CHAPTER 40
Denise and I hailed a taxi to the Australian embassy. A solemn military presence lined the roads, including an occasional heavy tank. Guards were posted every few feet around the Australian Embassy, looking intently at all who entered. A line of concerned ethnic Indians and Chinese seeking exit documents stretched for blocks.
“Thank God for our invitation,” said Denise, as a guard acknowledged our appointment.
Once inside, having again shown our passports, we were escorted to the Office of Frank Johnston, First Secretary of the Australian High Commission.
“Now, aren’t you glad we dressed properly?” asked Denise.
As participants in the upcoming Bicentennial celebration and Tall Ships Race, we were treated as rock stars. Mr. Johnston presented us with copious amounts of publicity surrounding the race including an article from the Canberra Times, announcing the “participation of Endymion, a superbly sailed thirteen-meter sleek racing yacht from America, expected to arrive in Sydney before the Christmas holiday.” “How ‘bout that,” Denise chuckled. “Make you feel good all over, Skip?”
It did. In appreciation of our participation, Denise and I were given eighteen-month visas for Australia, including work permits. Over coffee, the High Commissioner explained more of the nautical heritage of Australia, from establishment of the first settlement by English prisoners to the reverence the country feels for Captain James Cook and his ship Endeavour.
“The United Kingdom,” he told us warmly, “is gifting Australia a replica of Captain Cook’s vessel to be known as Young Endeavour. It will be sailed, in part, by youngsters interested in our nautical heritage—and who write the best essays.”
Those not selected would be directed to Endymion and other participating yachts.
Handing me a packet of letters from thirty-plus aspiring youths, the Commissioner suggested, “Please contact these individuals as soon as possible. Good luck!”
Our heads spun. We hadn’t forgotten about the race invitation. Nor had we considered ourselves celebrities, but we’d become a focal point for an entire nation, a minor one perhaps, but none the less a position we hadn’t asked for—and were uncertain we wanted.
Suddenly we had deadlines. Skippers don’t like deadlines. Deadline pressure evokes poor decisions, like neglecting maintenance or leaving port in foul weather. But the opportunity was legitimately once in a lifetime—and challenging. We had three months to get to Australia and choose a crew from youngsters who were probably dreaming big, while counting on us to pick them. We would have to disappoint young people we hadn’t even met. We could take only three. Denise and I shook hands on this one. We would do this as partners and we would do it right.
Returning to the yacht club, our so-called coup confinement center, we enjoyed a leisurely parting lunch with Tom. He was excited and moved ashore knowing there was always a spot for him aboard Endymion and in our lives.
“Tom will be OK,” commented Denise. “He’ll do well.”
The next day, our friend and stateside attorney, Larry Dent and his buddy from Oakland, California, who we had never met, would come aboard, and sail with us to Australia.
Denise and I upped anchor and headed for our 1400 appointment at the Customs dock. We jabbered with Paul, a young athletic Customs officer, aspiring someday to be an Olympian. We showed him videos of the 1984 Los Angeles Games.
Paul was drawing Denise and me a map on a scrap piece of wood I was holding when an armored truck roared around the corner, lights flashing, horn honking. It was packed with soldiers, standing or on bench seats—all brandishing automatic weapons and hanging on as the vehicle ground to a noisy halt before us.
“Crapola! Here we go again,” Denise said.
“Halt! Stop! Don’t move!” commanded a zealous officer leaping from the front seat, nearly knocking Paul over.
We were surrounded in moments. Paul said something in the native tongue to the officer in charge and was brushed aside. Denise and I were inside a tightening circle of big, weapons-toting Fijian soldiers, who were not smiling. I was irritated. Drifting and blending wasn’t intended to be like this.
“Papers—you the Captain?” I was asked.
“I am, and Bulah to you Sir. We cleared legally. We are a documented vessel of the US Government. What can I do for you—Sir?” Adding “Sir,” with emphasis.
Paul had reacquired his sea legs and spoke to the lieutenant. “This is highly unusual, Lieutenant. There has been no wrongdoing. I’ve inspected the yacht, these people are cleared and are going to the Yacht Club for showers and a meal.”
“Papers!” repeated the officer, his hand extended.
“These passports are the property of the United States of America. You may examine them but I cannot surrender them,” I said, politely offering our passports and a folder of ship’s documents, and hoping my ruse would work.
No response. He took his time looking at everything—departure papers from Tonga, crew lists, ship’s inventory, ownership documents, and passports. We stood by tentatively in oppressive afternoon heat, sweat seeping through every inch of cloth touching me. The sky was about to explode. A soldier leering at Denise was bringing me into a slow fume. I’d had too much of this crap too many times. Denise saw it and signaled by expression ‘not to worry.’ I struggled to get into my two-foot zone—to concentrate.
The clouds let loose. The officer looked into the rain, rolled up our papers, and handed them to me. “You are free to go—only to the Royal Yacht Club. We will be checking. All non-Fijians must be inside by 8:00 tonight. National curfew. No exceptions, except church.”