Of Foreign Build Read Free

I hung on to something familiar: organising my life on bits of paper. Phones, computers, and faxes were replaced with boat-to-boat radios, second-hand novels, and dinghies. I had no practical experience of painting and fixing. My most technical operation achieved was hitting the stereo when the CD drawer wouldn’t open, or turning the power off and on again on my laptop when it stopped working. Then there was boat-speak – it was so strange.
    ‘Hand me the painter,’ people would say. In my head this would evoke vivid images of a tall, dark Italian man with an open, cotton shirt splattered with coloured paints. Cruelly, reality brought me down with a thud when I found out that the ‘painter’ was the bit of rope on the bow of a dinghy. I could see I was going to struggle and withdrew further.
    My discomfort was not just from the new way of life, a new husband, culture, and country to adjust to. With my new found freedom and more time on my hands, I had the opportunity to think: who am I? And, scarily, how do other people see me? The things I said, I analysed with frightening results. I had no idea who I really was.
    Within this quagmire of unfamiliar emotions I notched up my tenacity. I am competitive; I don’t like to be beaten. My entire faith in Noel, and the fact that I knew I’d laugh about all this one day, kept me at it. However, my ignorance evolved to new levels that approached dangerous. Just a few hours after becoming the proud owners of Mariah , we nearly smashed her in half.
     

3
Crash landing
    Losing control and almost smashing up a fifty-five thousand dollar, ten tonne boat was quite exhausting. At the time, Noel and I had owned Mariah , our new home, for just forty-eight hours. My knowledge of sailing was on a par with my knowledge of moon landings. My first twenty-four hours at sea had been hair-raising. The thoughts of smooth seas, full sails, and clear skies were viciously blown away and replaced with a three-dimensional lurching, bumping, bucking, and gyrating hell. In an instant, I was all at once in disbelief, scared, and amazed. We had just one inch of timber between us and several miles of deep, dark, cold salty water. How Mariah remained in one piece astounded me.
    We set off on an overnight trip to Brisbane from Tin Can Bay. Bouncing out into the ocean I sat in the corner of our small cockpit and fought the growing nausea. Looking out into the dark, threatening sky I noticed the fingers of vivid lightning sparking closer. Noel was on deck, and when he returned to the cockpit I found the energy to look up into his face just in time to watch him throw up over the side.
    ‘Just great,’ I muttered. Swallowing my fear, I was able to string a couple of words together.
    ‘Is it always this rough?’ I asked. Noel swallowed heavily.
    ‘Actually, this isn’t rough,’ he said as he wiped spittle from his chin. I spent the night whimpering in the corner, thoroughly regretting the whole boat idea. Neither of us slept.
    As dawn tickled the sky, we reached Brisbane River, awash with relief to be in flat, protected water. As we puttered along, watching the city slowly awaken, the flaming sun struck purple on the tall city buildings.
    That wasn’t so bad, I thought.
    Approaching the small marina, Noel had given me clear instructions on how to handle the lines. This was my first attempt at helping to dock the boat. I leapt off and managed to hold on to both the fore and aft lines. I was rather pleased with myself. Then Noel piped up, ‘I’m coming in on a bit of an angle, just chuck the ropes back on board, I’ll come around again.’ I shrugged and threw the lines back on the deck. This is easy , I thought, standing safely on a jetty. Feeling proud as punch, with a little happy-smile, I looked up to see my new boat and my new husband careering down the river, sideways. Noel stood in the cockpit reflecting the situation quite well by pulling tufts of hair out of his head. The four-knot current