A photo tour of Trio

View to the left (East)

View to the right (West)--bridge to Holden Beach in background

View across the waterway

Across the waterway as well

The dock from our boat, the ramp, the million-dollar boat that just sits...

Half of the travel-lift, the thing that puts the boats in the water. Or takes them out.

More boats, in various stages of repair or neglect. Each one has a story.

Our deck, travel lift in background.

The view from our companionway-- the main entrance to the boat. Our barbecue is on the right. Binnacle (with steering wheel, compass etc.) is in the center.

A corner of the cockpit. The round porthole on the right opens into the galley.

My beloved plants, also in the cockpit. There is a large ledge on either side of the companionway, looking toward the bow. This is one of them.

Looking down into the salon from the companionway.

Galley on the left (port) side. Rudy worked hard in here, building in my tiny (big enough) toaster oven and microwave, new 3-burner propane stove and tiny (not really big enough) oven. But I'm not complaining! It's mine, it's clean, and it's not the trailer!!

Port side settee

Still port side-- the table opens to twice that size, and if we ever eat anywhere besides the cockpit, we might use it! Looks like I should be doing some inspired writing in this spot, doesn't it??

The door at the left goes to the forward V-berth. Sleeps two if it isn't filled with junk. Also at the left is the main (my) potty.

This is what's on the door to the V-berth. "Love many, trust few, do wrong to none."

This is what's behind that door (the V-berth). It's not usually this neat. I'm still trying to find places for everything that make sense. My clothes are in here, in a small hanging closet, and in some teeny tiny drawers.

If you were standing in that same doorway looking back toward the companionway and up those stairs at the center to the cockpit, this is what you'd see.

Now we're looking at the right (starboard) side settee. Don't ask me why it's called a settee. It's just a couch. And not a very comfortable one at that. But Rudy is sound asleep on it at the moment, so I guess it's comfortable enough!

Continuing up the starboard side, the navigation station, which will be neater in the future. It's opposite the galley. Now you have to duck down to go through "the troll passage," to the right, which contains, to port and starboard, the following two areas:

Ooh. This is where Rudy's tools have come to roost. Will have shelves, etc, in the future, and more stuff will probably end up here, but it will probably not get any neater.

The engine. Looks a little scary, works great. Knock on wood.

You emerge from the troll passage and can once again stand up straight in our lovely master berth. You can't see the nice closet to the left, the small bit of floor, or the master (Rudy's) potty to the right, but they're all there. A large opening hatch above our heads shows the night sky, and a porthole on each side lets the air flow all around us.

Cheerful guardians of the troll passage.

I just have to say...

I love writing this blog, and I love love love, all your emails in response. The last post (somewhat subtly named "Adventure") brought the most hilarious bunch of comments, and I really wish I had everyone's permission to publish them, because they're great. They even had a theme-- the vast majority of you wrote that you had lost control of some bodily function or other, while reading the post. Several of you lost control of more than one. Since the post was made possible by bodily functions, I found that amazingly appropriate and of course extremely funny. I am honored that you read my blog, and delighted to cause you to have to change your underwear.

Adventure

I thought you all would be amused, on this rainy morning, to hear the story of our journey last week to the pump-out station.

Our friend Frank, who had offered (or had we begged him? I can't remember) to go with us on our first trip to pump out, was going to be out of town for a week. So the surprising realization that the tank was full, coupled with our desire to have Frank along, caused us to make the three hour journey up and back to the pump-out station rather suddenly, with minimal preparation, all at low tide; a bad time for boats like ours to navigate in this unpredictable waterway. But we had to go. So to speak. Bob started the engine, and this engine loves to start. So far so good! We left the slip without incident as well, Frank helping to keep the boat off the dock, against the incoming tide, then hopping on at the last minute. I always get nervous when Frank does this. It seems like he's never going to make it back onto the boat. The last thing in the world I want is to be on this boat alone with Bob. When it is not securely tied up in the slip, that is. Then, you'll be happy to hear, I'm fine.

So we went. And it seemed right out of the slip like Bob was going to head in the wrong direction for a while; Tommy yelling at me from the docks, gesturing, “St. James is that way.” I nod, comically, and shrug a big shrug. What else can I do. Eventually, the circling came to an end, and we began to make progress in the correct direction.

Going there was just okay. I had taken a little shot of spiced rum before we left, and kept wondering if it had kicked in, or if I had taken enough, or if I should perhaps take more, because from my point of view at least, the atmosphere was fairly tense. At one spot along the waterway, we were in about 6 feet of water, which, for a boat with a 6'5” draft, is not enough. Bob kept needing to get sitting higher, (the captain's chair has not yet been re-installed), and I was charged with finding him cushions to sit on, and then more cushions, because seeing where you're going turns out to be an important thing, and then with locating us on my phone, on the navigation app, which turned out to be amusing, because the app kept trying to get us to make a turn, anywhere, and get off that water and onto a street like everybody else! Then I did things like rub Bob's back, which may possibly have annoyed him, I don't know, and get him water, and get me water (nervousness makes me thirsty-- it's my body's preparation for peeing my pants.)

But we got there, finally. I called the marina on the phone first, to let them know that our arrival was imminent, and that we would need help at the dock-- catching the lines is what it's called. But the phone went right to voice mail. Grr. Then I hailed them on the VHF-- a more sailorly thing to do, anyway-- first pressing the wrong button and speaking into the thing, but somehow intuiting that I was talking to myself. I tried a second, more likely-looking button, and aha! It worked. Someone at St. James actually answered, and said they'd be on the dock pronto to catch lines. This assurance, by the way, made by dock masters and dockhands the world over,  is almost never true. It must feel somehow demeaning to be standing on a dock, waiting to catch the lines of a boat that has not yet arrived. So they never do it. The best you can hope for, when you come into the dock, is that they'll be sauntering casually down the ramp, 30 feet away. Well, they weren't on the dock this day, either, and we really could've used their help. Something unexpected happened, or maybe something that should have happened unexpectedly didn't, I'm still not sure. All I remember is seeing the dockmaster, who was now jogging down the ramp, yelling something like SLOW THAT BOAT DOWN!!! Bob had attempted to put the boat in reverse by this time, which is, by the way, how you slow a boat down, there being, unfortunately, no brakes, but it was decidedly NOT in reverse-- it was gliding smoothly along at an alarming rate of speed, everything getting very close very fast-- the dock, the dockmaster, the dockhand. I threw lines to them as we sailed past, and even though we made significant contact with the side of the dock, and the two men were by now pulling back on the lines with all their strength and body weight, the boat still did not stop. It continued merrily onward toward, oh, look! a small powerboat sitting directly in front of us, broadsides to the fuel dock, with two elderly couples in it, wearing mostly white but with cheery colorful visors on the women, all four lifting cocktails just then in a toast to their impending simultaneous death.

 Did we get yelled at, when that boat stopped, finally, about four feet from the little power boat. “You could've killed those people! You could've knocked over this fuel pump! I thought that kid (the dockhand) was going to go in the water and get crushed.” Etc., etc., etc. The dockmaster had, at some point, called out to the “kid” to let go of the lines. He didn't yell “save yourself!” but he was thinking it, I'm sure. He went on and on, this cranky old dockmaster, and Bob, who was presumably still trying to shut down the engine and perhaps change his underpants, was not responding, so I finally stood tall at my spot on the bow (where I had successfully, but nearly too late, thrown lines) and pronounced “It's not like he did it on purpose,” and then, immediately following, but sotto voce (“so shut the f. up.”).

That, and the fact that I hadn't been the one driving when we crashed into the fuel dock and almost killed four people, seemed to establish me as the one with sense in the family (which is, I'm sure, the first time for that), and I was commissioned to do all the hooking up of the pumping-out paraphernalia. I doubt that boat owners are normally required to do this themselves, but I  think the dockmaster was a bit too shaky at this point to do it himself. He was also still mad--visions of boats cut in half, bodies flying in the air, fuel tanks bursting into flames were still dancing in his head, and not in a nice way. So I got everything hooked up, and Bob emerged from the boat and apologized, and was once again berated for not knowing how to handle his boat, and it was established that Bob remembered now (it had been a VERY long time since he'd driven this boat) that when one shifts into reverse, one must rev the engine first, in neutral, so that the blades will stop spinning the wrong way, and start spinning the correct (opposite, reverse) way. Otherwise the boat will start moving in reverse, eventually, but it will be long after the fuel dock, and the little power boat, and possibly even the dock where the power boat was tied up. The power boat people, by the way, took this incident very well. They never said a word to us, and we were certainly close enough for a few moments. Maybe they were temporarily robbed of the ability to speak.

So pump-out completed, some token fuel taken on, the dockmaster very gingerly (with Frank's help), backed the boat, using lines, around the corner of the fuel dock. With repeated instructions to Bob to “take it easy,” he gratefully saw us off, away from his marina, no doubt hoping to be retired before the next time we come back. Frank hopped aboard for the second time at a hair-raising last minute. (Now I really don't want to be stuck alone on this boat with Bob.)

And we begin the journey back. What with another well-deserved dose of rum (Frank joined me this time) and the hairy part over, we all unwound and joked and reminisced about the looks on the faces of all the people we almost killed, and the fact that it would have been a real paperwork mess just to hit that boat, let alone cut it in half and wipe out all the occupants. I would definitely have had to hook up a printer. The trip back seemed easier, and I drove for a while, through the non-treacherous parts. I don't mind doing it, out in the wide open spaces, and I wanted to give Bob a chance to recover his equilibrium, since docking the boat at our slip once more was still before us.

Then we lost the fender. Three things were wrong with this fender. One: it was not attached to the boat. But it was lying against the starboard lifeline (where we were going to need fenders, in our new slip) as if it was. So Frank kicked it over the side, like you do with a fender that is attached to the boat, and it hit the water and floated away, like anything that is not attached to a boat. Very funny, actually, but fenders are expensive. So Frank suggests, and Bob agrees, that we have lots of maneuvering room here in the waterway, Bob should practice with the boat in a man-overboard drill. Which just means get back to the thing, and bring it back on board. (There are other fancy kinds of man-overboard drills involving specific regimens that no one can remember when a man is actually overboard and everyone is freaked out. My only solid man-overboard plan is to throw everything that will float overboard after him or her, in the hope that they can get to something and hang onto it for the undoubtedly protracted time it will take me to get back to them.)

Okay. Fender in the water. Big clumsy sluggish boat pursuing it. We actually get to it, and Frank gets a good grab on the rope and, voila! the fender is back in the water, and Frank has a short length of wet rope in his hand. I had not tied a knot on both ends of the fender. I had my reasons, but we all know now they were probably stupid. Knots in both ends from now on. So we continue, in pursuit of this fender, which has now grown very afraid, and is making for the docks and the pilings and the places it knows we can't go. Except Bob has gotten into this, and thinks he CAN pursue the poor thing into docks and pilings, and oh! Looky here! A stone breakwater! We haven't run into one of THOSE yet today!! So for the first time I turn to him, look him in the eye and snarl “Have you lost your mind??” Which cut down on the merriment considerably, and caused him to put the boat in reverse (it worked this time) and withdraw. The very funny thing was that, as we floated away, in defeat, the little fender was happily making its way down the entrance to a marina that looked so much like St. James to me that I somehow, ridiculously, thought that was where it was going-- back to that dockmaster who would surely understand its defection from our boat, and take it in and treat it the way a fender should be treated. BUT WE WERE A HALF HOUR AWAY FROM ST. JAMES MARINA. I should have known, I'd been driving the boat for the past 20 minutes. This little glitch in my thinking would have been fine, if I'd kept it to myself. And it would have been okay-ish, if I'd told only Bob and Frank. But no. I waited till we got back to our marina, and off the boat, and were re-hashing the entire adventure in which Bob starred as the goof-up, to make my move. There, in front of four men who NEVER think wrong things, I DREW A PICTURE IN THE SAND, asking HOW could that fender have been floating down the channel into the St. James Marina, when we should have been OVER HERE-- a long way away from there, by then? And they all looked at me incredulously for a long time, and then my sweet husband, who knows how I think, explained nicely to me that that was not St. James Marina, it was another marina, far away from St. James and in fact very close to OUR marina, that just happened to resemble, from the channel, St. James. Because HOW, in the HOLY HELL, the rest of them broke out, could it possibly have been St. James Marina? How much rum DID I drink? What was I smoking in between the rum?? Did I pass out at any time?? I told them (A) I am very visual, and the two spots looked identical to me, and B) I have a very special kind of brain, where I can know, in one part of my brain, that we were actually very far away, to the west of the St. James Marina when we lost the fender, and yet in the other part of my brain I can also hold the belief that we have just arrived, from the east, to the St. James Marina. And lost the fender. Eventually I got it all straightened out, but nothing short of instantly would do for these guys.

So the re-docking. Before the public humiliation. Tommy and Evan hanging out on the dock, where they have cleared out our new space. And we are so pleased, because we have wanted this space from the beginning. Plans are made, a little powerboat (again!) gets in the way; we can't make the huge wide turn Bob was planning to make, the tide is very low, the wind is coming from the South, there is about 5 feet of mud in this slip and when we get about halfway in we are in a diagonal attitude. So Evan and Tommy pull on lines, with all their might and body weight (sound familiar?), and Frank pushes off from the cement piling as hard as he can, and mitigates the scraping off of about 6 inches of the edge of our cap rail. MY cap rail. My beautiful teak cap rail, some of which is in the water now, as shavings. But they get us in, eventually, and now, as mementos, we have the thick black line, about 8 feet long, on the starboard bow where we mashed the dock at St. James. And amidships, port side, the damaged cap rail. See? I'm learning. I know all the right words for where we messed up this boat.

Luxury

Okay, it's been two weeks since my last post and you still don't know my new address: it's The Gramercy Park Hotel, (with one-of-a-kind furnishings, paintings and sculptures created by Julian Schnabel) in The City. New York, of course. I don't know the street address-- you can probably just put “Susan @ The Gramercy” and your correspondence will arrive safely in my hands. Everyone here knows me. But for you nervous ones, I'll check it later—it's embossed at the top of the cream-colored linen hotel stationery in the top right drawer of the Louis IV desk at the bay window overlooking the luscious springtime grandeur of Gramercy Park. In a minute, the maid will come in and remove from my lap the silver bed-tray with the not-too tight, not-too-blowsy pink rosebud in bottled water and a silver vase, the linen napkin, only slightly soiled, the half-finished glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and the french baguette with butter curls on the side. I never eat the baguette. Though I often eat the butter curls, simply by wrapping them around my finger and licking them, while I read the Times. There is just the tiniest remnant of this morning's Eggs Benedict on the elegant hotel china (initials GPH tastefully hand-painted on the rim, by Sudanese monks). When the maid brings me my morning dressing gown (the pale blue flowy one), I will throw aside (I always do this myself) the silk and taffeta coverlet, and descend the intricately carved (in the Rococo design) antique wooden step-stool next to the four poster bed I sleep in every night. And oh! Check that address. I almost forgot.

You knew I was kidding, right? I mean, you're gonna need the Zip Code at least.

Okay, for real. I've been back at the boat with Rudy for almost two weeks now, and it is lovely, and wonderful, and feels like home, and I am mesmerized by living on the water. We have a bit more work to do, to have everything the way we want it (for now), so I will not post photos, because I'd have to put a lot of disclaimers like “there will be trim all around the such-and-such,” and “that pile of crap on the left will be neatly stored somewhere,” etc. So next time photos, I promise. Until then, Eggs Bennie on the boat!

Alternatives

I'm still in Charlotte-- my return to the beach has been delayed for one day. I talked with Bob on the phone last night, and learned that he had not used yesterday, which was originally the last day before I got back, to clean his tools, etc. off the boat. From what I understand, he hasn't even BEGUN this process. When he told me this, I flipped out. Of course. I told him I was going to come back to the boat and I was going to take one look inside and and if it was still knee-deep in crap I was going to get back in the car, drive to the nicest hotel I could find and start ordering room service. There was a small moment of silence, and then he asked “Are you going to order Eggs Benedict?” 

“What?” I asked, completely derailed. 

And he said, “Well, you like Eggs Benedict, so I figured you'd order that.” And he said it so sincerely and it was such a silly thing to say, my heart melted. This man loves me, I thought, and I miss him very much. So I told him he could come with me if he wanted, that we could both get Eggs Benedict, and we could watch TV and jump on the bed, and after we got tired of that we could go to the bar and sing karaoke. I'm pretty sure it won't come to this, and if it does, I'm pretty sure he won't sing. But it's nice to have alternatives.

Envy Me Not (yet)

Okay, here in am in Charlotte, getting all these email congratulations for Bob and I finishing the boat. Most of them contain references to us sitting on the stern, sipping cocktails and watching the sun go down. I fell compelled to tear a big hole in your happiness by telling you, in plain English: We are not doing this. We are not, in fact, even together. We are miles and lifestyles apart, right now. I am in Charlotte, doing Condo meetings and staying with Mom on occasion and lunching with friends and watching movies from the library and even TV (though only the three major channels, and only when the weather is right) and taking regular showers and washing my clothes one load at a time. BOB, on the other hand, is still at the boat, working his ass off, installing water tanks (he's going for two, and prepping the space for a future third), not taking showers (no water, no showers), eating out of cans and the frozen section of the local Food Lion. Trio is, we can all assume, filled to the gunwales with the chaotic tangle of tools, dirty rags, pipes, odds and ends of wood, metal, and wire that are ALWAYS part of Bob doing any work. I was told that a friend ducked his head into the boat the other day and said “Oh, Susan won't like this.” Bob told him that was exactly why I wasn't there.

So I will go back when he is done making messes and when my meetings are over, and eventually we'll get around to that sitting on the stern thing, watching the sun go down. Meanwhile, as a result of living this nearly conventional lifestyle, which is so different from how we normally live, I would like to make an observation:

I know the reason so many Americans struggle with their weight. TV. Too much sitting on our asses and watching it, AND-- and this is the part that just blows me away-- too many food commercials while we do! Good Grief! I have never in my life seen so much hot dripping butter, so many sizzling steaks, juicy hamburgers, twirls of whipped cream, yummy-looking pizzas. It's a wonder people don't jump in their cars and mob these restaurants, every time one of their commercials comes on. BUT THEY HAVE TO KEEP WATCHING TV, RIGHT????? So they do the next best thing. They raid their fridge or their cupboards for a substitute. But no way is it going to be as tasty as what they just saw in that commercial (which they THINK they've forgotten about, if they even realized it was motivating them in the first place), so they eat an extra amount of the inferior substitute, in an effort to feel the way they would have felt if they'd just finished off that steamed lobster and those crab-stuffed mushrooms, and the breadsticks, and the salad, and don't forget coffee and dessert. All I'm thinking is, if cigarette and liquor ads threaten the health of Americans, what is it that food ads are doing? Boosting the economy? I'm gonna go have a Scotch, a Twinkie and a smoke.

Elvis has left the building and

Trio is in the water. For real. Let us all bow our heads for a moment of silence.
*********

Okay. Here are some pics.

Suzy applying the name to the stern.

Trio in slings, ready to roll.

Trio rolling

A scary moment-- Bob notices that the new (old) zinc at the propeller is cracked. Evan (left) quips "Don't worry, Miss Susan, we'll just put her back up on the hill, and in two or three years, Mr. Bob'll have her ready to go in the water again."

A few of the well-wishers who came for the big event. We had so many people to catch lines when we came into the slip, it was silly. And gratifying.

Our back yard.

Now, to answer your questions:

Yes, we have moved out of the trailer. Hallelujah. And I say again, brothers and sisters, Hallelujah.

Yes, I  will post pictures of the interior of the boat. But it is not quite finished. A divorce was narrowly avoided last week, when I boarded Trio on her first full day in the water, only to discover my hard-working husband removing (by cutting them up) the old rusted stainless-steel water tanks from the bilge. He had not noticed, until it was too late, that the grinding of so much metal was coating EVERY SQUARE CENTIMETER of the boat with grey metallic dust. Everything. All the new paint, all the clean wood, all the vinyl, all the cushions. The interior of every newly cleaned, newly painted storage area. This was not a good day, nor were the several days that followed. But the tanks are out now, and Bob has promised me that this is the last ripping and tearing he's going to do on this boat. I have no choice but to believe him, which let me tell you, is not a very comfortable position to be in. But when I get back there (I'm in Charlotte now, for Easter and to spend some time with my Mom), I will be on the scene daily, and I will have my whip and my tazer with me at all times. Just kidding. I don't have a tazer. 

No, we are not heading off immediately to exotic locales. For one thing, we have to CLEAN THE DAMN BOAT, remember?? For another, there are lots of little and big things yet to be done, including installing the new water tanks, figuring out how many actual "things" like clothes, cooking utensils, tools, books etc., we can fit on the boat, getting that royal blue sail cover off the mainsail, and getting the rigging "tuned" for sailing. That last part can wait forever, as far as I'm concerned, except that I think Kai is going to do it, and I would be happy to have him and Merry (they are engaged now!) come for a weekend. I'm most excited about ditching the blue sail cover. But I digress. What I have requested is that we stay right where we are, in this slip at the boatyard, get settled on the boat, learn some new routines, relax, breathe, watch dolphins, go to the beach, catch crabs, entertain friends and family-- have a home for the first time in five years. Also, and this is not showcasing my most generous tendencies, I want to stroll through that boatyard and watch other people sweat for a change, and I want to look at the blisters on the bottom of their boat and the blisters on their hands and feel bad for them, but not nearly as bad as I'd feel if they were my blisters. I might even put on my work clothes and pitch in and help them for an afternoon. But all the while I will know that our CLEAN, ORDERLY, beautiful boat is safely and finally in the water, where she belongs, and that we can go back there in the evening and take showers and make drinks and sit on the stern and watch the sun set and the tide rise and fall. I'll keep you posted.