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.

Yikes!

I can hardly tell you all how amazed (appalled, and astonished) I am to see that my last post here was ALMOST A YEAR AGO. And except for some change in the photos, I could probably publish the same blog today, and it would seem timely. No wonder I'm depressed. So no, I'm not here to announce that the boat is finished, or to invite you to the big splash party. I am only here to to tell you that we haven't given up yet. But Lord, it is taking forever, and we are working hard every day and the explanation for why we are not finished yet is beyond me, except to say that one thing is leading to another, almost every day, and not in a good way. For example, I opened up the little floorboard door (Bob isn't around right now, so you're just going to have to settle for my cute, non-nautical names for everything)-- to clean and paint the bilge. And noticed, while prepping this area, a certain amount of rotten wood at the floor joist, under the door jamb opening into the forward head. So I started picking at it, and (one thing leading to another) a week later the entire wood support under the shower in the head had been ripped out, and Bob was happily cutting the 37 (I exaggerate not, see the photo) intricately fitted pieces of wood needed (in his estimation) to replace everything rotting in that area. So now, a month later, after the painstaking reconstruction, that whole area is sound and dry, as opposed to soft and rotten, but sadly, since it was all hidden to begin with, it doesn't look any different than it ever did. It feels better, when you step on the floorboards, but an observation like that takes a certain amount of experience.

So I told you that to tell you this. I am going to copy and paste here something I wrote this morning, in my journal. It's a rant, un-edited. Also, I'll add a few photos to show you that the outside of the boat is pretty much finished, which is saying a lot, considering all we had to do (re-read the explanation of the deck carnage in the last post if you've forgotten). The inside is another story. But here is the journal entry. "Rudy" is what I call Bob, for those of you who don't know. There aren't three of us here. Though maybe that would help.

PS. I know this is going to be a long post and I'm sorry about that. But take your time--if everything continues the way it has been, you have almost a year to read it!

September 26, 2011

Okay. It was hard to get up this morning, and even harder once my brain cleared and I realized how depressed I actually am. Gotta just live through this, I guess. Follow David's advice and “keep working.” Yesterday I managed to glue together with contact cement two layers of 1/4" foam and one of vinyl, to approximate 1/2” foam-backed vinyl, which we do not have. I am going to attach this concoction via white caulking glue (maybe liquid nails? not sure) to the ceiling of what we have decided will be Rudy's closet (the big one in the master berth), which was not even going to have foam on the ceiling, but through my mistakes (which I attribute to the small working space I have carved out for myself in the master berth, on the bed, where I could not unfold enough of the vinyl and lay it flat, so I cut it folded, which turns out to not always work so well, when you're cutting long thin pieces of stuff-- it tends to take on a new trajectory at the fold line, but I really don't understand why, still) so I pick up the sentence here and say that since I have ruined enough of the vinyl that we had inherited with the boat so that we can no longer do the larger area we had intended to cover with this stuff, now, there will be vinyl on the ceiling of Rudy's closet (a smaller space), which he is happy about, because he says it will cut down on condensation. But there will only be vinyl IF, and it's a big IF, I can manage to get this newly-created contraption (of two layers of foam and one of vinyl) to defy gravity and stick to his ceiling and look decent, something I have not managed yet, in four separate attempts, three in the forward head, and one in Kai's berth. I have ripped crappy-looking crap down from these ceilings three times so far (we have decided to leave the blue stretch in the forward head intact, since it is something nobody will ever see, anyway, unless they're really really looking, in which case, screw 'em) but no wonder, really, because in each case I have been working with either inferior materials that I have to jury-rig, or something experimental that we've bought in a failed attempt to simulate actual foam-backed vinyl, which we didn't have. No wonder I'm depressed. Also, though, while I'm complaining, I would like to lynch the old man that made the video for Sailrite, in which he blithely sprays a section of a boat which is ON A WALL, NOT AN INTERIOR CEILING OF A STORAGE AREA, THEREFORE EASY TO GET TO, EASY TO MEASURE, EASY TO SPRAY, and applies a piece of vinyl, which of course sticks, and shows no wrinkles. I could do that too. I'd like to see him contort himself about 50 times total, in only two directions (more would be yoga, and therefore could be construed as good), measuring repeatedly, and here is the big problem on a boat: the section I worked with yesterday was approximately 19 inches wide by 25 long, BUT IT WAS NOT A RECTANGLE. OH NO, IT WAS SOME SORT OF DISTORTED MARINE PARALLELOGRAM, OR RHOMBUS OR SOMETHING. NOT A SQUARE CORNER TO BE HAD, IN THIS CLOSET OR ANYWHERE ELSE ON THIS BOAT, IN MY EXPERIENCE. Okay, I'll take the caps off. But caps on IS kind of good therapy. So yeah, the measuring is, how you say, “impossible.”  Rudy makes CARDBOARD patterns for everything he does. I doubt you know how hard it is to make cardboard patterns, especially beginning with the fact that every pair of scissors we have on this boat is crapped up in some way, starting out, initially, with the fact that they're cheap and poorly made (if they cost over $2, I don't buy them) and then going on to the fact that they are called on to cut fiberglass (while they're still new and sort of sharp) and small bits of epoxy, both of which quickly render them useless for cutting anything as tough as cardboard by anyone BUT my patient, persevering husband. So no, I don't make cardboard patterns. I mostly try to hold the vinyl upside down and get a ball park idea of whether it's going to fit or not, and hack bits off here and there if it's too big, and then, when I get worried that I might be hacking off too much, seeing that I'm only able to hold it up in two spots, and there are an infinite number of spots, I call Rudy and make him come and help me, wherein we will hold it up in four spots and he will get cranky, because he hates these kind of what-the-hell, let's-just-hack-it-off-here kind of measurements, and believes I should have made a cardboard pattern, which I didn't even finish telling you how hard THAT is to do, because I didn't get past the scissors. Oh Lord, my brain does this sometimes, and it's really cruel: it just flipped to a scene that I have lived in the past, this time one where I am following a waiter to our table in a restaurant. But also this time, the memory takes place, inexplicably, in a Red Lobster, a chain which I view with a jaundiced eye. I mean, they DO have carpeting, which I think is essential for a really nice feel in a good restaurant, but I think maybe the carpeting is often red?-- is that possible?? -- and I KNOW that in my experience it has almost always been dirty. So that little brain-vacation, a term I've never used before, but which I like, is a weird one. Maybe it's saying that even dinner in a Red Lobster would be better than what I've been living through these days, and with that, I would, without any hesitation, agree. (All apologies to people all over the world who are in truly dire circumstances, the nature of which I will not enumerate, since it will only make me more depressed and will not help them one bit.)

I just killed a tiny ant on my arm, which journeyed there from the floor, I'm sure. Well, of course it did, ants don't fly. But I saw a batch of them yesterday, ALL OVER a plastic sour cream container that I had sitting by the (trailer) door, ready to go to the boat and be used as a mixing container, and the funny thing is I THOUGHT THE DAMN THING WAS CLEAN. I MEAN, I WASHED IT IN THE SINK WITH THE REST OF THE DISHES, EVEN HAD THE HOT WATER HEATER TURNED ON, SO IT WAS EVEN WASHED WITH HOT WATER, RIGHT?? Apparently, though, it was not clean. Thus the hundred or so tiny ants all over it, feasting on whatever invisible substance had been left there. Allowing for the possibility that we pick up one of these containers, at the boat now, weeks later, and blithely wipe out a little dust on the inside with a paper towel, and think we're being extra-special careful by doing that, and then we pour in $25 worth of epoxy, parts one and two, and mix them together (with a NEW stir stick, not one of the ten million old ones that are hanging around, waiting to get used a second or even a third time), and we WONDER WHY THE EPOXY IS NOT MIXING RIGHT, OR HARDENING UP, OR WHATEVER. OR WORSE, WHY THIS PIECE OF WOOD WE GLUED ON WITH EPOXY A MONTH AGO IS CURLING UP AND USELESS AND WILL HAVE TO BE BLASTED OUT WITH FOUR HOURS OF DRILLING. And it's all because (here come the caps again) SUZY DID NOT GET THE SOUR CREAM CONTAINER REALLY, REALLY, (LIKE THE NEW MIXING CONTAINERS OTHER PEOPLE BUY AND USE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PURPOSE OF MIXING EPOXY) CLEAN!

Okay, I'm done with that. Here come the photos:

Trio, circa 2007

Trio recently, all striped and painted and tied down for the hurricane.

Starboard deck, before.

Starboard deck now, all closed up and Awl-gripped and Kiwi-gripped.

Now the bad stuff: the electrical control panel, BEFORE

The control panel, a few days ago. Bob is rewiring the boat. Can you tell?

 

My galley, before.

My galley, a few days ago. Bob is building in several appliances. Also, re-wiring the boat. Did I mention that? He is, as one friend said, "not afraid of work."

So that's it for now. I will let you all know when the splash party is. Should be in a year or two, right? Save the date, and all that. xoxo Suzy

Press Conference October 28, 2010

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.

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.

 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.