The nightlife in this tourist magnet of a town is already taking its toll on the crew. At seven in the morning they turn to (start work) wearing shades, gritting their teeth bravely against the piercing racket of the orbital sanders. There's nothing like a power-tool sending eleven hundred jolts per minute up your arms to cure your hangover. They are sanding the varnish off the topsides (the outside of the hull above the waterline). In truth most of the varnish has fallen off already, although some of the remnants are hanging on pretty tenaciously. It has served its purpose, making the ship look pretty while she was tied up in the fishing boat harbour in Fremantle. But varnish is an impractical coating for the hull of a ship like Duyfken which spends so much of her life at sea. Sun and salt attack it with a vengeance. To keep her looking shiny and bright we would have to spend all our time sanding and varnishing, and would get no other maintenance done. Besides being impractical, varnish is not authentic. The original Duyfken would have been oiled. Gary mixes up his own recipe which is probably similar to the oil the old Dutch sailors would have used. When people ask Gary for the recipe his standard response is: 'Well, if I tell you what's in it I would have to kill you.' I can report it contains linseed oil, Stockholm tar (pine tar), turps and bee's wax. You may attempt to discover the exact ratios from the chef at your own risk. So Duyfken is changing colour. The new oil mixture soaks into the oak planking of the hull, changing it from its former golden colour to a rich, chocolate brown, bringing out the complex grain of this distinctive timber. The new Duyfken is very dark, which is in accordance with paintings of ships of the era. She looks less like a yacht, more like a jacht.