Today, we’re flying up the east coast to Gladstone, a small city north of Brisbane, to pay a visit to Ryan Ely, the Aussie stray who stayed with me those several days after September 11, 2001. I am startled and pleased when he’s there at the airport to meet us. God, we’re all older now. In 2001, Ali was 12, Ryan was 24, and I was 51. We lasso our rent-a-car and follow Ryan to the Amber Lodge Motel, not far from his house on Pier Street. Here, I have to thank Ali for insisting that we rent a car. I had made the decision to forego an auto based on a wildly inaccurate assessment of the logistics of this visit. My only misstep. Ever.

We part ways with Ryan in order to adjust to the Queensland version of Celsius and our new digs, but after a short rest we rejoin Ryan and the Ely family, his wife Belinda and their girls, Chelsea and Kalarney at their home. It has a dog, some pescacidal fish, and a trampoline. Chelsea’s fourteen with a visiting boyfriend, Kai. Kalarney is twelve with many questions. When she finds out that Ali lives in Texas, she wants to know if she knows Beyoncé.

The sun sets and we all go to the last night of the Gladstone Harbour Festival to listen to a BonJovi cover band. It’s the last night of the festival and the crowd’s a little sparse. The glowstick / ball cap booths are closing up, but there’s still a line for burgers and chips. We sprawl on the grass. The band tries very hard, but in spite of the full moon the crowd cannot be moved. Perhaps they are sated by Saturday night’s Alice Cooper impersonator. Ali and I are weary from our travels and excuse ourselves.

Oh, today was Easter. Jesus came back to life. Imagine that.

This morning, Damian, the wizard of the breakfast room, suggests we pay a visit to the Paddington Market, open only on Saturdays in the hip Paddington neighborhood. It’s pretty far, walkable according to the map, but in the interest of efficiency we take a cab. Stalls fill a churchyard with stuff several (many) notches above the craftique bullshit customarily found in the States. Not a tube sock or neck massage to be found. We fall into a banter-y conversation with a pillowcase maker. Ali makes many observations about music and Texas and the US. We gab for maybe twenty minutes, then I purchase a Tasmanian-themed throw pillow.

Our next destination is Berkelouw Books, a store of renown, just a little bit further down Oxford Street. Ali can’t find anything that strikes her fancy and once I’ve located the loo, we’re outta here. A midday meal would be a good idea, but the distractions of Oxford Street are many. A quirky window display pulls us into a shop. The merchandise has ‘Alice’ written all over it. She buys a pair of tortoise shell shoes that she absolutely loves and a pullover with a blooming cactus pattern. Pub burgers for lunch.

We hail a cab to the Hyde Park Barracks, the building through which tens of thousands of transported ‘criminals’ were ‘processed’ between 1820 and 1848. It has had a multitude of uses since then, but a thoughtful restoration has peeled away these incarnations, revealing its unhappy bones. The lives of the convicts have been imaginatively dramatized to illuminate their humanity. Almost 200,000 people were transported to Australia before the practice was outlawed. This was an early experiment in mass incarceration. By contrast, 50,000 were transported to North America, an aspect of our history no one knows. Perhaps, this practice is papered over by talk of ‘indentured servitude.’

From the Barracks, we wander through the Botanical Garden with the goal of finding the Wollemi Pine, a recently discovered prehistoric tree. In an inaccessible valley in New South Wales, some horticulturally savvy guys stumbled upon this weird-looking tree, scrawny but tufted with emerald green frond-like ‘needles’. It’s been given pride of place in the very middle of a grid of flower beds, sited where a 110 year-old Norfolk Pine, called ‘The Wishing Tree’, stood until the 30s. Though the wish-granting potential of Wollemi Pine goes untried, its unprepossessing appearance has a Seussian charm.

We’re footsore and cranky by now, so we hail yet another cab to take us up the hill. This has been our busiest day in a while.

I have planned a nautical excursion for today – the ferry to Manly, a beach resort thirty minutes away by boat. We hoof it through the Botanical Garden once more, our destination this time the Circular Quay (formerly the Semicircular Quay). The Opera House looms, or rather billows. Tourists out here on Bennelong Point are photo-crazed, taking all manner of douchy snapshots. They’re at the goddamn Sydney Opera House and now they have proof that both they and Australia exist concurrently. Go home, assholes. By the time we locate the correct ferry terminal (there are five), we’re a bit out of sorts. I am, at least. There’s a ‘fast’ ferry and a ‘slow’ ferry. After several moments of brittle confusion, we settle on the fast ferry. Ali feels a little woozy. I step out on foredeck to snap some photos of my own of the Harbour in its glory. From this vantage, its reputation as ‘World’s Most Beautiful Harbor’ is a sorry understatement. The breeze is bellowing, lifting my shirt to reveal my abdomen. Woe betide those within sight thereof.

Once in Manly, we reconnoiter like squirrels for food. This entails a long stroll along the Manly’s esplanade, laboring under the misapprehension that a restaurant lay in that general direction. Kids are diving off the docks. Sunbathers and families are enjoying the calm, clear water. We pass this woman, this young American woman, who is Face-timing or Skyping with someone to whom she complains about her defective tonsil and her ineffectual karma. We giggle and keep walking. She’s still at it on our return trip having found no restaurant. Karma’s a bitch.

At noon, the cafés open their doors and we walk right in. Ordering a meal in the Land of No Worries always involves guesswork and inquiry. Following lunch-induced mood stabilization, we amble off to the ocean side. Only half a kilometer of terra firmaseparates the ocean from Manly harborside. Manly beach is a grand plagewith a promenade of stately Norfolk pines and bounteous surf. Not Ali’s cup of sand. We start our oceanside hike to Shelly Beach by sucking on Golden Gaytime popsicles. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity since Monkey Mia. At the halfway point, we turn back, tired and hot, just holding the sticks. Back at Simpson’s, cooled off, and rested, we go for dinner at the blandest Italian restaurant in the Southern Hemisphere.

Our morning routine has been semi-invariable – a text at 8:30 and a breakfast rendezvous at nine. Today’s no different. The breakfast room at Simpsons is light-filled, with white tablecloths and bentwood chairs. A framed speedo hangs on the wall. It belonged to Ian Thorpe, Australia’s last great Olympic swimmer. I dare not inquire. Why?

The cold buffet is modest, but perfect. I usually construct a ham & cheese sandwich on toast and eat a bunch of fruit. The coffee is ample and stimulating. After the meal, we embark on a semi-aimless stroll of neighborhood discovery. Behind a metal fence of the townhouse, a cocker spaniel barks at me. I address the creature with all solemnity – “Bar-bar-a.” “What?” “Bar-bar-a. That’s the dog’s name, Ali,” I say, “Bar-bar-a.” “Oh, Dad”

We miss the McElhone Stairs, a l-o-n-g set of steps that would have connected us with the wharves below. Instead, we turn right and get stuck in a beautiful maze-like park built, it seems, atop a parking garage. Flowering shrubs and great blue sky and no exit. It overlooks the Navy Yard or the Australian equivalent. The vessel docked directly below appears to be undergoing some kind of ceremony. Sailors in dress whites line the decks and walkways, while a band plays on the shore. Ali is able to glean, by overhearing a gnomish-looking man’s conversation, that the ship is being decommissioned. Also, that the HMAS Success was the last ship built by and for the Australian Navy. It will eventually be sunk for an artificial reef.

Beyond the ship, far off, we can see the arc of the Harbour Bridge and the glint of the Opera House, while below, Finger Wharf, a splendid pile of condos. The Domain and the Botanical Gardens lie across the cove looking elegant and lush. We stroll back to the hotel in order to primp for lunch with Judy Rowley at Coogee Beach. Judy’s a Bennington Writing Seminars grad who I got to know through the Cornelia Street Café reading series. We call a cab, exulting in our wisdom and self-preservation by abandoning the auto yesterday. Judy’s driving instructions are clear and, sure enough, she appears, graciousness personified. She and her husband, Peter, live in a high-rise apartment with a spectacular view of Coogee Beach and the Pacific Ocean. The apartment has a grand terrace where we share a bland, guest-centric meal. Afterwards, they take us for a drive to Bondi (Bond-eye) Beach, Sydney’s most famous. We amble along the Art Deco promenade. Peter suffers from a neurological problem that inhibits his gait, which means his boogie boarding days may be largely over. It is our great good fortune that Judy and Peter return us to our hotel, via the hip neighborhood of Paddington. Their warm hospitality and conversation are just what we needed.

Ali and I have an hour or two to prepare for our evening at the Opera. Napping is the most effective prep possible. Tonight’s performance will be al fresco. The Handa Opera Company is presenting La Bohemeon a stage at the edge of Farm Cove. Food will be available starting at five o’clock, which is when we begin walking over. Our tix have been held at the box office for months. This rather stupendous venue has been created on the shore in order to exploit views to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge beyond. Sydney harbor may be the most beautiful in the world. It is vast and convoluted, an endless hem of coves around a skirt of hilly peninsulas.Three different dining opportunities exist – sandwiches, sit-down, and chandelier. We are sandwich people, and our superpower involves the snagging of a pair of salads and a table for two with a breeze and a clear view of the Sydney’s endlessly entrancing waterfront as the westering sun sets the city ablaze. This is pretty goddamn wonderful. Ali is wearing her Godzilla dress and I my short-sleeve shirt with the tropical, 3-D pattern. We are by far the hippest operagoers.

The stage set is an enormous box fronted by an enormous raked stage and flanked by two construction cranes (uh-oh), as well as six spindly ‘street lights’. Paris, n’est-ce pas? Fake snow or fake-fake snow festoons all surfaces. Paris en hiver, n’est-ce pas? The opera is a complete clusterfuck / trainwreck. Overlit – Over-micced – Over-acted – Baffling directorial choices – Bad wigs –Anachronistic bullshit – and on and on and on.

Here’s a prime example. In La Boheme, as Puccini wrote it, during Musetta’s big end-of-Act-One number in Café Momus, the tremulously minor character of ‘The Toyseller’ enters, has a bit of business, departs. In this deranged version, the Toyseller is flown in via crane dangling in a garbage can held aloft by ersatz balloons. The action stops or rather becomes utterly insignificant in the face of such theatrics. Does the Toyseller sing? Who the fuck cares. Quicker than you can say “Giacomo Puccini” the fool hops back in his can and is laboriously whisked away. But wait! A pesky ‘street urchin’ has grabbed on to a rope that hangs from the toyseller’s bucket and, levitating, vanishes into the dark of the harbor. We are both appalled and somehow complicit.

The night has been magical, ridiculous, and unforgettable. We walk home muttering and amazed. It’s gonna be hard to top this.

Q.  What do I have to do to get a cup of coffee in this lame-ass restaurant? A#1 – No worries, mate. A#2 – Blow me. After stuffing the car with our ever-expanding collection of baggage, we make our way through Canberra’s leafy boulevards to the National Gallery of Art. Ali marvels at my cavalier disregard of signage when I drive directly up onto the curb, instead of the obvious entrance ramp to the parking garage. “Dad!”

The National Gallery is an airy, inviting, rather discombobulated building. Its Aboriginal collection is extraordinary. We are quiet and focused, except to whisper, “Is that a snake?” The mystery of dreamlines, the incredibly ancient oral traditions, confront us. Each piece shimmers with antiquity. We know nothing.

Also astonishing are the watercolors of Albert Namatjira, an indigenous artist working during the first half of the 20^th century. The mastery and luster of his painting is wholly within the Western tradition, yet somehow, the medium of watercolor perfectly captures the tension between the outback’s saturated palette and the light that transmutes it before your eyes.

His is a tragic story. Born in 1902, Namatjira spent his youth living with his family in an Aboriginal mission near Alice Springs. As a young man, he showed startling promise as painter and in 1938, his first exhibition sold out. Fame and money followed, but as an Aboriginal, Namatjira could neither lease property nor buy a house, among countless other prohibitions. Public outrage led to his being granted full citizenship in 1957. It took another ten years for basic rights to be granted to all Aboriginal people.

As a citizen, he could now buy alcohol. Aboriginal custom dictates that a person must share bounty with other native people. In 1958, he was charged with supplying alcohol to his friends. The court did not believe his denial, sentencing him to two months in prison. Namatjira emerged a broken man and died in 1959. The National Gallery devotes a room solely to his extraordinary work.

Another of the glories of the National Gallery is Jackson Pollock’s ‘Blue Poles’ bought in 1973 for $1.3 million AUD, at the time the highest price paid for a contemporary American painting. Much controversy surrounded the transaction, however, today ‘Blue Poles’ is acknowledged to be Pollock’s supreme masterpiece. The electricity of the painting, its vibrancy and presence, is markedly different from the murky turbulence of a lot of his work.

Sydney will be today’s destination. Finally, we will surrender the car we rented with so much hassle in Adelaide; trusty, old shitmobile that it has become. Ali’s at the wheel and dealing with the GPS, as well. This is not a problem until we enter Sydney city limits and everything goes to shit. The highways in Sydney vanish into tunnels at a moment’s notice. GPS goes kablooey. Recalculate Nightmare! At a stoplight, we manage the scurrying ‘driver switch’ stunt. Though our search is cross-eyed convoluted, we eventually do arrive at the Hertz office. But there’s no street parking. We accomplish that, but when we enter the office, the counter staff disappears as if on cue. The miracle will be if I can keep my wits about me. “Drop-offs around the back,” is the take-away from this encounter. Done. Now can we flag a taxi? It’s only rush hour. After a series of silly, fruitless moves from one side of the street to the other and one corner to the other, a fucking cab does stop.

Moments later, we’re deposited at Simpson’s Hotel in the Potts Point neighborhood, a beautiful and serene Arts & Crafts-style house converted into a hotel after considerable renovation. Again, with the three-flight schlep of the monster suitcase. Ali has been assigned to Barbara’s Room. I get Number Nine. I’ve reserved a table at Yellow, a notable vegetarian restaurant around the corner. The food is pretty wonderful; only the weird wilted radicchio disappoints.

Following a mellow breakfast and animated chat with Jo, the substitute innkeeper, we hit the road. It’s all freeway to Canberra. Phew. In the car, Alice and I engage in a small discussion whether or not to stop at Gundagai to see The Dog on the Tuckerbox. Who wouldn’t want to see a dog on a goddamn tuckerbox, I say. “What’s a tuckerbox, Dad?’ replies Ali. The response “Let’s find out!” doesn’t meet with much enthusiasm, but we’re both peckish, so we make the turn at Gundagai anyway. Okay, this tuckerbox + dog equation has its origins in a typical Australian ballad called ‘Nine Miles from Gundagai’, a sort of lament for the passing of the drover’s way of life and a paean to the canine companionship and loyalty. A tuckerbox, by the way, is a food box, not unlike the present-day cooler.

This is a small, very local café. We order two burgers with ‘the lot’, which means garnished on top with salad. In addition to a profusion of tattered celebrity mags everywhere, two wheelbarrows full of squash ($5 each) sit by the front door. The young women serving pepper us with many questions about the US.

Canberra is very low-key, a most suburban city. What bustle there is appears exclusively automotive. We are relying on the GPS solely; no street numbers are visible. We get turned around a couple times, but without too much difficulty locate our hotel. For the price of two rooms, we’re given a roomy suite, which comes with the always welcome, always problematic, washer/dryer combo. We keep it simple by ordering a room service dinner.

We fire up the generator, turn off the water pump, reel in the ropes, and make headway. Seasoned river rats by now, we have no trouble navigating back to the wharf by nine o’clock. Chris meets us in the skiff and takes the wheel, neatly guiding us into the Mayflower’s customary berth. They are happy to see us. We did good. And, ultimately, we had a good time. A relaxing, chill time – not so much. Sliding an unfinished puzzle back into its box is a mournful experience. Our white Hyundai has been parked in a grove of towering eucalypts for three days now, long enough for the vehicle to be covered with a solid layer of birdshit. Our ever-crusty automobiles. We leave the demoralized car and go in search of a more substantial breakfast than Uncle Toby’s Cheerios. At the bakery we choose, they sell a confection called a ‘Neenish Tart’. It looks like a small black-and-white cookie, except the white side is pink. Ali’s real curious. She inquires, “And a Neenish Tart is what?” Evidently, it’s filled with something semi-gross, like marshmallow fluff, and the meaning of the qualifier ‘neenish’ has been lost. We harvest more synthetic, unfoldable Australian currency from obliging ATMs and plot our route to Beechworth.

It’ll take us through Glenrowan, where Ned Kelly stood his ‘last stand.’ The dude is to the Australian State of Victoria what the Ala-fucking-mo is to Texas. The word ‘hagiographic’ comes to mind, mainly so I can use it in a sentence for the first time in my life. A prominent feature of little Glenrowan is a 30-foot statue of NK in his iron regalia and wielding a shotgun. Just ten feet in front of Mr. Kelly, a helpful sign points to TOILETS. We eat lunch across the street. I am tempted by a Ned Kelly refrigerator magnet with a tiny thermometer attached, but I don’t pull the trigger.

We park the shitmobile in front of our Beechworth B&B, The Graces. Our rooms are lovely, each with a magnificent mantelpiece. In order to get the road kinks out, we go for a walk. Beechworth is a postcard-pretty town radiating from two perpendicular main streets. The Burke Museum (that Burke of the ill-fated Burke and Wills expedition to cross the continent south to north) is open. We buy a ticket that includes a visit to Ned Kelly’s Vault. Hurry! The Vault closes at four. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Look! Here’s NK’s brother’s Bible, the outhouse door with his initials carved on it, and his cousin’s hatpin. And lots and lots of armor, not only the suits that his outlaw band wore, but the steel ensembles worn by Mick Jagger and Heath Ledger in eponymous movies.

The Burke Museum is funky. First let me say that the Burke and Wills story is one of arrogance and ignorance succumbing to the implacable emptiness of Australia’s central deserts. Few failures have been quite so abject. They all expired from hubris. In addition to sad (dumb-ass) Burke memorabilia, the museum’s most striking feature is a full-size model street with storefronts of the various merchants and tradespeople of 19^th century Beechworth. Beechworth was a gold rush town: 153 tons of gold were mined or banked (or something) here. A measure of a ton of gold is represented by a beach ball-size sphere sitting on the floor by the door. Gold is that dense. And let’s not forget the ratty taxidermy and seashells in dusty cabinets.

After a therapeutic nap, we make the dinner decision. When we first arrived, our host suggested this new place, The Empire Hotel. It had recently changed ownership and gone ‘upscale’. We’re game. The food is remarkably tasty, unfussy and ample, though the service is distracted. The waiter seems incredibly busy. In passing, he knocks over a chair and remarks to himself, “Oh, Basil.” This offhand Fawlty Towers joke relaxes us utterly and we enjoy the best meal of the trip so far. This is confirmed when dessert proves a letdown.

We fire up the generator, turn off the water pump, reel in the ropes, and make headway. Seasoned river rats by now, we have no trouble navigating back to the wharf by nine o’clock. Chris meets us in the skiff and takes the wheel, neatly guiding us into the Mayflower’s customary berth. They are happy to see us. We did good. And, ultimately, we had a good time. A relaxing, chill time – not so much. Sliding an unfinished puzzle back into its box is a mournful experience. Our white Hyundai has been parked in a grove of towering eucalypts for three days now, long enough for the vehicle to be covered with a solid layer of birdshit. Our ever-crusty automobiles. We leave the demoralized car and go in search of a more substantial breakfast than Uncle Toby’s Cheerios. At the bakery we choose, they sell a confection called a ‘Neenish Tart’. It looks like a small black-and-white cookie, except the white side is pink. Ali’s real curious. She inquires, “And a Neenish Tart is what?” Evidently, it’s also filled with something semi-gross, like marshmallow fluff, and the meaning of the qualifier ‘neenish’ has been lost. We harvest more peculiar Australian currency from obliging ATMs and plot our route to Beechworth.

It’ll take us through Glenrowan, where Ned Kelly stood his ‘last stand.’ The dude is to the Australian State of Victoria what the Ala-fucking-mo is to Texas. The word ‘hagiographic’ comes to mind, mainly so I can use it in a sentence for the first time in my life. Glenrowan features a 30-foot statue of NK in his iron regalia and wielding a shotgun. Just ten feet in front of Mr. Kelly is a helpful sign pointing to TOILETS. We eat lunch across the street. I am tempted by a Ned Kelly refrigerator magnet with a tiny thermometer attached, but I don’t pull the trigger.

We park the shitmobile in front of our Beechworth B&B, The Graces. Our rooms are lovely, each with a magnificent mantelpiece. In order to get the road kinks out, we go for a walk. Beechworth is a postcard-pretty town radiating from two perpendicular main streets. The Burke Museum (that Burke of the ill-fated Burke and Wills expedition to cross the continent south to north) is open. We buy a ticket that includes a visit to Ned Kelly’s Vault. Hurry! The Vault closes at four. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Look! Here’s NK’s brother’s Bible, the outhouse door with his initials carved on it, and his cousin’s hatpin. And lots and lots of armor, not only the suits that his outlaw band wore, but the steel ensembles worn by Mick Jagger and Heath Ledger in eponymous movies.

The Burke Museum is funky. In addition to sad (dumb-ass) Burke memorabilia, its most striking feature is a full-size model street with storefronts of the various merchants and tradespeople of 19^thCentury Beechworth. Beechworth was a gold rush town: 153 tons of gold were mined or banked (or something) here. A measure of a ton of gold is a beach ball-size sphere sitting on the floor by the door. It’s that dense. Don’t forget the ratty taxidermy and seashells in dusty cabinets.

After a therapeutic nap, we make the dinner decision. When we were settling in, our host suggested this new place, The Empire Hotel. It had recently changed ownership. We’re game. The food is remarkably tasty, unfussy and ample, though the service is distracted. The waiter seems incredibly busy. In passing, he knocks over a chair and remarks to himself, “Oh, Basil.” This offhand Fawlty Towersjoke relaxes us utterly and we enjoy the best meal of the trip so far. This is confirmed when the dessert proves a letdown.

I could hear the weather carrying all night long. It’s gray and cold when we arise. A good day to work on a jigsaw puzzle under normal circumstances, but by midday we’re rollin’ on the river. Ali has become adept at mooring and unmooring the Mayflower. Me – I’m Captain Afib and we’re heading upstream again. Ali makes lunch and I manage to consume a sandwich one-handed without running us into any obstacles. That comes later. Despite the crummy weather, people are out on the water. The two of us have relaxed into a form of boat existence characterized by relative efficiency of crabby teamwork. Who knew!

Twenty kilometers from where we started out this morning, we decide to tie up for the evening. The shadows are lengthening and the wind is picking up. I turn the craft into the bank at too oblique an angle and we get stuck sideways; not exactly aground, but semi-immobilized against the shore by the wind and current. Distress ensues. There’s no ‘reverse’ possible due to this skewed position. After several misguided and potentially foolhardy attempts at wading in and pushing the goddamn thing, we call service and repair again and confess to pathos. Here, I must acknowledge that Ali protested vigorously to this crypto-suicidal ‘pushing’ solution. “Push? Get out and push?  And who’s behind the wheel, Captain Rob?”  I was too far up my ass to hear. A simple, quick maneuver guided by Josh and we’re in the middle of the current. All I feel is relief and I imagine all Ali feels is scorn.

This was a bullshit snafu. We find a wonderful mooring place sheltered between two fallen trees. Penne with pesto, broccoli, and leftover burger meat weighs a ton and is delicious. Let’s see how puzzled we can get. It’s a hard one, a landscape reflected on water with basically only seven or eight colors repeated murkily on the horizontal axis. Pfeh. Movie time. Tonight – Lion. It has a lovely first half, but then the lost boy, now grown, boringly searches for his home in India via Google Earth. Still, a decent enough film and shot in part in Tasmania. We gotta pack tonight, because we’re due back at Echuca at 9am.

PIERCING SHRIEK!!!

Jesus Christ, it’s five o’fucking clock in the morning. Is this noise coming from the boat? Uh-huh. The mechanical room in the stern. Ali can sleep through anything. No, she can’t. What the fucking fuck!!! Okay, let’s start our day and pretend the boat won’t explode. At 7:30 (ever so considerate) I call the service & repair number Chris gave us. Josh, the other guy, answers.

“Did you run the generator for four hours?”

“No.”

“Turn it on and the noise will stop.”

“Thanks.”

Last night, we had been so relieved to have stopped moving that I turned off the clattering generator without really thinking. So, problem solved: we don’t explode. Breakfast is Cheerios, perpetrated on the Australian public by a gentleman named Uncle Toby. They are perilously crunchy, these Cheerios in-name-only. We become unmoored and proceed to go with the flow. The Murray is a placid torrent. It winds through stands of eucalypts, flanked sometimes by tall, raw embankments of golden earth. We encounter other houseboats along the way, both moored and chugging, and motor past holiday camps that are basically houseboats on stilts on top of bluffs. Paddle-wheel tourist vessels approach the Mayflower and we discover that the people aboard can be baited into waving. We smile gaily, wave, and say, “Fuck you, you fucking tourists!” Powerboats towing skiers zip by, as do obnoxious jetskis.

The Murray is Australia’s longest and most navigable river, delineating the border between New South Wales and Victoria, and at last passing through South Australia to empty into the Great Australian Bight. Compared to other river systems on other continents, the Murray is small potatoes. The river’s lack of water volume is due to the Australia’s arid nature. Still, it winds powerfully, yet leisurely, for 1,500 miles through forest, scrub, and wetlands.

We slip ondownstream. Once we get the hang of the blue markers at two-kilometer intervals, we feel more confident of where we are. The real estate has become more upscale: the embankments reinforced with wooden bulkheads or even riprap. Despite the neighborhood, we tie off on two dead trees and begin serious work on the puzzle while contemplating dinner prep. Burgers set off the smoke alarm. Then we turn off the lights and watch The Dressmaker on DVD that Ali had bought at the supermarket. The soccer-like game the sweaty, young Hemsworths are playing at the beginning of the film turns out to be … Footy!