I pulled on my gloves and mask, made sure the plexiglass wasn’t fogging, and then walked out into the gently lapping waves. I towed a surfboard behind me. Supplied by the AFL, it was no ordinary board but one equipped with a high-thrust engine that would push me through the water at close to twenty klicks. A fuel tank served as its keel. If we were picked up by radar, our low profile, lying flat against the ocean’s surface, would fool the Azzies into thinking we were some sort of marine mammal. The thrusters that powered the surfboards wouldn’t leave much of a heat signature, either.