By late afternoon the visitors are thinning out. We close the ship to the public so we can get ready for sea. Archaic artifacts are stowed in their trunks and electronic navigation aids are installed and connected up. Hatches are bolted on and the rescue boat is lashed in position. We have converted the ship so many times now from sea-going to museum mode and back again that we are getting fairly good at it. Meanwhile Andrea briefs the voyage crew, joining for the leg to Mackay, about safety on board, shipboard routine and the finer points of how to use the heads. Jane makes a last minute dash to the Quarterdeck Bar for happy hour supplies. A quick headcount. All aboard. 'Let go forrard. Let go aft.' 'Three cheers for Townsville.' Duyfken's rigging reverberates with seventeen voices raised in unison. The folks on the marina respond: 'Three cheers for Duyfken'. As we slip out of the harbour we get a wave from the clientele at the bar and from the early evening diners on the decking. More waves from the yachties at the marina and from a big, rowdy picnic in the park nearby. The boys fishing on the breakwater wave and call: 'There go the pirates. Goodbye.' Then we are at sea, suddenly on our own. The wind is right on the nose, so I resolve to motor through the night to get some miles up. It is none too comfortable out here, punching into a short choppy sea. Then it starts raining. How much sticky black goo is it going to take to stop these cursed leaks? The water is pouring in worse than ever, right over the chart table as usual. This is very irritating. I am running out of ideas about how to stop the leaks. I cannot for the life of me see where the water is getting in. I will try again tomorrow, smearing the black goo around with abandon.