I've spoken to any number of people who say they read this blog. I love hearing it because I sometimes feel like these words are like breadcrumbs chucked into a black hole: it's kinda fun to do, but there's no point expecting anything to come back.
Any thoughts on why y'all don't comment? Do the entries seem too pat, too finished, to leave room for you to say anything? Or is there something I should do differently/better? Are you ever impressed, disappointed, touched, aghast? I have no way of knowing. -- I hope I have some kind of effect here, but I'd like to know when I get close to the mark and when I fall on my face, in your view.
My philosophy teacher told me that any writing can be improved. I want to know how I can improve mine.
Damn, another neatly-rounded-off ending. Look, pretend I left you hanging there, left something egregiously unsaid.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
"Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks"
We're in for a blow. The boat is chattering to itself, but the wind is not yet shrieking in the rigging, so the wind is probably not much more than 35 mph. I set up my tarp to keep the rain off my hatch, so I can go in and out easily regardless of the weather.
I finished that sanding project I started with my feet. I had a hard time moving forward because teak oil smells like rancid bug repellent, and the stink lasts for days. I have observed that olive oil tends to penetrate, and grape seed oil tends to harden on the surface of wood; I rubbed my teak bookrack with a few coats of olive oil, and it has taken on a glowing reddish tone that brings the bloodstained tint of the Red Violin irresistibly to mind. It's not shiny, not shiny at all, but I love the deep, vital glow. The grain shimmers even though there's no gloss to make it obvious.
In short, it's ooh classy, and smooth as skin. (Now I have to sand and finish the rest of that piece, so I can take a picture and show you.) I might try a little grape seed oil to see if it gives it a sheen. Fingers crossed.
I gave in and bought an electric sander for the rest of the sanding. I can't tell yet what the vibration will do to my hands; we'll see. I want to get the worst of the brightwork taken care of over the next couple days.
I fixed the heatsink at the back of the 1/4-berth. There was a big hole leading to the unlined space under the rest of the cockpit, and it sucked the warmth from the cabin like a black hole with its event horizon fastened to the gap. (Slight exaggeration, but still.) I sat and stared at it until all the crannies and weird protrusions had imprinted themselves on my mental map. Then I picked up a pair of scissors and tackled a piece of the heater-wrap I use for insulation. Five minutes later, I rolled it up the way I had seen it in my mind, put it in place at one end, then watched it unfurl and tuck itself in almost exactly as I had imagined.
I'm blogging the mind-bending effect of this new discovery at my chronic pain page. I'm still scratching my head.
The storm has set in for real. I'm going to take advantage of my increasingly cozy galley and rustle up a hot dinner.
I finished that sanding project I started with my feet. I had a hard time moving forward because teak oil smells like rancid bug repellent, and the stink lasts for days. I have observed that olive oil tends to penetrate, and grape seed oil tends to harden on the surface of wood; I rubbed my teak bookrack with a few coats of olive oil, and it has taken on a glowing reddish tone that brings the bloodstained tint of the Red Violin irresistibly to mind. It's not shiny, not shiny at all, but I love the deep, vital glow. The grain shimmers even though there's no gloss to make it obvious.
In short, it's ooh classy, and smooth as skin. (Now I have to sand and finish the rest of that piece, so I can take a picture and show you.) I might try a little grape seed oil to see if it gives it a sheen. Fingers crossed.
I gave in and bought an electric sander for the rest of the sanding. I can't tell yet what the vibration will do to my hands; we'll see. I want to get the worst of the brightwork taken care of over the next couple days.
I fixed the heatsink at the back of the 1/4-berth. There was a big hole leading to the unlined space under the rest of the cockpit, and it sucked the warmth from the cabin like a black hole with its event horizon fastened to the gap. (Slight exaggeration, but still.) I sat and stared at it until all the crannies and weird protrusions had imprinted themselves on my mental map. Then I picked up a pair of scissors and tackled a piece of the heater-wrap I use for insulation. Five minutes later, I rolled it up the way I had seen it in my mind, put it in place at one end, then watched it unfurl and tuck itself in almost exactly as I had imagined.
I'm blogging the mind-bending effect of this new discovery at my chronic pain page. I'm still scratching my head.
The storm has set in for real. I'm going to take advantage of my increasingly cozy galley and rustle up a hot dinner.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Feet of clay, covered in gelcoat
A perfect day, warmer than it should be, and the boats were festooned with the detritus of the happy sun-soaked tasks their inhabitants got up to.
Voyager got an airing. Almost all the textiles were on deck, their moldiest sides exposed to the sun. I scraped the flaking paint off the hatch (with dilatory persistence), and decided I shouldn't scrape so hard because I was getting fiberglass splinters on the soft undersides of my arms.
Russell came by several times. The third time, he looked at me funny, and said, "You don't need to do that."
I stopped and looked back.
"That's gelcoat," he explained, which was no explanation to me.
"See," he went on, "when they pop the boat out of the mold, they spray it all over with a mix of polyester resin and fiberglass. That's gelcoat."
I lowered my scraper. I looked at him. I looked at the nearly-denuded end of the hatch, the result of my afternoon's work. I looked at the cat, snoozing well within range. I looked at my galley (kitchen, to you landlubbers), covered in polyester-resin-and-fiberglass dust. I looked back out at him. "Okay," I said.
He laughed. "You can call me all those names, if you want to!" Hell, it only took him 4 hours to get around to telling me. Maybe I should have.
Voyager got an airing. Almost all the textiles were on deck, their moldiest sides exposed to the sun. I scraped the flaking paint off the hatch (with dilatory persistence), and decided I shouldn't scrape so hard because I was getting fiberglass splinters on the soft undersides of my arms.
Russell came by several times. The third time, he looked at me funny, and said, "You don't need to do that."
I stopped and looked back.
"That's gelcoat," he explained, which was no explanation to me.
"See," he went on, "when they pop the boat out of the mold, they spray it all over with a mix of polyester resin and fiberglass. That's gelcoat."
I lowered my scraper. I looked at him. I looked at the nearly-denuded end of the hatch, the result of my afternoon's work. I looked at the cat, snoozing well within range. I looked at my galley (kitchen, to you landlubbers), covered in polyester-resin-and-fiberglass dust. I looked back out at him. "Okay," I said.
He laughed. "You can call me all those names, if you want to!" Hell, it only took him 4 hours to get around to telling me. Maybe I should have.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Deck and sails
Deck work
I gutted a winch today, for the very first time.
If you find that disturbing, read it more slowly.
I asked Russell to come over and lend moral support. I never would have figured out the first step, as it was fastened in a way I had never imagined. He also loaned me the tool to open it up with. Useful fellow to have around -- when it comes to boats, we just call him God.
I didn't bother with pictures, because they won't help. They'd make it look more complicated than it is. They're a bit like male social politics -- rather complicated to explain, but in the end boiling down to a logical application of force.
Speaking of which, I swabbed the deck this afternoon. I know I'm a real boat-owner now because, instead of smiling and saying, "how cute" when a bird perches photogenically on my rigging, I shake my fist at it and scream, "Get off my mast, you little shitbag!"
Sails
I hoiked the mainsail up to take a good look at it. (That's when I realized the winch was such a mess.) Fortunately, it's intact, unlike my jib, which is marginal at best.
On my way up from Watsonville, I stopped at my storage locker to take a look at the racing sails. They've been folded up for at least a year. The jib is showing wear. Next visit, perhaps I'll bring them up and inspect them properly. If I could sell them and replace Voyager's jib, that would be a weight off my mind.
My soft-wood jury-rigged pull-bar for my hatch (photo below when I get to it) has come apart. I looked at it and snurfed, then thought, "Glass it!" I've got all that fiberglass patch material, and now I know how to use it. Looks like the hand-twisting hatch problem will be soon solved properly.
[image]
I gutted a winch today, for the very first time.
If you find that disturbing, read it more slowly.
I asked Russell to come over and lend moral support. I never would have figured out the first step, as it was fastened in a way I had never imagined. He also loaned me the tool to open it up with. Useful fellow to have around -- when it comes to boats, we just call him God.
I didn't bother with pictures, because they won't help. They'd make it look more complicated than it is. They're a bit like male social politics -- rather complicated to explain, but in the end boiling down to a logical application of force.
Speaking of which, I swabbed the deck this afternoon. I know I'm a real boat-owner now because, instead of smiling and saying, "how cute" when a bird perches photogenically on my rigging, I shake my fist at it and scream, "Get off my mast, you little shitbag!"
Sails
I hoiked the mainsail up to take a good look at it. (That's when I realized the winch was such a mess.) Fortunately, it's intact, unlike my jib, which is marginal at best.
On my way up from Watsonville, I stopped at my storage locker to take a look at the racing sails. They've been folded up for at least a year. The jib is showing wear. Next visit, perhaps I'll bring them up and inspect them properly. If I could sell them and replace Voyager's jib, that would be a weight off my mind.
My soft-wood jury-rigged pull-bar for my hatch (photo below when I get to it) has come apart. I looked at it and snurfed, then thought, "Glass it!" I've got all that fiberglass patch material, and now I know how to use it. Looks like the hand-twisting hatch problem will be soon solved properly.
[image]
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Kitchen aid
I figured out how to wash my dirty pots inside my boat without running water. It involves a bucket of warm water with a little soap, a cardboard sheet as a holding rack, and a jar of water over the sink.
It's the little things. Honestly, no other rational American would consider success in such a tedious chore any kind of bonus.
More impressively, I took my laptop over to DriveSavers to resuscitate the hard drive. This is entirely owing to Jean K,, my friend from high school who got back in touch with me out of the blue late last year, and started working on a book with me. (The book is on that hard drive.) I don't deserve such friends as her, but then, I don't know who does, except my other excellent friends.
It's the little things. Honestly, no other rational American would consider success in such a tedious chore any kind of bonus.
More impressively, I took my laptop over to DriveSavers to resuscitate the hard drive. This is entirely owing to Jean K,, my friend from high school who got back in touch with me out of the blue late last year, and started working on a book with me. (The book is on that hard drive.) I don't deserve such friends as her, but then, I don't know who does, except my other excellent friends.
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