In essence you have joined a club, the clubhouse is the Harbour itself. The club was originally founded by the worlds oldest living culture whose conjuring chants sent reverberations flying far across still waters as rattling boomerangs told Ancestral stories on calm nights. Time and tide wait for no man. The Harbour sits and waits implacably, Club members come and go. Stories are the Club constant. The thread began with the First Nations thousands of years ago and continues today. Stories told and retold, memories savoured, accounts with and without absolute meanings, yarns bordering on the absurd; ancestral histories, all perhaps worth saving?

We describe sensible, rational people as ‘grounded’. The moorings are dropped, the anchor breaks ground, the pen is left behind: What is it? It’s avoidance. Avoidance of being ‘grounded’. A drift up a creek, a fang around the cans, an ocean crossing, an around the world race, all just ways of evading the sticky mud that clings to earthbound life

“It was when she neatly sailed off her anchor the first morning of the racing, completed her first race and dropped her anchor under-sail again that the trouble began. A complaint was put to the race committee that all these manoeuvres could not possibly be carried out on a boat this size with a crew of three, safely! This, despite the fact that all the manoeuvres had gone without a hitch. The committee did not say who had complained , but it obviously upset Hugh and his young crew. Might be why I found myself learning Coral’s ropes as the fourth crew member the very next day. “