Another boat, which I think was a fishing boat, came close so that a journalist from the Melbourne Age could throw me a newspaper. This boat misjudged the distance and hit Gipsy Moth's stern only a foot or two from the self-steering gear, . . . . I tried hard to fend off the boat, and I think did save a lot of damage, but, in doing so, I crushed my elbow slightly. I cursed him, using an extremely rude word of only four letters. I have rarely seen anyone look so shocked—thought his face went white. He said nothing at all. As his boat drew away, I looked to see what the damage was, and, recovering from my bad temper which I already regretted, I waved to him. I think this man ought to be a diplomat, because instead of reporting what I had said (though really it was quite unprintable), he reported that I had shouted, "You bloody Sunday driver!" Apparently this caused a lot of amusement in Australia, and it certainly amusted me, because I had never heard the expression before in my life!

I'm indulging a long-standing fascination with non-petroleum-fueled transport (viz. bicycling) by reading Francis Chichester's marvelous account Gipsy Moth Circles the World, about his round-the-world single-handed journey in 1966–67, including the longest ever singlehanded passages, being from Plymouth, England to Sydney Australia (without landing, you see) and then back again the other way around the Earth.

One of the pleasures is how coolly and warmly he describes his adventures, as above, with the distance to remember how irritated he was, and the presence to remember how funny it was.

Much thanks to my dad for recommending and getting me the book!