Sailing strikes me as a splendid middle-aged occupation. I was looking through binoculars across the river at Goolwa, in the late afternoon (note heavy-handed symbolism--we'll hear the loon's cry next), and spied a 60-ish couple relaxedly hauling sails together on deck, which, to the observer, seemed an idyllic way to spent one's down-time as a couple while still physically able. Although perhaps, invisible from our balcony, they were bickering mercilessly: "You never could tell your goddam port from your starboard, George." "Well if you handled my mainsail a little more effectively maybe we wouldn't have a problem. And no-one could accuse you of losing track of the port, Martha."

I recall a young Simon Devitt (nephew-in-law) and I went out on a catamaran, capsized near rocks, and were `rescued' by a nimble thirteen year old in a speedboat who asked me for a rescue fee of $5 ("I fear thy skinny hand!"), despite my cash having sunk to the bottom of the trench. ("And a thousand slimy things/ Lived on; and so did I.")