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Then things became truly exciting as the deck and cockpit went on and the whole structure was closed. In the middle of winter nights – with our makeshift boat shed open on three sides – this was often cold work. Steve’s mum would always materialise around 9.30 bearing a tray of refreshments. Her menu never varied: two small glasses of Golden Circle pineapple juice and bowl of Savoury Shape biscuits. We’d both have killed for a big steaming mug of coffee with a dash of brandy, but you just can’t ask mums for stuff like that.
    A new suit of Dacron sails was ordered from Jack Herrick’s loft in Balmain and when they arrived we set about shaping a set of full-length cane battens for the main. Unseasoned cane can be a difficult material to work, and we needed to stop and re-sharpen the blade of the Stanley plane after only 20 minutes’ work. The aluminium mast and boom came from the old Miller & Whitworth chandlery at Cremorne. It was a long drive from Concord West to that shop, but they’d lend us a swaging tool free of charge so we could make up the rigging ourselves. Finally, the climax. After four coats of gleaming Estapol gloss varnish, the magical moment when we screwed down all the deck fittings and could rig up the boat for the first time. She’s a little beauty!
    One task remained: what to name our magnificent new racer? The previous boat was called Etaks (‘Skate’ spelled backwards – such wit!), but we’d grown bored with explaining this lame joke atregattas so Etaks II was definitely out. During the long hours of joinery and sanding, we’d amused ourselves listening to old episodes of the Goon Show and an obscure LP record I’d found of Spike Milligan reading his own and other people’s nonsense verse. One of our favourites from that selection was a hilariously pointless farmyard allegory by John Antrobus in which nothing rhymed or made much sense. One of the key characters in that story was a dog named Big Time Fred. Now, it so happened that the then President of the Australian Skate Association was a certain Fred Walpole of the Gosford Sailing Club. Fred wasn’t a bad bloke, but he took himself rather seriously and used to strut about at the National Championships like some tin-pot Napoleon. The coincidence was just too good to pass up. Big Time Fred it was, then, and I sealed our cheeky choice of name in large, stick-on lettering around the transom.
    As luck would have it, the opening interclub regatta of the new season was hosted by the Gosford club. Before the first race, while we all rigged up on their spacious lawn beside Brisbane Water, the aforementioned Fred moved imperiously between competitors, checking out the latest designs for possible infringements of the class rules. Inevitably, the president paused to admire our elegant new boat. He squatted at the bow to take a closer look at the lines.
    â€˜Sure she measures in, boys?’
    â€˜Oh yes, Mr Walpole. No problems. Got the certificate of registration last week – and she’s right on minimum weight.’
    Then, ever so slowly, he walked to the stern and read the name. Here it comes, Steve …
    â€˜You boys wouldn’t be having a lend of me, would you?’
    â€˜Oh, no, Mr Walpole, not at all! It’s a very famous seafaring character from European literature – translated from the Bulgarian, I think – actually spelt with a “Ph”, not an “F”.’
    The president marched off to terrorise some other poor crew. Did we get away with it? Who knows.
    For the past few years I’ve served on the Race Committee of the Lord Howe Island Yacht Race, an event that’s organised by the same Gosford Sailing Club. As I climb their stairs each month to attend committee meetings, I have to pass beneath a large honour board on which ‘F. Walpole’ is inscribed many times. I never fail to seek out old Fred’s name and have a quiet