October 8th, 2026The boat that don’t float – On The Water
One of my favourite memories of the Gold Coast sits somewhere around 1992 or 1993, when I was master and commander of the mighty Maranoa, a fierce pirate vessel that plundered the Broadwater and took what she wanted from all who dared cross her bow.
We fought tooth and nail against every other vessel on the water and left a trail of terror in our wake. That’s what I tell the youngsters, anyway.
The truth, as it usually is, is slightly more prosaic. I was the skipper aboard the Maranoa, a brigantine, a two-masted sailing vessel with square sails on the foremast and a gaff mainsail on the stern.
Originally built in 1964 in Tasmania from Huon pine, she was 15.85 metres (52 feet for you old buccaneers) and carried something in the order of 35 horses to spring yourself back into the berth at Southport Yacht Club without too much embarrassment.
She took around 40 passengers, who boarded sober and disembarked decidedly wobbly. The vessel was fitted with an explosive cannon that we’d stuff with gunpowder and wads of toilet paper (luckily it was long before Covid) before firing at the other vessels in the tourism flotilla making their way to Tipplers for lunch.
In those days Tipplers was buzzing with parasailing, aeroplane rides, jet ski hire, banana boats and even a floating helicopter platform for scenic flights over the coast.
For a young bloke fresh off the boat from New Zealand, it was an absolute blast. I was living at Yachting Towers (party central) which overlooked the yacht club, so I didn’t even need a car. Life, as they say, was good.
I do remember one afternoon when a summer storm came out of nowhere, one of those mini tornadoes the coast occasionally produces without warning or apology.
The wife-to-be was up at Movie World with a van full of Japanese tourists, which was her job, as a Japanese-speaking tour guide. She wasn’t abducting them. She ended up sheltering under a bridge, which turned out to be the smart call, saving the HiAce from hail damage.
The rest of us weren’t so lucky, with most of the flotilla getting caught out around Sovereign Islands when the storm dropped down from Coomera. I had only the jib out, which turned out to be just enough sail to cause serious trouble.
The wind laid us over, screaming in from the west, and for a moment things got genuinely interesting. I grabbed a knife, cut the sheet, spilled the air from the sail and motored her head to wind. With 35 horses galloping harder than they’d ever had in their lives, she steadied. I breathed.
And then, almost immediately, it came at us from the east. Once again I squeezed every last inch out of that little engine and went head to wind again, holding her steady. As quickly as it had arrived, it was over.
The storm moved on, the water flattened, and I looked around to find most of the tourist fleet sitting on the mudbanks, being towed out by speedboats. We limped back to the Sundale Bridge dock, put the passengers ashore, and I went home to Yachting Towers and poured a very large drink.
Fast forward to a few months ago, when I spotted my beautiful old friend hauled up onto the hardstand at The Boat Works in Coomera, dragged ashore like a harpooned whale.
She’s the centrepiece of the Kokomo Kitchen and Bar now, which I have to admit suits her rather well. She was always good at setting a scene, and a fictional tropical island getaway is very much in her wheelhouse. I think the Beach Boys would approve.
Something had to be done with her eventually, and at least this way she’s still telling stories, even if they’re someone else’s now. But there’s something quietly melancholy about standing there with a cold drink in your hand, looking at her weathered hull slowly returning to the earth, while your own salad days do much the same. She was a good ship. I was lucky to command her.
Images: Contributed & Kyle Barnes
