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dinghies gently rocked together and against the floating jetty. It was a quaint and peaceful existence all for about fifteen dollars (Australian) a week. Christmas came and went with an ‘Orphans in the Park’ party. Most people living on the river had left their family behind to break away from society or to simply take some time out to travel. We all congregated in the grassy gardens, making enough food to feed however many on each of our own boats, resulting in a huge banquet style feast. Silly presents were exchanged and daft games played. I revelled in my new life.
    After just a few weeks, with the engine repairs complete, it was time to break free for a while. We enjoyed our time in Brisbane city, but the cruising community had its highs and lows. The incessant, conflicting advice became a bore. Noel had years of experience under his belt, but some cruisers would talk to us as if we were three-years-old. I was a beginner, but I didn’t need to be talked to as if I was a baby. I knew diddlysquat about boats, sailing, weather, and navigation: I soon found out that there is nothing some ‘old-hands’ enjoy more than a new fledgling to break in.
    Some days I would be lectured at and smiled at condescendingly. ‘You’ll have to learn how to do the dishes in cold water,’ was one I remember well. How would it be different ? I thought, do the plates and cutlery behave differently in cold water? Perhaps they complain.
    One couple would frown at me when I said, ‘She’s a wooden boat.’
    ‘Timber,’ they’d say with a superior smile.
    I now know that people were, in the main, trying to give me an idea of what to expect. I only saw it as them having the chance to highlight my ignorance.
    Noel would placate my frustration. ‘It doesn’t matter if you call things orange marmalade, as long as we both call whatever it is the same name.’
    Despite this, our time in Brisbane was one of our most memorable summers. We quickly made some lifelong friends and had one of the most social times of our lives.
    Living on a boat is like stripping your life of several complications and adding a whole new different set. Once you’ve got a handle of this weird floating world, the new set of complications are exciting and rewarding. Firstly, forget any sort of luxuries. Of course, buckets of money would buy you anything you needed, but we’re talking reality here. Our reality was a thirty-three foot boat, which was eleven feet wide – not much room to start with.
    Below we had a galley (the kitchen), which for a small boat was quite sizeable. Squeezed in was a small oven and two burners, which ran on gas, a tiny sink, and lots of midget size cupboards. We had a navigation table big enough to lay charts on, surrounded by equipment I had yet to learn how to use. The saloon was our lounge and held a fixed-in table, two ‘bunks’ (settees which doubled as our beds when at sea), and a small pot belly burner, which I thought we’d never use because I was not going anywhere that cold (time would prove me wrong, of course). It was agony to try and watch anything on our small TV, as swinging three-hundred-and-sixty degrees on anchor meant that the shows were more snow, lines, and fuzz than clear pictures. There was a loo, which was called the ‘head’ (apparently in the time before the loo was invented the crew used to do their business at the head of the boat, over the side). A small work-bench sat opposite the head, where some of our good clothes hung above. Lastly, there was the v-berth. The v-berth is the front pointy bit, shaped like a ‘v’ – this is where we slept when not at sea. The engine sat under the cockpit. We call the deck our veranda for no better reason than to pretend we are wealthy enough to have such a thing.
    Noel soon became my best friend and a strong supporter when he saw signs of me becoming withdrawn and shy. He’d send me off to the chandlery on my own to buy the simplest of things.
    I always thought