THE BIG WAIT

Does it seem like we do a lot of waiting?

That's where we are again. Waiting. Chip's back. We're ready to go (sort of), but the weather calls for high winds the next few days, so we'll lay up in Rock Hall until it passes.

We could have made it across to Annapolis today, but the boatyard had to make a final trip up our mast to fix the light they forgot to fix last time. By the time they came back down, it was too late to start.

In the meantime, we've put ourselves on a system-a-day plan until we get it figured out.

While Chip was gone, I tackled the water heater and AC/heat unit.

Today is the navigation system. Chip brought an adapter to make the GPS talk to the laptop, so we're poring over Nobeltec software and the Garmin GPS -- and their manuals -- attempting to find ourselves and our route easier on the way south.

Our days are filled with packing glands and Y valves, bilge pumps and water filters. One at a time.

I only got through half the toe rails before the weather moved in. I've left the starboard side taped in hopes of getting another coat on before we untie.

The wind blows. And so we look longingly out across the water. And we wait.

STORMY THOUGHTS

About 11:30 last night, I thought, "Well, Mr. Automaton, where's your big-time storm?"

A few minutes later, as I was brushing my teeth I heard something that sounded like a tractor rumbling down the dock. I turned off the water and cocked my head sideways, like a beagle, listening. 

At the same moment I identified the roar as wind, the boat made a sharp heel to starboard, the lines groaning at the shift.

"Really? Zero to 30 in the time it takes to brush my teeth?" I asked.

In answer the starboard rail squished the bumper into a piling with a loud SCREEEEK.

I realized in that moment, that most of my attention had gone toward keeping the boat away from the dock on the port side, to the complete neglect of anything that might push us to starboard, like a 30-knot wind at midnight.

That's when the gusts turned into a steady blow, and my guts turned to jelly.

The rain started pelting on the fiberglass roof. Lightning flashed. The boat started rocking in earnest, bang, bang, banging against the dock lines and screeching on the bumper. It sounded like I was lying beneath the tracks in a busy subway station.

This boat weighs more than 10 tons, and in that moment the whole of it was resting on my shoulders.

It was not the storm that scared me. No, this was much bigger.

This boat has been on the water -- and around the world -- for 10 years. Now in my first week as caretaker, is it doomed to break apart on my watch? Am I actually capable of taking care of a 40-foot boat -- by myself??? Have I finally taken on more than I can manage?

And worse, if I can't manage tied up to a dock, how will I react in the big, wide ocean? Will I even survive? 

I was having an existential crisis with a thunderstorm as the soundtrack.

I called Chip. 

"It's blowing. I don't want to go out there. What if a line breaks? What if I loosen the line and the wind gusts and the boat gets away from me?" I babbled.

He calmly talked me down, or in this case, up.

"It always sounds worse than it is. Just put in some more bumpers if you can't pull it off the piling."

So, I took a deep breath, put on my big girl foulies and went up there. As advertised, it wasn't all THAT bad. It was cold and raining, but it was the foulies that got wet, not me. During the previous week, I had learned how to unwrap the dock line from the cleat part of the way, wait for a little break in the wind, then haul it in before the next gust. And that's what I did, hauling in the port breastline, between gusts inching by little bits away from that starboard piling.

But, just in case, I jammed in one more bumper before going below.

And by morning, I had conquered a few more items on the checklist:

30-knot squall at the dock: CHECK
Existential overreaction at midnight: CHECK

There are never photos of the good stuff.

EXPERIMENT SUCCESS

DAY ONE:

Monday -- We cleaned, cleaned, cleaned and rinsed the rails. Then hit it with teak brightener and rinsed some more.

DAY TWO:

Tuesday -- The weather forecast was rain, rain, rain. We discussed the impending rain over the sound of palm sanders at the boat next to us. Duh. We hopped up and got in a good hour and a half of work before it started pouring. Might as well get used to the weather controlling our lives.

We used the rain as an excuse to hose down the boat one more time, just before welcoming our friend, John, who came for a sleepover: our first overnight guest!

DAY THREE:

Wednesday -- We topped off all the rinsing with a round of hand sanding with either 150- or 120-grit, depending on how bad the particular spot was -- all with the help of John -- future guests, take note.

Then we taped and started coating with the magical Flood. One coat (above), then two coats (below) then a third coat on the outside, vertical piece.

See in the photos, the red, red board on the left? That's teak treated with the dreaded Cetol. I can't wait to strip and refinish those cockpit combings.

So how do you top off eight straight hours of sanding and painting? How about a six-hour drive home? Whew.

TWO GENERATIONS, ONE DREAM

Today, under a surprised January sun, we swabbed the decks, threaded the traveler, tapped in teak plugs and attached a boom vang, side by side, Chip and me, Marvin and Nancy.

Yes, Marvin and Nancy, who could very well be us 20 years hence, reminiscing about happy, happy cruising years, the Bahamas, Eleuthera, Venezuela, the Mediterranean, the French canals, stories punctuated with laughter and tears (okay, the tears were mostly mine).

The four of us have converged on Rock Hall this week with a single purpose: to commission an Island Packet 380 named Good Company, to pass her from one generation to the next, to continue the journey.

Four people sharing one dream. One past. One future. One boat.

Good Company.

THE BIG THAW

The call came on Friday. The thaw is coming.

Here we go for the survey and sea trial up in Rock Hall, Maryland, way up about 2 o'clock on the Chesapeake Bay. We originally planned to bring the boat south as soon as we close the deal.

But it's an unknown boat ... an untried engine ... unfamiliar waters ... uncertain weather ... lots of uns. And perhaps the most disconcerting for me: the water temp hovers at a life-threatening 35 degrees. If we get the warm air temp we're hoping for, that would mean fog.

Any one of these things would not be a problem necessarily, but all together, no thanks.

Instead, we'll find a place to keep the boat in the water in Rock Hall, so we can plan a fun adventure south, not a daredevil jaunt through icy waters.

IN GOOD COMPANY

As we left Bridgeville this morning, Dylan called to tell us he was accepted to Appalachian in Boone, NC.

Hallelujah. He set out on a long, long trip from eking through high school to getting accepted to a state school at 21, a trip sewn with hard, ugly work and long, lonely months in a near empty apartment. Hmm. Sounds a little like someone else. Is this the week we all arrive?

A good start  -- and hopefully a good omen. We smiled the whole way to Rock Hall.

You might recall, we looked at several Island Packet 380s in Rock Hall in October, including the one we're here to see: Good Company.

On that last trip, Chip made one notation in his notebook about Good Company: GTV.

"What the heck is that?" I asked.

"Got The Vibe."

It's a funny thing when you're boat shopping. If you're smart, you keep your emotions in check, try not to fall in love with a boat and subsequently make bad decisions. But there's no denying the feel of a boat when you step onboard. It defies logic. We looked at two identical boats, side by side today. One felt cold and lonely, the other warm and homey.

And today, I got the vibe too. I didn't anticipate liking this boat as much as I did. Good Company has had one owner who is obviously meticulous. The boat is spotless inside. The bilge looks practically new. He changed the oil for the first time one month after he got the boat (!). The more we learn, the closer we look, the better it gets.

Michele, our broker, had a lot of info for us about other 380s on the market as well as a listing of what 380s have sold for in the last year. More homework for us ...

 ... and back to Bridgeville to see Ted and Nancy (Chip's parents) and Aunt Peggy and Uncle George!

THE BACK FORTY

After the Annapolis Sailboat Show, we took a side trip to Rock Hall, Maryland, to look at boats (just like we did last year). We plan to buy an Island Packet, but since we don't have a cool $300K, our pocketbook (packetbook?) limits us to used ones.

Island Packet has seven boats between 35 and 40 feet (not counting the new Estero). The differences between the various models gets tedious and just plain confusing. Chip has made charts to help us track the differences. Our goal was to narrow down our choices by seeing some of them side-by-side. We wanted to answer a few questions:
1. Are we sure we don't want a bigger boat, maybe a 40? Do the features outweigh the cost?
2. Should we spend 50-75% more for a 380?
3. Is the 37 different enough from the 35 to warrant spending 30-50% more?
4. Do we still like the 35 best for the money?

My next few posts will capture our thoughts and answers so we won't subsequently forget them (!). Since the 35 (not to be confused with the 350) is our front runner for now, I'll compare each boat to the 35. Today, question number one.

Island Packet 40:

The IP website has more info if you want to check out IP40s.  The one we looked at is a 1996 and is listed for $179,500 as compared to IP35s starting below $100K.

The layouts amongst the 35, 37, 38, 380 and 40 are very similar, but the extra feet on the 40 are used to add another bathroom in the bow. The unexpected consequence is that the salon is compressed. The settee angles out into the salon floor adding to that closed-in feeling. We didn't take a tape measure to it, but the salon feels smaller on the 40 than on the 35, and isn't it really about the feel?

Having that extra bath by the companionway would be awesome for use as a wet locker, but is it really worth an extra $70-80K? Besides, you trade one large bath for two small ones. The additional four feet of waterline adds comfort, but again, $70-80K worth?

It's more expensive to operate, maintain and even travel in a larger boat. The tradeoff would need to be substantial to make it worthwhile. The 40 didn't win us over.