Guthrie stepped over piles of rope and mooring lines like a mountain goat on a familiar path; I followed him carefully to where a handsome motor yacht was moored between high, rope-wrapped pylons. Satisfaction was painted in bold, white letters across the stern and at the bow on the side I could see. A flag was flying from a high mast and a couple of seagulls hopped along a polished rail on the side. As boats go, this was a beauty. Guthrie jumped down on to the deck from the jetty untroubled by the distance or the motion of the boat. I edged down the metal ladder a few steps, waited for the rise and stepped aboard carefully.

‘Not used to boats?’

‘Been a while.’

‘This is the one Ray used to knock about in mostly. Not in bad nick, is she?’

I nodded. Everything looked well cared-for without being fussy. Truth was, I was accustoming myself to the motion but, to show willingness, I went under the awning that covered the rear section of the deck and looked around. I noted the life jackets safely stowed. Guthrie noted me noting and grinned.

‘Don’t know why, but I feel a bit better about things when I’m on the boat. Hard to believe he could go bad, the old Ray. Help me to cast off, will you? Then you can go below and poke around-look at anything you like.’

We unlooped the ropes; Guthrie started and warmed the engines and then took the boat smoothly out into the channel. Although I grew up by the water, at Bronte and Maroubra, I wouldn’t say I had boating in the blood. The inner tubes from car tyres were the first craft I remembered, and I didn’t rate the inflatable rafts and boats we’d trained in as soldiers much higher. I spent a very tricky night and a day in one of those things up a river in Malaya, and being afloat wasn’t my favourite sensation. But at least I wasn’t a lunch-loser.