“Do ya wanna come out sailing wid us tomarraw?” Bill proffered? “Meet yas down at Sadgroves Wharf pontoon at 4.30. Bring some tucker and booze.” For all that, they left me sitting forlornly on the pontoon. I self-consciously hollered, somebody else took up the theme and banged a fuel drum. Attention was achieved, a tender dispatched and I was aboard, meeting fellow traveler, Tad, a teacher at Nightcliff School, ex Grote Eylandt and Milikapiti chalky and a long flowing beard.
The lines caste, we set sail for the middle of Darwin harbour. The gentle breeze flapped the sails as we moved through the lines of several moored yachts. The US Navy was in town with a battle-gray machine tied up at the main wharf. Early diners sat sipping Chardonnay. A couple of cattle boats and other assorted steel moved at anchor as we drifted out into clear water.
I was instructed to steer for a point on the distant Mandorah shore while Tad and Bill arranged sails, did ropey things and generally settled the “Aquatica” into sailing order. The sun was sinking toward Perth as we started to relax, a light smoke haze ensuring that the sunset would be spectacular. In the east, a pregnant horizon confirmed that a full moon was expected shortly. A joint and dolmades were passed around. Why hadn’t I done more sailing as a Darwin resident?
I was in town to bid farewell to friends, to the Stonehouse and to a lifestyle that had supported Catherine, Caleb Lilian and I over the past quarter of a century. Things associated with the house were mostly resolved, it really did look like the sale of Radford Road was proceeding smoothly and our links with the Top End of the Northern Territory were being eased off the bollard.
Nostalgia was on the breezes and was testing resolve. But the move south was standing up well to the proffered insinuations. It was a delight to return briefly, but I knew that all was well in the south.
“Stand bye to come about.” “All hands to the ropes” and “Chris, the tiller, no, away from your body, please. Yep, great, more, yep, that’s sensational” The boat hesitated, but then responded, slicing a smooth curve through the water as we set a new course. More dolmades, another joint? Well, why not!
Tad was telling Bill and I about another chapter in his life – as a buffalo shooter out on the Mudginberri Plains with Frank McCloud. The images of boat, sails, water, evening lights from Darwin and another yacht is powerful stuff. The lights in the clouds! Wow, grab the camera. Is it possible to maneuver the yacht so that camera can record the moment? Yep, great. Sou’westward hosted the suggestion of rain with wet seasonal blue-blackness. The orange sunset had happened and was turning dirty but the moon was ready to compensate with its huge milky presence moving rapidly away from the mangroves.
Tad and Bill were debating the efficiencies of having the jib tighter, the rigging squared and the what-not juried. Authority and experience were being tested. Who’s turn to roll the next number? Olives anyone? I should have brought another roll of film. The visuals combine deliciously with the wind in my face, the excitement, the thrill of achievement as gained confidence has the boat responding predictably beneath my tentative tiller-work.
Caleb and I have talked about getting a small yacht – well a ‘trailer-sailor’ that we could quietly take lessons with, probably at Clayton, on Lake Alexandrina. Summer weekends with all of us thrilling to the notion of moving with the breezes aboard our own little boat. Formal lessons to start with, then gain experience.
Tad regales us with another spectacular part of his life as the boat tacks across the western side of the Harbour. Bill’s face records words, wind and dope in detached delight as his boat displays personality, temperament and appreciation of the outing. I become absorbed in colours, sensations, emotions and sense that this is a finale’ par excellence. Parallels with a fishing trip to Bynoe Harbour with Caleb, Tony Fitz, Tony Haritoz, et al. I contemplate the quirks of life that have my love for the sea, fostered from childhood excursions into the Bay, flathead gathering with Dad and John, against a reality that I have spent 20 years or so beside the sea and only occasionally ventured there upon.
We are becalmed, tacking back and forth between Doctor’s Gully and some lights that Bill explains indicate reefs and dangerous places out there in the dark. The zephyrs are just not coming from the right direction. What about the spinnaker? Bill and Tad have ideas – two different ones! Some testy words, the captaincy asserted and a spinnaker is set out on a jib, a boom, the stick! Wow, it feels and looks as good as it does on televised Boxing Day departures. I stand at the front of the boat, hanging onto the wire holding the mast. I gaze upwards into the billowed sail. This is what sailors get off on. There is a power here. We have borrowed the wind, it offers its strength for a while, staying with us as it moves thoughtfully around the curved space behind the sail. I am a spectator to a contained happening and it is a heady experience.
We gain easterly direction back towards the main wharf, with the naval light-bedecked super structure, the evening diners at the Wharf. The wind is picking up strength, a few drops of rain, or spray? Bill and Tad are thrilling to the boat’s response as it drops its shoulder, the better to harness the wind. The left-hand side of the boat dips towards the water as it starts to race. Bill yells, Tad whistles. I start to wonder whether the boat can tip over. We race across the Harbour.
Crack. Fuck, what was that? The captain issues considered instruction. I attend, adrenaline moving, thinking that my life depends upon swift, correct reactions. Above us the spinnaker defiantly holds the wooden jibby bit aloft, pointing to the stars in a defiant reminder of our mere mortality.
The ripped sail is hauled down under the critical eye of wharf diners, I vaguely hear applause of our performance as the captain asserts control. “Wow, that was amazing. Did you feel the boat?” OK, now Chris, hold this. No, closer to the body, yes, that’s OK and steer for the mangroves. Great.
The sails were reset and we slipped from under the gaze of US sailors as we moved into Sadgroves Creek. “Mooring’s up ahead. Tad, have you got it? Sensational. OK now whose turn to roll another joint?”
In the quiet of the Creek, freed wind now moves gently through the rigging and there is time to contemplate the action, the splendour and the adventure of an evening spent sailing on Darwin Harbour. I think about the move South and the irony of tasting this experience on the eve of my final departure. The final joint is lit!