A Life of Adventure

Looking for Proof

2009-07-09T12:51:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it’s not enough to know that I’ve done something, I need to see evidence of it in other people. I struggled with this when I returned from a year abroad in Australia in college. It wasn’t enough to know I’d been there. It wasn’t enough to have three photo albums filled with pictures, many of them including me standing in front of Australian landmarks like the Sydney Opera House, Ayers Rock, or in dive gear on the Great Barrier Reef. It wasn’t even remotely enough to listen to CDs by Australian artists purchased in Australia or to tell a story of something I’d done or seen while there. After all, I could easily get a “My Friend the Chocolate Cake” CD off of Amazon, and I could just as easily make up these stories.

I struggled with the question, “Was I really there?” after I returned, and couldn’t seem to answer it on my own. My year down under had to be justified by someone I hadn’t seen in that year. “Hey! You’re back! How was Australia?” Or “Did you buy this gift for me in Australia? I love it!”

The other day I saw a man riding in an inflatable dinghy in the cove, and I recognized the logo on the back of his navy blue T-shirt. The same logo is on the back of a few T-shirts on our shelf at home. In the last few years I hadn’t seen that logo anywhere other than in my house. That logo appeared on my dive shop’s web site, on the marketing materials I had developed, on a tent that we had made for events at dive sites, and on scads of those T-shirts. I had seen it on someone at the gym awhile back, and then just a few days ago I saw it on the back of a stranger as he rode by.

For that moment the question was answered. Did I own a dive shop? Yes I did, and there was living proof just cruising by for a few moments. And now I seek out the next shred of evidence, only to justify it to myself.

Watching Our Backs

2009-07-08T17:40:00.002-05:00

In general, Todd and I are very trusting people. We tend not to conduct our lives as if there are thieves lurking in every shadow. We only lock the doors in our house if we’ll be away from it for more than a day. And while I do lock the doors on my car, in the summer it’s soft top season—if someone really wants what’s in the car all they have to do is unzip it and climb in.

We’ve taken the same approach with our boat. We don’t lock it while we are away from it. The main reason why we don’t lock it is because there’s always the chance that we’ll forget a key and go out there just to not be able to get in. The other big reason is that if a burglar is hell-bent on getting into the boat we don’t want them to have to break a very expensive overhead hatch to get around a locked door. In the past we didn’t lock our dinghy, the equivalent of our car, when leaving it at the dock. We’ve kept it in the same spot for seven seasons now, and haven’t had too much trouble. Except for that one time when somebody stole it. It was later discovered floating around in the cove with a rope wrapped around its propeller. Apparently the thief didn’t know enough to keep the rope away from the spinning prop blades and thwarted their own getaway. Then there was that time last season when our gas tank was stolen. So, in seven years we’ve had two incidents. While we’d prefer to have none, two occasions out of seven years isn’t so bad.

We’ve grown very comfortable with leaving the dinghy tied to the dock with the key to the engine secured out of plain sight. This season we filled the gas tank for the dinghy’s outboard engine, and left it at the dock on a Sunday night. We returned on Tuesday after work and noticed that the key to the engine was conspicuously missing. Upon inspection of the gas tank we noticed that half the fuel was gone. Obviously someone had used our engine, traveled quite a distance with that half tank of fuel, and probably kept the key in hopes of using it again some day. We discussed getting a chain and a lock, and lamented having to do that.

We hopped into the dinghy and went out to Sabine’s mooring. While we were on deck one of our neighbors on another sailboat moored in the cove pulled up. The captain informed us that his sailboat had been broken into. The crooks broke the glass hatch on the deck, slipped inside, and took his tools and his foul weather gear. (Good foul weather gear is quite expensive. I recall dropping a few hundred bucks on ours.) He also said that a few other boats had been burgled, and that we should spread the word so everyone in the cove would be on watch.

The guilt washed over me as I thought back to the spent half tank of fuel in our dinghy. What if our carelessness helped our neighbors get robbed?

Over the weekend I slipped another key onto my key ring, which opens a padlock on a chain that secures the dinghy to the dock. I also brought my bicycle lock and tried to secure the outboard motor and gas tank to the inside of the boat, but the lock didn’t fit. I’ll have to get one that is narrower. And I hate that I have to do that.

Accomplishments

2009-07-06T19:15:00.004-05:00

We've now owned this boat for seven years. In those years we've restored every single system in the boat. We've put in a new steering system because the prior owner neglected to tell us that the hydraulic steering system was leaking in to the pantry. (When the outside of an unopened jar of peanut butter is oily, you've got a problem.) There was a massive leak where the propeller shaft enters the boat, which we fixed last season. We ripped out the water tanks and installed new ones, along with new hot and cold water lines and an electric hot water heater. (Our diesel engine also doubles as a hot water heater.) We take our hot showers in a newly tiled shower as well.

This season, so far, has been riddled with big boat accomplishments. I've shown you the paint job already. And we've also installed new canvas around the cockpit, so it'll stay nice and dry in the rain. The cockpit often doubles as the living room when aboard, and it's nice that the rain doesn't get on our couch or easy chair. We fixed the auto pilot, and now we can have a mini computer keeping a course for us. We can also steer the auto pilot from a Gameboy sized remote control as well.

There have been two nagging projects that we checked off the big list this year, and we crossed them off over the long weekend. One of them was installation of brand new dinghy davits. The davits are these poles that stick out the back of the boat, and we can now hook up our dinghy to them and hoist the dinghy out of the water. Like so:

Extra special thanks to my brother Kaz and his mad machining skillz. My brother MADE these davits (the curved poles in the picture). He made them. With his own bare hands.

Now that we've painted the boat with the black accent, you can see the dragons near the bow of the boat. For some reason, I crave Chinese food every time I am aboard now. I can't quite put my finger on the reason why.

The next nagging project was putting the correct name on the boat. The prior owner had named the boat "Tara Vana" which, allegedly, means "Crazy Man" in Tahitian. I am usually very suspicious of names and characters in languages that I cannot understand. For seven years, the name plates read what might possibly be "American Asshole" in Tahitian. Not anymore. I present to you you, Sabine, with her given and proper name emblazoned on her:

But wait, there's more!

In this one you can see the full enclosure over the cockpit. The panels are rolled open here, but when they are all rolled down the cockpit is completely enclosed.

And now all I want to do is spend every single waking moment aboard my dry, shiny boat

A Little Help for a Friend

2009-07-01T11:53:00.002-05:00

Summer's here, do you need something to read as you lounge on the beach? (I write this from a cafe in East Greenwich, RI where it is currently raining cats and dogs. Pardon the ironic opening sentence.)

Anyway, I ask again, do you need some really great fiction to read? My pal Crisitunity is now selling her short stories for a few bucks a pop. You can learn more here.

Crisitunity is not only a terrific writer, but also an aspiring yoga instructor. Your purchase of a story will help send her to yoga instructor training school.

Go check her out, I promise you won't be disappointed.

Now, I need to pack up and head back to the office in this downpour. And I have no idea where my umbrella is.

On The List of Things I Don’t Understand

2009-06-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

Everyday I take my lunch break at the local boat ramp. When it’s a nice day I walk out to the end of the dock and sit with my laptop where I work on my book, or I read somebody else’s book. It’s a lovely spot that overlooks Greenwich Cove, where Sabine is moored. I look at Sabine, rocking gently with the waves and wish that I could be out there casting off her lines in preparation for another sailing adventure. But instead I have to return to work in an hour. But that’s a blog post for another day.

On the days that the weather isn’t cooperating, like the last I don’t know how many weeks, I remain in my car. I roll down the windows and write or read in the driver’s seat. Other people have the same idea I as do, and they park there for their lunch breaks as well.

Today I fought the urge to walk up and introduce myself to three of the other people in their cars. These three people left their cars running the entire time I was there. They sat there idling and pumping exhaust into the air for an hour. It took all my strength to stay in my car and not walk up to them, call them an ignorant prick, reach into their windows and turn the key in the ignition off.

I felt the familiar impatient irritation rise up inside of me. I get this feeling when I see people litter, or spit on a sidewalk in front of other people, or completely blow through a stop sign without even tapping the brake pedal (another thing I encountered on my lunch break today) or nearly run me off the highway at 70 mph (another thing that happened to me on the way to work one day). It’s the kind of impatient irritation that makes me want to get in the face of the person who offended me and scream “What the hell is the matter with you?!”

I saw in my car, reading a copy of Writer’s Digest, and tried not to get out of my car and storm over to these other people and do just that. And then on my way back from lunch break I stewed at my propriety. I mean, change doesn’t happen unless somebody stands up and does something to effect change right? Could I have accomplished something if I went up to these people idling in their cars and say “You know, you are polluting our air by running your car like that. I happen to enjoy breathing clean air, will you please turn your car off.”

Of all the things we know about climate change, pollution, and wasting gas, I just do not understand who in their right mind can sit there for an hour and idle their car like that. If these people don’t care about pollution, at the very least don’t they care about their wallet? If only they realized that they are pumping their money out of their tail pipe with this nasty habit.

It’s such a fine line to walk when wanting to go up to a stranger to ask them to stop doing something that makes me crazy—and to do it in such a way that I don’t come off all holier-than-thou. And the more I think about it, the more frustrated I am with myself that I didn’t do anything about it.

Counting to Seven

2009-06-29T17:23:00.001-05:00

1…2…3…4…5…7…

And then a sigh of relief that I reached seven. Had I only reached six, or heaven forbid only five, then surely one of my siblings would have skinned me alive and poured acid on my corpse for good measure.

Over the weekend my brother Kaz and my sister C trusted their children in our care. Kaz has 3 kids, age 8, 13 and 14, while C has 4—age 4, 11, 13 and 15. This is quite possibly the greatest compliment I have received from either of them. By doing this they are basically saying, “I trust you with my most precious of irreplaceable possessions.” It’s tremendously flattering and terrifying at the same time.

And boy did we have a blast.

The rules at Aunt Beej and Uncle Todd’s house are different than they are at home:

Rule 1. The only choices for breakfast are things like Trix, Fruity Pebbles, or Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Aunt Beej will also make a fruit salad for you, but only because she knows you like it.

Rule 2. Aunt Beej and Uncle Todd will take you to have an ice cream before dinner. It’s how we roll.

Rule 3. The dogs require a great deal of Frisbee throwing and chasing. They also require a great deal of cuddling and treats. This is your job.

Rule 4. The most important thing to Aunt Beej and Uncle Todd is that you are smiling, laughing and having fun.

I am pleased to report that all seven of the nieces and nephews who visited over the weekend followed these rules to the letter. Saturday we went to the Rhode Island Air Show at Quonset Point where I practiced counting to seven over and over as we made our way through the crowds. But the kids had fun watching the planes and playing in the inflatable amusement park section. (The zip line obstacle course was particularly cool.) We were most impressed with the Oracle bi-plane and the Canadian Snowbirds’ sequences. I got a good chuckle from the older kids as I yelled out, “Yay Canada! And I love your geese too!” after the Snowbirds concluded their routine.

On Sunday morning Kaz and Melissa grudgingly returned from their freedom fest overnight trip to Providence, and three of the seven went home. By five in the afternoon my sister C and her boyfriend returned from their jaunt to Mansfield, Massachusetts to see Jimmy Buffet, and an afternoon side trip to Newport. We gathered for a beer can chicken dinner punctuated by a few margaritas.

This morning I kissed my sleeping nieces good-bye as Griffen tried to scam a second breakfast off of my nephew. I feel a bit empty knowing that they won’t be there when I get home from work.

Ideas at Supersonic Speed

2009-06-26T17:28:00.000-05:00

This weekend we will have seven kids in our house.

Seven.

Like, more than 6.

A few months back my sister called me up and said “Hey, I am going to Jimmy Buffet. Without my four children. They’re staying with you. Mmmmkay?”

Then a few weeks back we said to my brother, “Hey, we’re going to have C’s kids that weekend. Your kids don’t get to hang with them that much. Drop ‘em off and we’ll have a big slumber party.” Before I knew it my brother had booked an overnight on Cape Cod, and he’ll drop his three off at our house on the way. And then I’ll have to put out the fire left in his driveway from his tires peeling out.

I am ridiculously looking forward to having all of them in the house this weekend. Seven kids aged 5-15. What to do? What to do?

No, seriously, what am I going to do with seven kids for the weekend?

Then the idea came to me yesterday. It screeched across the sky in the airspace above my office in East Greenwich, RI in a blur of shiny navy blue. The Blue Angels have been rehearsing their near supersonic speed air ballet for the air show at the Air Force base in Quonset this weekend. Forget about light bulbs going on over my head. My ideas tend to come to me powered by jet engines.

Perhaps we’ll drag seven kids, in two cars, to the show tomorrow. Or we’ll force them to clean our house and wash our cars. Either way, it’s all good.

Petty Vandalism was my MO

2009-06-19T19:53:00.001-05:00

I was in high school in the early 90’s, back when MC Hammer was telling us that it was Hammer Time. I was a goody goody in high school, ever drank (except for once), got good grades, participated in school activities, and all that two shoes stuff. But I had a weakness. I was a petty vandal.

I carried a sharpie around with me, and scrawled occasional random bits of graffiti. Most of it didn’t make much sense. I didn’t care to tell anyone when I had visited that particular bathroom stall. Instead my contributions of the graffiti world consisted of things like song lyrics, stick figures in a “Walk like an Egyptian” pose and the like.

I was driving home from school one day, and stopped at a stop sign somewhere in Enfield, Connecticut. I cracked up as I read the sign. First it said STOP, but then somebody scrawled underneath it “Hammer Time.” Brilliant! I had just stumbled upon a new vehicle for my writings. I was thrilled at the prospect of my obscure scribbles being exposed to more people than those who used the bathrooms at school. I grew excited at both genders getting to view my artistic contributions.

I raced home and called my friends, “Guys! This is it! We need to come up with some phrases incorporating the word ‘stop’.” The next night, armed with a fresh sharpie and friends packed into my 85 Olds Calais. We cruised down Newbury Road in East Windsor, an isolated road in the middle of nowhere which would serve as the perfect place to test out an installation of my art. I pulled up to the stop sign, leapt out of the car, and dashed to the stop sign on the side of the road. I scrawled “Polka time” under the word “Stop” on the sign—an homage to my roots.

Soon I became more brazen. Dozens of stop signs in East Windsor were defaced with the words “Polka time.” Worn out sharpies littered the floor of my car. The buzz about the weird “Polka Time” stop signs grew at school, and all fingers pointed at me. My classmates shook their heads and said “I am not at all surprised it was you.”

Tonight I was picking up pizza from Wicked Good Pizza. I stopped at the stop sign before leaving the parking lot and saw that someone else created their own stop sign art installation. The words “Don’t” and “Believing” were written in black sharpie on the sign, so that it read “Don’t Stop Believing.” I applaud this stop sign graffiti artist for taking it to the next level, and actually saying something a more hopeful and meaningful than my asinine “Stop! Polka time!”

Who ever you are, thank you for making my day. Oh and don’t STOP making people smile.

Australian Nutella

2009-06-16T19:20:00.001-05:00

Last week I brought home a jar of Nutella. In case you haven’t had it, it’s quite possibly the most decedent thing ever to arrive in a jar. It’s a chocolate hazelnut spread, and is amazing with peanut butter, or on a banana, or scooped with a giant serving spoon directly from the jar and rapidly globbed into one’s mouth.

Last night Todd baked some blondies (chocolate chip cookies that are in brownie form) and swirled some of the wonder drug, Nutella, on top. We each ate one, and today I brought in the rest to share with my co-workers and to keep them from lodging themselves onto my hips as these blondies can only be described as a party in the mouth.

Having a jar of Nutella in the house brings back an Australian memory. I was one of two full year American students in my dorm, Dunmore Lang College. There was a dining hall in the dorm that served food that can only be described as shockingly bad. An Aussie friend once shoved her plate away in disgust and said “This ought to be banned by the Geneva Convention.” The kitchen at DLC only served one choice for meals, and a vegetarian option as well. To give you an idea of how bad the food was, the vegetarian option was often something called “Not Meat.” It looked like dog food. It smelled like dog food. It tasted like dog food. It consisted of unidentifiable lumps of something not made of meat, and was served with gravy. So, it actually wasn’t vegetarian at all with the meat gravy on it. As a result of the horrible cuisine at Dunmore Lang, I was forced to get creative at meal times and basically spread peanut butter on anything set in front of me for ever meal.

On every table in the dining hall there were unmarked jars. One contained peanut butter, another contained jam. The third contained a brown substance that I had thought was Nutella. On my first day at Dunmore Lang I sat down to lunch and opened the jar of brown stuff and smelled it. Repulsed, I closed it. It smelled like vitamin pills and burning rubber, not at all like Nutella. I learned later on that it contained Vegemite, and is served in a thin layer on buttered toast. I tasted it twice over the year I was there and didn’t care for it. At all. It tasted like salty vitamin pills.

Half way through my year there the first batch of six month stay Americans had gone home and the next batch had come in. I had already been there for half a year and was quite popular among the new Americans, as I knew where the cool places to go were and I knew were everything was in town.

I sat with the new batch of Americans for their first meal, when one of them piped up and said, “No way! They have Nutella on the table!” He grabbed a banana, cut it into pieces and spread a generous amount of the brown goo on each piece. I watched, smirking silently. With an expectant look in his eye, he bit into the piece of banana, howled in disgust and spat it out onto his tray.

“Ugh! What the hell was that stuff? That’s gross!” He dabbed at his tongue with a napkin to eliminate his taste buds from any further exposure to any remaining Vegemite and banana molecules.

“Oh, that’s Vegemite. An Australian delicacy,” I replied sagely. “You put it on buttered toast, not bananas.”

Let the Record Show

2009-06-10T05:58:00.002-05:00

Scene: Podunk, RI, 8 something PM June 9, 2009

Ring ring went the phone. I glanced at the caller ID, it said "Cell Phone CT." One of my siblings was calling me. "Hello?" I answered.

"Hey, it's me," my brother Walter said. "I am at the high school because Janina has a dance recital rehearsal here tonight. Check this out, I am looking the board for the track records and I see 'Shot put, BJ Smith, 35' 3 3/4 1991' and 'High Jump, BJ Smith 5'1" 1991.' So you can sleep easy tonight, your records haven't been broken."

"Hey, that is cool. I set those records 18 years ago. It's nice to know that I haven't been beaten yet."

"You think that's cool? There's a dude on here who threw the discus 140 feet in 1972."

"1972? I wasn't even alive then! When was that record set? When our high school was in ancient Greece?" I laughed.

"My name is still up too," he added. Walter had graduated from our high school in 1984, eight years before me. He wasn't an athelete, he was more involved in student government.

"For what?" I asked.

"Good Citizenship award," he said.

"Oh my God, you were such a nerd!"

D’oh!

2009-06-09T04:44:00.000-05:00

On Sunday we installed a brand new hydraulic steering pump. The pump sits behind the steering wheel, and has hoses connected to it. When the wheel is turned, the pump squirts hydraulic steering fluid into the appropriate hose. The fluid runs down the hose and applies pressure to the hydraulic steering ram, which then directs the rudder to point in the appropriate direction.

We installed brand new hoses on Sunday as well. The hoses start at the pump, and run down the steering column through the floor of the cockpit and into the pantry below. We secured the hoses to the ceiling of the pantry, and then ran them down the aft wall into the engine room. The hoses were secured to that wall, and then were run beneath it, just above the propeller shaft, and then curved upward under our bed in the master stateroom. Just aft of our bed is the hydraulic ram which controls the rudder on the outside of the boat.

We handled the hoses as if they were constructed out of radioactive material. Over the course of pulling them though all those twists and turns they could chafe on any sharp edges and eventually rupture and leak—just like the old ones had. We hooked them up to the autopilot mechanism, which is located under Todd’s side of the bed, where his torso lies when he’s sleeping. We secured the hoses into place, attached them to the pump, the ram and the autopilot.

Then we attached the steering wheel to the pump. The hub of the steering wheel does not fit the new pump. The wheel now too loosely hangs on the pump, and the wheel jiggles as if to say “If you try to steer with me I am going to fall off and you’ll be left holding a steering wheel attached to nothing. And then you’ll hit something.”

In my experience, with boat restoration, when we solve one problem we’re often faced with another. But this time the problem is a bit larger. How the heck are we going to steer this boat?

Selfish? Really?

2009-06-08T07:02:00.000-05:00

On Friday afternoon at work some co-workers and I were stuffing envelopes for a mailing that we had to get out the door that afternoon. We put some music on, set up an assembly line and ended up laughing and joking to beat the monotony of the stuffing, sealing, labeling and stamping. We talked about our plans for the weekend. Eventually the discussion turned to kids. One of my co-workers had a baby girl 6 months ago, and I was asked if I would have kids.

I think Todd and I are back on the “No” side of the fence. We had been teetering on the fence for a long time, and right now we’re firmly living in “No” land.

“Really?” D asked me. “You guys are in such a good position for kids now, I am surprised.”

“Actually, I like the way our life is right now, and so does he. I am pretty set in my ways and really don’t want to add a baby to that right now.”

“You know,” another co-worker at the end of the table chimed in, “It’s perfectly OK to be selfish like that.”

Selfish? Really? Because I have not procreated and do not currently plan on doing so you’re going to use the word “Selfish”? I bit my tongue and concentrated on sealing the envelopes in front of me. I am sure he meant nothing malicious by saying that. But the more I think about it, the more annoyed I am at his using the word “selfish” to describe my way of life. I am also a bit annoyed that he felt the need to tell me it was perfectly OK. Of course it’s perfectly OK. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s my life, and my choice. While my path is different than his, isn’t mine still just as good because it suits me?

Why do people feel the need to use the word “selfish” when referring to a childless couple? Why can’t they say “active” as in “They’re active in other parts of their lives that they never got around to having kids.” Why can’t they say “hard-working” about a childless couple, as in “They are both focused on their careers right now that they haven’t gotten around to having kids.” Why can’t they say “adventurous” about a childless couple, as in “They are busy having adventures. They’re avid divers, sailors, hikers, and paddlers that they haven’t gotten around to having kids.”

No, the impression is that childless people are selfish. I take such an issue with that word because I am not a selfish person. This co-worker of mine has watched me change the water bottle on the water cooler even when I wasn’t the one to empty it. I am one of the few people at work who can lift and carry the full bottle, so I help out my peeps by keeping them hydrated. This co-worker has also observed me wiping up a spill on the hardwood floor that someone else had left behind because I was afraid that someone would slip on it and get hurt. Yet, I was called selfish for not having a child.

I wish I had said, “Well, I don’t know about being too selfish to have a child. I don’t think I am a selfish person. I am devoted to my husband, my friends and my family. I have 12 nieces and nephews as well. All of these people know that I would do anything for them. I don’t need to have a kid to prove that I am not selfish.”

But I kept my mouth shut. While that was probably the better move on a professional level, on a personal level my blood boiled. And continues to.

If You Have To Ask, You Can't Afford It

2009-06-06T19:32:00.003-05:00

Sabine's still in the shed getting the finishing touches put on and she'll hit the water next week. We've been working on various boat projects every night after work and on the weekends to get her ready. The paint's done, the varnish is done, and now we have to do things like repair the leaking hydraulic steering, you know, so it doesn't leak anymore.

Today we were working, when our friend Tonya came by. While Todd took off with her for a few minutes I sat in the truck resting. Some people came into the shed, and I automatically ducked out of view so I could watch them. There are tools strewn all over the place in the shed, along with other way more expensive boats. When Todd and I are working in the shed over the weekends we are always very careful about not leaving the doors unlocked because we are paranoid about something expensive that does not belong to us getting stolen. So, I ducked down and watched these people as they walked through the shed to check out our boat, and the two other boats in there with us. I figured that if their fingers got sticky I could jump out and let them know that they were not alone.

"Wow, this boat is gorgeous," one of the men said as they walked around my boat.

"I wonder if it's for sale. I wonder how much it would cost," the other replied.

"Yeah, probably couldn't afford it," the first man laughed. They left the shed, thankfully without stealing anything. But it was gratifying to hear that someone thought our boat looked so good that it was entirely unaffordable. What a nice change from hearing "Wow, you've got yourself a project, eh?" from other strangers who saw our boat.

Until now, I called Sabine a "90 mile boat" because "She looks good from 90 miles away." Not anymore.

Now, the unveiling.

First let me show you the rebuilding of the companionway hatch. This hatch is kind of like the front door to a house. It's the hatch you go through from the cockpit into the interior of the boat. You slide it open and walk down the companionway into the inside of the boat. The wood on the underside had rotted so badly that it eventually sagged and the hatch became increasingly difficult to open. Eventually I had to brace my legs against the seat in the cockpit and shove at the hatch with all of my might, summoning all the strength of my "sailor mouth" and grunting various phrases starting with "mother."

We completely disassembled the hatch, but managed to salvage the teak on the top. We fiberglassed a piece of marine plywood underneath it, then we fiberglassed the teak on top of it.

Here we're fiberglassing the trim pieces on the edges. We put down some fiberglass resin and clamped it into place so it would dry in place overnight.

Like this.

Here you can see how it would look with the teak on top.

Now you can see the paint job. Put your bibs on, because you're going to drool.

The black parts just below the dragons are our name plates. I haven't gotten a pic of it yet, but now it says "Sabine" on those name plates. We've owned the boat for seven years now, and hadn't bothered to correct the name plates.
*swoon*

Perfection!

Coming to Grips

2009-06-03T20:43:00.000-05:00

Seven years ago, when Griffen was just a puppy, I clipped him into a leash and tried taking him for a jog. He clumsily bounded behind me, not quite sure what he was supposed to do. I tugged him along for maybe a half mile and returned home frustrated. I had an image in my head of my dog happily jogging along side of me, but jogging with a gangly lab puppy didn’t look like that image. At all.

But I didn’t give up on it. I took him along every day. I tugged on the leash and hollered “Left!” sternly, until he understood that when I say that he’s supposed to move over to my left and get the hell out of my way. Over the years Griffen’s logged a few thousand miles at my side. He’s come to recognize when I put on my jogging clothes and dances expectantly as I get ready to go. He lets out a Chewbacca like howl as I tie my sneakers on and paces by the door.

The last few weeks, with his allergies acting up, I haven’t been taking him along in an effort to cut down his exposure to pollen. The flare up passed, and I took him with me on a 3.3 mile walk/jog interval yesterday. He grinned as he loped along on my left, and stopped to pee on several mailboxes. He sniffed. He looked at me adoringly and wagged his tail as if to say “I am having such a great time. Thank you!” This was the image of jogging with a dog that I had in my head 7 years ago. And I enjoyed every jog with my running buddy for 7 years.

This morning I pulled on my jogging clothes as Griffen watched from his bed. “Griffen, come on,” I whispered. He sat and stared. “Come on buddy, wanna go for a run?” He blinked his eyes, and continued to stare. Normally, when I say the word “run” he leaps up onto all fours and is ready to rock. Not today.

Todd woke up, “He was a bit stiff when he was coming upstairs last night. I don’t think he wants to go,” he explained. I left Griff in bed, and ran on my own. I felt the breeze flow through my left hand sans leash.

I hate to imagine a time where he won’t be able to go with me anymore. The image of the puppy with the oversized paws bounding behind me is fresh in my mind. Back then I longed for a time when he would easily jog at my side. Now I long for a time when he pounces at my heels, not yet comprehending the word “Left!” before the thousands of miles passed under his paws.

It’s Just Not Right

2009-06-02T06:23:00.001-05:00

Every year it happens, just like clockwork. The weather warms up. May becomes June. Sailboats in the distance dot the bay. Todd and I make a list of boat projects we’d like to accomplish. We scramble to complete them because we know that once Sabine’s tied to her mooring we will lose all motivation to work on any of those projects. We’re too busy having fun instead. We complete maybe half of the list and say “We’ll finish next year.”

This year the list is longer than most because of the complete refit. We haven’t had access to the interior of the boat all winter, due to the boat yard painting and varnishing the interior. We lazed around all winter, until recent weeks. Now the boat’s painted, but the leaking hydraulic steering system has been ripped out. Replacement parts have been purchased but not installed yet. All of the “stuff” that was on the deck of the boat was moved below so that the yard guys could paint. Now that “stuff” is all over the place in the interior of the boat. A fine layer of dust covers everything. There’s more junk in the cabinets from past completed or abandoned projects. It’s everywhere, spilling out of cabinets that won’t close anymore. Books with moldy pages, Christmas lights, 12,784 miles of extension cords, a broken clock… why are we keeping this crap?

The list is swelling as we think of more projects that we need to complete, faster than it could ever hope to shrink. The installation of solar panels has been pushed down toward the bottom, while installing the anchor windlass has been pushed toward the top.

We spent all day Saturday and all day Sunday working on the boat. On Saturday we painted the boot stripe (the stripe that falls right at the water line). On Sunday we cleaned out most of the cabinets in the interior, and threw out much of the crap that was in there. I scrubbed every inch of the "living room," but still have the forward stateroom, our stateroom, the bathroom, shower and galley to scrub. I took all the cushions outside, drenched them with Febreze, and let them dry in the sun. We nearly finished constructing the lid for the hatch that’s way in the back of the boat. I finished sanding the nameplates, and then we will fill them in with fiberglass and paint them black. The sign company will stick letters on them that say “Sabine” and “East Greenwich, RI” on them in a font that we will deliberate over for far too long.

The weekends are not enough anymore. Wanting to restore a great old boat and get to actually use it takes a lot of time. Work, though necessary to finance the restoration and use of a sailboat, has become inconvenient. I feel myself growing disgruntled at the concept of having to show up to work every day at 8:00 AM, and having to stay there staring at a computer screen until 5:00 PM. In my mind the list remains, with items uncrossed. The clock in the corner of the computer screen mockingly ticks away valuable minutes that could have been spent elsewhere.

Every spring something else happens too. The walls of the cubicle close in on me. I stare up at them and wonder if it is my imagination, or if they are actually slanting inward. Though I like the job, I resent that it keeps me from living the life I want to lead. I resent having to ask permission to take time off. I resent the stressful moments while I wait to be granted permission to take vacation time. I resent giving “the man” the best years of my life.

I grow irritable. I become a nightmare to live with and to work with. I plot. I ponder. I grumble. I leave the office at 5 on the dot with a trace of fire in my footprints. I clench my jaw at the surprise project dropped into my lap on a Friday afternoon. I shake my fist at the sky and say “It’s just not right!”

Yet, for some reason I’ve never bought a Powerball ticket.

Totally Made My Day

2009-05-25T20:16:00.001-05:00

Last Thursday, the weather finally warmed up to the point where I wore a short skirt to work. Well, not too short, mid-thigh or so. I hadn’t worn a skirt all winter, and stuck with jeans every day instead. I put on a pair of strappy heels to go with the skirt. I walked through the office from my desk to the water cooler to fill up my mug for my morning tea. I walked by N, an unmistakably gorgeous woman, who sits closest to the water cooler. She was talking to a few of the other girls and stopped mid-sentence as I walked by.

“Wow! Beej has great legs! Look at them! They are so muscular!” N exclaimed, while giving my gams the elevator look: up and down. I blushed, did a dorky little dance, and thanked her.

I went into the back room to heat my tea, and I couldn’t help but smile. I don’t handle compliments well. At all. In fact, I usually tip my head down and say something dorky. Which I did after N complimented me.

I watched the microwave count down, and my mug rotate round and round inside. I thought to myself, “Not this time.” I took my tea out of the microwave, and headed back for my desk. I passed N’s desk, and she was still talking to a few others.

“You know, you just totally made my day,” I said to her. She laughed. I laughed. Then I explained. “See, it was my New Year’s resolution this year to compliment at least one woman every day. I compliment people here, my friends, strangers every single day. I do it because I hope that other women will do it too. And it worked. I got a compliment too! Yay!”

And you know what? N was right. My legs are muscular, and they do look great in that short(ish) skirt.

...And Then Homeland Security Interrogated Us...

2009-05-17T18:51:00.003-05:00

Yesterday Todd and I went on another covert op, um, canoe trip. This time we put in at Hope Dam in the Pawtuxet River. We paddled north to what we hoped would be the Scituate Reservoir. Due to our lack of map, we paddled through some creepy stretches of river that looked like alligators should have popped out of the water and swallowed us whole.

Here's Todd in the back of the canoe, paddling us upstream while I leisurely take a picture.

Scraggly tree in river.

Beej ready to fend off an alligator. Or a zombie. Or a zombie alligator.

Then we stumbled upon something entirely unexpected. The state of Rhode Island is relatively flat. It's been said that the highest point in RI is the landfill in Johnston. But if we're strictly sticking to non-man made points of elevation then the highest point in the state is Jerimoth Hill at 812 feet. As a result of living so close to sea level, we don't have waterfalls. But yesterday we stumbled upon one just south of the Scituate Reservoir. We tied the canoe to the side of the river, and went to check it out.

It's relatively flat, but still a water fall.

Just to the right of this waterfall we noticed a clearing in the woods, and went to check that out. We walked through the woods and ended up at the dam that holds Scituate Reservoir, the source of water for the City of Providence.

Todd is climbing up the stairs to the dam, as we blatantly ignored the no trespassing signs. There was a missing rail in the fence. If they really didn't want us to check it out, they should have repaired the fence. Today our calf muscles are sore from this climb, so I guess that's karma for ya.

Well, we could get prosecuted. At least we won't get shot. That would suck. For all the talk about no trespassing, there's a road that runs along the top of the dam. A road that any old shlub can drive on. We can't walk up the side of the dam, but we can drive our cars on top of it.

There are surveillance cameras on this building. Todd had joked that we'll get busted by Homeland because we climbed up the illegal staircase in the dam, took a bunch of pictures, then walked back down again within a few minutes.

Scituate Reservoir.

This is the view from the top of the stairs. If you look really close in the woods, you can see where I may have left my car. Somewhere near the horizon.

On the hike back to the canoe Todd found a Lady Slipper, an endangered flower.

Well, maybe we won't get interrogated by homeland. But just in case this blog is confiscated by the feds, you'll know why.

Revisiting The Pass

2009-05-16T09:27:00.001-05:00

I’ve been waxing nostalgic in my head lately about playing music. I think it comes from my recent re-acquaintance with the music I listened to when I was a teenager. For example, last night on the way home from work I listened to “The Pass” by Rush. I always loved this song, and sang along flawlessly as I drove south on I-95 to words I memorized nearly 20 years ago. When I was a teenager I wanted to be able to play that song in the worst way, but was never really good at playing by ear. I listened to it over and over and dissected the song. I spent hours in my high school boyfriend’s bedroom trying to play the bass guitar part on his guitar. I was not a bass guitar player. Not even close. But I was hell-bent on figuring it out the way that Rush plays it. Eventually he got bored, left me in there and went downstairs to watch TV.

A few times this week I picked up my acoustic guitar, and have been tinkering around with it. I no longer have calluses on the fingertips of my left hand, so each stint with the guitar has been short lived. But I’ll strum out a few songs I’ve written, or a few songs I’ve learned, and scoured the Internet for tablature for songs I want to learn. Last week, for example, I learned to play Matt Nathanson’s “Suspended” and now I just need to tighten it up a bit and memorize it. At that point I will consider it learned.

Over the years I lost that must-play-it-the-way-they-play-it determination. I can play some passable selections by Ani DiFranco, REM, Indigo Girls, Suzanne Vega and Dar Williams. I can sing along to what I am playing, and I can make it sound like the original song. But I know that I am not playing them the way they were composed. And that’s OK. It’s my interpretation of the song, not a regurgitation.

ThursdayI got home from work and picked up the guitar. I have no idea what it’s tuned to. It’s tuned to itself, but not to the correct tuning. My guitar tuner’s battery is dead. I keep forgetting to buy a new one. Thursday I eyed the smoke detector in the hallway and toyed with the idea of removing its 9 volt battery and plugging it into my electronic guitar tuner. I debated the importance of a tuned guitar versus a burning house, knowing that I would never be bothered to go back up there to replace the battery in the smoke detector if I ever took it out.

I thought better of removing the battery and strummed an E minor chord. Then I played a G. I did the progression again, staccato and in time. Then I hopped around to find the root of the next part of that bass guitar riff that had plagued me in my high school boyfriend’s bedroom so many years ago. I played the entire riff over and over again, training my hands to work together.

Then I began to sing, “Proud swagger out of the school yard/Waiting for the world’s applause.”

I placed a capo on the second fret, and played it again a bit higher; to suit my singing voice. I fumbled through the whole song, and had just barely come up with a working version. I strummed, I sang, I held out notes and hopped around on the fret board trying to come up with a chord to match it.

And with that I have a working version of “The Pass.” It’s probably no where even remotely correct. But it’s good enough for me.

In a Word, Pathetic

2009-05-12T19:18:00.002-05:00

It's spring at Beej and Todd's house. It was not made evident to us by the blooming daffodils. It was not brought to our attention by the leaves sprouting on the trees. Griffen actually pointed it out to us.

He has seasonal allergies. My dog is allergic to pollen, grass, weeds, cats, tobacco etc. He scratches until he bleeds. He's dopey on Benadryl. Todd's been giving him his antigen shots.

He doesn't feel like himself and as a result he's all up in my grill. He tries to get closer to be, but the satellite dish gets in the way. Instead he rams it into my calves and my shins in his effort to get some love.

Just another few weeks and the worst will be over.

The Best Gift Ever

2009-05-11T17:55:00.001-05:00

We had an essay contest at work. The prize was Boston Red Sox tickets. While I personally don’t care about the Sox, my nephew is a huge fan. I entered the contest to try to win the tickets for him. The essay had to be about the best gift I received before finishing high school and wanted elaboration about who the gift was from, and what I would do with it if I received this gift today. The winning entrant talked about how she’d been in an accident and lost a great deal of blood. The best gift she had gotten was blood donated her by the community. And now, one of the entries that didn't win.

The best gift I’d ever gotten in that time of my life was music. I am not talking about CDs or concert tickets. I am talking about the ability to release a melody that only exists inside my head into something that other people can hear.

When ever I, or one of my siblings, expressed an interest in learning to play a musical instrument my parents did whatever they could to make it happen. Mom scoured the want ads for used saxophones, then went and haggled the price until it was something we could afford. Then she and Dad tolerated my incessant honks and squeaks as I learned how to play it.

Over the years my brother, Kaz and I amassed a veritable arsenal of musical instruments. From age 5 to 18 I collected a menagerie of guitars, saxophones and keyboards from under Christmas trees. However, I claim no ownership of the accordion--a standard fixture in the average Polish-American household. Our house was filled with constant musical creation, with never a “Would you stop that racket?” from my parents. We were loud. Kaz’s electric guitar blared in the room above where we watched TV. Somehow neither of us expressed interest in learning to play the drums. I wish I had asked for a set back then, just to see what my parents would say.

While I dabbled in every music-making device I could get my hands on, Kaz became an amazing guitarist. His flying fingers nearly melted the neck on my Gibson SG electric guitar. We didn’t get along so well when we were kids, but it was our love of Pink Floyd, Ozzy Ozbourne, and Queensryche that kept us in the same room together playing for hours on end. Kaz could hear a scorching guitar solo once and replicate it perfectly note for note. I played chords to accompany him, however to this day I could never convince him that I am the better singer. It was all those hours spent playing that made him my friend now that we’re grown ups.

Eventually life got in the way. I haven’t performed for at least 10 years. I still can pick up my guitar and strum a few clumsy chords, and I can still play saxophone parts I learned in high school from sheer muscle memory. I have fragments of lyrics scrawled on random slips of paper. Now I just need to give myself the gift of time to play more, and to get those random lyrics to fit into a full song. Overall, I am an angry songwriter, and haven’t had much to be angry about in the last decade or so. I fumbled my way through writing our wedding song as a surprise for Todd, and I wrote some gut wrenching songs after Mom died. But other than that, the songwriting well has run dry and I have changed to blog writing and fiction writing to get my creative outlet.

My parents’ gift of music is not about receiving anymore. My niece Rachael played my alto sax at school for a little while. Kaz’s daughter, Maggie, plays my tenor sax in the school band. Kaz’s son, Krystian, will get my Gibson SG for his13th birthday this summer. At Christmas every year I buy Kaz a CD he’s never heard of and say, “You really need to hear this, it’ll blow your mind.”

By Land and By Sea

2009-05-10T19:51:00.002-05:00

I always experience mixed emotions on Sunday nights. I am usually winding down from a weekend filled with activity. I spend the evening being mellow so I can get to sleep at a reasonable hour and get some sleep so I can get up the next morning and go to work. I reflect on the fun from the weekend and dread going to work on Monday. I like my job, but I like weekends better than having to be in a cubicle at 8 AM on a Monday morning.

The weather is getting warmer, and Todd and I have been unsticking our butts from the couch. On Saturday morning we explored our town by canoe. There are loads of little ponds, rivers and lakes in Podunk just waiting for us to paddle through them.

We put the canoe in the water at Zeke’s Bridge, a boat launch where we often take to dogs for a swim. We ducked under the bridge and headed south. Eventually we paddled under I-95 and the lake thinned to a snake of a river. It’s times like these that I wish I had a crappy little digital camera I could just slip into my pocket. I have a very nice digital camera that I care a great deal about and would be extremely upset if I capsized in a canoe with it. So I will have to describe the scene for you.

The tunnel under the highway is a long creepy tunnel. It was about 8 or so feet wide and at least 30 feet high from the water and runs under the entire width of the highway--2 lanes and a breakdown lane on each side, and a large grassy median in the middle. As we canoed through it, the surface of the water was perfectly still, and the ceiling of the tunnel was perfectly reflected on the water’s surface. The reflection was so perfect that it appeared that the water was clear, and the ceiling of the tunnel was the bottom of the river beneath my canoe. I blinked several times at the optical illusion, trying to consciously convince myself of what I was seeing. The next time we go back there, I will bring my camera to show you. It was one of the cooler things I’ve seen in recent weeks.

Sunday found us playing with fiberglass resin in the workshop. We have some boat parts that we need to fix for the Big Restoration of 2009. I donned my safety glasses and mask, and sanded hardened fiberglass. Then I mixed batch after batch of fiberglass resin for another part we are fixing. While the fiberglass cured, we donned our bike shorts and put the bikes in the back of the truck.

Another great feature of Podunk is the bike paths. We discovered a map of a complex system of bike paths that extend all over the state, and all over New England. We’ve been exploring the parts in our town bit by bit; just 6 miles at a time until we get into better shape and can go for longer.

Today we parked the truck at the ice cream shop near the trail, and headed west. After a mile or two the paved bike path gave way to a dirt one. The trail follows the former railroad line, and crosses over old train bridges. I need to consult the book I just bought about the history of Podunk to see what the area looked like with a rail line going through it, because my imagination just isn’t cutting it. We stopped the ride at a defunct bridge with no surface on it then turned back. A friend has told me that the trail extends into Connecticut, and I would love to ride the whole thing one day soon.

But until then, I am watching the clock approach 9:00 PM, and am letting my eyes grow heavy. I wish I had one more Sunday, because Monday is a lousy way to spend one seventh of my life.

Wring Out My Brain

2009-05-07T19:53:00.002-05:00

It’s been raining for approximately 4,397 days in a row now. Rain makes me cranky, indecisive, unmotivated and unproductive. I moped around at work. (And now I am trying to decide if I just told you that I rode a moped at work, but I am too lazy to look it up.)

I got home and bummed around the house until Todd got home. The phrase “cannot be bothered” took on a whole new meaning. There’s plenty to do, just no motivation to do it.

Todd came home and asked, “What’s for dinner?” and I thought I would burst into tears. I stood in the kitchen and racked my brain trying to come up with something I would want to bother to eat for dinner. No ideas came. We stood in the kitchen tossing out ideas. Nothing appealed. The rain fell. My brain atrophied.

He grabbed his keys, “Come on, let’s go to the general store and see what we can come up with.” I drove his car, eyes glazed. We walked into the general, and I cluelessly roamed the aisles. He made suggestions, and I grunted in response, unable to form a complete sentence. I stared into the freezer case and said “Screw it, just get what you want. I am not hungry. I give up.” He plucked ingredients from the aisles, paid for them, carried them into the house, whipped up French toast and eggs and set them on a plate right in front of me.

I love this man.

Deep in Thought. Obsessed. It's All Good.

2009-05-05T11:11:00.003-05:00

In continuing with my recent mini-obsession with Neil Peart from Rush, I grabbed another one of his books from the library, “Travelling Music.” He wrote this one about driving from California to Big Bend National Park in Texas. He listened to a variety of CDs, from Sinatra to Limp Bizkit and talked about how music was, obviously, such a huge part of his entire life.

I am about 100 some-odd pages in, and am thoroughly enjoying this book—even more than I did “Ghost Rider,” which was his story about riding all over North America on his motorcycle after losing both his daughter and wife. This one’s more autobiographical, and I find myself chuckling at his anecdotes as I read. He really is a fascinating individual, but his books are like Chinese food. After I eat Chinese food, I find myself pawing through an open fridge an hour or two later. That’s how I feel about Neil Peart’s book. I devour one, and then a short time later I am pawing through the Internet trying to find something else he’d written that I can nibble on.

The book’s got me thinkin’ about the life of fortune and fame. Overall I’ve had a relatively low opinion of celebrities that complained about paparazzi and prying fans. My thought always was, “If you don’t like it, go buy a ranch in Montana and get the hell out of the limelight.” I imagine that people in that line of work have a love/hate relationship with fans and photographers. The photographers keep you in the news and maintain your worth. But at the same time, when you can’t go down to the corner to buy a newspaper without being photographed and wardrobe critiqued, then I am sure it’s a royal pain in the ass. I imagine there’s a great deal of fear that goes with that kind of lifestyle. A crazed fan shot John Lennon, after all. My big fear in life is running into a former boss or boyfriend with whom the relationship may have ended badly. I can’t imagine living with the fear of some rabid fan coming up to me and demanding my attention while I am out and about doing my thing.

Back when I was a huge Rush fan, when I was in high school, I couldn’t Google stalk Neil Peart. Now I can, and I stumbled upon his myspace page. I read the comments that people had left, “You’re my idol, man!” and the like. I sat there with my mouth hanging open as I read them and wondered what he thought of them as he read them. Here were thousands of people who wrote things like that to a man who, really, is a stranger to all those people. They don’t know him personally. They only know him through his music and his writing. In “Travelling Music” he mentioned fans coming to his front door of his home to ask for an autograph, and another story of a man who left beer for him outside his motel room, then called on the phone him to invite him to hang out. I could sense the unease those interactions caused him as I read. I wonder if he looks at his myspace page and wonders which one of commenters will be the next one to try to walk up to his front door? Which one will be the one that he has to avoid when he’s having a drink in a bar? John Lennon didn’t have myspace. He knew he had fans, but he couldn’t read their little online tributes to him as Neil Peart can. Is the phenomenon of the Internet helping famous people to be more wary of strangers? Would John Lennon still be alive today if...

I can see that it would be lovely to have touched so many people with your work. But how is it that fans cross these very definite lines? Every so often you hear about some crazed fan trying to sneak into a house of a celebrity. (Even David Letterman had one of those.) And ya gotta wonder what brings people to that point. What makes them think it’s OK to try to get into the home of a famous person? And what are they going to do when they get in there? Are they just going to plop down and join their object of obsession at the dinner table and say “Hi, and how was your day? Please pass the peas,” and be handed the peas like it’s just a normal day? There’s a big reason why these people are scaling a wall and not walking in the front door. They don’t belong there!

I listen to Neil Peart’s lyrics and I read his books, and they move me. They might make me think of something I hadn’t thought of before. Or they might make me sing along as I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in the car. Do I think I have a connection with him? Hell no. But his work sometimes inspires me, sometimes makes me feel happy and other times makes me feel sad. If I saw him in public would I stop in my tracks and say quietly and urgently to whomever I am with, “Holy crap! That’s Neil Peart!” Hell yes. Would I walk over and say hello to him, like he’s supposed to know me? Hell no.

Bad Tired, Good Tired

2009-04-26T19:13:00.002-05:00

Of course, on the first weekend where it feels like summer I have a sinus infection. I’ve been annoyingly sick for the last forever or so. I sit at my desk and cough all day. My co-workers cower and cringe as I walk by them in the hallways. The trash can under my desk was in constant used-tissue overflow.

On Thursday I left work at 9 or so in the morning and headed to the local walk-in clinic and left with a prescription for Augmentin. That was the same antibiotic that Todd had gotten a prescription for just a few days earlier. Because Todd and I share everything, we've been sharing the same sinus infection. (Thanks sweetie, it’s the gift that keeps on givin’.)

Friday afternoon my eyes grew heavy at work. I propped my head up against my left hand and watched my computer monitor grow blurry. Then I felt the tell-tale head bob. You know the one. The I-just-fell-asleep-at-my-desk-at-work head bob. After a quick search around my desk I decided that it would be a bad idea to try to prop my eyes open with paperclips. I switched off the computer, grabbed my keys and my bag, and said goodbye to my boss.

I have no recollection of the drive home. Luckily most of it is on the highway, where I puttered along in the right lane with my eyes glazed. Once home I fumbled up the stairs, fell into bed and was instantly asleep for nearly three hours.

Saturday the sun shone, and the mercury hit the 80s. And I slept through a lot of it. I had microbursts of energy, but then slept for hours after each one. The guilt of squandering the first summery day bummed me out. Badly. But I didn’t have the energy to enjoy it. My bike (with it’s new bike bell on the handlebar) sat untouched in the garage. Our canoe sat on its sawhorses, and its new paddles shone in the basement. All I had the energy for was reading and sleeping.

Today was different. This morning I woke up wired for sound. I danced around the room while we got dressed chirping away about an entire summery Sunday ahead of us. We had some tidying up to do, as Dad and his wife were visiting for a late lunch. We took the dogs swimming in the morning. I did the laundry. Todd built a birthday present for his dad.

Dad and Anna arrived, and we had a very nice visit over Todd’s latest grill creations. Then we went for an ice cream and showed them the finer points of Podunk, RI. I believe we used the phrase “don’t blink.” As in, “OK, this is the center of town. Don’t blink, you’ll miss it.”

After Dad and Anna left, we piled the bikes into the car and headed for the bike path. We plotted an easy 3 mile route (see above, sinus infection) with Google Pedometer. But when we got to the end of the three miles, in no time flat, we took on 3 more miles.

The bike path was an old railroad line complete with train trestles. Turns out there is an entire network of bike paths in Rhode Island that we vaguely heard of, but never bothered to completely check out and appreciate. We rode through the mud and got dirty. We stopped on a bridge that overlooked a waterfall to take a sip of water. I rang my little bell, and giggled over it.

My thighs, currently supporting my laptop, are showing the signs of exertion. Good tired.

Nip, Tuck, and Varnish

2009-04-21T19:44:00.004-05:00

I've mentioned before that Sabine's getting refitted this winter. She's been in the shed at our winter marina getting sanded, varnished and painted.

Here is the taff rail that goes round back of the boat, and gives her that "Pirate ship" look.

This is looking toward the bow of the boat. See all that shiny wood? That's all been freshly varnished. Puuurrrrrr.....

This is the hatch right over our bed. When it rains it leaks because the wood trim wasn't sealed. When the rain started, we had to scramble onto the cabin top with trash bags and bungee cords to waterproof the hatch so we could sleep. As much fun as that was, I am glad it's sealed now.

This is the trim along the edge of the cockpit.

The edge of the cockpit. You can see how the wood trim goes all the way around.

This is the bow. That motor-y thing in the middle is our decrepit anchor windlass. It's broken. For the last few seasons our windlass was Todd. He doesn't particularly care for hauling anchors out of mud. This season we will replace this crappy windlass with one that actually works.

This is a skylight that is over our dining table. It leaked. A lot. We were never able to take advantage of the light that came through it because it leaked so badly. A few seasons ago we gave it the trash bag bungee cord treatment. Not anymore. The guys from the marina adhered a rubber gasket to the skylight so it will be water tight.

Mmmm.... skylight. Light below deck is important, because our windows are quite small in the main cabin of the boat. I can't wait to not have trash bags on this anymore.

Summer can't come fast enough.