Safety first

I took another look at my wall of notes, so of course I had to make some more.

I've discovered a leak in the wiring which means the cabin lights don't work until the boat is thoroughly dried out. The cabin lights run off the batteries, which have 12 V direct current.

A 12 V DC shock is not going to kill you, but a 12 V DC short can still start a fire. This makes repairing (pretty much) the entire DC electrical system absolutely crucial. Meanwhile, I'm using candles for light and AC current for everything else.

Getting to the wiring means tearing out quite a bit of the bulkhead liner (the thin foam padding which covers the inside walls of the hull), which incidentally is 30 years old -- that means that it's seriously degraded, since foam inevitably degrades over time -- and absolutely saturated in mold and mold spores. I was going to get rid of it anyway, but in light of the electrical situation, doing that has moved to the top of the list.

Mission statement

• revive a 30 year-old boat, made the year I started to think for myself.
• make her as disabled-friendly as possible without adding electrical load.
• become as independent as possible: of non-renewables, electricity, land-based supplies.

There's a lot to say about each of these points, and plenty of room for lively discussion. I'll save it for later though, and hope for some interesting questions from you.

Silver lining

It was pissing down most of the day Saturday.

Great! I found all the leaks.

Sunday's thin overcast (warming to a sunny afternoon) dried everything gently. Monday's brilliant sun baked dry (I hope) the cabin top holes.

Sunday was still a moist day. Moist air helps acrylic-based adhesives, like super glue, dry more quickly. (The physics aren't that complicated, but I can see your eyes glazing over already, so just take my word for it.) I cracked open a tube of super glue, getting only a little on my fingers, and oh so carefully drizzled it into the displaced crack in the port side window.

If you carefully watch where the glue goes into the crack, you can see it drawn in by capillary action. If you keep the flow fairly steady, the glue sinks in through most of the depth of the crack, and you get very little spillage down your Lexan pane.

I was fairly pleased with that repair. I only hope it holds.

There were two other leaks (matching ones) where holes drilled through the cabin top had been incompletely repaired, or else the repair had degraded with time.

The stuff formerly used to make the repair looked like silicone caulking. This doesn't seem to bond with plywood, fiberglass, or gel coat, except where it is both useless and inconvenient to do so. Mind you, that might have been the degradation, rather than an inherent property of silicone caulk.

I needed something with an edge, with a point, and with a curved blade. Also something small enough to fit in to a number eight screw hole.

Nail scissors.

See, sometimes it helps to think like a woman.

Me and my nail scissors got every last little shred of silicone out of those holes. Inside the cabin, they were partially obscured by heavy metal plates, so I couldn't just drill through the caulking to clear it out. I dug those little bastards clear.

I got some epoxy putty, although now I'm wondering if I shouldn't have gotten a more expensive version of epoxy instead. Anyway, I mixed it well, rolled it into little pellets, and dropped those little pellets into each hole, pressing each one down as the holes started to fill up. I was wearing those yellow housekeeping gloves, with the gridwork pattern on the fingers. As I capped off each hole and smoothed out the edges, I imprinted the surface with that pattern, which helps to hide the repair on the non-slip-textured cabin top.

Something tells me I should cover the surface with some sort of UV guard. Apart from that one little worry, I'm pretty smug.

There are a couple more leaks, but fixing them correctly would require undoing the mast stays and rebedding the plates they stand on. That's probably not such a big deal, but it's enough to intimidate me for now, so I think I'll save it for later, and deal with the seepage.

Brain dump

Like many bloggers, I'm cursing my own inconsistency. Some good stuff happened this weekend, but hell if I'm going to go back and talk about it now.

These blogs are going to take on a bit of structure, for the most part. I set out with the intention of charting the progress of actual work, and here I am rambling... again.

Major accomplishment this weekend: covering the entire amidships bulkhead with Post-it notes describing work to be done and associated shopping lists.

I was going to contend with the holding tank, but my arm has been hurting badly enough that it's threatening a real flare up. However, getting that myriad of details out of my head and onto paper is terrific. It's much easier to remember things now, like where I put the keys.

Being in love

Joyce came by to visit yesterday, and said, "can I take pictures? I can see that you find something to love here, but I have no idea what it is. I'm hoping it will emerge as you work on it, and meantime you'll have the pictures to look back on."

I briefly saw it through her eyes -- stinky blue cushions, stained wood, rambunctious piles of toppling stuff (or possibly the other way around) -- and was briefly unnerved. I suppose it's a testament to her faith in me that she hasn't raised a lot more questions!

Me, I see the whole shape of this boat -- the perfect lines above the water; the swoops of the semi-planing hull; the way the angles of the cabin module snuggle against the whole, creating places to rest and places to stow the materials of living; the honey-golden living beauty of the wood, underneath the grime and scars -- which are totally removable; the little areas that can be reshaped to accommodate my active life more gracefully. Beneath the disappointing dusty pinkish-red of the badly weathered hull, I clearly see the sunset tone that will make this fun little boat look like a lambent flame flying across the water.

How could I not be in love? I'm at home here. I am finally home.

Thinking

I now have the right sort of holding tank. There's a low front sitting on us, and it won't disperse until tonight or tomorrow morning, so in the interests of preventing a flare, I suppose I had better put the exchange off until tomorrow.

I'm taking the opportunity to mull over whether to establish a greater purpose here. A woman refitting a sailboat to accommodate repetitive motion injuries, and living aboard while doing so, is actually kind of neat. It's not something you find every day. Perhaps I should formulate my approach, or rather, verbalize it more precisely. It's clear enough in my head. (As in skull.)

Galley slave and the wrong head

I pulled the galley apart today, shook all my new storage accoutrements out of their shopping bags, and put it back together. Now, I can actually find something other than tea and beer. I'm very pleased. And much better fed!

Upon inspection, I found I had the wrong type of holding tank. It was meant for a head with a macerator, which requires only a small outlet. My head [toilet] does not have a macerator -- although my head [skull] most certainly has masseters, and they were working today when I realized the mistake. Went to West Marine, made sure they had the right kind, came back, carried the holding tank on my head up to the car, carried the new one back, and I have yet to bring it down because my arms are killing me.

To do

Top of the list:

- Fix bent rail (dude nearby can straighten it; I have to rebuild the fiberglass decking.)
- Get engine fixed (found a mechanic; need to find a time.)
- Replace portlights (= nonopening windows) (go to TAP glass nearby w/ templates.)
- Replace holding tank (= septic tank) with bigger one, so harbormasters will let me live aboard (got most of the parts; it's a matter of being up here for a couple of days at a time and getting unbelievably filthy.) (Soapandwatersoapandwatersoapandwater -- that's what I keep telling myself -- plenty of both for when I'm done.)

On the list of things that will not keep me from passing inspection at most marinas:
- Customize a winch handle so I can crank it with my foot.
- Wash and secure life jackets.
- Build an airy cage around engine so cat doesn't get into it but air does.
- Oil-sand the teak so it glooooooooows. Right now, it looks like elderly teak. (Anteak, ar ar.)
- Serious housework on every other surface, including overhead and on deck.
- Set up the galley (= kitchen) so I can work in it.
- Install overhead grab rails belowdecks.
- Curtains with this cool fabric I just got. Very suitable, fun but classy.
- On a calm day, pull off the sail covers and take a look at the sails.
- Figure out tool storage and clothing storage.

On the list of things that will make this classy barque a floating work of art & craft:
- Build fiberglass toerails into the aft gulch -- the big empty space under the cockpit. Fit some sensible mesh storage areas back there.
- Start rethinking the wiring, preparing to install some renewable e-sources and setting up office space and consolidating the electrical controls.
- Install overhead rail for paraplegics to get themselves around belowdecks. These can be installed conveniently close to the grabrails. (Ed stole this idea for one of the BAADS boats. The more the merrier.)
- Refit the inside of the hulls to maximize storage space and comfort, & look pretty while doing so.

Next year:
- haul out & do bottom
- repaint the hull!

Good thing I like to work.

It says something about the suitability of this life that I find all this very intriguing, not overwhelming but stimulating.

Teak is tough

Up for one night to get a fix before going back to pack and sort out the house. I was going to take care of the teak, but I got the wrong stuff -- I got the stuff that takes out the entire population of the bay if you spill it in the wrong place. Since I'm cleaning teak in the enclosed space belowdecks, and both me and my cat are going to sleep here, that seems a little sillier than necessary.

So I cleaned the galley instead, including most of the dishes. It's very satisfying, in spite of itself. The water is on a manual pump, which is, um, water-conserving; it takes about 38 swings on the manual pump to get a pint of water in the miniscule sink. Did I say I have nerve damage in my hands? It's all kinds of interesting. I have to find a foot pump, or possibly a cabin boy/girl/dogsbody.

Sunday: making lists

No sailing today; most marinas require you to motor out, and there's no working motor.

Went to West Marine and put a 20-gallon holding tank on hold. The head (toilet) should have 20 gallons of drainage at least, before marinas will consider it adequate for living aboard. These are clearly people who have much nicer throne-rooms than I do; I use the shore facilities whenever I can.

Mugsy came and pumped out the overflowing 13-gallon holding tank already in place. It was fine until Dan decided to pump plenty of seawater through in the hope of cutting the smell ... instead it decided to spread itself out and get comfortable. It will take some work to clean up all the gaskets and puddles. Boats have more crannies, I swear.

I made lots of shopping lists: things to get from marine shops, things to bring from the house, things to buy at landlubberly stores, etc. Lots of lists.

Great beginnings

I brought Dan and Allison a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin, Allison's favorite mass-market champagne, to celebrate my getting the loan to buy Dan's boat.

She (the boat, not Allison) used to belong to the Bay Area Association of Disabled Sailors (http://baads.org). She was set up for people with limited mobility. She's about halfway to being fitted out so that I, with nerve damage in my arms, can sail her alone. Until then, I'll have to get by with a little help from my friends. Oh darn! heheh

She's a classic -- a 1976 Gary Mull design, with just the right amount of curves. My god, she's beautiful. I'll post a picture when I get one. Meanwhile, check this post here about how we got together: Traveler meets Voyager.

I haven't gotten the money into Dan's sweaty fist yet, but he was kind enough to say that he considered the boat already mine. I'm staying aboard tonight.

I'm so happy my heart is singing. The cork is hanging from its cage right under the companionway, the only thing on the boat that is not essential to her care. But I feel like it is essential in its own way. It's part of the boat, now. Part of my home.