I'd just dropped off my girlfriend at Dunwich, spending the last half hour leaning on the rails of the jetty waiting for the water taxi which would take me back to the mainland.

I'd watched as a broad-beamed, white bay cruiser edged towards the mooring, its owner, big-bellied and red-faced, leaning out of the wheelhouse as his wife stood ready at the stern to make it secure against the dock. "Lucky bugger," I thought as I peered down into the interior of the comfortable cabin. "I could live on that."

Around me the crowd shuffled, Eskies, fishing rods, surfboards and sleeping bags littering the dock, sunburnt faces hidden behind dark glasses.

My girlfriend's parents had collected her from Dunwich and taken her back to their rented accommodation at Point Lookout. "Why don't you come over for just one drink?" her mother had suggested.

"If I did, you'd be stuck with me forever. I'd refuse to leave," I said and she smiled and drove off.

So I waited for the water taxi to take me back and looked out across Moreton Bay and felt one of life's moments.

All across the bay, the water was laced with the wakes of boats of all shapes, yachts making the most of the stiffening breeze while powerboats dashed and cruisers rolled comfortably with the swell.

"Lotto," I thought. "Surely to God this year it will be my turn to win Lotto and if I do, I'll buy one of those," I thought as a 15m cruiser idled past the dock, its progress marked by the muted burble of its twin diesels. Then, just for a moment, I imagined myself sitting behind the wheel on its flybridge, hand resting on the big chrome throttle controls.

"Another lucky bugger," I huffed. "How can there be so many of them in southeast Queensland?"

The water taxi arrived and its skipper nudged it gently against the dock with a last-second roar of reversed engines. Its passengers tumbled ashore, laden with backpacks and clutter and searching for the bus that would take them to Point Lookout and its white sand beaches, cliff top outlooks and the roar of the surf as it thundered into rock-filled gorges.

I climbed aboard the water taxi and grabbed a seat in the exposed bow section. We were a metre from the dock and about to power out into the main channel when a cry of "One more!" echoed from within and the skipper edged back into the dock to pick up the straggler. "Thanks mate," he yelled as he jumped aboard.

"That was a nice touch," I thought, grateful that there were still people like the water taxi skipper who cherished the fast disappearing Australian principle of "doing the right thing".

The engines' note deepened and the bow rose as we accelerated away from the island and began to follow the arcing course that would carry us back to Cleveland.

"I was meant to live on the water," I thought as I tasted the salt spray on my lips and I looked out across the blue and green expanse of the bay.

I thought back to the days a lifetime ago when I'd spent most weekends at Point Lookout, living with my family in a rented shack without power or running water and loving it.

Only the true believers went to "Straddy" back then, the surfers, campers, fishermen and those few people with the foresight and resources to buy or build what we then quaintly referred to as "beach houses" - weatherboard homes sparsely equipped with second-hand furniture but with enough beds and cots to sleep a dozen.

It was after 4pm now and the sun's blaze was beginning to die, the air temperature easing a few degrees, the slight edge on the wind bouncing across the boats bow signalling the imminence of dusk.

The ferry and water taxi complex were visible now, the boat's speed slowing as the skipper navigated his way towards the terminal, gliding past the mangroves and the mudflats as passengers hauled on packstraps and gathered belongings.

It was all over too fast. If I'd been able, I would have done the return trip again, content in the motion of the boat and the beauty of the bay and enjoying the sun's last few hours.

We live in a lucky country. We all know it but oft times overlook our good fortune. Occasionally, however, you have one of these moments in life and regain your perspective. I'm not giving up on Lotto and if I win, I'm going to buy the big boat and drive it past the water taxi and grin while its passengers point at me and mutter "lucky bugger".