The lifeboat style craft was anchored astern and to port of us. We were hunkered down in Valhalla’s cockpit and into our second or third coldie, watching the gale tear at the canvas cover of the Ranger’s boat, exposing the small single piston engine of the 18ft dory. Suddenly we heard yelling, carried on the wind from behind us, from the direction of our bow. My mate Rastas and I were sheltering from the 25-knot northeaster. Our 60ft ketch securely anchored in Pittwater, off  The Basin Campground, a popular weekend destination in the early 70s. With anchor chain taught, she hung parallel to the shore and adjacent to a great big yellow sign, warning of a submarine cable. If you’re a Sydney-boatie, you’ll know the spot. We stood up, turned and peered over our cabin roof to see what the fuss was about, to discover a forty-foot fly-bridge-cruiser, a Hawksbury Halvorsen rental, sprinting into The Basin at about the same speed as the northeaster, 25-knots.     For those readers who know