In 1990, I was 24 and well on my way to enjoying a career as an actor. I’d joined a local band on Sydney’s northern beaches, and we played gigs most weekends up and down the New South Wales coast.

At the time, it felt like Ali was omnipresent as the cover girl queen of Dolly, Cleo and Cosmo magazines. It seemed liked every newsagent had a poster out the front with her megawatt smile and sparkling eyes. One day, while I was at those magazine publishing offices for a photoshoot, I walked by her latest cover on the wall and commented on her beauty.

“Have you met her,” asked the photographer I was with. “Nah,” I said, in a trying-to-be-cool kind of way. “Do you want to?” My attempt at cool instantly evaporated as I blurted, “Of course!”

A week later, after cancelling a gig to be there, Ali and I (surrounded by three bandmates who also wanted to meet her) were being introduced in a nightclub. I was instantly struck by her sparkling aura; she confessed she’d had couple of vodka tonics. We chatted for an hour and I promised to call her the next day – which I did. I don’t think we spent many days apart after that.

She was kind, her humour was whip fast, and as much as I enjoyed laughing with her, what I loved most was the sound of her laugh.

After a month of dating I invited Ali on a road trip to my favourite hideaway, Yamba. It’s a not-so-secret place nowadays, but back then it was a quiet fishing town with access to excellent surf breaks and fibro cottages for rent. We would celebrate her 21st birthday there.

Yamba was at her sparkling best and we’d spent an afternoon on my boat, fishing on the Clarence River, when the breeze began to freshen, taking the heat out of the day. We headed home, crossing back over the channel and past the old oyster beds when the boat ramp came into view in the late afternoon sun.

We were travelling fairly fast and it was difficult to read the wind’s direction; one thing was sure, it was blowing hard enough to whip up chop, which always made the task of getting the boat back on to the trailer troublesome.

As we drew closer, we felt the full brunt of the breeze on our backs. One question burned my brain: how are we going to do this?

The plan was to hop out in shallows, and Ali would hold the boat – my 18ft wooden Riviera-style cruiser, a heavy beast – off the ramp while I retrieved the car and backed the trailer down the ramp (a challenge for my dyslexic brain). The wooden hull never liked the scraping on an unforgiving concrete ramp so I had to move fast.

So far, so good. Ali was waist-deep in water clutching the bowline and gave me an assuring look that she could do her part. After a couple of false starts and with more luck than skill, I was able to swing the trailer down the ramp – but Ali was no longer where I left her. The relentless chop and breeze had pushed her a few boat-lengths away from the ramp and she was fighting hard to keep the boat off the rocky shore.

She had naively but bravely put herself between the boat and the shore which would have given even the hardest of men fits. Her slight frame was thumped by the hull as each wave crashed into its opposite side. The look of relief (or was it WTF?!) she gave me as I appeared, I’ll never forget.

We dragged the boat into deeper water and swung the stern around. Using the last of our strength I fought to keep the hull straight while Ali attached the winch-line and began hand-winding the boat on to the trailer.

We howled with delight as the old girl ground into the trailer’s cradle where the wind and chop could no longer have their wicked way. Twenty minutes after landing, we miraculously drove up the ramp, boat secure, and into the twilight. Exhausted.

Later at our accommodation, Ali was exiting a hot shower when I caught sight of her naked hip and back – it looked like a hot mess of purple and red welts!

“Have you seen your back?” I exclaimed. “When did you get those?”

“Holding your boat off the ramp. You’re welcome,” she said, as she continued to dry herself. Not a word of complaint, not a scratch on the boat, but Ali’s actions that afternoon that helped me understand that this gorgeously funny, brave and resilient woman was my person.

And yet, the truth about falling in love with Ali isn’t really about a moment, it’s about a lifetime. And what a lifetime; it’s included 25 years living in Los Angeles, and raising three incredible humans who make us so proud. We’ve weathered storms, but we’ve also shared victories, an ever-deepening friendship and wonderfully simple moments of love.

After almost 33 years of marriage, I am so grateful and fortunate to walk with Ali. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. And her laugh is still one of the most pleasing things I know.