HandiCaptain's Log: Boat and Broad

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.