Tampa Gold Pt. 05

Fremantle - 19 August 2001

When the only thing you have to worry about in life is how to move your gold, you can safely say that you have a first world problem. That is where my life was on that morning in late August 2001. All smooth sailing from here, I told myself. A few days on a ship, a Singapore Sling at Raffles, and another trip home. How wrong I was.

I'd picked up my ticket and itinerary the afternoon before from my helpful travel agent. I was grateful for the help she'd given me solving my predicament of how to travel home with my gold. It was only later that I discovered she had given me a bum steer. It turned out that there were plenty of ships departing Fremantle for the east coast that winter and even a delay of a few days would have seen me back home in less than half the time it eventually took. But she wasn't to know. The world was not yet at your fingertips in 2001 and everyone was reliant on schedules published months in advance, if published at all.

I had little time to prepare for my voyage-a few hours at most-between when the shops closed that afternoon and opened the next morning and boarding the Tampa the next day. Other than snacks and a couple of books, I had the sense to stop by the chemist to pick up 35mm film while I was buying sea sickness tablets. They turned out to be the most important buys of my life so far.

Now fully provisioned, I only had two more issues to resolve: picking up my gold and getting to the boat. The gold was simple enough. After a quick phone call to the Mint, they found a time for me to come by, sign the paperwork, and take possession of my fortune. They gave me no strange looks or words of warning as I took my gold other than the official script that boiled down to, "it is now your problem."

Of course, like my drive to Perth, it is not until I put a plan into action that the reality of it often dawns upon me. 25kg of precious metal now weighed down my bag and the thought that so much of my hard-earned effort, concentrated in such a small package, caused my heart to flutter. I was now on my own with thousands of dollars in metal in a world who might rob and kill me if only they knew.

Fortunately, the Mint had seen people like me come and go before. Because of the weight of my bullion, the Mint staff had done me the courtesy of arranging private, on-site parking for my visit. That way, I could load up my car without being seen or robbed.

With that done, my last problem was getting on the boat on time. I had plenty of time and could have taken a taxi or even public transport, but sentimentality meant there was only one option. I drove out of the Mint's gates, pointed my pocket panzer at Fremantle and set off for my appointment with destiny.

My BMW was twenty years old by that point and it showed. The paint was chipping; the seats worn and the holes in the muffler made it sound like a garbage truck. But still I was sad that I had to see it go. I had had a lot of firsts in the Beemer: it was my first car; we had crossed the continent together and in it I'd had my first awkward car sex.

It had been with Alison two years earlier on top of Red Hill in Canberra. She'd insisted that we go somewhere one evening after a date and I drove her to the top of that lookout over the city. She jumped me in the car, first with a head job, then stripping and straddling me in the driver's seat. It was hot and hilarious as she ground herself into me, but she had to bend and twist continuously to avoid the ceiling and the steering wheel. She tooted the horn with her arse more times than I cared to count.

When we finished and her juices and my cum were pouring out of her on to me, rather than risk a cramp or tearing a muscle, she climbed out of the driver's side door. Skipping around to the passenger side, she paused in the lamplight and starred at me, taking in her shadowy silhouette. I flicked on the parking lights, illuminating her fully. She smiled a cheeky grin at me, spun around, and took a bow before strutting back to the passenger seat and hopping in. She insisted we drive back to my place naked, giggling while leaking our love into the seat all the way home. I hadn't thought of that moment until then and felt that stab of pain once again. How had it all gone wrong?

The drive back to the Fremantle was uneventful, though sticking to the speed limit religiously to not tempt the police is harder than you might think. But it still took me well under an hour, so I had plenty of time to find the Tampa's wharf on the northern head of the Swan River and then a place to park.

The north head was Freo's main container facility, with various stevedoring companies and large cranes dominating the landscape. As the road ended, the freight facilities gave way to smaller businesses that either specialised in charters, boat repairs or fishing. At the very end of the middle mole, I found a large carpark that was near a pier that seemed to be some kind of ferry service to a local island and pulled in.

I thought that it would be as good a place as any, so I got out and stretched my back and looked around. The car park was large but, even at this time of day, still only half full. I guessed that, being so far from everything, it either never filled up or they built it for weekend surges. Not that it really mattered to me. I was never coming back here. And this was where my car and I would finally say our farewells.

I did a last check inside for anything valuable or incriminating. Happy that there was nothing, I checked around again for patrols or witnesses. Surveillance cameras linked to the internet and facial recognition were still years away. I pulled my bags out of the boot and closed it. Taking the keys from the ignition, I dropped them to the floor and closed the door. My guess was that within a week someone would steal or tow it, then some lucky West Australian would have themselves a free car.

I was about to walk away and not look back, but sentimentality caused me to stop. Turning, I took one last look at my old Beemer and thought about how faithfully it had served me and all the times we'd had together. Without a second thought, I reached into my bag and pulled out my camera, and took a photo to remember her. Who knew, one day it might make a story.

The ferry carpark was a short walk to the docks via the security gate on North Quay Road. It was short, but it wasn't easy. Weighed down with two wheel-less bags weighing almost 25kg each, I had to stop multiple times in that one-kilometre trek to rest before my shoulders gave out. I was young and strong, but there was something about swinging loads and movement that takes a toll.

I was happy when I reached the terminal's gate and could at least rest. It didn't even bother me that the guard seemed to have no clue why a person would walk onto a commercial wharf with two suitcases and expect to board a ship for Singapore. He tried to convince me I should be at the ocean liner terminal some way away. He might have had me persuaded if it had not been that I could see the massive bulk of the Merchant Vessel Tampa moored not 50m behind him.

And what a sight she was. At more than 250m in length and 12 decks high, an almost entirely white superstructure topped her red hull. Stacked high with containers and bound for Singapore, the Tampa was to be my home on water for the next week, or so I thought.

The Tampa was a so-called Co-Ro ship; Ro-Ro was an abbreviation of roll-on/roll off. Co-Ro was an abbreviation for container and Ro-Ro. These types of ships were cargo ships designed to carry wheeled cargo, such as cars, motorcycles, trucks, semi-trailer trucks, buses, trailers and railroad cars that were driven on and off the ship on their own wheels or using a platform vehicle, such as a self-propelled modular transporter. But they also loaded the upper decks of the Tampa with shipping containers that voyage too. I can tell you that much was true, and I have the pictures to prove it.

After arguing with the guard for ten minutes, I finally convinced him to call his supervisor. Eventually a man appeared with a little electric truck and wondered into the gatehouse while paying me only the most perfunctory of notice. He spoke to the guard, who did his best to ignore me while he spoke and rocked back on his seat as far as he could. Eventually, the supervisor emerged and asked me my name and for my paperwork. He glanced at my documents and told me to load my bags on the truck. He whisked me off to an office without saying another word.

In the office, I met a customs official who stared at me for too long while comparing me to my passport photo. Without a word or a sideways glance at my luggage, he stamped my passport and sent me on my way. I know these people were not entirely representative of Australia's border security in 2001, but if so, we were in trouble.

A radio call later and my luggage and I were back on the truck and sped away to the Tampa. The supervisor directed me to the gangway and told me that someone would meet me at the top. He made another radio call and stood there and watched me, after a fashion.

I don't know if he had to supervise me to make sure I got on the right ship or in case I fell, but I think he was just bored and had decided to vague out for a few minutes in the hope his day would end quicker.

But he probably got plenty of amusement watching me climb those stairs, though. 25kg in each arm on a swinging gantry climbing higher and higher with every shaking step. I don't know if I was terrified or incensed by the time I got to the top. And even though it was winter, I estimate I lost a kilo in weight that morning between my walk and climb up the side of the Tampa.

Once again, I wondered if I had made another monumental mistake in signing up for this round the world adventure to avoid driving home. But when I finally reached the top and saw her for the first time, all that fear, anger and doubt left me. There she was in gleaming white, Anna Bergman. Or as I would soon come to know her, Anna the Iceberg.