Martin*

Martin is a boat builder. He probably wouldn’t tell you that though, you’d have to prompt him. 

I caught up with Martin when he and his girlfriend (my friend) travelled to Sydney to attend their friend’s engagement. A fair effort travelling interstate I reckon, and I’m sure in the minds of the betrothed it will be a memory that lingers.

They sit opposite me in a cafe in Newtown. It's warm and cozy. They are completely at ease with one another and appear very content in an understated kind of way. It always gives me a buzz inside knowing that a friend has found happiness. When the planets align and good people in the universe it's just a wonderful thing.                                                                                                                                                 

This is only the second time I’ve met Martin. The first was at my going away drinks before heading to Sydney. An awesome night but one of those gigs where you feel like you’ve had a half-arsed chat with someone rather than a good conversation. This second encounter is the moment. 

We talk about Martin. Initially his eyes flicker from side to side, I’m not sure if he really likes talking about himself. It’s when we discuss his profession, boat building, that his eyes truly light up and focus on the questioner.  

I ask him how he entered the trade. He begins to sit up straight and regales us with childhood

memories. He’s always loved boats and everything about them. Tying knots in particular. Indeed, he has lovely hands (if that’s not too creepy an observation). They are slightly roughened, an indicator (I think) of someone who has an authentic passion for a job where limbs are required. 

Martin’s moment of clarity is something of a juxtaposition. He and his family were travelling on the highway, boat strapped to the rooftop, when the ties loosened and the boat fell away, smashing into a thousand pieces. It was shattering, literally. Possibly also subconsciously a metaphor for his dreams at the time. 

Not to be deterred, the family retrieved the shavings and provided them to a craftsman for repair  with incredible results. The man in question had done such a great job, you could barely tell where the cracks started and ended, a seamless finish. It was this brilliance that implanted a seed in Martin’s mind.

Flash forward a few years and a job opened up with another boat builder. After initial inquiries proved fruitless, he was advised to phone back the following day, a Friday. He did, but to no avail. Through sheer determination he phoned every Friday (at 12.30pm to be precise) for the next three months. The owner eventually gave in and offered him the job (just to stop the phone from ringing, as he later told Martin). Looking back, I’ve no doubt the owner would agree he’s received more than a fair return on his investment. Martin’s gaze is steady. There is a steely resolve about this humble, introverted man sitting opposite me. The outcome is testament to the power of will and what you can achieve if you put your mind to it. 

Boat builder. To be honest, boat builder sounds so bland and I don’t think it does the profession justice. I think bespoke craftsman is more apt. Apparently there is no such thing in the boating industry as a signature (as in the case of an artist who marks their work). Martin explains however, it’s not the signature but the style that is defining (I’m guessing in the same way you can tell a Gorman print without looking at the label, only better?). If his style is anything like his persona, then I’m guessing it’s of the unique, agile, reliable and solid type. Ultimately, one that never lets you down.  

Life is funny with its twists and turns. In the broader sense, perhaps Martin sailed in one direction for a period of time, before adjusting his course, finding his niche and more importantly, finding the gorgeous, intelligent companion sitting beside him. The boat may have fallen off the roof-rack but it set him on a remarkable journey.

*Not his real name.