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The Premier was to arrive at the Snapper Inn at 1 pm. The upstairs dining room was full of an invited crowd of local traders, having a few drinks before sitting down. I went outside to wait on the footpath.

The big white LTD pulled up. I stepped forward to greet Wran, and saw that the car contained only his driver.

I opened the door:

"Where is the Premier?" I asked, puzzled.

"He decided at the last minute to come over on the hydrofoil," the driver replied.

Remembering the fears about the security when the hydrofoil had been suggested on the previous occasion, I rapidly set off on foot towards the wharf. I soon encountered Wran and Brian Dale, strolling unperturbed along the Corso plaza.  

Wran's hair was windblown and he was grinning. For the moment, he was the Balmain Boy out for some fun.  

"I had a drive of the bloody thing," he chuckled, "gee it goes fast!"

The wily skipper had  urged him to think about replacing the hydrofoils, some of which were nearing the end of their economic life.

"I think we should get another one straight away," Wran told me as we approached the restaurant, "it will make up for the delay with the "Freshwater".

"But where would we get it?" I queried, thinking that a hydrofoil might be just as long as coming as the

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