Miles from Nowhere. Not Cat Stevens. Sowelu the clean Broome
And so beginneth the journey by Indian ocean from Darwin to Broome.
The planning session completed. Detail. Strategy. Action. Report.
Resting up now, ready for the action...
Chapter one: The Pre Nerves
What was he thinking? The rumours had come all the way down from North Queenland, via the bush telegraph, yet Gromyko seemed to have disregarded them. "That Captain, he a wild, wild man - dancing, yes, but what about after the rum runs out?"
Maybe it was his reputation as a cordon bleu cook that dispelled Gromyko's concerns. Surely, he thought - in his private moments - Miles was not dangerous in that sense. He has a reputation, of sorts, and family, adult children, a share portfolio (albeit including Qantas and Telstra).
The pre-planning session went well. Over a South Australian red at the Italian restaurant Con Damillo, the men charted the dangerous waters around the archipelagos, out of the streets of Darwin, and through the headwaters to the Sea. It seemed clear enough to Gromyko, and Miles.
"Out of Darwin harbour, refuel, rewater, stock with food and refreshments, batteries - check, sails - check, t-shirt, shorts and flip flops - check."
What more? Gromyko felt an edgy feeling, perhaps he was under-estimating the complexity and provisioning. Could he just "wait and see and find out?" Will these pages tell a very different story? 1,300 kilometres. He would have to start thinking in terms of nautical miles, he knew that. Why did he resist? Old school? Dislike of the French?
As always, he started days before, collecting the gear. Lines to tether himself to the mast, self-absorbent under pants, and the usual bag of money. US dollars were best, they like them except in Havana Crisp, fresh, clean, new - The underpants. The bag was too small to stow below in the Aeroflot 900 from Cuban Military, co-opted to get them to the Northern Territory, and yet too large to put below his feet. Securing the electronic tracking devices, protecting them from prying eyes, ensuring the lithium-ions were 100% - but what if the cabin crew couldn't be trusted? He had had that experience before, on the mail run from the old city in Prague over to Nimitz. All gone, nothing to rely on. Mission a failure.
The Monday early morning departure loomed. Saturday had gone off without a hitch. Well, as a day, there can't be much wrong with it. The Uni v Quins rugby match had entertained, and no serious injuries arose. The speeches were familiarly enjoining to the camaraderie and spirit of the game. The bar staff were helpful and gave Gromyko the student discount. But he managed to evacuate before his welcome was over-stayed. Well, so he thought. But that is another story.
Sunday the 30th April 2017, pre sailing fitness training accomplished by a gentle bike ride with the latte set. His family railed around him: "don't go - we don't know enough about that Flanagan, you've heard the stories, there must be a grain of truth, or why would they say such things?" Deaf ears.
But the fitness regime had paid off for both of them the Captain was in fine firey best of health, and had the charts, graphs, ECG and ECT to prove it. No more sessions with the psychiatrist. No more group therapy. The restraints were off, but the cuff marks showed the internal pain remained. The memory. Nothing sweet. All bitter, but like the rum Gromyko mixed with bitter lemon, it was better now than before.
And so, the day passed slowly, toward the inevitable flight out of Llanherne. Aeroflot had a good reputation, Miles said so. "No crashes in Tasmania". He felt much safer.
The planning session completed. Detail. Strategy. Action. Report.
Chapter one: The Pre Nerves
What was he thinking? The rumours had come all the way down from North Queenland, via the bush telegraph, yet Gromyko seemed to have disregarded them. "That Captain, he a wild, wild man - dancing, yes, but what about after the rum runs out?"
Maybe it was his reputation as a cordon bleu cook that dispelled Gromyko's concerns. Surely, he thought - in his private moments - Miles was not dangerous in that sense. He has a reputation, of sorts, and family, adult children, a share portfolio (albeit including Qantas and Telstra).
The pre-planning session went well. Over a South Australian red at the Italian restaurant Con Damillo, the men charted the dangerous waters around the archipelagos, out of the streets of Darwin, and through the headwaters to the Sea. It seemed clear enough to Gromyko, and Miles.
"Out of Darwin harbour, refuel, rewater, stock with food and refreshments, batteries - check, sails - check, t-shirt, shorts and flip flops - check."
What more? Gromyko felt an edgy feeling, perhaps he was under-estimating the complexity and provisioning. Could he just "wait and see and find out?" Will these pages tell a very different story? 1,300 kilometres. He would have to start thinking in terms of nautical miles, he knew that. Why did he resist? Old school? Dislike of the French?
As always, he started days before, collecting the gear. Lines to tether himself to the mast, self-absorbent under pants, and the usual bag of money. US dollars were best, they like them except in Havana Crisp, fresh, clean, new - The underpants. The bag was too small to stow below in the Aeroflot 900 from Cuban Military, co-opted to get them to the Northern Territory, and yet too large to put below his feet. Securing the electronic tracking devices, protecting them from prying eyes, ensuring the lithium-ions were 100% - but what if the cabin crew couldn't be trusted? He had had that experience before, on the mail run from the old city in Prague over to Nimitz. All gone, nothing to rely on. Mission a failure.
The Monday early morning departure loomed. Saturday had gone off without a hitch. Well, as a day, there can't be much wrong with it. The Uni v Quins rugby match had entertained, and no serious injuries arose. The speeches were familiarly enjoining to the camaraderie and spirit of the game. The bar staff were helpful and gave Gromyko the student discount. But he managed to evacuate before his welcome was over-stayed. Well, so he thought. But that is another story.
Sunday the 30th April 2017, pre sailing fitness training accomplished by a gentle bike ride with the latte set. His family railed around him: "don't go - we don't know enough about that Flanagan, you've heard the stories, there must be a grain of truth, or why would they say such things?" Deaf ears.
But the fitness regime had paid off for both of them the Captain was in fine firey best of health, and had the charts, graphs, ECG and ECT to prove it. No more sessions with the psychiatrist. No more group therapy. The restraints were off, but the cuff marks showed the internal pain remained. The memory. Nothing sweet. All bitter, but like the rum Gromyko mixed with bitter lemon, it was better now than before.
And so, the day passed slowly, toward the inevitable flight out of Llanherne. Aeroflot had a good reputation, Miles said so. "No crashes in Tasmania". He felt much safer.
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