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It
was love at first sight, a case of naïve male meets
mature female with a great body and fine pedigree who
simply longed for my tender loving care. Her name was
Swedish, adding to her exotic allure.
But
I had never seen her out of the water. What kind of
bottom would she have? (And no, of course she had not
been surveyed by me. There are some things you simply do
not do with a female of the upper class. She would have
dismissed me as an untrustworthy boor.)
So
after two winters of getting to know one another – and
the promise that she had been bottom painted and had her
zincs replaced immediately before I became her life
partner – it was time for our first full public
exposure, at Westport Marina.
I
was nervous as the proverbial kitten as they slung the
straps. As the hoist slipped into gear I closed my eyes,
praying the stress would not prove too crushing for my
beloved one’s 42-foot cedar-planked hull.
Stu,
my skipper, wood wonderworker and buddy, headed towards
her stern where we had already noted the ravages of rot
on the upper port side of her transom. Several anxious
taps later, he was satisfied that all was sound below
her waterline.
A
good power-wash worked wonders. John, Stu’s brother was
on her in a flash with scraper and brush. By early on
our second day on the hard her old red bottom was
transformed into a smooth, cool blue, her zincs shining
on immaculate props and shafts. I was proud as a new dad
handing out chocolate cigars.
The
good weather stayed with us as the carpentry, paint
scraping and plumbing work kept expanding in that
strange way that your children do, as they grow out of
clothes, and generally develop huge appetites for things
they simply must have, now – and at ever-increasing
cost.
Paint:
a grand, with HST (Hell’s Selfish Tax) included. And
that, for the bottom and topsides alone. Miraculous
rot-removal chemicals: $450. New timber and stainless
steel parts of all sizes: $500, not including all those
little threaded bronze u-bends, ball cocks and assorted
through-hulls blindly paid for through the Visa Voucher
Plan (“buy today, repent at leisure.”)
The
ticking of the clock now sounded out $72 a day plus HST,
for the joy of being a boater aboard but on land. I
slowly turned into a chandler’s junkie, seeking fixes
multiple times a day – and was always hungry for more.
Each day I rose a little earlier, until one morning at
three my partner found me re-sharpening chisels as part
of my pre-work , schedule.
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While
Stu and John grew better tans, I lived a white skin
existence far from sun, in the bowels of the boat,
learning how to chase sanitation grade hose from head to
through-hull and then inspect for cleanliness. My best
efforts paid off one late afternoon when after four
hours of tea kettles of warm water and much poking with
a length of flexible plastic I finally was able to blow
– ahem -- compressed air through an eight-foot line that
had not seen daylight since I first heard Eric Clapton
play with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers.
A
filthy job -- but someone has to do it. I was working
out eons of bad karma, or so I solemnly assured my inner
self.
On
the seventh and last night I ran down my lists of Things
to Do, looking for check marks. My only lower score was
in Mr. Murray’s music class of 61 – and that had landed
me six of the best. I was feeling, well, less than
interested in that 1-0 Canucks win against San Whoever.
My whole body ached from sumo wrestling rubber hoses in
tight places; my eyes had started shooting stars every
time I came up for a splash of sunlight; I was eating on
the run and sleeping wherever I fell, and the turmoil of
my finances made the New York Stock Exchange seem as
calm as a Trappist monastery.
Eight
days: that’s all it took to find the holes, repair and
prime them for repainting. That, and one last little
heart-stopper on the way back in.
We
were barely out of the slings when my bow end started
shipping water. Right up there, where You Know Who had
fitted that final through-hull mere hours before …
Stu
threw an accusing look at me as he scarpered below.
Water coming in, big time, called my skipper in a
strangled voice that was new to me. The nightmare had
arrived. Cash, splash and then disaster: the lament of
the last haul out.
In
the end it turned out to be no disaster, of course, just
Mother Nature’s way of reminding this ancient mariner
that wood boats and water are true lovers. Separate them
for eight days and eager water will rush to meet parched
wood in a moist embrace.
In
this case, an embrace that cost me two very nervous
nights’ sleep, as my main bilge pump demonstrated its
amazing effectiveness. (Note to self: always carry on
board one brand new bilge pump, in reverence for
Neptune.)
I
am still catching up on sleep. I have a pressing
appointment with my bank. I have learned what a boat
really is: a three-dimensional object made on land, to
become a floating mystery for the novice boat-owner.
And
my advice to any who, like me, falls in love with a
beautiful female he hardly knows?..... Get her surveyed
first!
David May, editor of The Bearing, lives
aboard his 1971 Monk Vi Ska Leva near Sidney.
(C) David May 2011
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