‘I just miss it.’
‘You always were a natural at it.’
I shift in my seat at the compliment.
We arrive at the harbour where he moors his yacht and he parks the car and grabs his fishing equipment, a cool box – or Esky, as they call them here – and a small hamper from the boot. ‘Lunch.’
‘You packed a picnic?’ I tease.
‘What, you were thinking you’d indulge in some sushi?’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’
Our feet crunch across the gravel as we walk towards a fish tackle shop next to a boat ramp.
‘I hope you’re not expecting anything too impressive. I’ve had this yacht for fifteen years.’
‘I didn’t know you actuallyowneda boat in Adelaide?’ I say, surprised.
‘Yeah.’
‘And you brought it here?’
‘Sailed it over.’
‘Wow! How long did that take?’
‘About two weeks.’
‘So that was another thing you didn’t sell when you moved to England.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Ben, why the hell did you leave Australia if your heart wasn’t in it?’
He shrugs, and for a split-second he looks like a lost little boy. I don’t press him further.
He goes into the shop to buy some bait and then we head to his boat. It’s a yacht of about ten metres long with a white deck and a dark-blue hull. Ben jumps on and dumps his gear before turning around to grab my bag and coat. He takes my hands to help me into the cockpit and it’s like a flashback to ten years ago as a jolt of electricity shoots through me. I don’t meet his eyes so hopefully he doesn’t see my face heat up.
He starts up the engine and I grasp the ropes while he unmoors the yacht, then he jumps on again and pushes us away from the jetty. Ben sits on one side and quickly takes the helm at the stern. I sit opposite, facing him.
We move at a leisurely pace past numerous pretty bays and through The Spit, where hundreds of multicoloured apartments and houses step down from the hillside and clamber for views of the water. The Spit Bridge is being raised as we approach and once we’re through, Ben climbs onto the deck and goes to the mast to raise the sails. I watch, full of admiration and respect as two lime-green sails billow out. There’s something very sexy about seeing him in this context. The wind picks up and I laugh as my hair whips around my face. Ben returns to the stern and cuts the engine. I look across at him, feeling jittery.
After a while we sail into the shallower waters of a secluded bay.
‘You don’t get seasick, do you?’ he asks.
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
He climbs back onto the deck and drops the sails, followed by the anchor. ‘You’ll know once we rock here for a while. I’ll nip below and make us a cuppa.’ He returns to the cockpit, then jumps down into the cabin. ‘You want one?’ he calls up to me. I go to the cabin and peer inside.
‘Sure, that’d be great. Aah, it’s been so long since you’ve made me tea.’
It’s only a small cabin but there’s a sink, a tiny gas-fired stove and a toilet plus a bed at the back, which I assume forms a table and bench seats when it’s not being slept on.
‘Do you ever sleep in here?’ I ask curiously.
‘Sometimes,’ he says, glancing at the bed. ‘But not often. I couldn’t be bothered to turn it back into a table again.’
