A tall aboriginal man ambled down the Wyndham wharf with a little girl in tow, an exquisite flower of a child in her frilly dress and long black curls. She balanced above the swirling muddy waters of the Cambridge Gulf, tugging on her grandfather’s hand, leaning out as far as he would let her.
“Careful,” he said, “big croc lives in water here. You don’t want to be his tucker.”
She grinned up at him, continuing to tug him towards the edge, until he picked her up and planted her safely on his hip.
“Where you goin’?” He asked, pointing his chin at Mystique, our eight metre, trailerable yacht straining against her lines as the racing ebb tide tried to powerfully entice her seaward.
“Around to Derby,” said Jon, “we’ve…
