Sydney Surrenders Nothing

Friday. A mooring in Sydney, on George Street. The harbour city. I have always wanted to sail into Sydney. I had imagined cannon fire and crowds on the shore, not a lift and a lanyard.

The Sydney ship is fitted out like the others, timber and chains and my quarters at the far end, except that here a wheelchair can roll from the hold into my cabin without anyone holding their breath. I did not ask for this. I am told it is the law of the land and also good manners. I am in favour of neither.

The first Sydney crew got out. The second Sydney crew got out. A crew of two schoolteachers got out and corrected the spelling on my wanted posters on the way. Sydney prisoners, I am learning, are relentless.

I have a theory. The sea air here is too fresh. It sharpens the mind. I have asked the management for staler air. They have asked me to fill in a form.

Scarface has volunteered to spend the opening weeks in Sydney, keeping an eye on things. What a sailor. I have doubled his biscuit ration.