Following is a transcript of my recent press conference. In the interests of time, I thought I might let it stand in for a blog entry.
Susan: Welcome. I guess we all know why we’re here. Interest in our life, Bob’s and mine, has swelled to unmanageable proportions, lately, and I felt the need to address some questions and perhaps clarify some misconceptions. Let’s get right to it. Yes-- (she points at the cutest male reporter in the room).
(Cute reporter): Do you think you’ll ever get that boat done?
Susan: This is the question we’re asked nearly every day, by folks at the grocery store, people touring the boatyard, even strangers on the street. We get bags full of mail weekly, and every one of them is full of letters and postcards with nothing on them but this question.
(Cute reporter): Well…?
Susan: The assumption under which we operate is that we will get the boat done. We do not know when. My latest personal assessment is that it will be finished in the Spring. Bob thinks we can finish it sooner, but between you and me, he is not known for his ability to estimate how long stuff is going to take. Yes. (she points to another reporter)
He: You say the boat will be finished “in the Spring.” Would that be this coming Spring, or the Spring of 2012?
Susan: I’m going to ignore that.
Female Reporter: Didn’t you say, at your last press conference, that the boat would be finished by Christmas? (Simultaneous shouted question) Is it true that you told your neighbor, who lives in the trailer nearest you, to shoot you if you were still there in November?
Susan: One at a time, please! I may have said something to the effect that we would be finished by Christmas. As far as the neighbor thing, I was reminded of that a couple of weeks ago. But he’s out of town right now, and anyway, it’s still October.
Reporter: Is this the hardest thing you've ever done?
Susan: No.
Reporter: Is it the hardest thing you’ve ever done that you don’t feel you can complain about?
Susan: Absolutely. Our life today is in many ways the result of our choices. Therefore complaining about it is awkward, at best.
Reporter: Is the condition of the boat your choice?
Susan: No, as a matter of fact, it’s not. When we bought the boat, we had no idea that there was ANY wet wood or delamination (fiberglass separated from its wood core). We paid a lot of money for an expert to examine the boat very carefully. He photographed the boat with something called infra-ray thermography, which turns out to be a great tool for discovering rot on boats if you know how to use it. He apparently didn’t know how to use it. We discovered a soft spot in the deck, which is the first indication of wet wood, about 6 months after we bought the boat. It’s pretty much been downhill since then.
Reporter: Can you describe the process you go through to fix the boat?
Susan: Yes, I can. Simply put, the decks of the boat are like a fiberglass sandwich, with fiberglass being the bread. We remove the top layer of fiberglass, take out the rotten wood that is in there, replace it with new wood and close it back up again.
Reporter: That sounds like a pretty simple process. How come it’s taking you so long?
Susan: What if I tell you that it involves about 25 different tools and 7 different
materials to do what I made sound so simple? Also, we cut the decks in about 2-foot
sections, and there are approximately 88 feet of decks. Plus cabin-top. Plus some interior walls that have had to be replaced, one of which included a corner that was the intersection of about 8 different angles. In a way, we are completely rebuilding this boat, in the midst of its own continuing deterioration. It feels like ¾ of a step forward, ½ a step backwards every day.
(Cute reporter): Do you think you’ll ever get that boat done?
Susan: This is the question we’re asked nearly every day, by folks at the grocery store, people touring the boatyard, even strangers on the street. We get bags full of mail weekly, and every one of them is full of letters and postcards with nothing on them but this question.
(Cute reporter): Well…?
Susan: The assumption under which we operate is that we will get the boat done. We do not know when. My latest personal assessment is that it will be finished in the Spring. Bob thinks we can finish it sooner, but between you and me, he is not known for his ability to estimate how long stuff is going to take. Yes. (she points to another reporter)
He: You say the boat will be finished “in the Spring.” Would that be this coming Spring, or the Spring of 2012?
Susan: I’m going to ignore that.
Female Reporter: Didn’t you say, at your last press conference, that the boat would be finished by Christmas? (Simultaneous shouted question) Is it true that you told your neighbor, who lives in the trailer nearest you, to shoot you if you were still there in November?
Susan: One at a time, please! I may have said something to the effect that we would be finished by Christmas. As far as the neighbor thing, I was reminded of that a couple of weeks ago. But he’s out of town right now, and anyway, it’s still October.
Reporter: Is this the hardest thing you've ever done?
Susan: No.
Reporter: Is it the hardest thing you’ve ever done that you don’t feel you can complain about?
Susan: Absolutely. Our life today is in many ways the result of our choices. Therefore complaining about it is awkward, at best.
Reporter: Is the condition of the boat your choice?
Susan: No, as a matter of fact, it’s not. When we bought the boat, we had no idea that there was ANY wet wood or delamination (fiberglass separated from its wood core). We paid a lot of money for an expert to examine the boat very carefully. He photographed the boat with something called infra-ray thermography, which turns out to be a great tool for discovering rot on boats if you know how to use it. He apparently didn’t know how to use it. We discovered a soft spot in the deck, which is the first indication of wet wood, about 6 months after we bought the boat. It’s pretty much been downhill since then.
Reporter: Can you describe the process you go through to fix the boat?
Susan: Yes, I can. Simply put, the decks of the boat are like a fiberglass sandwich, with fiberglass being the bread. We remove the top layer of fiberglass, take out the rotten wood that is in there, replace it with new wood and close it back up again.
Reporter: That sounds like a pretty simple process. How come it’s taking you so long?
Susan: What if I tell you that it involves about 25 different tools and 7 different
materials to do what I made sound so simple? Also, we cut the decks in about 2-foot
sections, and there are approximately 88 feet of decks. Plus cabin-top. Plus some interior walls that have had to be replaced, one of which included a corner that was the intersection of about 8 different angles. In a way, we are completely rebuilding this boat, in the midst of its own continuing deterioration. It feels like ¾ of a step forward, ½ a step backwards every day.
Reporter: Do you find it embarrassing that you’re still working on the boat?
Susan: Yes, in a way, I do. We never thought it would take this long, and it’s very hard to explain it or justify it. On the other hand, the boatyard is full of boats that people planned to “fix up”. For the most part, those boats end up abandoned. Even if we give up one day, I’m proud of us for persevering this long.
Another Reporter: Do you see "the light at the end of the tunnel"?
Susan: We thought we saw it a few times, but it turns out it was just the reflection of our worklight on the little mirror we use to dig out wet wood from places you can’t see straight on.
Reporter: Do you ever feel like quitting?
Susan: Just about every day.
Reporter: If you had known how long it was going to take, would you still have started this process?
Susan: The answer to that question isn’t easy. Of course if we’d known the condition of the boat, originally, we would not have bought it. But owning the boat as we do, we would have had to put up with leaking portholes, ceilings, trim, and the decks getting more and more unsafe—not for simply walking on, but for taking the stress of sailing. As time went on, the condition and value of the boat would have continued to deteriorate. But still, I think there’s a chance we would have been able to learn to live with all that. It’s hard to say. We’ve had to learn to look at this huge delay in our plans as part of life—by that I mean be happy, despite the fact that we’re living in this nasty old trailer, and working our butts off every day purely as the result of some negligent actions on the part of the surveyor and the original owner, and some mistakes of our own as well. Such is life, right? The trick has been to not look at it like “the adventure begins the day we put the boat in the water,” but more like “the adventure begins today.”
Reporter: Does every day feel like an adventure then?
Susan: No. But most days do. We’ve walked off the edge of a cliff. Even the falling is an adventure. (There is silence in the room)
Reporter: Care to finish that metaphor?
Susan: Just a little cliff. Just sliding down a short slope. A nice green lawn at the bottom. Hopefully we won’t have to mow it.
Reporter: Have you ever thought of mailing a bag of wet wood to the guy who surveyed your boat?
Susan: Why yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I haven’t done it yet, but I might. I would mail a similar bag to the previous owner, who did some very clever painting and staining on the interior of the boat, or we would have been able to see there were water intrusion problems. It’s too bad we aren’t all playing by the same rules. Bob and I would not be able to hide or lie about the condition of something we were going to sell. We’re in line for tickets to the world where nobody does that kind of thing.
Reporter: Can you update us on your friend who needed a kidney transplant?
Susan: Yes. She still needs one. Call me or e-mail me if you’re even the smallest bit interested in donating, and I can give you a contact name at The University of Pennsylvania. Or go online yourself at www.pennmedicine.org/transplant, for info, then email stephanie.neal@uphs.upenn.edu.
Reporter: Is it true that you don’t actually like sailing?
Susan: I’m sorry, I see that we’re out of time! Thank you all for coming, and be sure to pick up copies of the photos I’ve supplied.
Susan: Yes, in a way, I do. We never thought it would take this long, and it’s very hard to explain it or justify it. On the other hand, the boatyard is full of boats that people planned to “fix up”. For the most part, those boats end up abandoned. Even if we give up one day, I’m proud of us for persevering this long.
Another Reporter: Do you see "the light at the end of the tunnel"?
Susan: We thought we saw it a few times, but it turns out it was just the reflection of our worklight on the little mirror we use to dig out wet wood from places you can’t see straight on.
Reporter: Do you ever feel like quitting?
Susan: Just about every day.
Reporter: If you had known how long it was going to take, would you still have started this process?
Susan: The answer to that question isn’t easy. Of course if we’d known the condition of the boat, originally, we would not have bought it. But owning the boat as we do, we would have had to put up with leaking portholes, ceilings, trim, and the decks getting more and more unsafe—not for simply walking on, but for taking the stress of sailing. As time went on, the condition and value of the boat would have continued to deteriorate. But still, I think there’s a chance we would have been able to learn to live with all that. It’s hard to say. We’ve had to learn to look at this huge delay in our plans as part of life—by that I mean be happy, despite the fact that we’re living in this nasty old trailer, and working our butts off every day purely as the result of some negligent actions on the part of the surveyor and the original owner, and some mistakes of our own as well. Such is life, right? The trick has been to not look at it like “the adventure begins the day we put the boat in the water,” but more like “the adventure begins today.”
Reporter: Does every day feel like an adventure then?
Susan: No. But most days do. We’ve walked off the edge of a cliff. Even the falling is an adventure. (There is silence in the room)
Reporter: Care to finish that metaphor?
Susan: Just a little cliff. Just sliding down a short slope. A nice green lawn at the bottom. Hopefully we won’t have to mow it.
Reporter: Have you ever thought of mailing a bag of wet wood to the guy who surveyed your boat?
Susan: Why yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I haven’t done it yet, but I might. I would mail a similar bag to the previous owner, who did some very clever painting and staining on the interior of the boat, or we would have been able to see there were water intrusion problems. It’s too bad we aren’t all playing by the same rules. Bob and I would not be able to hide or lie about the condition of something we were going to sell. We’re in line for tickets to the world where nobody does that kind of thing.
Reporter: Can you update us on your friend who needed a kidney transplant?
Susan: Yes. She still needs one. Call me or e-mail me if you’re even the smallest bit interested in donating, and I can give you a contact name at The University of Pennsylvania. Or go online yourself at www.pennmedicine.org/transplant, for info, then email stephanie.neal@uphs.upenn.edu.
Reporter: Is it true that you don’t actually like sailing?
Susan: I’m sorry, I see that we’re out of time! Thank you all for coming, and be sure to pick up copies of the photos I’ve supplied.
Above: "Before": One little cupboard, with stainless steel pieces that support the mast.
And the same cupboard, today. What doesn't show in the photo, and is clearly not yet "finished," is the stuff in the lower corner, pictured below. I have no idea what it is. Ach.
