the rite was performed here was over 40 years ago, but the scenario appears eerily intact. Oddly, I feel slightly dubious about proceeding and turn to see that Nola obviously feels the same as she is conspicuous by her absence. As the group advances to closer inspect the circles, an extraordinary strong wind comes from nowhere on this dead calm, Kimberley scorcher of a day. I leave the rest of the group to photograph the primitive courtroom and looking back, hats and sunglasses are flying in the cautioning squall as I make my way hastily back to the beach. "You must be superstitious", the captain laughs later. Perhaps I am.

I wake to the announcement that there is a crocodile at first light. I follow the sounds of clicking camera shutters to the back deck and there floating lazily is the long-awaited beast. She is very inquisitive, never taking her eyes from the boat. She appears to be sunbaking and present purely for our visual delight. But then, she sneakily turns as the first of the many fish heaved at her hit their mark. Suddenly, the menacing jaws fly open and she hauls herself into the air to neatly grab the bait. Reaction to our visitor is mixed: Milton takes copious photographs, Mary loudly trumpets that Florida alligators are much more impressive but Eva is uncharacteristically silent throughout the whole experience. She watches for a respectable amount of time and then declares, "Shoes and Handbags! That's all they're good for!" as she turns on her heel and heads towards the sundeck.

The crocodile lingers all day and I am struck as to how silly the creature looks; stubby arms and legs, deep ridges on its torso - fleet of foot it certainly does not appear to be. I'm told that their looks are very deceiving. They can run up to 25 km/h on land and in water, "You must don't have a hope, ask Ginger Meadows" says someone with a half smile, recalling the luckless American tourist who lost her life to one such 'dumb' animal, not too far from this very spot.

Doug is called upon to lure the crocodile away in a dinghy so that the passengers can board the zodiacs en route to nearby Bigge Island, the second largest along the Kimberley coast. The shore is checked for drag marks and when pronounced safe, we explore some caves sporting a collection of aboriginal rock paintings frozen in time. There is an astonishingly accurate depiction of Dutch sailors landing ashore complete with oddly shaped hats and pipes. Nearby is a burial cave with the bones neatly placed in the customary position of the burial rite. Closer inspection shows what appears to be bullet holes in the aged skulls - a frightening testament to the consequent fate of the artists. When we return to the boat, our reptilian welcoming committee awaits, floating and stalking ...

Eating on the Kimberley Explorer is as relaxed an occasion as is warranted in this very informal atmosphere. There is no need for shoes let alone glamorous evening regalia here in the Kimberley wilderness and that is just how it should be. Chef Bruno Gicquel previously worked at the very chic, very private and tres exclusive Club Castel in Paris and was offered the chance to sail Monsieur Castel's 30 metre, antique wooden ketch to Perth for the America's Cup festivities. A former Olympic sailor himself, M. Castel allowed Bruno frequent respites away from the club but only to indulge their mutual passion for sailing.

"Monsieur Castel lent his yacht to Moet & Chandon and Louis Vuitton as a VIP viewing platform for the 1984 America's Cup but at the time the boat was moored in Venezuela", says Bruno recalling his initial journey to Australia. "he offered me the chance to sail the boat to Perth and on arrival, to organise the functions and cocktail parties for the guests. This is the kind of opportunity that one rarely gets and so I said an immediate, unqualified, 'Yes'! It took the crew of six, six months to sail to Perth and we spent many weeks cruising the islands of the Pacific but I was beginning to feel bored by the laziness of the island lifestyle, particularly coming from Paris.

"We were the last boat to leave Perth and people warned me that even though I loved the place and the atmosphere, when the Cup had finished, it would not be any where near as exciting, and of course that is what happened. We sailed the boat back to France following the Trade Winds and spending time in Sri Lanka and the Maldives but I have already decided to return to Australia. M. Castel was beginning to put out feelers and explore the possibilities of doing something in Australia, and so I returned to Perth and began working for Vito Cecchini at the Mediterranean amongst other things. The Mediterranean used to remind me a good deal of Club Castel with all the business deals and the jetset lunching there on a Friday afternoon. but I was ready to indulge my love of sailing again, after having participated in some national yacht races.

"I had heard from some yachting friends about the Kimberleys and that is was perhaps the best wild country in Australia and when I was offered the job, it seemed so right, as I would be able to combine both sides of my experience - sailing and cuisine, at the same time. The facilities on board are remarkably comprehensive; the galley is large and very well-equipped with lots of room to work, large freezer space, a coolroom, microwaves, two ovens and a deep fryer. The only thing that I don't have is an icecream machine to make sorbet! Working in an environment like this is much more satisfying to me than the restrictions of running my own restaurant - I am able to cook something different each day and in a different location".

We are now all well-acquainted with each other, with our respective politics, professions, philosophies and experiences in the Marines (or lack thereof). Mealtimes have become a forum for healthy debate over several selections from the extensive wine list.

After a meal of Bouillabaisse and Chardonnay, we decide to try our hand at night fishing, an eminently attractive proposition for these two city folk. Bruce and Kevin have set up the lines on the rear deck and have spotted several schools of fish attracted by the lights of the boat.

John casts off and waits. Still waiting, he waits a little more. He offers me the line, I feel a tug almost immediately, I freakishly haul in a shark. He is not at all congratulatory and counters my effort by catching two sharks on the same line. We are very pleased with ourselves until Bruce informs us that sharks are extremely common along the coast and are in fact a menace when fishing for more prestigious fish perhaps. We throw our prizes back to the sea, only to reel in several more. They are dogged marine pests. Bruce and Kevin land a 15 ft Hammerhead and I am forced to conclude that fishing will never be my mot proficient skill.

Our time on board is rapidly drawing to a close, and we spend the last day picnicking on Jim's Beach named for our illustrious captain. Bruno prepares a barbecue and we latter day Robinson Crusoes - albeit considerably more comfortably equipped - collect oysters, sunbake and swim in waters of liquid crystal. Later that evening, the crew and passengers pile their plates high with mountains of oysters - prepared in a variety of ways and toast what is in effect our Last Supper. As I lean over the railings to watch the waves and contemplate the return to civilization, an earring - my last vestige of the city, becomes eternally committed to Davy Jones' Locker as it plip plops overboard. I simply do not care and we symbolically give its golden partner a Viking funeral in a flaming paperboat.

"It's inevitable and it will happen even this far up, sometime, maybe within ten years, someone will apply to the West Australian government to build a resort on one of the islands", says Captain Jim sadly. "it will happen ... but it would be extremely difficult to make a beach crocodile-sea, there would have to be constant lookouts, nets, small boats always checking and the fresh water supply is a major problem. They would have to be careful ... so careful".

The crew all talk about respect. If you respect the land and the environment it will open its yield to you willingly. If not, the consequences of foolishness will inevitably arise. Perhaps a quiet word of warning for aspiring hoteliers.

The morning of our departure dawns the brightest and most beautiful of our six days. It is a cruel slap in our suntanned faces. We are moored at the mouth of the Hunter River, the only accessible spot for the sea-plane to land and collect us. Bruce takes us out in a dinghy for a final attempt to haul a barramundi, an exercise which pre-empts John's later 'One that got away' tale. We opt instead to cruise slowly down the waterways, spotting crocodiles and absorbing as much of the atmosphere as possible to tide us for our long journey home. We cut the engines and just float, listening to the absolute quiet. The river itself is actually very shallow at this time of year but a glance at the tops of the muddied mangrove trees lays testament to the deluvian floods which rage through the area in the wet. As we return to the boat, the sea-plane is circling overhead, preparing to land.

Throughout this magical trip, I truly believe that we seriously doubted that we would have to return east. This region is awesome, wild and unsympathetic but it is also spellbinding and there is no finer way to explore it than on this vessel. In case you doubted its nautical authenticity, the equipment is sophisticated with satellite radar and ship to shore facilities and it also has the seal of approval of the genuine article - France's own ancient mariner, the late Jacques Cousteau whose ship docked with the Explorer in order to commandeer one of the zodiacs for their own explorations.

As the sea-plane takes off bearing its reluctant cargo, we are fortunate enough to experience the aerial view of the coast. Ken, the pilot is a true Australian oddity - a little frightening too when he opts to change fuel tanks in mid-air without warning. He puts on his only cassette - unfortunately a Neil Diamond extravaganza, gives us steaming mugs of sugary coffee and steers us back toward Kunnunurra. As I look out of the window, the river tributaries far below us gleam white and brilliant in the morning sun yet, a mere breath away, raging bushfires that must be left to burn out of control burn fiercely on the edge of some properties of an amazing 2.8 million acreage. Flat tundra gives rise to vast, mottled cliff faces and I feel myself become horribly patriotic. 'What a land!', I think, as if my nationality had anything to do with its creation.

Yes, Australia is an adventure, irrespective of the much touted publicity and flippant brochure text, but it is so much more than just that. It is vast, mythic, mystic and forbidding. I sit back in my seat, my life in the hands of a most unusual individual, 'Hot August Night' blaring up above and bushfires raging down below.