Now I had my deckhand certificate, which meant, as far as the Australian authorities were concerned, I could legally work as a deckhand on any commercial vessel in New South Wales. The catch, of course, was my visa. I wasn't supposed to be working for anyone but Sciforma. Luckily, every one of these charter outfits paid cash in hand, so the whole thing lived in a fairly comfortable grey area.
The problem was that the boat I'd trained on already had Bud on it, and nobody needed two deckhands. So one Friday evening after work, I did the obvious thing and Googled "deep sea fishing Sydney." First result: deepseacharters.com.au. I called the number.
A broad Scottish accent answered. It was Colin. The Colin. The one Bud had spent an entire afternoon warning me about.
"Hi, my name's Peter, I'm a deckhand, looking for work on the weekend."
"Are ye any fuckin' good, laddie?"
"Well, I do my best."
"Right, I'll give ye a try. No pay tomorrow, mind. Meet us at McMahon's Point, half six in the morning. My deckhand's a Kiwi, so we'll have a Kiwi and a saffer on board. Should be fun."
I turned up at the appointed hour and met a genuinely pleasant young New Zealander who was the paid deckhand, and that was my introduction to the Kingfisher, a boat that was about to become a very large part of my life. She was a converted fishing trawler, 45 foot, 20 tons, with an old Gardner diesel, the same engines they used to put in London buses. Nearly indestructible, built like a tank, and about as badly maintained as a boat can be while still floating, because Colin spent every spare dollar in the pub rather than on his vessel.
We had a good day out. At the end of it Colin told me I'd done a reasonably good job and he'd call if he needed anyone. I did not, at that point, have a regular gig. I had a maybe.
About two weeks later, the phone rang. Could I deckhand tomorrow? Meet at the fish markets, six o'clock Saturday morning. I got myself there on public transport in good time and stood on the dock at the Kingfisher's berth. Nobody. No Colin, no boat moving, nothing. I called his number. No answer. Called again. No answer. I stood there and it became a real decision — one more try, or turn around, get the tube back, and crawl into a warm bed for a few more hours. But I gave it one more call, and this time a thick, groggy voice picked up. Colin. We were now half an hour late.
"I'll see ye there in five minutes."
Sure enough, five minutes later there he was. "Throw the lines, throw the lines!" I'm throwing lines off in every direction while he jumps aboard and fires the engine with no pre-flight checks of any kind, nearly tearing the last line out of my hands as I try to get it off the cleat, and we go screaming off to collect our first passengers.
The whole operation worked by picking up small groups at different spots around the harbour until you had your twelve aboard. That morning it was the Fish Markets, Balmain, Pyrmont, Rose Bay, and then out. Every single passenger was furious about the half-hour delay before they'd even set eyes on the boat. Once we were underway I had to run a safety briefing, not unlike the ones you get on an airline, and then out we went, about two miles off the Heads, until Colin swung the boat beam-on to the wind. My job was to get everyone fishing off the same side, bottom fishing in a hundred metres of water, one-pound sinkers, two hooks, thick line on big old Jigmaster-style reels.
The day went off reasonably well. I got my $150 cash at the end of it, and then Colin said, "Come on, let's go to the pub, meet the gang." We went to the Kauri, at the Glebe Foreshore Hotel, a place that could have walked straight out of an Australian film. Upstairs, about fifteen bedrooms sharing one bathroom, every room with a permanent resident, and every resident carrying some kind of trouble or another. Downstairs, the pub itself, the pokies, the smoking area looking out at the back of a cement silo, a dartboard, no pool table. Every single person in the building was a character.
I had three or four schooners, smaller than a pint, five dollars each, which ate straight into my $150, and wobbled my way home by whatever combination of public transport got me back to my luxury accommodation in Wollstonecraft.
And that's how my double life in Sydney began. By day, a senior executive at Sciforma on a hundred thousand dollars a year. By weekend, a deckhand on a distinctly dodgy charter boat out of Glebe.