I found the Little Creatures brewery on Mews Road, facing the harbor where Australia won their first America’s Cup race. Blue skies and a gentle breeze filled felt good on a hot Australian day. I had been in Freemantle for two days, and had two days left before flying out to my first rig. Knowing that I couldn’t have any alcohol in my system to board the helicopter that would fly me out into the Indian Ocean off the western Australian coast, I decided I should enjoy one last beer before heading out to sea.

Finding a table on the outdoor patio, facing the sea, I ordered a pint and sat by myself, a stranger in a strange land. I overheard two local chatting about this and that. I knew they were locals because of their distinct ‘aussie’ accent. I listened for a bit, and then walked to the bar to order a second beer. On the way back to my table, I nodded to them and said hello.

“Hello mate.” One of the guys answered. Welcome to Freemantle.”

“Mind if I join you? I don’t know anyone here.” I asked.

“Come on over. We don’t get a lot of seppos here.”

I joined them for a beer or two. We had a great time making conversation about America, Western Australia and beer. More than once, I heard both guys refer to me as a seppo. I had no idea what they meant, but it didn’t bother me a bit – possibly because of the three beers – so I let it go. I was enjoying my last days in Freo. Two days later, I boarded a plane to the northern coast of Western Australia, followed by a helicopter, which took me out to the drilling rig, somewhere off Barrow Island.

The rig was my home for the next two weeks. Although I worked with many locals, I never asked what a seppo was or if I should be insulted by the term. A fortnight later, I left the rig the same way I got there; a helicopter ride to Barrow, a plane ride to Perth, and a taxi back to Freemantle. I was in my hotel by early afternoon. Time to head out to Little Creatures.

I found the brewery and ordered another beer. My two friends from my last time there were not around. I did find, however, three other locals sitting at a table outside. Once again, I took my beer outside, said hello, and asked to join them. Once again, they let me join.

“I was here a couple of week ago, sitting at this very table, talking with a couple of locals. They called me a seppo. Not once, but several times.”

One of the guys spoke up. “Well mate, that’s ‘cause you are a seppo.”

The other two guys laughed. I laughed with them, not knowing if I should be laughing or leaving.

“I’m pretty thick skinned.” I said. “I won’t be mad if you tell me what it means.”

Dave, the first one to talk, gave me a lesson on Australian vernacular.

“It’s like this mate. We call you a seppo ‘cause it rhymes with Yank.”

I was dumbfounded. “How does seppo rhyme with Yank?” I inquired.

“Dave responded. “Seppo is short for septic tank, which rhymes with Yank. And we call Americans that ‘cause you’re all full of shit.”

They waited for a response. I held up my glass and laughed, even harder.

“It’s not just you, mate.” Mike, one of the others added. “It’s all Americans. It goes back to World War II.”

“I’m not offended. In fact, I know several seppos back home.”

Four days later, after exploring much of the Freemantle and Perth area, I boarded a plane for Malaysia and a new rig. I was a proud seppo in a strange land.