Sea Dog   Out on the Harbour in the wooden yacht without a sail Heathcliff, the little black dog in his flotation-jacket, balances on the prow, John-Howard eyebrows scan the horizon like sensors, nose uplifted, snuffing the breeze, a captain searching for landfall. You’d almost expect to hand him a telescope.   We anchor offshore from a sandy bay— the water’s fine, and passing monoliths wave a greeting, foreshores as thickly wooded as a Glover painting, except for Darling Harbour. Take your last look at Barangaroo, before the casino’s phallic projection, burgeoning in metal, marks another dispossession, high-rollers blowing smoke-screens.…