16The bus drops us near the Vuda Point marina, under the large mango tree bearing its weight of unripe fruit. They are destined to ripen. I gather up some windfall.
We lift the weight of each other’s packs and wriggle-force our arms under the straps. Blood rushes to our hot thighs pounding the gravel back to the marina, past the office, past taxis drivers resting against shaded car bonnets and onto the concrete rim where Dream-maker is tied up. Unwashed, unkempt, dusty and tired, we clamber over lifelines onto the deck.
‘Hi, Dad, are you there? We’re back,’ I call. We’ve been away nine days.
I don’t see the man in the red boat next door watching our arrival with interest.
Dad climbs up into the cockpit, well pleased to see us.
‘Hello there,’ he hails. ‘The intrepid explorers have retu
