I wonder if I have forgotten how to drive Duyfken. It's been three weeks after all. We are going for a very short twilight cruise with the major sponsors of the expedition, Chevron. There is a light north-easterly sea breeze blowing and I decide to motor down the channel a little way so we can set the sails and come back running before the wind. The first part of the plan goes well but when we turn to come home the wind dies out, then shifts ahead of us. It seems I haven't lost my touch at finding headwinds: in a voyage lasting one and a half hours we manage to have the wind against us both ways. Thank goodness for oil companies. We arrive back at the wharf, tie the ship up and furl the sails. Even after this short trip I feel more like a sailor. After three weeks on leave, returning to take command of a floating-museum-come-cocktail-party-venue I was having trouble identifying my role. Am I a curator, or a tour-guide? Or a maitre-de, perhaps? An hour and a half at sea is enough to sort out my vocational schizophrenia. I'm a sailor after all. After our epic voyage to number twenty beacon and back, chevron puts on a welcome function for us and we greet some friends we haven't seen since Weipa, including Frankie Deemal. Frankie is head of the First Nations Joint Company, which administers the revenues flowing from Chevron's PNG Gas Pipeline Project to the Aboriginal groups whose territory it affects. There are drinks, nibbles and tours of the ship. John Powell from Chevron makes a speech, then invites Gary to respond. Gary points to me. 'Hang on, the real master is back. He has to make the speeches from now on.' I stand my ground, clapping and grinning at Gary. 'Bastard,' he mutters, grinning back at me, and takes the stand. And a fine speech it is too. More drinks and more nibbles. The crowd begins to thin out until only a dozen of us are left sitting on the wharf with the remains of the bar stock. Someone hands Frankie a guitar and he starts strumming. 'Sitting on the dock of the Bay.' What else? I scurry off and return with my bag full of harmonicas. Soon we are joined by Jane on wooden spoons, and Cian on cheese-grater, and the fru-fru band is complete. Frankie sings in a beautiful clear tone, with that throaty lilt that you only hear in an Aboriginal voice. The small but appreciative crowd throws him request after request. He knows them all. By three-thirty in the morning we have come to the realization that Frankie knows every song that has ever been written. Three-thirty. Time to round up the empties. Somebody points out we have been sitting under a sign saying 'No Alcohol' all night. That gets a laugh. 'I'm in the clear, anyway,' says Frankie, who doesn't drink. With a voice like that, who needs tonsil varnish?