Published The Advocate, March 18, 2006


A DAY sailing from Melbourne on the Spirit ferry - I forgot to check which one - is a classic case of having nothing to do and all day to do it in. There cannot be many more relaxing journeys if you are not in a hurry. One of life's little pleasures, time suspended in the gentle swaying of the boat, and I love the taste of sea salt on the ship's railings. Ten hours on Bass Strait surrounded by grey nomads: People in physical decline, veined and blotched, wearing socks and sandals and more spectacles than a Salvation Army convention. I see in them signs of my own near future. Ah, we all were beautiful once. Rust spots also mottled the white painted railings. Within 15 minutes of leaving Station Pier, one group of pensioners hurried to the front of the ship, not wanting to miss The Rip - still two hours away. I always make for the smokers' deck at the rear, not to smoke but because it provides the best views and is a good place to observe suspicious characters, à la Hercule Poirot. Among them, a dark-bearded man clung to a moulded black security case, reinforced with metal bands and two combination locks. It had a sticker: "Bundy made me do it." I hoped Devonport Security was on extreme alert. The smokers' area is located on the deck below the oily exhaust fumes of the funnels. Here gathers a dying breed, sucking the life out of their ciggies. How are they still alive? I thought smokers of their vintage surely would all be dead by now. Four men stood side by side, smoking, each with a foot resting on the bottom railing, jeans stretched below overhanging beer guts and Swiss Army knives attached to their straining belts. Their wives were trying to figure out a digital camera to take a photograph of the ship's wake, a vein of porphyry green quartzite in a slab of bluestone. The Spirit is not a vessel for young trophy wives. But other women, wearing smug little victory smiles, I guessed to be newly widowed or divorced. Their greying hair had suddenly gone blowsy bleach blonde for the first time in their lives. One was wearing a necklace that looked like an iced doughnut on a rope. A couple of sun-fried women, their skin the colour of tanned leather, were chatting in German and writing postcards home. Ayers Rock, kangaroos, the usual stuff. What they will remember of Australia are the souvenir shops they visited. Members of the Ulysses motorcycle club were wearing T-shirts boasting they were growing old disgracefully. A woman wore a name badge: "Say hello to June from Mt Isa." Disgracefully naff. In the bar, bikers wearing moulded body armour were comparing trip meter readings. Odd. None of which explains why the Spirit should be a terrorist target. Yet last weekend, berthed at Station Pier, Spirit I was evacuated after the unexplained sighting of a scuba diver below. I cannot help thinking our "terrorist" got the target wrong.