Cat & Oar

I'm cleaning up my hard drive. I've been thinking about reviving my activity here because there has certainly been boat work being done, and if I weren't so tired at the end of the day I'd tell you all about it.

Meantime, here's a flashback from the summer of 2009.
=======================

Arthur sits by the paddle with a proprietary air.  He wears a tux with white bloomers.  His species keeps him from looking ridiculous in that getup, but it doesn't help him with the paddle.

His slow blink makes warmth uncurl from my belly upward.  My eyelids droop sweetly.  He would squirm if it weren't too much work.  Instead he squints and looks away.

One hand rests on the tiller, the unvarnished part. The sanded warmth touches my skin.  The gentle pressure makes my carpal bones catch fire.  I'm never allowed to forget:  I worked too much. I can't work much now.

                     

I couldn't make three strokes with that paddle.  It's there to soothe the Coast Guard, like the life jackets shut inside the bench.  They always check those, instead of making sure the fire extinguisher works.   

It's tough to use a life jacket that's inside the boat you just fell out of. 

Most liveaboard boats die by fire.  The Coast Guard counts unused life jackets.   

That's humanity all over. 

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

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]

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]

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.

Galley slaving: photographing the refit

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…