There was stillness all around her as Moongara gently rocked
On the silent Berkeley River as smooth as if she’d docked.
From Darwin ‘cross Bonaparte Gulf she’d been more than ably sailed
And now the crew was reminiscing about what that had entailed.
Stretched out and sipping Champers, they talked of the past days
Spent cross open waters rough with windy sprays.
It had taken nearly sixty hours against a capricious tide
But their spirits hadn’t faltered as they watched the Southern Cross, glide

It’s 1968 and I’m 25, footloose and looking for adventure. I fancied going to sea in a small yacht and travelled to New Zealand where I had been told yachts were cheaper than in Aussie. They were, so I bought an old 30 ft. wooden Yawl (two masts with the back one further aft than the steering position). Graeme, a mate from Melbourne, joined me and we sailed to Fiji without any major problems.