I leaned forward, holding onto the hot painted metal railing of the Russian cargo ship, and looked down onto Fremantle wharf below me. It was not unusual in the early 1970’s for cargo ships to carry a small complement of passengers, and here I was, 23 years old. It was a typical balmy April day in Western Australia. My passport was stamped with visas and entry permits for Malaysia and England — The United Kingdom! I would travel by sea to Malaysia, then by air to Gatwick in London. The anticipation was indescribable.

Coromandel, Mandalay, Kathmandu... how I loved the evocative feel of these words when spoken out loud. I tried out a few more: Rangoon, Peking.

Just running the tip of my finger over the ink on the pages of my passport sent a thrill of the unknown through me. If I shut my eyes I could envisage more visa stamps on the blank pages. India, of course; Burma — yes; Afghanistan, Persia, France, Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey; red and black ink stamps would fill my passport. Even though there were so few passengers, maybe 20, I wondered if they, too, felt as excited as me.

Below, I could see the upturned faces of friends, family, lovers, and some bystanders, who had been attracted to the festive and tearful crowd. They all blurred together into a pixelated pattern of muted colour. The familiar faces of my mother and father and my friends came into focus. I smiled and waved to them. Everyone was waving and calling out goodbye and bon voyage and come back soon, a kaleidoscope of faces, hats and waving hands.

The ship’s engines were churning from somewhere below me. The mournful sound of the foghorn filled the air like some huge monster of the deep waking from a dark hibernation and sending out a warning to the sea. Suddenly we were all throwing out long skeins of paper streamers in reds and yellows, blues and greens, from the ship to the wharf, and the wharf back to the ship. We were all joined for a brief moment by the calligraphic winding shapes of coloured paper, which broke and fluttered in the wind.