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could think of a hundred better uses for the departmental launch than ferrying freeloading pollies around Seal Rocks.
    â€˜Listen here,’ said Wilson. ‘This could be a very good opportunity to get a first-hand perspective on some of the issues being examined by our panel. What say we come along?’
    Sutherland shook his head. ‘No can do. Due respect, Mr Wilson, fisheries enforcement isn’t a spectator sport.’
    â€˜Not spectators,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Official observers.’
    Sutherland rubbed the back of his neck, not quite sure how to deal with Wilson’s persistence.
    â€˜I’ll make sure your superiors are made aware of your cooperation,’ Wilson continued. Or the opposite, the implication was clear. ‘We won’t get in your way, I assure you.’ He looked to Bunting and me to back him up. ‘Isn’t that right?’
    Alan Bunting started to unfasten his life-jacket. ‘I’m not sure about this, Dudley. There’s probably regulations or something.’
    â€˜Suit yourself,’ said Wilson. ‘What about you, Whelan?’
    As much as I disliked being co-opted by Wilson, I had to agree that reconnoitring abalone poachers sounded a lot more interesting than gawking at seals.
    â€˜Your decision,’ Sutherland jumped aboard. ‘But we haven’t got all day.’
    Wilson boarded. Bunting hesitated, then joined him. Me too. Sutherland took the console while the deck hand cast off the lines. Three minutes later, we were motoring down the main channel. When we cleared the sandbanks, Sutherland opened the throttle, veered east and let rip. The bow slapped the waves, raising plumes of spray.
    We ran parallel to the shore, a kilometre or so out from a line of ragged cliffs and blunt headlands. The shelter of Westernport Bay lay behind us now. This was Bass Strait, a notorious stretch of water. Come a change of weather, it would rear up and throw huge waves against the coast, smashing a craft like ours to matchwood.
    My innards were churning, rising and falling with the motion of the boat. Bunting, too, had gone a little green around the gills. Wilson was loving it. He stood at the stern, eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. Captain Pugwash rides again. When spray swept his face, he wore it like a complimentary spritz of Old Spice.
    Once we were well under way, the deckie took the helm and Sutherland joined us for a proper round of introductions. He might not have been happy about running a passenger service, but he had enough professional sense not to waste an opportunity.
    â€˜One of the last viable abalone habitats in the world,’ he declared, sweeping his arm along the line of coves and cliffs, his voice raised above the thrum of the engine. ‘Shallow-water reefs, plenty of wave action. The abalone feed on specks of pulverised kelp.’
    Wilson didn’t want a natural history lesson. ‘Tell us about these poachers,’ he said.
    â€˜If that’s what they are,’ said Sutherland. ‘Shore-based, most poaching. Less conspicuous that way. All you need’s a snorkel and a lever to prise the buggers off the rocks. But our tip-off says these guys are diving off a boat, using breathing apparatus. Could be recreational, looking for an old wreck or something, forgot to hoist their blue-and-white. Could be not so innocent. Weather like this, chance to work a reef you can’t get to from the land. Harvest as many abs as possible, take off before they’re noticed.’
    The wind bit through my pants and the sleeves of my sweatshirt. My stomach churned. An endless swell rippled towards us from the horizon and sludgy clouds were advancing from the west. The sky was the colour of a dirty sheep. I took deep, regular breaths and considered moving down into the cabin. Pride got the better of me. I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of Dudley Wilson.
    â€˜Lot of abalone poaching, is there?’ I