HandiCaptain's Log: Boat and Broad

2011-03-13T19:06:00.000-07:00

The ballast bin is finished. The cupboard -- cut and partially assembled -- has started to rot. Good thing I hadn't finished it or anything.

Note: bamboo flooring is not suitable for making cupboards in a marine environment. Bamboo sticks don't make good curtain rods. I don't care what the marketing literature says, bamboo DOES grow mold. With considerable skill. It's strictly for outdoor, UV-saturated environments.

Still finding cat hair

2010-09-30T14:38:00.000-07:00

I've been having a hard time lately without Arthur Cat. I'm building a ballast-box and and a cabinet in the engine space, so perhaps these fundamental changes stir things up? I don't know. It's certain he would have loved investigating it. He loved investigating the motor, although I sometimes wonder if the lithium grease he invariably found had something to do with that.

I'll post pictures when it's further along. Right now the mess is frightful and splinters of glass get into everything.

ZAP!

2010-03-15T19:49:00.001-07:00

My box blew last night.

Exhausted and uncharacteristically straight-faced, I said that to the manager at Svendsen's. He said, "WHAT was that??"

I simply repeated the poorly-worded statement, eyes too tired to lift from the pile of wire, terminals, and accoutrements on the counter in front of me. He followed my gaze and was all sympathy: "That's rough," which is serious stuff from a big outdoorsy guy like that. He cut me a deal on the wire because he thought it was ringing up too high. They are so good to me there.

Paul says he'll come over tomorrow to do the real work. I have to rig up a way for him to sit, since his legs don't work much. I'm thinking Bosun seat slung from the boom, since reaching the junction box from outside the lazarette is a joke.

I blew $50 on an adapter so I could plug a power strip into the shore power cord; not having to throw away all the healthy crap I packed into the fridge will pay for it. (It's a small fridge, but mighty.) Also, it means me and the cat get to use the heater tonight. Purrrrrrrrrrr

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone.

Location:Ballena Blvd,Alameda,United States

Sweet Lethe

2009-12-06T11:44:00.000-08:00

What a stunning night!

Words I never thought I'd say after sleeping alone.

I've been finishing up projects that have been hanging around forever, but had almost ground to a halt. Amdst yesterday's planning (by which I hoped to start a new trajectory) I went to pick up a package. It contained a heated mattress pad I had ordered in a pain fog earlier last week.

For the first time in years, I climbed into a warm bed. For the first time in months (my circulation is slightly worse) my feet were not two clenched little icicles. I slept like a rock. No waking up to rub a freezing limb. No stirring awake to smother an imminent draft. No agonized dozing, waiting for the chill to ease.

I slept.

I woke up and fed the cat in the morning, then climbed back in u til the cabin warmed up. Woke up 4 hours later after wonderful dreams.

That was a pain-fog worth having. I wonder what life will be like now that I can sleep like that? And I wonder how long it'll take me to catch up on rest, so I can actually get out of bed before 10?

Selling my future; securing my presents

2009-11-04T08:53:00.000-08:00

I cashed in my 401k. (A tough decision once I remembered I had one to cash in, but if I don't survive the winter, there will be no retirement to plan for.) I paid off the boat (WAAAAAAA-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!), got a survey done (my boat is worth 3k more than I paid for it!), and it just occurred to me that, with careful shopping, I can get nearly everything on that wish-list. And still have 6 months' living socked away.

Today, I've got to fix leaks ahead of the impending rain. The surveyor gave me stellar suggestions about where they might be coming from.

Real wish list

2009-09-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

In no particular order, and just for the hell of it ...

1/4" plywood, ACX grade (hard to find inland, but it does exist) - this is basically marine-grade plywood without the "marine-grade!" markup

1/8" luan plywood

1-1/2" bolts, stainless steel, 6 ga., 8 ga., and 1/4" diam. With nylon locknuts.

Stainless steel dress washers for 1/4" hafts

CPES: clear penetrating epoxy sealant (any size)

White/warm white primer for one-part above-water yacht enamel (1-1/2 qt)

Drill bits (standard sizes) that will go through stainless or fiberglass more than a couple times

Wet/dry sandpaper, 600, 800, and clearcoat grade (~2000), ~3-5 sheets each

50' 6 to 8 ga. two-strand tinned copper wiring (green and white, given the choice) with 4 pr shrink-wrap 3/8" terminals.
Standard, normal carb-cleaning kit, like from an auto parts store.

10-20 hours' labor, mostly minimally skilled.

The Boat Trip from Hell (tm) [1,400 words, ~3 pages]

2009-08-28T12:12:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason (possibly related to alternating poised command with startling idiocy), I've been asked a lot lately, "How long have you been sailing?" (That's almost as hard to answer as, "Where are you from?")

The answer is somewhere between 21 years and 3.

We sailed occasionally in Egypt, although it was usually someone else doing the work. We left in 1981. In the 1980s, I took a course to qualify as an emergency medical technician. (This comes back into the story, believe me.)

In my early 20s, I lived in the woodsy, hilly heaven of western Massachusetts. At college, I met a lifelong sailor in her late 30s who wanted to take her boat and prematurely arthritic spine to the Virgin Islands. She decided to hire and train women, who, at the time, were heavily discriminated against in sailing, so female crew were hard to come by.

It turned out that she was a terrible teacher, was wonderful to the boat but irresponsible to the crew, was seriously undertreated for significant mental illnesses, and was horribly addicted to narcotics. I was headed to nursing school in the fall, so I had a terrific opportunity to figure out exactly what her diagnoses were after the fact.

One of the crewmembers was epileptic and couldn't swim, one of them was surly and wouldn't think, and the Captain -- in her skipperly wisdom -- decided to let the first mate (me) handle their training because I had been out on the water before. Her notion of teaching was to say to me, "Read this chapter in the book tonight. Explain it to the others in the morning." Then, the next day, she would steer us out into the open water then say to us, "I'm going below. Turn us around and get us back in. I'm not here." Then she would turn and give me a Look, which meant that:

a. If anything happened, I would pay dearly.
b. If we needed help, she would help, but then I would pay dearly.

She also made me medical officer, because I had that EMT training. She stocked the medicine chest with what would now be a few thousand dollars' worth of suture materials and medications (mostly narcotics and downers, of course), told me I was responsible for it, then told me not to worry about it because, "If we need any, I'll tell you what you need to know." Great.

I was young. I wanted the adventure. Once I was in, it didn't occur to me to back out.

We were 14 days at sea, learning to sail on the "straight shot" from Cape Cod to the Virgin Islands, following a course outside the Bahamas. I was on the 12 to 4 watch; by the second week, I was hallucinating in the wee hours. I told the Captain once, and she told me I'd better stop hallucinating because that was dangerous and she was not going to reassign the watches, so I'd better learn to deal with it.

When she wasn't scolding me, she was hitting on me, which just goes to show that being an asshole is an equal-opportunity characteristic. Two highlights: her repeated efforts to phrase it as medical care and therefore part of my responsibilities, and the one time she threatened to court-martial me for not putting out. For once, the entire crew spoke up on my side, tho' very politely; otherwise, they kept their heads down and their mouths shut when the Captain acted out on me. This was in the '80s, when educated young women were more afraid of authority than they are now. It was appalling.

10 days out, the nicest person aboard developed a hemorrhaging peptic ulcer. We had to medevac her because we were over three days from land. The U.S. Navy sent out a jet with a box of supplies, but it took them 20 minutes of high-speed flying to find us because the Captain's sextant readings were so bad we were well over the horizon from our expected course! I started my first IV with a steel needle in collapsed veins on a 35 foot cutter in blue water, and got it in on the second try. Somehow, that made me very confident about nursing school.

It took another day or so for the Coast Guard to get within striking distance, but they sent a helicopter out to get her as soon as they could. The Captain chucked her in the dinghy and took her out to the end of a 25' line so the helicopter could get near enough to scoop her up, and they took our little sweetie-pie away.

We didn't realize until the helicopter flew off that I had failed to tie a proper bowline to secure the dinghy to the boat. I can still see the Captain's face when she realized she would have to row all the way back. I thought eyes only shot fire like that in cartoons.

We dropped anchor in Tortola Bay 14 days, 11 hours, and 12 minutes after passing the lighthouse at Buzzards Bay. (But who's counting.) The Captain and I had a screaming match at one in the morning when I slugged an oak-paneled bulkhead in my exhaustion and rage. For hitting the boat I was kicked off onto a foreign shore -- after a brief call to wake up my father and ask him to arrange for my flight home -- with $5 in one pocket, a tube of toothpaste in the other, and my passport and diving gear still buried on the boat. She said I could come get my stuff later, but I was to forfeit my pay for the whole month's work and leave the boat immediately.

I woke up on a picnic table at Pusser's Landing, the toothpaste having exploded in my pocket and an old man having seated himself nearby, to wait for me to wake up, scold me for being a vagrant, and try to talk me into allowing myself to be kidnapped by him and his children to attend upon his shriveled little sausage until such time as he would tire of me.

Are you kidding? After what I had just been through?

Once we clarified what I would and would not put up with, and dispensed with his mean-spirited and empty threats, he indicated that the Pusser's Landing cook knew people who took in stray humans. The cook gave me an excellent lunch and a great deal of superior attitude, then called a friend of hers to take me over the mountain.

Marina and Samuel provided food, a guest room, showers, and not just courtesy but kindly friendship, until my dad could arrange for my escape on Monday. I tried to persuade them to accept some kind of recompense, but their attitude was "pay it forward"; they said to me, "We don't like how bad the world is, and we can't change it. But we can provide a safe place to people who need it, so we do." That's all they wanted. The fact that I was going into a helping profession was a huge bonus.

I've never had a lot of time for racial or economic prejudice, but since that stupid white kid from a Foreign Service family got rescued by such a good, classy, hard-working couple who would've been turned away from our cocktail parties with killing politeness, it seems completely infra dig.

Anyway, I came home to find that the cat sitter whom the Captain had hired had taken all the money but nearly killed my cat. She had never bothered to wonder why the cat had stopped eating sometime after adjusting to my absence, and somehow didn't notice that all the water was gone, the litter-box was overflowing, and there were maggots thriving in the kibble.

As far as I could tell, my cat had had no care for a week, and precious little before that. We both wept at finding each other again. Since then, I avoid leaving my pets for long, and never with strangers.

So, after this trip that nearly killed a crewman, me, and my furry little friend, I felt strangely repulsed by sailing. I thought I ought to be interested, but just wasn't.

20 years later, RSD made me unemployable and eliminated nearly all my recreational activities. I lost a lot of illusions and pretensions along with my functioning, so it wasn't a total loss, right? Anyway, I was getting a bit tired of the list of things I could no longer do. Right then, I stumbled across the Bay Area Association of Disabled Sailors, and found something that I actually could do -- with help. Moreover, with my own boat, I can bring the cat with me!

Afterword ...

Not long ago, Matey tried to grab and use a dock line that was looped over the stern pulpit, not under it. I still had the grill on the rail, so it was a loud and startling event. Once we got sorted out, he apologized profusely for making such an elementary mistake. I said, "No, no, it's not your fault, it's my fault. You're still learning. I'm the Captain, I was standing right there, and I should've checked it before you stepped off."

Once he realized I meant it (which took a minute or two), he just stood there for a moment. Then he announced, "I would follow you anywhere, Skipper." With no further fuss, he went straight back to work.

I thought that was a little puzzling (though very sweet), but retelling this story of my first bluewater trip changes my perspective a little. I clearly learned something, at least in terms of how not to treat your crew.

RLS, move over: Treasure Island [1,500 words,~3 pp]

2009-08-05T21:31:00.000-07:00

We left Ballena Isle around 6:30 p.m., thinking we might catch sunset over Treasure Island if we timed it right. As we left the harbor, I noticed the water was near the high tide mark. I looked forward to having the outgoing current shorten our trip.

Once on the water, we said what the hell, let's save some of our 3 gallons of gas and put up the jib. There was a nice wind for it. We had to tack a fair way across the bay before we could tack back up on a close reach to Treasure Island. Matey is still learning the ropes, literally, but he has good instincts. However, he still has trouble with the subtle art of the jib: when tacking, the jib needs to decide for itself when it's time to come over. Novices tend to try to muscle it over, as if it were on a leash. That never works.

Matey muscled. The bottom seam caught on something and started to rip. We furled in the jib and turned on the motor, and I set a course straight for TI.

It was like wading through molasses. It took embarrassingly long for me to realize that the current was still flooding, not ebbing. My only excuse is that my pain has been bad lately, and that makes me pretty daffy.

At full dark, and after being far too busy to watch the sunset, Matey drew my attention to a part of the water that looked, to me, exactly like every other part of the water: "See that dark band? Shouldn't we give that a wide berth, Skipper?"

I explained how it was a trick of the light, though I can no longer remember what my explanation involved. It was bullshit, anyway.

Matey saved our collective butt. He realized that a scathing bitch of a floodtide was slamming us Eastward, not to mention slowing us far more than I knew. He saw the low, unmarked and unlit Oakland piers stretching far into the water. Scared the suppurating piss out of me as we passed within yards of dark, inchoate rocky forms looming out of the night.

That does it: I'm getting glasses.

However, it was me who spotted the loaded freighter churning out of the harbor, pilot boat and tender bobbing faithfully around it.

Despite the odds, we made it past Oakland Harbor and safely under the new and old spans of the Bay Bridge. We had just marked the buoy where you turn into Clipper Cove, when the motor sputtered and died.

We were out of gas. 3 gallons should've been enough to cross the Bay three times, but not last night.

No more leaving port with 3 gallons. 5 or no go.

Matey clomped about on deck, uncovering the main and assessing the jib. I maneuvered the tiller to keep us straight in the current, which seemed to be in our favor for a change. We had drifted slightly sideways, but no closer to the massive construction project under the bridge. We hoisted the sails, or at least we meant to: the mainsail got hung up, firstly on a winch attached to the mast, secondly on a stray line, and thirdly on a reef-line that had not been properly released.

Raising the mainsail is not supposed to be that complicated. In case you didn't realize that. I'm looking forward to sorting out the mast furniture.

The main give us a little bit of forward propulsion, and therefore breathing room. Matey went forward and futzed with the jib. I only wanted about half of it out, to spare the tear, but that was more lines than we could cope with in the dark; we pulled out the whole jib, and hoped for the best.

Once we were under way, we took few minutes to relax. I had to stop shaking and clear my head in order to plan an entrance into Clipper Cove under sail, in full dark, to drop an untested anchor in an unknown bottom, while avoiding the other boats anchored there.

Using Matey's eyes and my wind sense, we tried a nearshore approach, but the wind comes whipping through Clipper Cove dead ahead of you; we couldn't make the turn without losing power and were almost immediately in irons, putting the jib at risk again. Strangely, the boat herself gave a thoughtful little shimmy and then gently rotated leftwards, allowing us to catch wind in the sails, leave the harbor safely, sail up the entire length of the island again to think it over, and come back and try a different route.

I let Matey steer (and smoke) while I went forward to make sure the anchor was ready for action. Honestly, I never intended to use it anytime soon; I was going to get lots of daylight practice before trying to set an anchor at night. I checked every hinge and shackle, counted out to 60 feet of rode (that means the chain and rope attached to the anchor) making sure the chain moved freely and the rope was not abraded, cleared away some random crap from the prow, and made sure the anchor could slide clear of its bracket.

This time, I used a wide approach to the harbor, so smaller adjustments were needed to use the prevailing wind. It wasn't perfect, but we were in far enough, the water was deep enough, and we were just far enough away from everything dangerous (submerged pilings, bridge construction, land) that I thought we might as well drop anchor rather than whip around and try it again.

So, one hand on the tiller, keeping the boat from going backwards by sheer force of will, I hollered instructions to Matey on the bow about the theory and practice of dropping and securing an anchor. With customary intrepidity, he complied. It seemed to have caught, and when I checked it, it felt pretty good.

I let out only a short rode. It doesn't give the best grip but did keep us a comfy distance from the submerged pilings we had drifted towards while anchoring. We sat up for a while, making sure the anchor held. Almost simultaneously, we breathed a sigh of relief and hugged tightly until I stopped shaking from delayed shock. Matey is a real trooper.

The boat swung about on her rode like a dancer practicing meticulous arabesques. If the tide hadn't been so extreme, the wind so playful, or if I had ever done this before in my effing life, I'd probably have been a bit more relaxed. As it was, I found it much easier to sit up, keep watch, and write, while Matey -- who did most of the physical work, and is still in the stage of life where sleep is essential unless partying is involved -- got a few hours of shuteye. The wind came up, sometimes 15 knots, making the lines spank unmercifully against the mast. Matey was oblivious, but it made my ears ring.

We did drift a bit, so I lengthened the anchor rode. (That is so counterintuitive, but it worked. After I did that, no more drifting.) I also tied the sail down more snugly, reducing our profile against the wind. I tied the rudder more or less straight, hoping to reduce our drag on the current, but there are some weird currents there.

The longer rode seemed to reassure Voyager; she stopped twirling about as much. The tide started going out a couple hours before sunrise, and I watched nonchalantly as the depth finder counted down, knowing we had plenty of room underneath.

I whipped out my iPhone (nobody's paying me to say that) to hop online and find the harbor master's number. Fortunately for Matey, who normally doesn't rise until the keyboard jockeys have had at least one coffee break, the harbor master wasn't even in the office until 10. I spent the time between full light and 10am persuading my newly installed kerosene stove to make coffee and tea.

Roger, the harbor master, very sweetly dug up some gasoline, a dinghy, and someone to bring it out. Turns out the harbor is the only place that has gasoline on the island: he has to drive to the mainland, fill a couple of containers, drive back to the Marina, keep it stowed safely in a building that really wasn't designed for that, and stay on good terms with the police so they don't get upset about it because it's technically illegal to sell gasoline on the island. I sure didn't mind paying premium rates for that gas!

We docked safely and, as we were tying up and preparing to go to breakfast, Matey asked, "What do I tell the guys who were going to come out with us this afternoon?"

I said, "We're not taking anybody out today." I couldn't feature getting back underway without a solid night’s sleep behind me, time enough to mull and dream and let my brain reboot.

I used to handle crises as if they were normal (perhaps because they were) but part of the neurological wreckage of RSD is the way it sabotages your ability to let crises slide off your back. It is so freaking weird to still feel my stomach knot every time the wind gusts. It was supposed to be a fading memory by now.

It's 9 p.m. and Matey wrote to say he is going back to sleep after a six-hour nap. I'm still too wound up, but there's plenty of chamomile tea to help with that.

This crisis is officially over.

It was worth it [300 words, ~1 page]

2009-06-24T19:20:00.000-07:00

The wind was pretty stiff, so Neil proposed pulling out the jib alone and sailing a bit, just to take the opportunity. I didn't have the jib fairleads in, but he ran the jib sheets all the way back to the spinnaker blocks and made it work. (Translation: the right hardware wasn't there, but he found something to make do with.)

With my foot on the tiller (since my hands aren't too reliable) I steered dead into the wind while the guys set up. Then I veered to starboard (the right-hand side) while Stewart -- all 77 pounds of him -- hauled out the jib. Neil prompted me through a couple of course corrections until we were sailing a sweet and effortless downhill run, the jib flying out like an angel. No really, it was. A slightly tatty angel, an angel that had seen better days perhaps, but then so have we all. (Except maybe Stewart.)

I turned off the motor, and that first silence as the wind takes over the boat is my favorite moment in life. Everything is so pure. The floating, flying motion, the shimmering silver water, the perfect sense of one-ness.

This time it was different. Looking behind me and seeing the shape of my hull's motion. Looking in front of me and seeing my home. Looking ahead and seeing nothing my gods didn't put there.

There's a Pratchett quote I've always had a little trouble with, because it's so very hyperbolical but it's also very pretty, and finally it came true: "Against one perfect moment, the centuries beat in vain."

I thought of the years, the struggles, the waxing pain and waning money, all that hopelessness and helplessness and fear, and held them against this moment. I grinned fiercely, but said calmly, "It was worth it." It was some moments later that I realized that tears were pouring down my face in a couple of unruly little waterfalls.

It was worth it.

Harnessing the horses [300 words, ~1 page]

2009-06-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

It's been an unbelievable year. I won't go into most of it because it sucked -- until fairly recently.

The capable, kindly, and inspired folks at Ship Shape Boatworks (phone 925-395-3616, email ssboatworks@live.com) rebuilt my motor bracket, reinforced the stern, hooked up my outboard, and (after an adventurous Saturday when I left my slip but not the harbor) scrubbed my hull and replaced the propeller and all its retaining hardware. Then the guys took the boat out with me to make sure everything was really going to hold, now.

Neil (early 30's) and Stewart (10-11) are absolutely fearless. While Neil was locked in battle with the carnivorous barnacles on Voyager's bottom, Stewart told me about sailing his 12-foot dinghy from Richmond to San Francisco's Aquatic Park -- that's straight up the craziest part of the Bay -- in 20-knot winds. In his mind, it was an interesting exercise in boating dynamics, since his main concern was to keep the boat from plowing under the waves and doing a headstand, and to get a moment to pump out the water when it was nearly up to his hips.

I grinned from ear to ear. My kind of people.

We fired up the engine, which didn't take long. I experimented with the speed that gave me the best steering, without being faster than I can react to. (A narrower window than I'd like, but I'll adapt.) We swizzled out of the slip (it's a very narrow fairway, there) and got safely past all the other boats and out of the harbor. The engine smoothed out as she ran, until she purred like a 2-stroke kitten -- in a big deep barrel. 25 horses make quite a sound.

Good morning! [175 words, ~ 1/2 page]

2009-04-21T06:22:00.000-07:00

Last night I couldn't settle down for sleep. I went up on the cabin top and sat down against my mast with one arm around it until my brain stopped whirling, and soon I could lay down. I looked up at the few stars the Bay Area sky allows, and in awhile I saw a meteor scratch a notch across the sky next to the tip of my mast.

This morning, I had to be up betimes. A painful thing, but I managed. I got up to use the shore head and stepped out into the kind of sky that looks like it was finger-painted by a 4-year-old: little skill, few colors, and no taste at all, but LOTS of enthusiasm. It was glorious, especially with the soft air of a warm morning caressing the mouth with each breath.

I came back to find Arthur had come down the dock to greet me, his long fur fluffed out and waving with the gentle humidity, a tuxedo-colored cloud of purry contentment.

I like living on a boat.

Character moment [100 words]

2009-04-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

I got a tool to finish installing the footpump with. I also found the best used-crap store I've ever seen, selling everything from old LPs to hand-knotted Persian rugs and kilims, of which even the huge ones were under 2k. I picked up a tool and a movie for a song.

Walking back to my boat, I had a sublime moment when I realized I was carryng a Jane Austen movie in one hand and a foot-long wrench in the other. That's one way to tell that it's going to be a great afternoon.

Hair spray. No, really. //425 words, ~1 page

2009-03-30T20:14:00.000-07:00

The endlessly kind & helpful Rick installed a foot pump for my fresh water. This means no more flailing away at the wretched hand-lever whenever I want to drink or wash something.

Installing it was a really stunning case of one damn thing after another -- 5 hours to do a job that we thought should have taken 2 -- but it finally looked good to go and he had to leave, so I sent him off and went to fill the water tank so I could try it out.

It did pump, but it couldn't hold the seal, so each time you went to get water you had to stomp on the pedal several times just to get started and then put up with a couple geyser-like bursts before getting good flow. I replaced all the freshwater tubing when I got the boat, so, full of a sense of my own righteousness, I couldn't stomach a sloppy freshwater system. More fool I.

Turned out it was leaking anyway, so it had to be dealt with. Mind you, it was leaking a lot more by the time I gave up trying to fix it.

Weak points in the system: we had to change tubing size to get the inflow tubing onto the inlet nozzle, and the nozzles on the foot pump were smooth -- no christmas-tree ridges, no screw threads, just smooooooooth, oily plastic, for which there is no really good glue. As far as I could tell, it was leaking in all 3 places: size-change, pump inlet, pump outlet.

I went to Pagano's, where Medium Chris (as opposed to Big Chris, the boss) had -- I thought -- wasted 10 minutes of my precious time that morning explaining this multi-part system for connecting 2 sizes of tubing. I found him, sent up a flare, and he dropped the inventory he was working on to get me a really impressive-looking Chinese puzzle of brass that connects dissimilar sizes of soft-walled tubing absolutely air-tight. He also told me a trick for dealing with slick nozzles so bizarre it has to be true, or at least worth trying: cover it with hair spray, crank your hose clamps on tight, and let it dry. The hair spray dries as glue, and it forms a water-tight seal. Chris says he heard this from another boater, so it must be true.

Buzz-cut Rick is coming over again tomorrow. He thinks he's going to haul me up the mast. Little does he know he'll be messing around with hair spray.

happy month after Valentine's Day //90 words

2009-03-17T20:21:00.000-07:00

this blog has been on hiatus as survival issues pushed everything else aside. Rest assured that Voyager is still afloat, as am I. At least in the physical sense. Metaphorically, it's still an open question, but one we're working on daily.

If anyone wants to help, just come over for a couple of hours, because any of you who aren't quadriplegic can do a lot more than I can around here. Those of you I know who are quadriplegic, you can help me with the problem solving, since you're good at that.

OMG I have a door! //550 words, just over 1 page

2009-01-24T08:07:00.000-08:00

After being racked up for a couple weeks, I got back into commission with a bang. Several, actually.

The door to my head was stubborn, stuck, and clunky (head means bathroom, smartalecks!) and finally I saw why: it was warped.

No comment.

I took out the sill, removed the door and what little hardware was on it (another sore point), and tried turning it different ways. Repositioning wouldn't work; it was going to have to be surgery.

I wish I had pictures, because this was pretty amazing.

I took my Magic Pull Saw and sliced off a nearly 1/4" thick wedge from the taller side. As long as you let the tool do the work, it's like slicing butter - very slowly.

I took a cold chisel and scored a line across the bottom edge of the door, slightly above the level where constantly getting stuck in its sliding channel had worn a shiny band across the wood. I removed the thin, splintery wood around the wheel wells, from which the wheels had long since rotted away.

Then I picked up my Magic Graphite Hammer and removed 1/8" - 1/4" of thickness from that scored line downwards.

I have some really great hand tools.

My orbital sander broke last week, so I took a little extra time to smooth things out with the chisel.

I rubbed it well with coconut oil. Two coats on the bottom band. The sun-bleached parts I also rubbed with olive oil, so they'd darken up over the next couple days.

I remounted the door and screwed inthe sill. It slid like a dream, like silk over bare skin. Aaaah.

None of the locking arrangements had worked (1 to lock it open under way, 1 to lock it closed) and the mirror had been too high. I cleaned and oiled the mirror and its frame (a sturdy object which I think will outlast me) and screwed it in at a sensible height. I put a hook on the _back_ edge of the door and attached one eye to the bulkhead in the closed position, and one in the open position. That way, it's harder for any mischeivous friends to pop the lock from the outside (I grew up with two brothers.)

I mounted a handle - at long last. There is finally a hand-friendly way to move this thing.

All that remains is to make a handle for the cabin-side of the door. It will have to slip into the pocket without sticking. There's a hole in the right place from a previous effort; I'll use a bootlace to make a loop. That should do the trick and still look good against the teak.

-------

Addendum:

I was so impressed with the chisel and hammer that I used them again. I lucked into a cheap bag of teak handles of the inset type, where you stick your fingertips inside a little box, and the box is set into the door. I drilled sinkholes on the cabin side of the door, then, working with fortuitous arrangements of the grain, I slowly and gently chiseled out a pocket to insert the handle into. I checked the fit, applied wood glue (Titebond 3, great stuff), and carefully tapped the handle into place. Looks like it was made that way. Much classier than a leather thong.

Subatomic particulars //~100 words

2009-01-03T15:39:00.000-08:00

Planning has become impossible. This may be even more frustrating for those who deal with me than it is for me, though that's saying a lot.

If the physicists and metaphysicists are both right, then I'm simply a collection of subatomic particles sharing space, time, and consciousness. So many trappings of life have peeled away that there are fewer distractions from essentials. That would explain why I can know either where I am, or where I'm going, but not both.

Reinforcing transom, v. 2.0 //~100 words

2008-12-25T14:42:00.000-08:00

My stringers idea won't work; the boat's transom is not so well-secured that it will take the shock of a 25 hp outboard shaking and torquing, even if the surface isn't bowing. So I learned something about how to make custom-formed marine-grade plywood and how to form a suitable mating to the rest of the hull, and got most of the materials to do so.

And one day, it just might happen. I think a pig flew out of my ass yesterday, so I'm not giving up on it.

A good week's mail //less than 50 words

2008-12-18T14:48:00.000-08:00

I got, in the same week, 3 gorgeous new strapless bras and 32 feet of hefty 6 ga marine-grade battery cable. I'm absolutely delighted with both.

This is probably a ridiculously comprehensive insight into my character.

Order from chaos, bit by bit //225 words, ~1/2 page

2008-12-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

I'm wrapped up in departure work: thinning out the garbage & Goodwill (mostly done), moving stuff out of my expensive dry storage in Santa Cruz into musty storage in Alameda, and organizing boat & car so that the one can be left and the other lived in.

I'm putting all my sails into the storage locker ashore, which means my forepeak will be functional storage again for tools, litterbox, and (believe it or not) printers. My cat and I are both looking forward to having an easier time with output.

The stern bows something wicked when you push on the motor. Not good, but it can wait. I'm pretty sure it's not going anywhere. I thought of building stringers (think in terms of half-pipes, molded against the hull and glassed in, forming lightweight structural support) but, though it's a good idea, I can't quite get started.

I did do something about the lazarette: the formless chaos under the cockpit is now a well-organized rope locker with one spare gas can, the parts for attaching the engine, and a single (huge) box of rags. I can get to anything, without everything else being in the way. MUCH easier on these paws.

Another WW II quote, though I'm not sure who said it: We'll do what we can, until we can't. Very sensible.

Penultimate BAADS trip //less than 100 words

2008-11-30T20:51:00.000-08:00

A handful of us did an overnight workshop/shakedown trip which was an almost flawless symphony of perfect weather and fine seamanship. That was Friday/Saturday.

Tedious winds on Sunday’s regular BAADS sail, despite my best efforts, but I got soaked by a couple of good rollers, so the day wasn’t a total loss. I wound up cold, wet, tired, and sore, so I gave the social part a miss. I’m on the list for sailing next Sunday, but I can only go if I’m all packed. We shall see.

Motor is ON me BOAT!

2008-11-16T21:47:00.000-08:00

My beautiful motor is mounted. This is thanks entirely to Larry, the only one who showed up to help, out of all those who made promising noises. What a clever, clever man he is. I just did what I was told, mentally soaking up the experience of watching him solve the dozens of logistical problems that each stage of the process brought with it. I learned a lot. For me, the crowning moment was when this lanky guy with not a spare ounce on him levered the 125# motor off the cart, onto a plank at the edge of the dock, and gently planted it on the mounting bracket -- bang in the middle on the first try. No scratches, no injuries, no drama, nothing bent or broken. It was beautiful.

Now I have to hook it up. The battery cables are a foot long, but the battery is 14 feet away, so new cables are on the way. The rest of the wiring harness is a complete mystery to me, except for the piece with the ignition key in it, so I've ordered the manufacturer’s shop manual ($75, thank you very much!) for that exact model, and that should arrive next week.

So all I have to do between now and then is recaulk the toe rails, do first aid on the winches, fix the starboard navigation light, check the rigging and anchor rode, organize my crap into what gets stowed and what goes with me, write up the maintenance schedule, catch up on my bills, and finish getting some sort of protection on the hull -- now that I've figured out what will work. (And THAT was no small task, let me tell you.)

Excelsior!

2008-11-15T09:38:00.000-08:00

It's the middle of November. This morning, as soon as the sun stained the sky, before it was even up, the temperature rose perceptibly. I drank my water, fed my cat, and stuck my head out the hatch: the warmth plonked on my face like an enthusiastic kiss from a BIG mouth.

I find this unseasonal warmth disturbing in the larger sense because of what it means for my home planet, but right here and right now, it's heavenly. All that light and warmth, but the sun not strong enough to hurt me. What a great day for working!

I briefly considered catching up with these blogs, but sanity interceded. Life marches on; so will I.

Generating alternatives: Long Gyland Sound

2008-09-29T17:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-23T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-12T15:49:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-10T20:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-08T14:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Galley slaving: photographing the refit

2008-07-05T22:12:00.000-07:00

I gave the staff at the harbor master's office the following slideshow, to let them know why I've been spending so much time on the boat. It includes images explained in prior posts, but I'm just going to put them all here.

It was a TRIP to look back at this stuff. It was a great opportunity to feel how remarkable my progress has been. I told the assistant harbor master, "I have to work in 10-20 minute increments, because of the problem with my hands. I’m not whining, I just want you to be suitably impressed." So bear that in mind ...

Joyce took this picture shortly after I bought the boat. Note the tiny shelf holding dishes, and a big open space with a mop handle leaning across it. That space originally held an oven; without that, it's just useless gap.

First, I extended that tiny shelf with a couple of red oak planks and put a hinge between them, providing access to the under-counter space. Then I installed a beautiful redwood board, chosen for its relative softness (less damaging to land against in a blow) and fire resistance, since this is where I put my camp stove (often stowed when not in use.)

The green hair scrunchy is attached to an eye screw. That's what you use to pull up the front half of the shelf. Easy to find, easy to use, easy to replace, hard to break.

In the next picture, you're looking underneath the lifted oak shelf to the teapot and pans below. You're looking at almost every cooking dish.

Pretty compact, huh?

Underneath those, I put the garbage and recycling bins. Note the space between them, so you can brace yourself with 1 foot forward:

I got tired of tripping over whichever pair of shoes I wasn't wearing, so I got a couple of coat hooks and improvised a secure shoe rack out of the way, but close to the companionway. When you're standing facing the galley, this is on your left, towards the front of the ship:

To me, the next picture represents a real coup. There was some kind of air leak in the fresh water line, and I finally found the damn thing and locked it off until I can fix the other sink. So, after nine months of running around filling bottles, I finally have flowing water:

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I've been doing with my summer. And part of my spring.

Also been working on brightwork (installed wood, to you landlubbers), sorting out stowage, fixing & reinstalling the door to the head, getting rid of moldy cushions, working out a functional computer set up (almost there), and trying to nerve myself to the task of teaching the cat to use the toilet so I don't have to keep wrestling with the litter box. It's one of the biggest items on the boat! There's something very wrong with that. Think about it…

Been away so long I hardly knew the place

2008-06-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

I refilled the water tank, and the plumbing still works. Sigh of relief. Even though there was no reason for it to go wrong while I was gone, I don't take anything for granted.

I'm only thi-i-i-i-is far away from getting storage and cushions dealt with once and for all. The main holdup: that disgusting hull liner. I simply cannot bring myself to make perfectly new foam, or any of my personal belongings, snuggle up to that toxic plaque dressed in rotting fabric.

I'm going to ask some friends if I can doss on a spare bunk nearby for about a week, while I buzz the hull-liner off bit by bit (in a full space-suit, I assure you.) Once that vile shit is gone, I can pack things into place and, later, put the new insulation and liner in bit by bit.

Boy, that is really something to look forward to. It will be SUCH a relief to get all the hateful crap off my walls and throw away these rank and fetid cushions.

That alone might be worth cracking the last bottle of champagne for. Maybe I'll wait until the new cushions are in; then we'll all have somewhere comfortable to sit.

A proper head

2008-05-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

I've been awfully sick for most of this week. I could tell I was definitely on the mend this morning when, after my waking-up quart of water (not kidding) I hauled the door to the head (bathroom) into the cockpit, ran the sander up there, and started dealing with the damn thing.

It has been perched on an open track ever since the labor party. Regis took it down and inspected the damage, delivered his recommendations, and left all the hardware just where I could find it. I never got to it until now.

After buzzing the crap off the foot of the door, and buzzing down the parts where it got hung up and refused to close properly, I decided that wheels were never going to work inside that door again. There was too little undamaged wood to hold them. The door was going to have to slide, rather than roll, back and forth. Between the constant shower of dust from land, the cat litter, and feet going back and forth, it's just not going to happen. What could keep it moving under those circumstances?

Can you figure it out? I was rather pleased when I did.

I cut 2 short lengths of polypropylene tubing, left over from doing the freshwater plumbing. I screwed them into the bottom of the door, one over each wheel well. I shaved the edges of the tubing, so there would be no sharp edge in contact with the track.

I tried mounting it, but that made the door too high.

I cut the polypro tubing in thirds, lengthwise. Using all the predrilled holes, I screwed it right in. Works like a charm. Time will tell how well it holds up, but the great thing is, it's cheap and easy to do.

I closed the track up again, and now my door goes all the way open, all the way closed, locks in both positions, and doesn't hurt to use.

Man, it really is the simple things in life.

Back to front; front to back

2008-05-14T19:33:00.000-07:00

I've been dreading & procrastinating stripping out the forepeak. I finally realized why:

- It has no natural light, unless you leave the head door open.
- It's a tiny, tiny cave.
- It sits on top of the holding tank (= septic tank) and right next to a toilet that's at least 20 years old.

And I thought I was going to sleep there!!

I realized that I like the quarter berth. I like waking up next to the water supply and the radio, then looking around at some very pretty wood and the busy heart of my busy little life.

I got a lovely roll of foam last week that I was going to turn into settee cushions. I'm going to use it as the foundation of my new bed in the quarter-berth. It's a much less intimidating place to strip and refinish, and that means down-time will be minimal.

The forepeak is going to be my office, as I originally contemplated (last year.) I miss having a wide, flat space to stretch out in -- both in the sense of spreading a project out, and in the sense of opening up my joints and staying limber. I don't mind working in a cave, I just can't feature the dreams my impressionable subconscious would come up with if I were sleeping there.

Famous last words

2008-05-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

I was so sanguine about putting in the rest of the countertop. What a labor that turned into. Took 2 weeks, and several false starts, to get a matching set of brackets. Strange that such a standard item should be so hard to find.

I won't tell you about wiggling the damn thing in and out 8 times a day, chiseling space for hardware interuptus, managing NOT to knock the damn fuel gauge out of the bulkhead, pinched fingers, scraped bulkhead, etc etc etc. My god, what a chore.

[img: countertop in situ]

The countertop is 2 pieces of redwood fencing plank, glued together. I realized that it was the best bang for the buck: smoothly milled, straight & fairly clean, and very beautiful. Since these are rarely cut from heartwood, I had to go through and look for the most promising planks; dug through about 40 pieces to get 6 I liked. (The rest are in storage awaiting future projects.)

Now that it's done, I'm glad it works out the way I was hoping it would. I can still get to all my pans, there's room for everything, and the red oak and redwood are odd together but, in my opinion, perfectly beautiful:

[img: lid raised]

Yes, I have the pix, but my camera is hiding. The cabin is a worse mess than ever.

I did pull the faucet in the head apart. I thought I could fix it, but no go; it's truly kaput. I did learn that, if you park the pump handle pointing away from you, it holds the prime better & you get more out of it. This means the faucet in the galley is working better than it ever has:

[img: gushing faucet]

Galley storage/work space

2008-04-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

I'm nearly done with the galley counter & shelf space. I put in a wire shelf below, with arrangements to make stowing and securing pots & pans easier:

[img]

Notice there's no bracket underneath the right side. I drilled holes in the bulkhead (wall) and inserted the ends of the horizontal wires of the shelf. It was fiddly: the shelf wouldn't fit in at the length it was, so I had to measure & remeasure then triple measure (measure twice, cut once, fine; I find that, if I'm going to drill, I'm better off measuring 3 times.) I was off by 1/8 of an inch in one hole; another 1/8 would have made it impossible to bully the thing in there. But it worked out.

I'm delighted to have, not only somewhere to put my cookware, but to have it easy to get to! Really, those of you with roomier kitchens have no idea. And there is exactly enough space; no more, no less.

I still wouldn't trade all your space for this self-satisfaction & self-sufficiency. I love making do with little. There was a time it terrified me, and then I had lots, and now I'm really happy about just this.

My point of reference when deciding what to get: everything I need, nothing I don't.

I still need to work on the latter. The main cabin is a mess.

Just going to put in one more bit of counter to complete the galley area. I've cut down the wood; should be straightforward.

Computer: it lives!

2008-04-20T15:17:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting back comfortably, with the cat sitting up on my lap and purring, dictating this note into my fully reborn little laptop.

For those of you who were not glued to the unfolding of this drama, here's the short version.

I got a TravelMate 3000, and Acer computer that has a processing speed of over 1.8 GHz and whose memory goes up to 2 gigs. And it weighs less than 3 pounds.

In short, it's perfect for me. It's light enough to haul around, and powerful enough to run my dictation software and anything else side-by-side -- and that takes doing.

It went with me to Spain and back -- twice -- without a murmur. It put up with me dragging it all over the central coast of California. It took a licking and kept on ticking.

Last fall, I made the mistake of sticking it in a backpack, and wearing the backpack to climb aboard the boat. The laptop slid out and leaped over my head into the cockpit, cracking the case and killing the hard drive.

I got referred to DriveSavers, but I couldn't possibly afford their prices -- even though, after I told them a little about myself, they cut me an incredible deal.

One friend of mine decided that she had the money and the motivation to take care of that. It took some persuading, but she talked me into accepting her help.

After a couple of tries, they succeeded in saving all my data! That was a huge relief.

Next, I had to figure out if the laptop was savable, or if I was going to have to replace it. That would mean doing without for the best part of a year, assuming there were no other major expenses.

I booted up from every possible source. I tried hacking in at the command line. I tried everything. No joy. I took my courage in both hands, got plenty of masking tape handy to trap screws with, and took the whole thing apart to check the motherboard, connections, and cards for visible damage. everything looked fine.

I finally found Serengeti Systems, a cute little hole in the wall. I sat down with the very nice owner, explained what I was doing, and asked if he had a bootable hard drive lying around. He plugged one in for me and let me at it. after the computer booted up painlessly and then went looking for all the right hardware, I bounced around like a superball. All I needed was a hard drive. Which was going to cost around a hundred bucks.

Remember, I'm on disability. It's barely enough to keep you alive. That's a lot of money to me.

I helped out another friend of mine, who decided that he had some money lying around that he could spare. It took some convincing, but he talked me into taking it.

So I got a new hard drive, twice the size of the old one, and it's the best model that supports my old technology.

Those of you who have rebuilt customized machines won't be surprised to hear that it took about two days to get everything installed and working. It was more than worth it. I am so widely and deeply content to be sitting here, working comfortably, that I'm surprised the force of my inward purring doesn't shake the boat.

The computer is network ready, of course, so it requires a name, in order to be distinguished from other computers on the network. In its previous incarnation, it was Joya, the Spanish word for gem. It still is a gem, but, after its recent adventures and with this new hard drive, it needed a new name... something bigger, something muscular... something that travels widely and can adapt to anything... something tough, but attractive...

Friends, meet Coyote. Coyote, meet my friends.

Birthday bitch

2008-04-19T22:22:00.000-07:00

Today was my birthday, and it was looking like a rough one. I did my 2nd 5- or 6-mile walk in 2 days, trying to get my overloaded sense of failure under control. Wasn't I supposed to have someone to come home to? Weren't there supposed to be kids involved -- or at least lots of pets? A profession, full of activity and development? And so on and so forth. Fun stuff.

This evening, after all my plans fell through (and i usually work it out to at least Plan C; had it out to Plan E today) I wandered down the dock to find Regis the only person home whom I knew well enough to intrude upon.

Regis is a pleasant Frenchman (turns out that's not a complete oxymoron) who looks rather like a laid-back Jeremy Irons. There has been some twitchiness between us because, I gather, we're not sure who has a crush on whom. But he's good company when he forgets about that, full of good stories and wry humor.

I went over with his favorite tipple, which is also one of mine. He's both a cheap date and a gentleman, so we wound up drinking mostly his. After at least an hour I said, "Come have dinner with me. It's my birthday, it's been a hell of a 42 years, and I need the company. All I want from you is a couple more stories."

"What do you mean, a hell of a 42 years?" he asked.

That was a question I couldn't answer honestly when sober. I said, after gaping briefly, "Where do I start? Abuse, molestation, attempted murder --"

"Okay, let's go have dinner."

I hadn't even gotten to the second half of my life!

So we had a stellar dinner and, despite some proper Corsican reservations on his part, I snaked the bill. It was a smashing success because here it is, after 10:30, and I'm feeling better than I have in days: not exhausted, not wrung out, smiling easily and full of good humor after chatting with someone who remembers the world 30 years ago from a standpoint not far from where I was at the time. And who has seen some of the best movies made in the interim, and made a point of finding those locations and forming impressions about the nature of moviemaking therefrom.

Good fun.

Not sure what this has to do with boating, but as a liveaboard (or even a sneakaboard), the distinction between the work of boating and the work of getting through life can get very thin. As Regis remarked this evening.

Looking for a miracle

2008-04-19T07:18:00.000-07:00

Well, I had a line on a good cheap engine on Craig's List, but someone else snaked it. The capable mechanic next door backpedaled sheepishly at the thought of actually touching my engine, rather than just offering advice.

The urge to scream and throw things has mostly passed, but I'm still grinding my teeth.

The stock I inherited is in the toilet and last year's chaos wiped out my savings, so at this point my hope of having a couple thou to drop on motive power is pretty remote. (My nod to financial planning has been to start rolling my 401ks into an IRA.)

Russell thinks I should be able to get an outboard for free. It hasn't happened yet, but now that he's thinking about it maybe someone he knows will have one to spare. He certainly has a wide network.

Does it sound like I'm grasping at straws?

I'm putting the engine back on the back burner (grinding my teeth a little more) and refocusing on the living quarters. Or trying to. Thoughts of a usable galley and a room of my own are pretty appealing. And maybe, in the fullness of time, a properly-cared-for hull?

I was rinsing the boat off yesterday, making the paint (or what's left of it) look as red as possible, when Russell came by and said, "It just won't grow."

I looked at him in surprise.

"No matter how much you water it, it just won't grow. Not even if you sprinkle that Miracle shit on it."

I said I'd keep that in mind and turned the water off. It seemed the perfect coda to my thoughts.

Boiling my head

2008-03-30T10:09:00.000-07:00

After days of halting progress towards getting all those hoses hooked up, I finally asked for help. Dan and Darryll said, "Use boiling water. It softens up the tubing until it's almost like jelly. It slips right on."

Sigh. Wish I'd known that before.

So I boiled a pan of water and slid the remaining wrist-destroying SOBs on like it was nothing. One could not be dunked, because it was completely upward-facing, so I stuck a rag into the water and, making those little "hoo ha hoo ha" noises, I tucked one sleeve of the t-shirt into the tube and wrapped the rest around it for a few minutes. It did the job.

I double-clamped the joints, just as Russell advised, with each pair of clamps turning in opposite directions. (I'll put up a picture when I can find my camera.)

I pee'd in my own damn head last night. Who knew it could be such a hugely satisfying experience. (Punsters, kindly keep your gags in your mouths.)

Sleeping better

My elderly cushions are deteriorating, especially the one in the quarter-berth, where I sleep. I dug a cheapo sleeping-mat out of storage and put it underneath; to my surprise, it really helps. Softens the final approach, so to speak.

Paperwork

I finally got the boat insured. I could have gotten cheaper insurance that would have required my hiring a surveyor and getting the boat pulled out of the water to be surveyed, but it turns out my car insurer also insures boats now, so they gave me a pricier insurance that wound up costing at least $100 less than the total cost of the other one. Woo hoo!

What's next

It's all about the forepeak and the engine, now. I've found a mechanic who might actually do some good (my neighbor who helped me check spark before) and I've got a couple of buckets to drain the old gas into, to prepare to clean out the fuel line.

I've got all the tools and materials I need to refinish the forepeak and turn it into a sweet, cozy little bedroom/library. Except the actual mattress. Linda knows a furniture upholsterer who owes her a favor, so I think I can work something out there.

Last but not least ... I'm about to go negotiate with the harbor mistress (*whipcrack* kneel when you say that!) about staying here under fuzzy status for another 4-6 weeks. Wish me luck.

Thi-i-i-is close to tanking

2008-03-28T21:17:00.000-07:00

The holding tank is almost done. Whew! I just have to hook the hoses up. That involves sawing and grabbing & twisting, which are a bitch for me, so I'm going to do that in between other tasks.

I need to replace the vent line so I'll go easy on the head until I get that done.

I won't tell you what it was like to get the old holding tank out. It was formerly used by someone with very different ideas of sanitation and stink-control, and that morning's pumpout was, wow, not nearly as thorough as it should have been. I consulted Russell and Regis beforehand, though, and of course I've smelled far worse in a prior life, so I managed it pretty well. Hardly spilled a drop.

The 20-gallon tank was too big to go into the hatch with the old platform in place. The guy who put that platform in used cheap screws and unbelievably soft wood, so I couldn't unscrew anything without stripping it and the wood couldn't provide enough resistance to be levered out. I had to resort to the chisel. I have a graphite-handled hammer, which was SO worth the extra couple of bucks I spent on it. It absorbs so much of the shock I'd rather hammer than do almost anything else with my hand tools.

After pulling out the old platform, I put in a bracket to hold the extension, and premeasured and drilled the marine-grade, 3/4 inch plywood planks I was using for the new platform. I took the wood back out so I could get the tank in.

I got that big bad boy in, bending the laws of physics once or twice I think. Anyway, it went in, right side up and correct end facing the tubing, leaving all my digits intact.

Working on one end at a time, I lifted the tank with an elbow while I jimmied the closely-cut planks into position. I had forgotten to budget for some structures inside the hatch, so, after realizing one plank could not possibly fit the available passage, I decided it had to and suddenly it did.

I still can't figure that one out, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I've put eye-bolts in strategic places to strap the tank to. The previous owner didn't have his holding tank strapped down. Might be one reason why the inlet hose had to be 7 feet long -- a breeding-ground of smelly anaerobes and seepage.

I replaced the inlet tubing, needless to say. It's just over 3 feet long in my arrangement. Getting it through the bulkhead (= wall) and into the toilet valve was gymnastic: at one point, I was standing on my head which was facing one way and resting in the bilge, while the rest of my body corkscrewed up the hull and out the hatch until my heels tapped against the underside of the shelf above.

I got out by getting a shoulder under my neck, then using my postural muscles to worm me along until I could get some leverage with my feet on the doorframe, then sort of unscrewing myself from the bowels of my boat. I had no idea I could bend that way without special surgery or heavy drugs, but it was fun.

I got everything screwed down for the meantime, but I need to put in some responsible hardware; this stuff is for the birds.

I have to cut the hoses to size and jam them in, then double-seal everything with two opposing hose clamps each, so nothing can escape.

Then I'll be tanked.

If I sound rather smug, it's because I am. Every person I spoke to about this in the planning stages, even those who know how poor I am, said, "You should hire someone to do that. It's an awful job. It's really hard. I don't think you could do that."

Hah! So much for that spiritless, mealy-mouthed wambling.

Transformation 1: Galley, main refit

2008-03-15T20:45:00.000-07:00

I put up racks to hold cups, plates, bowls, utensils. I've got all my cooking utensils hanging neatly or stowed in a caddy within easy reach. The caddy doubles as an aid to restraining the knives. I've got a good set of knives, Henckel and Chicago Cutlery, and I found a place to put them which I didn't have to build. Woo hoo! It's not suitable for sailing, not without some creative bungee action, but they're there, out of the way, and easy to get to.

Yes, I'll post pictures. Eventually. I'd rather y'all came to see for yourselves, though. This is going to be one sweet hangout.

I've figured out how to finish the counter so it does everything I need it to. I've also figured out how to get warm water into the sink. I'm going to wait to rant about it until it's all up and working.

I've raised the bar in the hanging/wet locker so it will actually accommodate hanging clothes. I got those smelly vinyl suit bags to keep my clothes in until I get the hull liner taken care of; one of them has been aired and is now in service, and the other two are unzipped and held open out on deck, so they can de-stink and take up the rest of my hanging clothes tomorrow.

I also set up my Mac mini so it's out of the way and easy to get to. With the clothing finding its way home, the shelf in the quarter berth (which is my future work room) is freeing up for my large computer, Bertha, and my huge semi-pro multifunction printer/scanner/etc. I'll try to get help bringing that down tomorrow, since I can't possibly lift those overbuilt bastards myself.

I'm so freakin' pleased I could explode. It's starting to think about maybe looking sort of like a home!

Freshwater; fresh air

2008-03-07T21:25:00.000-08:00

The work party definitely broke through my mental dam. I did a lot this week and can wrap my bruisey little brain around doing more.

I replumbed the fresh water tubing! There was a lot less grabbing and twisting than I feared. One sink works; the other doesn't. But I'm quite sure now that it's the sink.

I checked the plumbing elsewhere, and, although the holding tank will be cumbersome, I don't think it will be all that difficult. Knock wood.

I took down the jib, so I can take it to get the sailcover replaced. I brought down the racing jib, so I can theoretically sail sloop-rigged, but it's not hooked on yet.

I told the guy who sold me the boat that every lead he's given me to get the engine fixed has been a dead end, and he can [expletives deleted in my mind] help with it himself. So he agreed to help check it for spark. I have to get the right-sized wrench. (No comment.)

I've figured out how to make the workspace work. I've started figuring out how to make the forepeak into a comfortable, lovely, useful little bower. I feel like I've got a lot to look forward to.

And every morning that it isn't actually pissing down, I stick my head out of the hatch to see everything washed with yellow, peach, blue and green as the day suffuses the water and sky. There is no air like a dawn breeze.

Labor Day

2008-03-07T21:17:00.000-08:00

I have to get ready to move onto my boat for real. Given all that remained to be done, and given how unsuited I am to do much of it, I had a Labor Party last Saturday.

It turned out to be a very extreme sort of day for me. I’ve been accused of being “just like a man” at times (which always makes me look down and laugh), and one of the ways this can be true is that, sometimes, I go away and do things in order to process emotionally-loaded events. Rather than talking them to death, which is what most women do. There is considerable satisfaction in surveying the word-battered corpse of something that bugged you a little while ago, but sometimes I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get out of the way and let my brain do the sorting, and notify me when it has something to say.

So I have spent the week letting my brain sort the emotional crapola. Now I’m ready to talk about what happened.

Down:
It was one of the most painful days in recent memory. I spent most of the morning in the sort of agony that would have had me doubled up and screaming, 7 years ago. Now I just keep going, as long as I can draw a full breath. ...Especially when I have work, people, and food to organize.

Up:
Carwile brought me lunch, which I had completely forgotten to provide for myself. Then, most of the people I counted on showed up. Some are comparative strangers, so I found this very touching.

Down:
Pain tends to fry my circuits. I had made a task list with lovely lucid prompts for my lovely lucid mind, but that mind was on holiday. I swear I had a hard time reading Arial 14-point font, let alone making sense of anything it said. And every time I was trying to work out one train of thought, someone interrupted (legitimately) needing my opinion on something else.

I simply could not think about more than one thing at a time. It was maddening.

Up:
Russell knocked off his first task in his usual capable manner, and said he was done. I said, “What about … “ (this other task)?

I had clearly left my manners in my other shirt.

He admitted (quietly) that he was in pain. After the life he has lived, it’s a miracle he’s in one piece.

I said, “OK, forget about that other thing. You’re done. Thank you!”

Then Andy sauntered up, cigar stub dangling, and started offering advice on how to do that task.

Picture this: 60-something lifelong sailor, boatbuilder, former paratrooper with 101st Airborne who survived active duty in wartime, trainer of champion racers … being lectured by a whippersnapping 32-year-old Coast Guard electronics geek, with a stubby sticking out of his face, on how to handle rigging.

Once I could pick up my jaw, I decided not to interfere. I fled belowdecks to check on the first aid kit and await the outcome.

When I came back up, both of them were working peacefully away on the task I had told Russell not to bother with.

… Men. I don't get 'em, but they sure can be good to have around.

Down:
The engine did not get touched. Damn damn damn. Also, I decided not to deal with the holding tank.

Up:
Amazing amounts of work got done. Carwile sawed everything I handed him, and Ed sanded it. Celeste, who is not a sailor and who drove 100 miles to come help, did every fiddling little task I didn’t want to ask the sailors to spend their time on. Regis pulled my head apart (okay, that sentence could be misread; handle it) and was Russell’s inside man on the tedious rigging work.

Down:
Dan and Allison kidnapped my god-damn party. Once the cleaning up was almost done, they decided cooking was too much work for me (cooking for my friends makes me feel better) and that their boat was larger and cushier anyway (thanks for rubbing that in) and next thing I knew, Russell and Regis had taken off and everyone else was headed off to the next pier.

Up:
Someone else had to do the dishes.

Down:
I cooked meat on Allison’s very vegetarian boat. Oops.

Up:
Andy mixed mojitos.

Very down:
Once a few guests were gone and Allison was asleep, the remaining men turned on internet porn flicks, and made animated comments on Heather’s name and technique.

I have never felt so … invisibled … by people I thought I knew. There was no point in saying goodbye, so I didn’t. I just left.

All in all:
An eventful day. Glad I did it; glad it's over. Very glad of the good people I know.

A penny for your thoughts

2008-02-24T22:43:00.000-08:00

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.

"Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks"

2008-02-23T17:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Feet of clay, covered in gelcoat

2008-02-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Deck and sails

2008-02-08T18:28:00.000-08:00

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]

Kitchen aid

2008-02-06T19:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Gynecology, plumbing, and scrubbing

2008-01-27T19:43:00.000-08:00

I've been on the boat a few days, most of them in rough weather.

On land, rainy windy days are bleak, featureless trials to be endured. On the boat, they're days of texture and adventure, filled with startling colors, gusts of fresh-washed air, and simple-minded logistical challenges -- like figuring out how to get in and out through the narrow opening of the tarp I've spread over the hatch, creating a little mud-room in the cockpit. My wet-locker is a winch; my foulie's hood fits neatly over it.

I climbed below to get something for Russell yesterday. I crouched low to get under the rim of the tarp, got my head and shoulders through the hatch, stuck a foot out in front of me so I was doubled over, moved forward until I could hook my leg over the ledge, moved back to get my other knee bent around right, and leaned waaaaay into the cabin to get that other foot inside and under me.

And then I realized I had had an audience to the rear for the entire butt-upwards performance. I don't know how he refrained from laughing aloud. Crawling into that damp, compact passageway was nearly a gynecological experience for me; I never meant it to be one for anyone else. Sometimes I am such a boob.

Apart from amusing my neighbors, I've gotten some things done this visit...

Housekeeping:
- Books into baskets; clothing onto shelf; tools and gear have finally found permanent homes. The bulk of the organizing is done, until cabinets and additional storage get built. (sometime in the next century)
- Resolved drain blockage in cooler. You ready for this? I had seen the end of the drain hose crawling along the bilge, and thought it connected to the manual bilge pump. Once I disconnected it, it was fine.
- Put up paper towel roller ... then taped up a little acrylic sheet to ward off the drips from above.

Plumbing:
- I threaded the polypro tubing along the engine, through the hose-and-wire-infested undersink area, through the storage lockers under the settee, and out to the fresh water tank. Extra tubing is coiled in one of the lockers near the midpoint.
- To be done: Attach it to the galley pump; cut off suitable lengths and hook up the head sink; attach it to the tank; secure the tubing along its length.

Brightwork:
- Tackled the top step, an eyesore and disaster waiting to happen. It was filthy; took 40 minutes of dilatory-but-persistent scrubbing to start looking like wood again. With my pull-saw, I removed the fragile overhanging lip, which was causing the front edge to crack and try to break away.
- To be done: File the forward edge into shape, sand the whole thing, and soak it in teak oil right before I leave.

Then there are the other 2 steps, the junk drawer, the patches that need to be sanded and finished from my last visit, and .. well, most of the rest of the interior. Like I said, dilatory but persistent. It still doesn't come naturally, but I'm less fretful about missing the energetic explosions of effort I used to pull off miracles with, since seeing the cumulative effects of this new approach. It really works. It pays off in every way.

Hibernation

2007-12-22T17:18:00.000-08:00

I've been kept in Elkhorn Slough for a month by a series of difficulties. I miss my pals at the dock.

I miss my boat with a fierce inward ache. It pisses me off to have her so far away.

Which brings me back to the question of where to keep her. I'm mulling the relative merits of:

Keeping her at Ballena, where I have such sweet neighbors and stunning views, put up with the problems, and stop bitching.
Moving her to a liveaboard berth in Oakland, still near the theoretical resources (such as mechanics) that are supposed to exist in that area, but I haven't yet found, and with no guaranteed place to stay when the boat is in mid-toxic-job or is too cold to tolerate.
Moving her down here to Elkhorn Slough/Monterey Bay, where friendly hired muscle is easy for me to find, my well-insulated land lodgings are nearby, and I know where all the good stores are. Not many mechanics to choose from, though.

You can see where this is going, can't you? It kind of reminds me that my original intent was to live down in Monterey Bay and scoot up to the SF Bay most weekends. I'd log a boatload (ar ar) of sailing hours in very little time, and that's probably the most important part of becoming a competent sailor.

I'm beginning to feel a southbound current pulling at the keel.

slow down

2007-11-17T09:13:00.000-08:00

Working on my fuel line a couple weeks ago triggered a flareup that I'm still recovering from. The flareup made me sick (look up the physiological relationship of stress to illness) so I'm still under the weather, but I came back anyway because I was too homesick. Arthur too; he loves it here.

Yesterday's big accomplishment: I turned the undersink cabinet's door around, so it opens the right way. This means I don't have to take it off when I need to work on the engine or the plumbing. Of course, it's a bit crooked now, but the latch lines up and it opens all the way, so who cares. Note to self: be more careful about lining up cabinetry. Errors show.

Paul came over to help me get started on the AC wiring. Between Paul Standard Time, Isy Standard Time, and Marina Standard Time, that didn't happen, but Cathy and Fran came over and we had a great dinner. Today I loaned Paul "Sailboat Electrics Simplified," full of helpful charts and comments on the difference between marine and dry-land wiring, so I'll call that progress.

I dropped my laptop stepping onto the boat. It leaped out of the backpack and committed hari kiri right there in front of me. Awful. So much for bobbing about in a hurry.

How to: Convert a sanding block to work pedally

2007-11-03T21:13:00.001-07:00

I got a wall sander of the sort that has a screw-in socket for you to put your own pole into.

I peeled back the glued-on foam at one end, removed the bolt, and inserted a drawer-pull bolt. I epoxied that in place and screwed on a toe-tested drawer-pull.

I took my lovely sharp Japanese saw and cut off the socket’s axle, then popped the plugs off with a screwdriver.

I cut off a little fuel tubing, which was exactly the right height and diameter to fit neatly where the axle was.

I screwed eye screws (try dictating that into Dragon!) into each end. I threaded a Velcro closure strap through the eyes.

Voilà!

I chose a neon green strap only because it's easy to see in case I drop the sander. It really sets off the pedicure, though, doesn't it?

Feet are rarely dexterous. For extra stability and control, I hold onto 1 foot with the other:

For slightly better horizontal control, I hold the sander between my second and third toes:

H’mm ...

I used to date somebody with a minor foot fetish. Now that I'm posting these pictures, I can't help wondering whether they are entirely decent. The cherry toes seem slighty risqué, and somehow the fact that they're doing something so macho doesn't seem to help.

I'm cracking myself up. Enjoy your weekend, too.

Ship log: Saturday, 3 November

2007-11-03T20:58:00.000-07:00

These blog entries tend to go on a bit. I made an agreement with myself to dictate a journal entry before blogging, to clean out my frontal lobe. That should keep these more focused.

Engine:

I decided yesterday was engine day. I took out the fuel filter (finding it with Paul's help) and discovered it was filthy. I cut away half the hose as well, as it was too corroded to let go of the filter. Replaced both, discovering that you can't find these things at Kragen, but have to go to the marine store. The guy at West Marine kindly attached to host one end of the filter, taking two seconds of his own time to save me several minutes’ worth of work. (That gives you some idea of the level of impairment I work with. I'm not interested in whining, I just want to demonstrate scale, so some of my roundabout ways make more sense.)

Once the fuel line was back together, I dosed the tank with water remover, rocked the boat wildly back and forth to mix it, and cranked for ages. I kept thinking of the bleach in the sink, and of waiting for the moment when the needed substance would find its way to the critical point. Didn't happen.

Plumbing:

Called Mugsy to arrange regular pumpouts. Looks like I'm here for a while, so my holding tank had better be a lot more pleasant than it is now.

Tore apart my car looking for the 30 feet of polypropylene tubing I got to re-plumb the fresh water with. It's still hiding.

Stern rail:

I sanded the deck under the feet of the stern rail. 30 years of marine grime packed into a space thinner than a fingernail; soap was inadequate. 220 grit and frequent rinsing worked, though. Russell held the other end of the rail while I marked where to drill through the fiberglass patch under the last foot on the starboard side.

I intended to bolt on the other 3 feet, but after screwing the bolts in from above, my arms were threatening to flare up. I'll have to finish up another day. Too bad. So close!

Outer hull:

I used 3M marine restorer and wax on a couple square feet of the transom, with decent results. I used too much goop, so next time I'll portion it better. For the buffing, I used polyester fleece carwash mitts over my feet.

My kneecaps don't always track right, and this was good exercise for training the muscles that make them behave. It requires very strange maneuvers, though, so I'll have to build up to it slowly, to avoid new injuries -- yawn.

[I'll get a picture posted as soon as I have one.]

Seeing the color (or what's left of it) come up is very encouraging.

Brightwork:

Smug me: I figured out how to sand using my feet. Since that's an illustrated design/adaptation strategy, it gets its own posting.

Screwing the sink

2007-10-24T15:06:00.000-07:00

Caveat emptor: Those with sensitive stomachs or delicate sensibilities should skip this entry.

I cleared the sink! [Smug]

It was such a triumph that I really have to share.

I went to Svendsen's chandlery and asked one of the nice youngish-middle-aged women there what I could use to snake a drain. She sent me over to the rigging shop and told me what type of cable to ask for. The nice youngish-middle-aged guy at the rigging shop found the right length of wire that was stiff enough, and had an eye conveniently attached to one end. He muttered over it for a few seconds, decided they were never going to use it, gave it to me with a, "good luck," and disappeared.

Svendsen's rocks. The metal shop left some marks on the stern rail, but I didn't have it in me to make them take it back and buff it up, after the rigging shop gave me a free yard of cable and an expensive nugget of hardware.

Besides, I wanted to get back to the galley. I'm such a slave.

I thought I was getting somewhere, until it felt like the cable had somehow changed. I pulled it out, and realized a couple strands were coming undone. Well, that was no good.

I wiped it off with a shop towel, twisting it back into shape as I did so. I lashed the end with some thread I have for a sewing project, binding it in such a sailorly fashion that it stood up to all the subsequent abuse.

It took a lot of jittering to get it through the hardware and the gently curved rubber pipe, but I got through in the end. Confidently expecting results, I sat back and waited for drainage to happen.

Nothing.

I tried that for more times than was sensible, hoping to knock something loose. Still nothing.

You realize what I didn't use a plunger, right? Imagine a plumbing arrangement which consists entirely of plastic and hose clamps. I'm sure I don't need to draw you a picture.

I sat back on my heels and thought, "h'mm. What did they use to clear drains with, before they had Drano?"

The problem, of course, was glucoproteins. That's the term for the main component of mucus. It's gluey and stringy, refuses to dissolve, and in sufficient quantities can form a very effective plug.

I remembered reading, on the back of a bottle of something, that it could dissolve mucus because it had extra bleach.

Not something I'd normally put in the ocean. Under the circumstances, it was probably the least toxic option.

I put about half a cup in. I put the snake back in, wiggling freely.

Nothing.

I sat back on my heels again, looking at everything in front of me and doing a little free association. I remembered the Archimedes screw that farmers in Egypt still use to bring water up from the river. I looked at the gentle twist in my cable. Gotcha.

I inserted the cable again, making sure it went all the way through to the outside. Then, making myself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, I sat there and slowly twisted the cable clockwise, so that the tiny channels between the twisted wires would carry the bleach down to the obstruction.

Periodically, bubbles rose. I took this as a good sign.

Eventually, I looked down and noticed a froth spreading out from the cable. More chemical activity; I figured it had to be good.

Suddenly, with no fanfare, everything magically went away, giving a last little "blop" as it disappeared. Nothing but shining sink (all right, only mostly shining) looked back at me.

It may be trivial, but that was a very good moment.

I chased the bleach with a few cups of water, to make sure that things still flowed. I mopped everything up, and sat down to dictate this self-congratulatory squeal of delight.

It says something about me that, no sooner have I noticed my little success, then my mind leaps instantly to the next task. No wonder I have trouble relaxing. Excelsior!

Loaded & overloaded

2007-10-23T17:40:00.000-07:00

Joyce left a message: "I've been reading your blog, and boy have you been busy!"

It did me some good to hear that today. I've been completely incapacitated by an epoch-marking hangover, which the measured quantity of alcohol couldn’t justify. I didn't know it was possible to get so wrecked by white wine (which I rarely have.) I usually drink about as much water as I do anything else, but I didn’t last night, and have been dehydrated for days. I'll file that under "mistakes to make only once."

To add insult to injury, I realized on arising that my buckets were hiding and I had no bowls; the kitchen sink is now dreadfully clogged. -- It's not that I resent the nature of consequences, it's just a drag to have spew clogging up my drain.

Alcohol (especially white wine) will lose its fascination for awhile. I'm sure it will do me good. Meanwhile, I'm sipping as much water as my stomach will allow.

I'm looking at the beautiful glassy water and the sparkling reflections of boats and masts, unobstructed by the newly fixed stern rail which I was supposed to pick up today and install.

Yesterday, I assessed the entire freshwater path, and discovered a couple more kinks and problems which it will be very satisfying to eliminate. Then I tore apart the boat and the car looking for my 20 feet of polypropylene tubing with which I was going to replumb my fresh water. I found the Y-joint which I had to search half a dozen stores for, but I can't find the tubing, which I could get anywhere. I don't really want to buy it again, but I may have to.

There's a large piece of hardware bolted to the cabin sole which I'm trying to get rid of. I finally figured out how to remove it... if my arms were 6 inches longer. It's a stupid task, but it looks like I'll have to find someone to just sit there holding a wrench in place, while I work the damn screwdriver.

I'm pretty much tapped out for money. I have to put off taking care of the electrical system until I can afford to pay Russell for his time. He gives friends and neighbors an astonishingly reasonable rate, and he really knows his stuff, but this job will take several hours, and it does add up.

Happily, I realized that I don't have to do as much planning as I thought I did. With two batteries, I've got enough power for anything that fits on this boat. I know exactly where I want the AC plugs to go, so the AC wiring should be straightforward. I'm going to learn how to solder, which I have wanted to do for years.

I guess the trip was not a complete loss.

If I could get the sink clear, I'd head back ashore tonight, to lick my wounds and try to recover a little dignity in my own eyes. Maybe I could turn my attention back to the galley, still in need of organizing. Maybe I'll just have a little more water and delay the decision another hour or two.

The answer is ... 42

2007-10-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

Much has been thrown into question recently ... life, the universe, everything.

With electrics acting like they're stoned on weed cut with cyanide, the hull liner fiasco still stinging (they were supposed to tear right out, but remember what a huge process that turned into?), the hull's protective paint nearly gone, the standing rigging leaking belowdecks, and the engine the outboard motor shop said was mine now suddenly promised to someone else, I sat down yesterday (my head spinning like a random orbit sander) and went back to essentials.

The boat can be sailable first, or liveable first.

Either way, because it can't pass inspection until it's close to being both, it's going nowhere for awhile (unless I can find some rules to bend.)

So here's my thinking:

I can sail with BAADS and with friends, to scratch the moving-water itch.
T aking care of the engine, whatever I do, will take time. Lots of time, apparently.
Making the boat liveable will make the job of making her sailable easier. (Good onboard electricity means fewer extension cords, for one thing.)

These two facts move "sailable" down the priority list.

So what's next: hull liner, hull paint, leaks, or electricity?

Being without good electric is alarming and a pain in the ass.
Having good electric makes everything else easier.
However, leaks contribute to the electrical problems.
Also, the hull liner is in the way of the existing electrical system.

I can wire a new electrical system on top of that, and take out the old one later. I hate that sloppiness, but hell, here we are.

I'm beginning to think it's time to hire a big machine and rip out the hull liner foam with the aid of power tools. That will make the boat colder'n hell until I get it relined, and means I have to find money for insulation and fabric, pronto. On the other hand, it makes everything else easier: fixing the leaks properly, rewiring responsibly.

This weekend, while I'm away, I'll hunt up fabric and work on wiring schemes.

Okay, sounds like a decision. Unless y'all have any other ideas.

Ship's log: covering things

2007-10-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

Got the title from Dan and went down to the DMV so they could charge me a full year's use tax for the last 2.5 months of the year.

Cathy gave me a matching tarp (sail-cover blue) to fold over the boom & cover the cockpit with. This makes working on the boat in rainy weather much easier, as you can keep the companionway open and improve airflow and light. I folded a big sheet up and slipped it between the sailcover and the tarp, to save the sailcover. Learning from Cathy's expensive mistake, there. Makes the cockpit like an anteroom -- rather nice.

Scrubbed the growth off the bottom of the boat. I'm glad it's so small. That was fair work.

Spoke with Russell a lot about the electricity. Sigh.

Living space good; electricity bad

2007-10-17T09:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the first day where I didn't do something madly butch on the boat, like plumbing or carpentry (or not much, anyway.) Instead, I finally conquered the main living space. Now, almost everything has a place, and almost everything is in its place.

The "almost" is a little galling, but closing that gap will involve, you guessed it, carpentry and plumbing.

The Japan Woodworker, that fabulous shop across the island, gives lessons. I think I have to go talk to them about that, and find out if they can help me figure out how to accommodate my arms. Going over to inquire is no hardship [drool].

It's pissing down rain, so I can't get much done here ... the rain has gone on for several days, which is great for pointing out slow leaks, but most of the slow leaks go into the electrical system. This means I can't use the cabin lights or onboard radio; I have to use shore power for everything.

I know that I really ought to strip out the old wiring, so the chronic shorts don't cause a fire. That's a bitch of a job, particularly when you have problematic wrists and have to work in such small spaces. I'm not sure I'm up to it today. But time is not on my side, I know that.

The engine and gas tank, which are shoehorned in with about 1 cm of clearance on each side, block access to most of the electrical works. I was planning to do this when all that crap was out to be worked on. argh

Well, what's another essential life-support system under construction? It's not as if this boat could pass inspection anyway. Not yet. And I surely will be glad when it's done.

Ship's log, Ides of October

2007-10-15T22:47:00.000-07:00

Repairs:
Patches held up under the recent rain. :)

Engine:
Got another number for an A4 mechanic. Sigh. If I can get it to limp along for 6 months for a few hundred bucks, maybe that's just as well.

Maintenance:
Put sails partway up, until wind got frisky. Cathy (down the dock) helped considerably with the self-furling jib.

Jib is usable, but tatty. The UV shield is almost gone. It can be trimmed up for now, but it will need to be replaced in the new year. Also, the jib sheets are chafing visibly against the standing rigging.

Cathy says she uses the lawn near the main building to lay out her sails on when necessary.

The mainsail is fine as far as I can see. No birds roosting or anything. I'd like to put pinch-catches on the sail ties.

The main halyard (pulls the sail up the mast; think haul-yard) was getting caught on no less than 5 bits of hardware on its way into the first block at the base of the mast, so I moved that forward and moved the forward block aft. Now the main halyard crosses the two little lines that go through that block. H'mm.

I think I'll ask Dan to go over the rigging with me. I don't understand some of it. And I'm not sure why emergency jack-lines are strung up the deck. Also, there's a loose wire belowdecks that he might know something about.

Shrouds [standing rigging -- holds the mast up] are in excellent shape. The bases need to be rebedded as they leak slowly belowdecks, but it can wait.

Improvements:
I finally put up a strand of lights. Not the bulb lights (or fairy-lights) that you string around a Christmas tree -- I put those up last week as a temporary measure -- but the rope lighting you see around some window displays. Eventually, there will be 3 strands, and this cabin will be very well illuminated with relatively little electrical impact.

Meanwhile, the port side of the boat is considerably brighter, and you can actually see what's inside the lockers behind the settee because the rope lies behind the settee back, shining into the locker doors when they're slid open.

Thought for the future:
I have one of those cloth hang-up-in-your-closet things for shoes, the kind that has a little square compartment for each shoe. I think I'll use it in the galley to store food in, especially items that are inclined to clank or to wander. Only question is how to stabilize it for hitting the waves. Perhaps a rail. Perhaps velcro. Either would work well. Velcro may be easier.

Mulling the bookshelf situation. Mainly that there really aren't any. Problem. H'mmmmm.

How to: Get marinated - a work in progress

2007-10-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

I'm developing a list of issues that marina harbormasters have about liveaboards, and how to work around them.

In no particular order:

Holding tank capacity.
Until composting heads [toilets] are widely accepted, a holding tank of less than 20 gallons (77 liters or so?) is considered inadequate, even for a single person.

Use a holding tank of at least 20 gallons and arrange a weekly pumpout with one of the head-maintenance services.

Using the boat as nature intended.
Liveaboards who use the boat as a floating flat are viewed with concern, for reasons that different harbormasters state in different ways, but boil down to losing sailorly sensibilities.

Discuss my association with BAADS, the fact that I sail at least once weekly, and my aim to be always 10 minutes away from casting off (except when I've got tools out.)

Prostitution & drug dealing (!!).
Un-fucking-believable.

Hang out, chat with them, get acquainted. According to John (no comments on the name, please, I'm not making it up), once they feel comfortable with me, the wait list may just melt away.

This post may get edited as I learn more.

Giving berth to contraceptives

2007-10-15T22:16:00.000-07:00

Went to Alameda Marina, Grand, and Fortman's. All booked solid, with wait-lists of years.

Went to West Marine on my way home. Spoke to John, a lanky Dane with twinkling swamp-green eyes. After giving me reams of advice (some of which I've remembered) about everything on my list, he gave me a brand new insight into the reason for the wait-lists.

Some single women use it as a base of operations for commercial sex work; women in this country who do that also tend to use it as a base of operations to deal drugs. They had to clean out a marina nearby because the illegal activity was getting out of hand and was having the usual effect on the neighborhood.

The fact that this marina was within sight of the Coast Guard base and practically next to the old military base is the sort of thing that makes me hoot sardonically until I fall off the settee. (Alone, thanks very much, you filthy-minded putz.)

Stripping the hull-liner

2007-10-12T14:04:00.000-07:00

I ripped out 1/4 of the fabric hull-liner in the v-berth. I got rid of about 1/3 of the foam behind that. Rather bad pictures follow:

Pulled the fabric away from the hull. Learned the hard way that dealing with the main fabric, and the staples at the edges, separately, was essential. Bled all over the place.

The corners were tricky; cutting all needed fabric, not cutting wood, not chipping glass, not slashing myself. Whee.

Some of the foam came away naturally. But not much. The rest was glued on well.
After considerable experimentation, I found that scoring the foam heavily with the 5-in-1 was the trick. After that, you could scrape the loose bits off with the 5-in-1 ...
... and get the rest off with a spiral grill brush like this one. 2 things to note about this brush:

It’s brass. You don’t want to prep any surface in a boat with steel, because when microscopic bits of steel get lodged somewhere (as they always do), they’ll rust and disrupt whatever surface you put over it. The oxidation of brass is a lot less problematic.

It’s hand friendly. The bristled head is transverse to the grip, which lets me cover a lot of surface area without a lot of effort. The handle is wooden, and provides room for both of my small hands to hang onto.

The trick to my getting something like this done is to work for a few seconds, sit back and stare at it for a few seconds, work for a few seconds, and so on. It looks incredibly dilatory – even lazy – but the thing is, if I spend about half my time sitting back, I can keep this up for quite some time.

I get a lot more done in a day this way, because I can remain functional for so much longer. And it makes me stronger without provoking bad flare-ups. So far, I’ve been able to beat back flare-ups with ice and one day’s rest. That’s pretty amazing, considering how bad it was a few months ago.

Persistence, I find, is the key to success these days. Sheer blazing effort served me well … right up until it led to multiple arm surgeries. But it was satisfying as hell while it lasted. There’s nothing like tearing into a job, then turning around to find it’s done.

As I dictate that remark, I realize that the satisfaction of doing work this new way is quieter, but a lot deeper. I overcome a buttload of obstacles to do something like this, mentally picking my way through the minefield of that task until I figure it out. And then, as I do it, I refine the process more, until I figure out something that works for me and works for the task.

That satisfaction is subtle, but widely permuted: it’s the satisfaction of several different trains of thought arriving safely at their stations, and of several different physical tasks coming intelligently together to do a better job (in fact) than I had anticipated being able to do:That’s cool. That’s super cool.

Ship's log: stern rail and stern wail

2007-10-09T21:29:00.000-07:00

Got block ice and food, and I'm happy to say the shelf works exactly as intended. I'm pleased.

Sorted my tools & hardware into bins. Great to be able to lay your hands on exactly what you want. It also reduced the chaos level to have all that stuff put away.

Oooooh, I love an orderly space; I look forward to really having one. I tell myself this mess is not as bad as it looks.

I started on the project of running extension cords to where they'll do the most good. I ran aground on it, though. I really want to rewire, not string shit around. Hard to come up with a temporary measure that is reasonably safe, useful, and non-ugly.

Repairs:

Russell sanded down the fiberglass repair, which is still sticky underneath but hard as rock on top. He slapped Marine-Tex on it, a white patching/bonding compound that's UV resistant and a lot better to finish than fiberglass.

I took the bent & twisted stern rail to Svendsen's (boat yard, chandlery, metal works, all stuff boatish) and they were as kind and helpful as their rep, which is saying something. Should get it back in a couple weeks. I have to take some measurements of the stern tomorrow and take it over.

I used to wonder why more stuff wasn't available for boats. I wondered if boaters really were making it all up as they go, when it's time to fix something, and why they felt they had to keep reinventing the wheel (or tiller, as the case may be.) It's because boats are so different from each other, and indeed people are making fixes up as they go. Fabulous opportunity for someone like me, who really gets a charge out of fixing and creating things.

People:

Met another neighbor: he watched me try to fit the stern rail in my car, and when it obviously wasn't going to work, wandered over and offered to take it & me to Svendsen's in his eNORmous old diesel truck. Neither of us knew exactly where to find Svendsen's, so we wandered around a bit, but he refused to accept gas money. I offered beer, but he had to head back home.

I've noticed that men can get squirrely about being offered a beer by me, and I don't know what to think. Not sure whether to wear a paper bag to cover the worst of it, or to post a sign on my forehead saying, "Relax. Despite the boobs and hair, this chick makes Mother Teresa look like a floozy."

Residency status:

Bad news: this marina is part of a growing conglomerate, so the powers that be feel they can't possibly allow someone on a smaller boat to live aboard. Hell, blast, and damn!

However, I'm berthed here for the meantime, and can continue here indefinitely as long as I restrict my (traceable) visits to 2 days/week. This is true of all marinas owned by this conglomerate, which wants to cater to the richer crowd: "We want to give our clientele a resort-like experience every time they come to our marinas. So no pets, no bikes, no living with non-relatives, and no liveaboard boats under 35' even if they are to-die-for classic fantastics."

Not sure what their definition of resort-like actually is. Sounds pretty lame to me.

Planning:

We're buckling down for a blow tonight. The boat is quivering in its dock-lines, wanting to sail nearly as badly as I do. If it rains thoroughly, I'll get to check my leak repairs -- and see if any new ones develop.

As for living aboard, I'm debating the value of paying rent at 2 marinas (here and Moss Landing) and splitting my time between the two. There are a lot of advantages to this system, not least the fact that it gets me through the probationary period at Moss Landing before you can be a liveaboard.

I can't move the boat until I have a working engine, full paperwork, a stern rail, and at least one shakedown cruise. Looks like I'm here for another month at the very least. Not a bad thing, I suppose, but the indeterminacy of my homelife is getting to me.

Ship's log: fiberglass and 'frigeration

2007-10-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

Repair:

Russell helped me deal with the bent stern rail and the hole in the fiberglass under the port stanchion supporting it. We did that yesterday. It's taking a long time to cure. Theoretically, that means that it will set up amazingly tough. I like tough. I just hope it stops sagging; it's becoming concave. Patching it in would be no problem, though.

Upgrade:

I noticed part of the roof of the cooler was not insulated. I got some heater insulation (two layers of bubble and foil) cut it to size and glued it in.

I put a shelf in the cooler that will hold two blocks of ice near the top of the cooler. There should be room above them to slip in a couple of cold packs, for injuries and to settle down a bad flare.

This involved cutting down a wire shelf, cutting two lengths of pine and drilling a pair of holes for the straight side of the cooler and drilling two holes plus chiseling drop-in slots for the slanted side of the cooler. (In a smaller boat, pretty much everything has a least one slanted side to accommodate the shape of the hull.) It was fun to try to find random objects that were just the right height and size to hold the wooden brackets in place as the glue dried. Really.

This morning, I oiled the wood and set the fan in there to blow out the last of the smell. I inserted the rack... and it almost fits. Close enough, in fact, that I'm going to use it just the way it is.

Also, the lift-out cover of the cooler, which is heavily insulated, was coming apart. I had just gotten clamps, and they were exactly big enough to clamp the lid and no bigger. I used Gorilla Glue all along the edges, as it would fill the gaps. I clamped two sides with my three clamps, let it sit for the day while everything else happened, took off the overflow with my new chisel, and am hesitant to drop it back onto the cooler because it can't possibly have been that easy to fix.

Projections:

A delightful Coast Guard who lives at the marina said he had buddies who'd be happy to fix my Atomic 4 for food and beer. He's got something on the ball, or I'd normally dismiss the offer is nothing more than a friendly gesture, but I'm not sure I can wait around for his buddies to be bored and hungry enough that working on a 30-year-old engine, in unbelievably tight quarters, sounds like fun.

It’s about time for the boat yards to refurbish the engines people traded in, so over the next couple weeks I’ll have more options.

How to: Replace non-square windows

2007-10-02T18:40:00.000-07:00

From Willow in BC, I got a very sensible reply to the question I posted on sailboat owners.com:

I had them cut the plexi to the same shape but 1" larger all the way around.
I drilled holes about every 6" around the perimeter of the pieces, 1/2" in from the edge, and
screwed them to the outside of the cabin.
I sealed with 'Dow Corning 795' on the advice of a local boatbuilder.

This way I retained the distinctive window shape, removed a source of leaks (the old windows leaked between the frame and the lens), and updated the look of the boat significantly.

Sound slick. She says the whole thing took just a few hours.

Note: after reading some of the documentation on this adhesive/sealant, I'll mask off the frame, since the weakness in my hands makes it impossible to apply a straight bead.

Complete instructions for the overstressed:

Cover cabin & remove old windows.
Take to TAP and have them cut new ones that are 1" larger at each edge.
Prep surfaces. Sand as needed, and use non-oily SOLVENT, not water, to clean the surfaces.
Template existing holes, if any, in cabin top.
Mark outline of new windows on cabin's outside surface.
Drill windows to match template, or every 6" if no existing holes.

If there are no existing window holes in the cabin top, drill holes to match those in the window.

Mask off 1/4" outside the edge of window outline.
Wipe exposed area with clean dry cloth; no oil, soap, or water.
Apply sealant and flatten slightly, so it goes up to masking all around and to 1/4" inside window line as well. Use FRICTION to help smooth it along; no water.
Screw in windows.
Remove masking tape.

It takes a few weeks to cure fully, but I imagine the boat will be sailable in a few days.

Ship's log: at berth

2007-10-01T20:33:00.000-07:00

Maintenance:
Holding tank pumped. I now owe Mugsy for 2 times.

Work:
Dry-sanded then oil-sanded almost half the teak in the galley. Only up to 320 grit but it's looking a lot better and feels fantastic.
Built, edged, oil-sanded, and installed a red-oak shelf in the galley.
* Notes: aft edge is too high. Lower forward edge or insert shim into aft support; probably the latter, for my wrists' sakes.
* Future: Shelf is 16" wide and hinged 2/3 of the way in; rout edges of flap so it can be lifted clear of the surrounds. Below the shelf, set up a cupboard for kitchen equipment.

Supplies:
Navigation Tools
Dan and Allison gave me marvelous things for my boat-warming:
1. a beautiful, shining brass, gorgeously solid set of navigator's calipers (only they call them dividers) which outshine everything else on the boat. (I really have to get to work now, so as not to be hopelessly outclassed by my instrument.)
2. Map #121, a top-quality plasticized nautical chart of the San Francisco and San Pablo Bays -- my playground -- suitable for framing, either before or after it gets stuffed in a 12-year-old's backpack. Practically bulletproof, very beautiful, and immediately useful.
Galley Gear
2-burner camping stove. To go on a sliding drawer under the lifting shelf, once built.

Research:
* Headliners. Marine fabric is insanely priced. Looking into alternatives which would be up to code.
* Source of leak beside compression post. I think I'll have to get under the toilet and inspect the seacock that provides flush-water and the seawater path into the toilet. I may have to take the head apart entirely. Because I didn't have enough to do.

Thinking:
There are 4 interdependent priorities which keep this boat too close to trouble for comfort:

* Engine.
The inboard hates the sight of me, so I intend to hang an outboard off that perfect perky stern. Perhaps she will forgive me one day. Nissan/Tohatsu make a 9.9-hp engine that weighs only 84 pounds and is highly rated.
- Drain gas & oil.
- Remove gas tank.
- Disassemble engine.
- Remove propeller.
- Check hull integrity & clean up grease.
- Build rails on transom, with anchor roller to move engine up and down w/ foot.
- Get outboard and mounting bracket. Play erector set.

* Headliner.
- Get rid of the headliner. The foam-backed fabric that lines the living areas of the boat is original. That means the foam's usefulness degraded 24 years ago, and ever since then all it has done is soak up mold, head fumes, and whatever poisons were sloshed onto it to kill the mold.
I should hire help so it can get done in 1 day. I've already got the scraping implements and one respirator mask.
- Reline the hull for warmth, sound reduction, and appearance. Naked fiberglass looks even worse than most naked people. It's also damn cold and winter's coming.

* Electricity.
+ Once the upper half of the engine, and its enormous gas tank, are out of the hull, it will be a lot easier to get to the battery and the electric panel.
+ Once that festering crap that used to be tasteful headliner is out, it will be much easier to find and assess all the wiring.
- The cabin lights need to be rebedded from the deck side, as their wooden backing plates are soaked with slow leaks and turning on a second light shorts the whole DC system. (Can you spell 'fire hazard'?)
- Move the battery breakers. They're in a dark corner behind the knife block, and that just looks so wrong to an old ER nurse. They belong near the electric panel.
- Move the one AC plug. It's right in front of whoever is standing at the galley sink pumping water from a pump that farts & splashes like Vesuvius on the rag. Another hazard.
- Redo the math and, subsequently, the circuit board & wiring to accommodate liveaboard and workfromhome needs in the 21st century. Consider positioning alternative power sources in these schemata.

* Plumbing.
- Investigate that leak under the compression post. Looks like it's seeping up from under the head floor?
- Install 20 gallon holding tank. Pretty sure I've got all the right parts now.
- Rebed the head gaskets. No question, that sucker's got a slow leak. Looks like the pump assembly. Would prefer a foot pump anyway.
- Replumb the fresh water. I'm pretty sure this will fix the nonworking sink in the head and the hand-pump problem in the galley (the farting and splashing, and taking 38 pumps to get half a glass of water.) If not, look around for a good used foot pump. Otherwise, save the foot pump for later.

Curious Voyager-related fact:
The original owner worked with NASA. He named this boat after the Voyager probe! How cool is that.

Safety first

2007-09-28T00:15:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-23T23:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-22T10:19:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-13T18:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-10T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-09T23:05:00.000-07:00

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.