Generating alternatives: Long Gyland Sound

In case you're wondering, that's a phonetic spelling of Long Island.

In my ongoing endeavor to live a reality-based life (rather than clinging to wishes) I've been investigating what it would take to stay sane in and around Mamaroneck, NY.

Finding a new squad of doctors is unthinkable. Insane.

There's a group of disabled sailors up the pike a bit in Connecticut. They have some interesting similarities to BAADS, but over here in the armpit (in the physical sense, of course) of the Northeast they actually stop sailing for 4 months of the year. I find that very odd. Did their cod-fishing ancestors stop? Not if they wanted the kids fed. Did the whalers stop? Not until the social & industrial climate changed. But the boaters in Mamaroneck seem to be the sort who call their craft "yachts" and prefer to have the real work done by others. Heaven forbid they should face discomfort.

But perhaps I'm being snide.

Today, Manhattan is spectacularly seductive: beautiful buildings, good food, incredible museum exhibits, verdant park with scads - masses - hordes of old deciduous trees, well-dressed men (I love that) and shapely women.

But it's still absurdly expensive.

If you go upstate or join an organization, you can get safe raw milk and grass-fed beef. New England apples are the best in the world. Many old & dear friends are within an hour or two. So that's a lot of comfort right there.

It occurred to me today that I could take a long weekend every couple of months to go to the Bay Area and see my doctors, visit friends, and sail on that heart-tearingly beautiful Bay.

Sweat equity

Been thinking about how to structure this sweat equity agreement.

We all know that, with the best intentions in the world, misunderstandings happen. Also, sailors tend to be emotional about boats. (Yes, I'm looking in the mirror when I say that. I own up to it.)

To reduce the sweeping scope for disaster, I've been mulling how to codify an agreement that would basically work. It's not the simplest arrangement ...

Firstly, how should partial ownership be earned? To what degree does it depend on doing a share of maintenance, vs. major tasks? I have to build in consideration for doing 2-person jobs and work I can't do because of this freakin' disability. This wouldn't even be on the table if it weren't for that.

Then there are the tasks themselves. These have to be measured in several dimensions: urgency, importance for sailing, importance for living, and impact on sale price, to name a few. Then each set of tasks should be assigned a stake share. This also provides some flexibility, so that, for example, my first partner disappears before the work is done, he or she can still be credited when the boat is finally sold and a new partner can step into the gap with minimal uproar.

I have a fairly complete to-do list stuck on my portside portlight. Those who saw my boat when I first got her will remember the main bulkhead being covered in post-its. Now that I know more, I have to write less; there are fewer post-its but I daresay they represent at least as much work.

The cabin is clean and beautiful, as much as circumstances permit. I've hidden keys aboard. Everything is neatly arranged, easy to find. I thought of inviting people to come look things over and see what they think of the idea, the work, and the boat.

The hard part is finding people to ask. I've thought of 2 who have shown me they can work and who clearly love boats - and who are nice enough to have around that I'd be comfortable sharing my home with them. One is in school and the other kind of did a disappearing act. I'll work on expanding my pool, but I guess I'll go ahead and ask them in the meantime. I need the practice. I still tend to get a bit strident when asking for help, even when I can /quo/ a bit of /quid pro/.

Layers on layers: lamination and contingencies

I took pictures of this process... and one day, my camera may turn up again so I can share them with you.

Here's the background: I have to get an outboard motor onto my boat, since the inboard is unusable. The back of the boat, like many sailboats, is slanted: however, that outboard has to remain upright. This means I have to straighten up the part of the stern I put the motor on, before I mount the motor. You do this by building a wedge that rests against the stern, and then you put the motor mount on that, and then you clip the motor to the motor mount.

Got that? Slanted stern needs to acquire a vertical surface; motor mount attaches to the vertical surface; motor attaches to the motor mount.

The motor mount, you've already heard about. Sigh. This is about the wedge, intended to create that vertical surface.

Learning about the materials

I tried using a block of walnut burl. It was very pretty, but the thin end of the wedge had started crumbling before I ever got it mounted. So now I know that walnut burl is brittle. A useful lesson.

After much thought and a little conversation, it seems that laminating up a plywood block was the best idea. I learned that epoxy resin is better for bonding, while polyester resin is better for coating. Polyester resin provides some UV protection, and epoxy is susceptible to UV; polyester resin does not bond as well as epoxy, although it coats better.

So I was going to use epoxy to bond several pieces of plywood together, have it cut to the correct dimensions, and then use polyester for the protective coating. Not as pretty as varnish, but very sturdy and easy to maintain.

Getting and prepping the wood

I spent a couple weeks keeping my eyes peeled for high-quality plywood of a size I could use. Lumber yard scrap boxes are wonderful playpens, and I loved having an excuse to dig in them.

I found enough pieces in the scrap boxes, of the right quality and the right size, that almost everything was free. That was nice! It was even nicer when one of the crotchety old gentlemen at my favorite hardware store cut the longer piece up and refused to charge me, since he knew my situation.

I sanded the surfaces to 80 grit because I wanted to remove the graining, which would create gaps, but leave enough texture for the epoxy to get a good grip on.

Doing the lamination

I carefully mixed the epoxy, using slow hardener in order to give myself enough time to work before it started curdling. I painted it onto facing surfaces of the first two pieces, laid the pieces one on top of the other, and gently moved the upper piece in small circles and crosses while pressing down. I did this until I felt that it was no longer slithering, but there was perceptible contact over most of the surface.

I didn't want to squeeze too much epoxy out, but I wanted no more than necessary. I didn't need bands of epoxy, I needed bonded surfaces. Epoxy grows brittle with age, and it would suck to have a plate fall off in the middle of the Bay.

I repeated this process with each layer, and had to watch the lower layers: if I left too much resin in a lower layer, that plate was going to slip, and I'd have to back up and do it again. A couple of times, I realized I was trying to mate two pieces that had a slight antithetical curve, so I had to flip the top piece over, coat the inside, do the pressing and wiggling with gobs of epoxy all over my gloves -- and then quickly repaint the goopy surface, paint its mate, and wiggle those together as well, hoping I hadn't created any gaps which could subsequently fail.

Once it was done, I covered everything with paper bags and wrapped it in a vinyl tablecloth to keep off the dew. Then I put a 5 gallon pickle bucket on top. Wait, there's a reason for that -- I put about 4 gallons of water in the bucket, which would make about 30 pounds of weight. 15 pounds would've been a minimum according to my reading, and 20 pounds would probably have been enough, but 45 or 50 would have been too much -- pushing out too much resin to form an effective bond. I thought 30 was about right.

Cutting and finishing

It looked pretty good when I took the bucket off after 24 hours. I wanted to leave it to cure for a full week, but the guy who said he would help mount it said he thought he would come sooner than that. After five days, I went ahead and had it cut at Svendsen's Boatworks -- and was so pleased with the result that I had to take it over to show to my pals at the Chandlery. Even the guy who used to laminate bows was impressed. (See, this is why I wanted a picture.)

I slathered polyester resin on it this evening. My prospective helper apparently got a better offer, but it's just as well, because of the mount situation. But I now have a wedge, and that, at least, is something.

And then there's the futility of it all

And now, for the bad news... I'm going to New York for a couple of weeks, to stay with a longtime friend. (That isn't the bad news.) She strenuously wants me to come and live in her spare room indefinitely, she and her husband providing room and board for nothing more than the pleasure of my company. (I don't know what to say to that.)

After about four or five days, I just hate New York. It's a fascinating city to visit, but as a place to live, it's a strangling, stultifying, feculent pit. Jean agrees with me, and I really feel sorry for her, having to live there.

I know that dear sweet Jeanie will press her invitation upon me as if she were laminating it.

For one thing, Disability is still stiffing me because of the insurance error. For another, despite all my clever adaptations, doing major work on this boat is increasingly beyond me. So my survival, if I continue to try to live life on my own terms, is an open question.

I have to seriously consider her offer.

Between you and me, Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. ... Wait, somebody already said that.

The motor-mount saga

Just so you know, my first attempt at lamination seems to have turned out beautifully. More on that when I tell you about making the wedge to put the motor mount on, so the engine could hang straight off of my slanted stern.

I've been working on getting everything ready to mount the motor. I have been thi-i-i-i-i-is close for about a week... Funny how, the closer you get to a problem, the more of it you see. And then, just when you think you've got it all, it pups.

All right, here's a little context. I bought a motor mount, with a cool hydraulic arm to help lower and raise the motor, for little more than a song. It was rated for 15 hp or less, but that's what I was looking for anyway.

As it happens, I got a killer deal on a 25 hp motor. Since the motor is fairly light for its size, I thought it would be fine on that mount. (Some of you gearheads are snickering, aren't you?)

I cleaned and lubricated everything on the mount, which considering all the bolts and all the fiddly little bits is saying a good deal. I wanted the action as smooth as possible. This would make a big difference in the apparent weight of the engine, improving its usefulness to me.

I also lubricated the shaft of the hydraulic arm, as it was sticky at each end of the stroke. Unfortunately, this made things worse. (Fewer of you gearheads get that, but you're laughing even harder than before. I sure would appreciate an explanation about why this happened.)

I went to the Outboard Motor Shop and spoke to Barney, who was very helpful. It would cost over $160 to replace that part -- considerably more than the cost of a new mount, especially if I got it from the same place as before. Then, bless him, he asked about my motor. I told him what I told you about which I bought first etc., and he said, shaking his head, "Oh no, you can't use that mount with that motor. That amount of torque will wreck your mount and you'll lose your engine into the water." He used a twisting, tossing gesture that conjured images of mayhem.

Swinging mounts rated for 25 hp engines started at around $550. There were no non-swinging mounts for engines over 15 hp.

He said my best bet was to fabricate a non-swinging mount, and use the cowl lift to get the motor out of the water when I need to. We tried to find specs for a 25 hp motor mount, but it looks like common sense will have to be my guide.

I don't know about you, but I don't find that reassuring.

On my way out, the receptionist asked if Barney was helpful. I said, "Yes, very." I hesitated a moment, since she was still reacting to my shellshocked expression. I added, "Life just got a little cheaper, but a lot more complicated." She wished me luck.

I already have a Plan A, B, and C in mind, but rather than expending time, money, and energy on getting started, I think I'll take some ibuprofen and send this problem to the "mulling over" part of my brain, maybe do some research on foot-pounds of torque and the resistance of various materials... you know, try to come up with something that wouldn't drop my drive in the drink.

I had this wild idea my motor would be mounted before I took off for New York on the 23rd. Going for a couple of sails in my own boat was going to put me in a frame of mind that could endure almost 2 weeks in that city with reasonable grace.

Well, it might happen. No, really, it could. If things fall together amazingly well. So... how many of you are putting money on that? rofl

Grease and gemology

My cat knocked dinner off the burner. Grease everywhere, as I was cooking meat for once. I don't eat meat often, because you can't get much for your money these days. I had intended to share it with him, but after that I wasn't in the mood.

I got everything off the sole (in a house, it would be the floor), cleared off the table and folded it up against the bulkhead (or wall), and scrubbed everything with, firstly, a weak solution of biodegradable dish soap -- and then, out of desperation, with a careful dusting of Comet.

My neglected bilge has been collecting chips of gel coat from the paint flaking off the inside skin of the boat, so I had to get in there and scoop out about a cup and a half of toxic crapola before it could do its share of the work and get the wet stuff out of here. Between the wipe down, the soap, and the Comet, it's spanking clean now.

I went up to the shore trash to dump the remains of dinner and the detritus from the bilge. I was going to ditch it and come straight back, because I wanted to finish cleaning and lubricating my motor mount before it was time for me to shut down. But I guess I had done enough cleaning and greasing for the day: I found myself in the parking lot overlooking the San Francisco Bay at one of those perfect moments that probably happen far more often than I notice them. But I noticed it now.

The fog was slowly snuggling up to the city, with the afterglow of sunset painting the sky in fat bands of molten orange, pale green, and deepening blue. Below that, the illuminated Bay Bridge was a string of old pearls stretched across the Bay. The city was an eyeful, an extravaganza of bijouterie: a stunning choker of diamonds, five or six strands deep; pale emeralds in clusters, and deep green ones in bold solitaire; a glittering mass of fluorite, too perfect to be real; and everywhere, strands and scatterings of amber and topaz.

There was a brooch so big and white and startling that it exceeded the bounds of good taste, but took the breath away. (I think that was AT&T Park -- there must be a game on tonight.) There were a couple of rubies shining and winking like the eyes of fallen angels. The moist air and the distance made everything shimmer and dance, overwhelming me with the impression that the entire jewel box was so happy it wriggled.

The soft, gray fog insinuated itself bit by bit, gradually dimming the bright sharp shards of light. They didn't seem to mind. The top of the fog was tousled by the upper air, and stained in streaks by the last red of the sky. Somehow, that tatty old blanket seemed an appropriate cover for the shining jewels, and the warm colors of the sky the perfect bedroom.

My home is now sparkling, too, and I have my own blankets to snuggle into. The motor mount will happen in time; I'm not worried about that. And my cat is purring like a happy engine.

I have to say ... it's a tough life. Poor me!

Pedal grease: tending to the grab rails

I got frustrated with the billions of little tasks below decks, so I went upstairs. The teak rails on top of the cabin were well weathered, since Ed's oiling job had long since worn off.

If you don't use vile toxic chemicals, cleaning teak takes a little soap and a lot of elbow grease. The color-coordinated pedicure is optional, but it helps more than you'd think:



I had to switch feet, since I'm not used to this work yet. I found that if I kept my knee properly lined up over my foot, it was a lot more efficient and it didn't bother my knee. Looks like those childhood ballet classes are paying off:



This is a rail about halfway clean. The green scrubber is at the demarcation line between scrubbed and untouched:



So I was making headway. I decided not to make it perfect, but good enough, since sweating over the last 10-20% would probably soak up more time and energy than I really had.

I brushed the teak oil on by hand (Watco brand -- it smells much less disgusting) and then donned athletic socks I dug out of the rag bag to buff it out with. I don't have a picture of that, because there really is nothing exciting about a white sock with brown oil all over it.

I do have a picture of my pretty, foot-rubbed rail:



Sort of an understatedly classy look, I think.

Different work: One hell of a realization

I thought I was just in an extended flareup, but it seems that this level of pain and debility is the new normal. I won't go into it because it's depressing and would do you no good to hear about it, but for one thing my grip is much weaker and for another the amount of pain that I have at baseline has roughly doubled since May.

I sat in my cockpit and looked around at the cleaning to be done, the patches to be made, the brightwork to be preserved, the engine to be mounted, all the work to be done -- and I realized, with a sick and solid certainty, that there's no way I can do this myself.

Sit with that for a minute. My home, my joy, my messy and imperfect slice of heaven, the only object that has given me a sense of purpose and a sense of the future... I can't do it by myself anymore.

Alternatives:
 Sell the boat.
 Get serious help.

There are huge drawbacks to selling. Apart from the obvious emotional havoc, it puts me right back into the desperate struggle to find a place to live in this area, in this economy, on my income. There is no real benefit to that, since it exchanges two versions of hell rather than improving the situation in any real way.

Getting serious help is problematic at best. I think I have nearly used up my friends’ tolerance for doing favors, especially since I could do so little in return.

That last phrase gave me an idea. It's a strange and scary one, but could be intriguing, if I find the right person.

Perhaps... well, perhaps I could persuade someone to help me with this in exchange for acquiring a share in the boat, a suitable sweat-equity proportion of whatever I make over my purchase price.

I'm as much in love with my boat as ever, but I realize that she is not, well, marriage material. If I'm going to settle down, it will have to be with something that can handle blue water, something that can ride through ocean storms and come out of them shaken, but not stirred. Fixing lines and replacing hardware is one thing; dealing with a shattered mast and a stoved-in side is quite another.

My beautiful little darling was made to be a bay-sailer, and none of us can help how we're made. She is perfect just the way she is, and I wouldn't have her any other way. I take considerable satisfaction in knowing that she will be righter and tighter for her next person than she was for me. While I'm happy with her now, I anticipate the day when I'm safely aboard my real home.

... Hum. I think those last two paragraphs were a little too self-revealing. In my personal life, I think I went through this stage about 10 years ago, and haven't found that "real home" yet. So I guess I shouldn't hold my breath, either for the partner or for the bluewater boat.

Seriously, folks, I cannot bear to surrender the life aquatic. Please believe, for me, that something wonderful will come of this. I can't believe it myself, and I don't dare hope. I can barely voice the thought.