I woke up in an intensive care unit in San Diego, California. It was a beautiful day-the blue sky San Diego was famous for filled the window. But any day would have been beautiful because I was alive.

‘Mr Hardy,’ the tall, tanned man in the white coat said, ‘how do you feel?’

‘As if I’ve been hit by a truck. What happened?’

He reached for my hand and shook it in a firm but cautious grip. ‘I’m Doctor Henry Pierce. I’m a cardiac surgeon.’

‘Yes?’

He flipped through some notes in a ring-bind folder. ‘It seems you were walking along our pier-’ he said it the way a Sydneysider might say our harbour bridge-‘and you bent to pick something up, or move it aside.’

‘I remember. A box of bait,’ I said, ‘heavier than I expected.’

‘You stood, shouted and then fell headlong. You suffered a head wound but, more importantly, a massive coronary occlusion.’

I heard what he said, but I was groggy, with some pain and discomfort in my upper body, and I had trouble taking it in. ‘I was looking for Frankie Machine,’ I said.

‘Excuse me?’

I sucked in air with some difficulty, as if my ribs were preventing me from filling my lungs, but I grasped his meaning. ‘Doesn’t matter, Doctor. A heart attack, you’re saying. What am I looking at-medication, that balloon thing and the bit of plastic?’

He smiled. Dr Pierce had the sort of urbanity that goes with skill, success and money. ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said, ‘you’ve already had a quadruple heart bypass procedure.’

Over the next few days, Dr Pierce, cardiologist Dr Epstein and a nurse helped me to piece it together. I’d been very lucky, especially considering the strictures of the US health system. One, I’d been carrying my passport and my wallet with a fair amount of cash in it, a Wells Fargo ATM card and a card showing my top level of medical insurance in Australia. Two, an off-duty paramedic had been fishing near where I fell and knew what to do. He got my heart started and I was in the hospital hooked up to machines within half an hour.