Page 179 - Exile-ebook

178 AN EXILE OF THE MIND WHERE THE COWS SLEEP AT NIGHT 179

Where the cows sleep at night

End of yachting days. Self-sufficiency in the bush.
A mudbrick house emerges from the soil. Toby, the
16-hand monster. The march of the pylons.

ith the scourge of pirates on the high seas lying in wait
Wto take a pot-shot at passing yachts, and corrupt officials
putting their hands out at ports of call, it wasn’t a difficult decision
to sell Le Voyageur. There are two major highlights in a yachtie’s
life. The first one is the sheer bliss of buying a boat and the second
is the relief of getting shot of it.
Le Voyageur sat in the Darwin bay for only a week before it
drew the attention of someone eager to experience the euphoria of
the first highlight. The buyer not only paid what the yacht had cost
but settled the exorbitant duty as well.
Was it possible for two nomadic souls to come to roost in one place
and still be free? Nicole and I bought a house in Brisbane and relocated
to Sydney a few months later where I worked for the Readers Digest
as an executive editor, a fancy title for project book editor.
Jean-Paul, J.P. for short, was an addition to the family. A cheeky
blond-headed boy who would tell everyone, “Me Jean-Paul, me
clown,” and made it his mission in life to make people smile. He
would later make travelling the world his passion.
Settling down amidst the narrow streets of Surry Hills in Sydney
after years of adventure had its downside. Cracks appeared in our
marriage as they had done earlier in Montréal when we had hung
up our travelling boots for four years.
I made a welcome return to New Zealand in search of writers

Tandy had a free run of the hundred-acre property.