Chapter One

From the journal of Lachlan Pritchett

Dark clouds danced overhead Brisbane. A storm was practicing up the Tango out in the pacific waters and it was heading our way for a local show. The Eastern Shore slept, but we were still awake inside the warmth of Tiny Abbot's.

Inside Abbot's, we, the crew of the HMAS Langford drank heartily, shrugging off the reports on the television about some squall raging in the Pacific waters. In an hour we had to depart for another delivery off in those strathspeying seas. But that was in an hour, and at the moment we were trying to breathe in the remnants of our long awaited vacation.

"Oi' Lachlan," called Dalton, Abbot's barkeep.

Dalton, a friend of the crew ever since we broke ground in the bar, raised an empty glass to me. He filled the glass flush with my favourite hazel-coloured lager, and slid it down the counter in my direction.

I extended my hand to snatch the careening mug, when the crimson tattooed arm of Elyk "Bear" Merrifield, the Langford's fatherly first mate, halted its course. In one fell swoop he drained my beverage. The foam contoured to his grey handlebar moustache. Merrifield swiped the froth from his face.

"That's a damn fine brew there, Dalton," he exclaimed.

Dalton nodded to Merrifield, then mouthed sorry at me. I waved it off. I could never hold my liquor all that well anyway.

By now Merrifield had drunken twelve pints of ale, four stouts, half a dozen shots of Gorilla Fart's, and my lager. Only God knows how he could continue standing. Of course, he was twice my size. Give him two hours and he would sober up faster than Leaping Plum at the Grasmick Handicap.

Between drinking and reliving nights with beautiful blondes, Bear would lift his head to the ceiling and roar with laughter. We were never really sure why or what he was laughing at, and we never really bothered to ask. His laugh was hoarse, from years of cursing the seas and barking orders to the deckhands holding the ropes to keep the shipments from plunging overboard. Merrifield raised his bear paws and grappled my shoulders.

"Aye, Lachlan, I challenge ya!"

"Challenge me to what?" I inquired.

"A good ole match of arm wrestlin'."

There was no doubt that I would lose to Merrifield. It was believed that Merrifield was arrested five times during the 1971 Springbok tour. It was also said that he had severely injured a man with a pool stick and 8-ball because the man refused to pay a bet after losing a round of billiards. Merrifield never declined the rumours.

"That's okay, Bear. I need to use this arm later on in life."

"Oh," Merrifield understood. "It's your wanker then?"

"No," I laughed. "Go try Biggles, he might be good for a bruisin'."

Merrifield seemed keen to the idea. "Aye, Biggles! Biggles!" he bellowed. "Where the bloody hell are ya'?"

"O'er here, Bear," said Biggles.

Audric "Biggles" Jackson, a tall, reedy black fella, shook Merrifield's hand, accepting the duel.
Biggles served in the Royal Australian Air Force as a test pilot. He was relieved of his duties when he was found passed out inside the cockpit of a F/A-18 Hornet. Biggles had been seen passing over Katherine at Mach 1. When Biggles came to, he claimed that he had not the slightest clue how he got there.

Biggles came back to Brisbane, only to find us. It was in the crew's second season when Biggles stumbled into Tiny Abbot's. Captain Whetham took an instant liking to Biggles and offered him a position onboard.

Merrifield and Biggles struggled with each other for a good half-hour before they both retired. They joined a table full of deckhands, downing more Amber fluid as if they had not seen a drop of ale in ages.

"So Lachlan, where are you guys headin' to this around?" asked Dalton, cleaning a shot glass.

"Well, first we're off for Fiji. Then China, and Russia after that. We'll cross over to Alaska, and then head back this way. We'll be the Back of Bourke," I sighed.

It wasn't as if I disliked sailing. In reality, I love it. But sometimes, I get a really bad case of the rainbow yawns, and it only seems to act up on the voyages that last longer than three months. And then I can't sleep at times. I routinely suffer through the vomiting and insomnia.

"When do you plan on returning?" Dalton asked.

"Possibly six months. We'll arrive in Sydney before coming back."

"Lovely city."

"I hate it."



Now let me pause for a moment. I say that I hate Sydney as any bloke would. Sydney is vastly overrated. Populated with tourists throughout the year, it is a dormant trap that sandgropers are warned about.

Y'see, I grew up across the country. Broome, to be exact. I moved to Canberra when I was eighteen, to attend Uni. Since Canberra is just a little south along the Blue Mountains, Sydney was always the weekend destination with my mates.

Sure Sydney may have Port Jackson and that fancy opera house, but that's really it. It's just like any other port. There's nothing really captivating about it.

Brisbane, on the other hand, now here's a city. It lurks in the shadows of Sydney and Melbourne. Up here us banana benders know how to keep local colour alive without having to wade yourself through a sea of Seppas.

Oh, sorry. I've seen to have caught myself yabbering on.



The tavern doors swung open, third mate Charles Olszowka entered. It took him a second to adjust to the dim lights. He spotted me at the counter.

"Sir, Cap'n Whetham beseeches for the crew to join him onboard," he said.

"Aye then, Charlie. Tell the Captain that I shall round the crew, gather our belongings, and we shall be on the deck in twenty."

"Yes, sir." Olszowka marched off.

"Hooroo," I said, waving goodbye to Dalton.

I turned from the counter and approached Merrifield sitting with the deck hands.

"Bear?"

"Yea'?"

"Captain wants us to get back to the ship. It's time we take our leave."

Merrifield nodded. He stood, raised his final pint and cleared his throat. He spoke calmly, gaining the crew's attention.

"Drink up, blokes. We've got a long trip ahead."

And with that being said, we all downed our last drinks for the night.

--Lachlan Pritchett