GOING RETRO

Manteo, NC -- Boat projects sound so easy in theory, but the old formula about tripling your time estimate when planning a boat job seems conservative to me.

So, the new radar and GPS arrived, but the old stainless steel stand is too short, so we had to order a new one.

The new standard for a stainless steel helm stand is 1.5", but we had to order the old 1" pipe, so it would fit the current (old) pedestal. Why does it matter? All the instrument wires have to be threaded through the stainless steel tube.

The new equipment comes with plugs that are just over an inch wide, and just a little wider than our old 1" pipe. All the wires will have to be cut, threaded and spliced or traced back to their source, disconnected, pulled back to the helm, threaded through the new pipe, pulled from the helm back to their original source and reconnected.

And those wide plugs that make the new equipment so easy to just plug and go? They are wider than the PVC conduit inside the mast -- the conduit that keeps the wires from clanging around inside the mast, which is a hollow metal tube. Nothing to do about that, so now we have two wires free-ranging in there, lying-in-wait to torture us on rough nights.

Top all this off by chasing the old wires through hatches, under tanks and behind the walls -- and then threading the new wires through the same paths. We did this today, only to discover that the new wires aren't quite long enough to reach the helm, so we now have to figure out how to get them extended.

Retro-fitting. This is how sailors learned to curse.

BLOW BY BLOW

8:00
The wind has started from the Northeast, quiet and cloudy. We watch with nervous energy.

Midnight
It blows. There's a light steady rain on fiberglass. The boat is rocking and groaning. Every once in a while the boat heaves a big stuttering shiver. I flirt with sleep. It plays hard to get.

1:15
The motion changes, the wind picks up. All the sounds that had made themselves familiar the last three hours have left and sent in a new platoon of noises. The most unsettling of them is a high mew like a kitten, mew mew mew, mew mew mew. Sleep still taunts and runs away leaving me feeling slightly queasy.

1:26
I was roaming around restless and stopped to look out to port. A man was walking down the boardwalk and turned up our dock. He bent his head against the wind and rain. A few minutes later we heard a loud horn blow. Wee hour mysteries.

1:44
Okay, that was a big gust. A loud bang and the trash flew open on its track. Hmm. Getting more queasy.

2:11
I'm seeing what they mean by "bands." Every 10 minutes or so, we get blasted. That damnable cat sound is consistent and annoying. My muscles are getting sore from being thrown about in a washtub.

2:16
This should be the worst of it, the next hour. We talk briefly about the cleat on the dock giving way, then quickly change the subject. Conversation is difficult amidst the cacophony.

2:22
Chip is sleeping. Amazing. I watch. A storm blast wakes him, and the boat shimmies. We turn on the spreader light halfway up the mast and look up through the hatch. The rain is almost horizontal.

2:28
A sudden pelting like gravel thrown on the deck. I jump up to turn on the foredeck light. It looks the same as before. Hail? Not sure.

2:50
We've started to get stripes of quiet, calm. Taunting. But then it comes back with a vengeance. Perhaps we'll be finished soon. I hope. My nerves are frayed.

3:04
We've passed now into what will surely be the final hour. The gusts are so strong, the boat bump-bump-bumps along like it's passing over a wooden bridge. The bigger world out there might know where Earl is but in our isolation we track it by wind direction, still north, and the plummeting barometer, still going at 29.7.

3:15
According to FM radio, Earl will not be passing Nags Head until 8 a.m. Could that be true? We have 5 more hours of this? Really?

4:56
Sure enough. This has not let up. The rain pounds. The wind howls. The boat pitches. I snatch little bits of sleep between bands.

5:01
"We expect winds to continue for several more hours and ease around daybreak." This according to automaton man on VHF weather channel. Bastard. And so we enter the fifth hour.

5:08
We both prowl around restlessly. Minutes ago we were standing three feet apart facing starboard, holding tight as the boat bucked. Two items started flying across shelves, one in front of each of us. We each in unison reached out and grabbed the one nearest us.

5:26
I guess the hours before dawn are always the hardest. We both fret. The water rises. We realize now that if something happens, a line breaks, a piling gives way, there's not much we can do. I question our decision to stay onboard. The water's too high now to get off safely.

5:53
Howling wind. This is the worst, and we're tired, nerves shot, watching the minutes tick by, cringing at every gust. I study the eastern sky, begging the sun to rise. We listen to FM radio to hear human voices. We strain over the noise only to hear them saying schools are closed today. There's some news.

6:30
The sky is brightening. Chip just went on deck to secure the boom. It's still wailing. The power has gone out in Manteo. No more AC.

6:39
The barometer has gone up a smidge. Could we be almost out of the weeds? Woods? Winds?

7:00
No, it's getting worse. The wind is intense, sometimes sounds like a low-flying jet. The rain is pounding. We rocking so severely that I'm seasick. We're suiting up and waiting for the first chance to get off the boat. She has proven herself capable. We need a break.


We left the boat just before 8:00 and huddled in the dockmaster's office with some other wet folks, the wind and rain still howling. McDonald's was the only place open selling hot food, so we got nourishment, coffee at Front Porch and then settled onto a now perfectly still boat for a 5-hour nap.

Cara Mia sustained no damage. I'll review the lists from yesterday once we've had an actual night's sleep.

I like reading my wee hour thoughts. Time will tell which ones will take root.

BALANCING ACT

Today we were attempting to replace a tiny piece in the dinghy motor that connects a fuel valve on the hose to a switch used to open and close the fuel line.

The maneuver required holding the miniscule part in place underneath the hose, guiding it blind into a tiny, dark cylinder and clicking it onto a corresponding switch -- all while balancing the motor in the rocking cockpit.

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! We took turns dropping the part into the casing of the motor and delicately fishing it out with those oh-shit tweasers in the photo.

Finally, all that time playing Operation as a kid paid off.

We were attempting it for the dozenth time, when we heard a loud snap and froze in place.

"What was that?!?!?!"

It was the part snapping in place.

We haven't tried it yet, but if "ON" on the switch really corresponds with the fuel being "ON", it will be a miracle. If "ON" is really "OFF," it will be charming.

MOUTHING OFF: Heading South Day Three

Solomons  38°19.680N | 76°27.477W

"The mouth of the Potomac can be rife with cross-currents, tidal rips and fish traps... Several world cruisers have said that this was the roughest place they've encountered in bad weather." --Waterway Guide Chesapeake Bay

As we moved into the Chesapeake headed south, we set our waypoint heading and watched the shoreline. Something just didn't look right. But what? I ran below to check our heading, and we were on it.

I then pulled out the chart to check the first waypoint, which I had mistakenly entered as E instead of W. That's E for EEK!

But now, heading straight toward the mouth of the Potomac, we were leading a life of quiet trepidation.

According to the guidebook, the most favorable time to pass the mouth is at low tide, and we timed it almost to the minute. We entered the mouth exactly at slack tide.

I'm happy to report, that the mouth did not chew us up nor spit us out. It did not foam or bare its teeth. We made a mute, 90-minute passage in near perfect conditions.

A long, five hours later, on our approach to Deltaville we heard a loud clanging crash near the stairs that sounded like dishes falling. I looked around but found nothing out of order.

"We'll find it later," Chip said presciently. The only thing more clairvoyant would have been if he said "momentarily" instead of "later."

I relieved him at the helm, and within minutes the engine alarm blared. The temperature gauge was pinging above the high temperature mark of 240°. Lights were flashing. (I'm not really sure this is true, but when I play it back in my head, there are definitely red lights flashing.) Chip dove for the throttle, shoved it into low and bolted downstairs.

"TURN IT OFF!" he yelled. I turned it off.

Sitting at the helm alone in the sudden quiet, I assessed our situation. The depth meter read 45 feet. Good. The wind meter read 0 knots. Bad. We were adrift.

I looked to starboard and could see land about 300 yards away. Good (help nearby) and bad (shallow water).

I kept watch for, um, something, while Chip clanged around below.

"YAY!" he called out. "It's a broken belt."

Yay? He had been reviewing all the potential -- and potentially expensive -- disasters that could have caused the engine to overheat. A belt was not such a big deal, IF the previous owner stashed a spare belt.

New problem: where might that stash be.

So as Chip dug through hatches below, I took matters and furling lines into my own hands. I unfurled the staysail and the jib, both of which began to flop around in fluky 1-knot winds. By the time Chip had found not one but two replacement belts, I had both sails partially full and the boat moving very slowly in exactly the wrong direction. Just as I was preparing to tack, Chip called up, "Try the engine now!"

"Wait a minute, I'm tacking!"

"WHAT?!?!"

After an extremely unsuccessful tack, which ended up at about 250° instead of 180°, I turned the key and the engine came back to life, sans alarm.

From start to finish, Chip had the engine running in less than 20 minutes.

Me? I had sailed us about 60 yards off course, dashing all hopes of winning the day's Most Valuable Crewmember award.

We put the engine in gear and pointed toward Deltaville. I rolled in the stupid sails.

After a 10-hour day on the water, we tied up, exhausted, hungry and triumphant from tackling both the mouth of the Potomac and an unexpected engine repair. We threw on semi-clean clothes and headed out for dinner.

Halfway down the dock I stopped in my tracks.

"What's happened to us?!?" I lamented. "This is only our third day of cruising."

Chip hadn't shaved or showered. I hadn't showered, washed my hair OR put on makeup.

And we were dressed alike.

Deltaville  37°33.480N | 76°18.799W

THROUGH THE CROWD: Heading South Day Two

Annapolis 38°58.630N | 76°29.168W

We're not fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants, devil-may-care, insert-trite-phrase, sailors. In fact, we work hard at being good Boy Scouts, making sound decisions, weighing the facts, consuming all the data, planning our route, waiting for weather windows.

For this trip south, we've made an effort to employ all the navigation devices onboard, we mapped out our route on paper charts, found the waypoint coordinates on the laptop and then punched them in on the GPS.

Last night when Chip entered today's waypoints, he named each one with a letter of the alphabet, in order, so I could easily work through them by following the alphabet. However, he started with Z and went backwards. Since I'm the one who runs below to check our heading and set waypoints, I expressed, shall we say, surprise at his choice of letters. He claims he couldn't find A, but I'm pretty sure he was testing my sobriety.

Right about at waypoint Y, we stumbled smack damn into a J boat regatta. Dozens of racing boats clustered together, headed in no particular direction (apparently the regatta had not started), and no two in the same direction, spinnakers flying.

Since we were heading straight into the wind, they were all tacking back and forth across our path. Add to that the fact that we were under power, and they were under sail, which meant we had zero right-of-way. We sped up, slowed down, idled, did a 360. It was just plain comical. 

By midday, the regatta a pleasant memory, we were kicked back in the cockpit, feeling confident in ourselves and our vessel. Using dead reckoning, we verified that our GPS waypoints and autopilot headings were correct. With each hour, we gained a little more trust in the purring engine. We even felt wise and seasoned when we raised the staysail to smooth out the ride -- and were delighted to see that we had installed it on the furler correctly. Ah, yes, we were awesome.

That's when we got the radio call, "Sailing vessel headed south, this is the northbound sailing vessel passing you to starboard. There's a partially submerged barrel in your path about one quarter of a mile ahead."

No words passed between us, no eye contact. At the helm, Chip threw back the throttle. I leaped out of the cockpit and hit the side deck in a full-speed, Fred-Flintstone-midair pedaling, running crouch.

For the next 20 minutes, I stood on the bow scanning the water, scanning, scanning, scanning, fearing the deadly barrel was right in our path, and I might not spot it.

'Nothing,' I shouted back to Chip, "I wish we'd see the #&$ thing, so we'd know we passed it!"

But, there was to be no such reassurance. We bobbed along 45 minutes before powering up, our confidence at a very low ebb. We expend so much energy conquering the things we can control, and now here was something new we hadn't even thought to worry about. At least the Titanic knew to watch for icebergs. And how do we give right of way to an object we can't even see??? If there was one barrel out there, did that mean there were more? What else was lurking out there just beneath the surface?

We did not know the answers, and so we motored on.

In the early evening, we approached our last waypoint and a perfect parenthetical closure to our day, ending up in the midst of fishing tournament boats coming in for the night. Dozens of them. Zipping all around us. At one point, two sped by, one on each side of us, at full speed, careening us into an impressive 30-degree heel -- one way and then the other.

We tied up side-to at a quiet dock in Solomons, the end of a long, carefully planned day spent dealing with things for which there is no plan.

Solomons  38°19.680N | 76°27.477W

ROCK AND ROLL

We're still in the grips of Rock Hall. It's blowing all right. Straight across our beam accompanied by two foot swells. The motion of the boat makes me wonder how loud music purloined the term "rock and roll."

AND it's cold. The wind chill drops down in the 30s at night.

"We gotta get outta here," we keep repeating. Today it seemed even more urgent as the wear and tear on both us and the boat began to show.

I want to leave so badly, I peeled the tape off the starboard rail in a 30-knot blow, freezing. Chip offered to help, but I excused him from the nasty task and crawled on alone. There's never pictures of the good stuff.

When the boatyard closed we took their truck and puttered around town like two bored teenagers, looking for anything to keep us from our rocky, rolly, noisy home out there.

For a while we huddled in the hospitality room, me sleeping on the couch, Chip watching American Idol. Pitiful.

Good Company is begging us, "Get me outta here!"

 CHESAPEAKE MONITORING
National Highs/Lows
7 day Rock Hall | Weather.com Rock Hall
Chesapeake Wind Forecast
Maryland Tides
Virginia Tides
NOAA Coastal Waters Forecast

NO LONGER TEMPORARY

We were awakened this morning by a call from our boat loan broker. My driver's license was expired (yep, January 1), and the bank wouldn't accept it as a valid ID. As the morning progressed, we learned they would accept neither a passport nor a birth certificate in its place. Are these the same banks of recent years that were handing out loans like cheese cubes on toothpicks? ARGH.

Assuming the DMV would require proof of residence, I went online to print out a recent utility bill but couldn't remember the password. With a temporary password obtained by spouting Chip's mother's maiden name, I logged in to find our wine shop account, not residence. AAAHH. I tried another logon but couldn't remember that password either. Long minutes later, using my mother's maiden name, I successfully logged in with yet another temporary password to find I couldn't open the file type that contained the bill.

DMV phone line was perpetually busy.

So I showed up, with nothing but an expired license, signed up and waited.

After failing half the road sign questions and blindly guessing on half the eyesight test, including an incorrect reading of the wrong line, they shrugged it off and moved on to issuing the new license. No proof of residence required, I could have given the address of the Hatteras Lighthouse (or a cave in Afganistan?). Instead I gave them the physical address of that temporary apartment we moved out of last month since that's the address the bank is using. Neither did they care where I had the license mailed as long as it wasn't a business. I chose a friend who, unlike us, has a mailbox and plans to be there for at least 10 days to two weeks until the license arrives.

An hour after arriving (including a quick side trip to get cash since they don't accept credit cards) I left with a piece of paper that proves I am temporarily allowed to drive until my license with a temporary address where I no longer live is delivered to another address where I have never lived.

Well, hallelujah for slack bureaucracy, but while I was handing out suspicious addresses at the DMV, the bank decided to acknowledge my existence (maybe they called my mom? I could have told them her maiden name). They issued the loan.

And so, at 4:29, this 28th day of January, 2010, we officially own a new boat.


**If you are an official-type DMV person, I sincerely apologize for handing out temporary addresses to obtain a temporary license. And, if you don't mind dropping me a line, I could use some advice on what address to give you when I'm living on a boat.

ZIP IT

With fresh bottom paint and her new hatches, Isabella's looking fabulous. We went over this morning to do a little extra scrubbing and polishing for a showing tomorrow.

It was chilly and the wind was picking up. Chip was below trying to start the engine. I was in the cockpit zipping in the canopy.

The engine refused to start, and the zipper seized up.

The cold wind caught the loose canopy fabric, and it flap, flap, flapped over my head. At once I went from being angry to feeling sad and terribly guilty.

There's a disease amongst boaters known as AYB, anthropomorphizing your boat. Okay, it's not called AYB, but most of us have it. Here we were giving Isabella all this attention, just so we could sell her, and in my mind she was hunkering down and growling at us. She didn't want to go.

"She's not gonna make it easy for us, is she," I said.

As the morning wore on, warm sunshine crept slowly down the companionway stairs, and we all warmed up a bit. The engine started, and with Chip's help, I finally got that canopy zipped into place. Pleased with my progress, I turned around to see a huge section on the opposite side ripped out.

I took the offending fabric off and home for a quick repair. As I was zipping it back into place, another zipper ripped out.

Then the guy who was going to look at the boat cancelled.

Just another day in paradise.

ISABELLA'S PROGRESS

Turns out Isabella's dent was not such a big deal. There was no delamination, which means the fiberglass hasn't been damaged. The surveyor tested it with a water meter and found it to be dry. Excellent!

Downeasts 32s (at least the 79s) have a swath of hull on the starboard side with no bulkheading. Imagine an umbrella missing one of its spines. Of course, the fiberglass is strong on its own, especially on Downeasts where the fiberglass is several inches thick, but really, I'd rather shore it up every few feet. The hull is, after all, what keeps you afloat.

That photo shows the cutout under the bench seat. The slanting part is the inside of the hull and the three cross pieces are the shoring that was added.

This area had two coolers that didn't offer much storage space, so in addition to improving the hull integrity, we added more storage. That's what I call better than new.

They've already painted the fiberglass work and will put in two new hatches to cover it. The bottom will get painted; the topsides (the part between the water and the rail) will be waxed. She'll be bright and shiny, ready to come home next week.

Or go somewhere else? We haven't decided yet....

BELLY FLOP

QUESTION #2: How did Isabella get a big-ass dent in her belly?

a. What??!?!! There's a dent?
b. By running over a giant sea squid
c. By doing a big belly flop in shallow water
d. By a badly placed jack on a long road trip from Florida.
e. Any of the above.

If you answered any of these, you could be right. We don't know for sure, but when we first got the call it was definitely a. Then after throwing around about 29 possibilities, we decided it must be d. We bought Isabella in Fort Lauderdale and trucked her to North Carolina. Was there a jack in that spot? Maybe.

I would show you a photo of the indentation, which sounded much worse on the phone, but you can't really see it. It's a shallow indentation that none of us even noticed until they went to prop her up on jacks.

This is not good news, but we just keep saying, "at least we didn't have a prospective buyer in tow." That would have been a real deal killer. A surveyor is going to look at the hull tomorrow, and then we'll regroup.

Life is interesting. Stay tuned. This could be expensive.

CLOSURE

I'm usually more the perfectionist than the quit-while-you're-ahead type, but after my recent catastrophies, I decided to call a truce with the varnish gods and move on.

This morning I grabbed the shiny drop boards and oh-so carefully stepped across from the dock to the boat without incident. They slid nicely into place and I went below to get the gorgeous bronze latch Chip polished. Four screws and I'd be done.

The first one was tight but I put it in most of the way, backing it out and back in a few times. Same with the second and third. The last one was really tight. Just as I was about three turns from the end, I heard a pop and the screwdriver spun.

The screw head broke off.

BWAHAHAHA

The varnish gods sleep. The bronze gods have risen and had their coffee.

I took the three good screws back out and removed the latch. There was a tiny little nub of broken screw sticking out, just enough to grab with the pliers and crank back out -- without any damage to the varnish.

By the way, nobody on the beach sells bronze screws.

No latch, but shiny boards. That photo shows up the charm, eh? Plenty of charm.

Charm's a bitch, and I hate her.

UPDATE:
--Our first actual boat looker came last night -- from Tennessee. Somebody looking for a live-aboard to sail on the river.
--The house appraiser is coming Monday.
--We're going to Coinjock to have dinner with a friend, a captain, who's bringing a yacht through. It's power, but it's a boat.
--Sanded out the soft spots Chip repaired. Ready to paint.
--Waxed my car. Hey, we have to sell those cars soon too.

VARNISH DISASTER OF THE DAY

I no longer cry at my varnish disasters. I laugh hysterically. Maniacally.

This morning I sanded out the grit from yesterday's disaster and put on a coat of fresh 3-part with a disposable brush -- to acceptable results.

On the way upstairs, I stopped to prune the geranium on the porch. An hour later when I went to gaze like Narcissus into my glassy varnish, a lovely red geranium leaf was encased there, a gentle reminder that the porch is just above my work table. BWAAHAHAHAHA

This afternoon, I sanded out that crimson leaf and prepped for the next-to-last coat of three-part varnish.

If you've been reading this blog for even a mere week, you know I've been to the deepest pit of varnish hell, I've climbed repeatedly back up to the mountaintop. And now that my varnish days are nearing a close I can look back at the abiding lesson I've learned, the lesson that can save legions who follow me from the same fate.

That lesson is this: don't ever use varnish.

But, oh foolish one, if you do, use a foam brush. On this afternoon's coat, the next-to-the-last coat of this yearlong run, I used a foam brush.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

(That angel better keep an eye on her damned feathers.)

NO CONTINGENCIES

Don't fall into that shiny garage. We put it on the boat today -- F I N A L L Y. I'm done. The hardware is on. We'll attach it once we paint the deck.

The drop boards have fallen victim to yet another varnish disaster. How many is that? I've lost track. Today's version looked like @*#(&$# sandpaper. #$*&#$ varnish. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate varnish? Our newest theory is that the three-part varnish is corroding my paintbrush or the acetone. !#&$&. I'll use a disposable badger hair brush tomorrow. Keep your eyes crossed.

Remember that contingency contract on our house? And the backup offer? Well, the contingency lady has decided to drop the contingency and proceed with closing. That means we have a final, final closing date of July 28. Speaking of keeping things crossed.

Also today, we had another business prospect pop up.

UPDATE:
--Garage: finished
--Drop boards: one more coat IF it's a good one

CLEARING THE DECKS

We were running around like Abbott and Costello this morning, trying to get the boat ready to be seen. Yes! Somebody's coming to see her this week.

We started with the trim on the teak-frame screens I made for the cabin, oh, about five years ago. I know, that completion thing. I actually tried several times to finish the trim, each time cutting the carefully prepared wood WRONG -- and short.

This morning's effort went only slightly better. Just before we made the first cut, I remembered how I went so far wrong last time and rescued us at the last second. We had only one extension cord, and needed two different drill bits, so there was a lot of shuffling, re-plugging and switching bits. On the last piece, I realized we didn't have enough wood. We pieced it -- badly. The jeeter meter was pinging, but we got it trimmed and I glued in the plugs. Just let it go. Let it go.

Then I turned my attention to the decks Chip saw in that photo yesterday. He was right. They looked awful, black in some spots, green in others. We clearly didn't have time to paint them before showing the boat, so I spent about 2 1/2 hours peeling off miles of blue tape and then scrubbing the decks with a combo of bleach, Wisk and TSP. Swab, swab, scrub, scrub, rinse, rinse. All in the rain.

At one point I came zooming from the side deck into the cockpit, stepped on the freshly fiberglassed spot and had a quick lesson in why "glass" is in the name. A total bust. Ouch.

However, the decks look marvelous.

Now, I have to finish the plugs, put a coat of varnish on the garage and drop boards. Chip will put the garage back on the boat, and we'll be ready for a showing.

UPDATE:
--We got to see my friend and former colleague Dan Froomkin tonight! We also met his awesome wife Paige and their absolutely adorable son, Max. Since I'm posting this retroactively, I won't be scooping anyone by saying congrats, Dan on the new gig at Huff Post!

ANOTHER 3-PART DISASTER

I'm REALLY bad at cleaning brushes. About halfway through yesterday's coat of varnish, I started seeing little bumps catching in the wet varnish. UGH. It was old varnish in the brush starting to breakdown and flow with the fresh varnish. AAAAHHHHH.

Sanded out those. Then ...

I went to the hardware store to buy a new one and fell victim to marketing. Now, I've been varnishing long enough (forever?) to know it pays to get a nice brush. I always buy Wooster, but this time I noticed a Wooster series called "Yachtsman," like somehow wood on a boat needs some special brush. Yeah.

So with my first coat of 3-part, million dollar varnish, I started to understand why they call it "Yachtsman." From the beginning it started throwing up foam in its wake. As if that wasn't enough, it started spewing out bristles like so much jetsam.

Varnish, full of bubbles and bristles.

SIGH.

JUST SAY NO

Some days come with labels. Today's was NO.

Have you ever watched a dog run full tilt to the end of his lead and get yanked to a painful halt? That was Sunday. From the very first thing I attempted until I stopped trying, I kept hitting the end of the lead. I've made a chiropractor appointment to repair the damage.

First thing, I tried to print out a simple document for the business prospects we were meeting at 11. The document wouldn't open. Then no matter how or where or what computer I tried, the damn thing would NOT print.

At one point, Chip walked into the office to find me crouched under the desk holding the laptop at arm's length.

"What are you DOING?"

"Don't ask!" I snarled ungraciously. "STOP TALKING TO ME."

No. Never did get it printed.

Despite the pall of the day, we met with our realtor late in the afternoon to ponder the offer on the house. It has a contingency on their house closing in a few weeks, which also has a contingency. The domino effect. Should we sign? While we were debating, the phone rang. Someone wants to see the house tomorrow at 11.

Really? Someone's calling on Sunday at 5 p.m. to look at our house on a Monday morning? Really?

Okay, LOUD answer. NO.

That's good. We don't like subtlety.

BUG OUT

I'm back at it. Varnish, that is, hell's tea.

After that near-fatal varnishing incident a few weeks ago, I hadn't been able to walk the planks, so to speak -- until yesterday. How hard can this be? I know, I keep saying that. Truth is, it's a pain in the ass. However, when things go well, the end result is almost worth it.

Since it was unseasonably cool, I prepped the garage and companionway hatches. With some trepidation, I slathered on a layer of varnish with fair results. That bug loved it. I thought it was spotty, so this morning I went at them with 320-grit and had another go.

NOW we're talking.

I put one more coat on the companionway and taped the toe rails. If the stars shine right, I'll get a coat on those tonight and/or tomorrow.

UPDATE:
--Two appointments to show the house this week. Yeah, don't get your hopes up.
--Staying open until 8 at the wine shop for the rest of the summer. Sigh.

VARNISH AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS

Turns out the teak has been fairly well protected from the elements with all this varnish I've been slathering on. If only I could figure out a way to protect it from myself ....

DISASTER #1: While I was putting the dregs of my varnish on the companionway, Chip had been coating the newly repaired soft spots with epoxy. On the last brushstroke, I looked down at the cockpit grate I was standing on -- the one we just refinished last fall? Yeah, I was standing in a big, epoxy footprint. After a lot of hopping about saying words, I grabbed the paint thinner and a rag. Oh, boy. I was furiously scrubbing at the epoxy when I noticed the wave pattern of the footprint and looked at my flip-flops with a diamond pattern. The waves belonged to Mr. Epoxy himself, not me. I had only spread it around a little, making it worse. Teamwork.

I got it off and fortunately, the epoxy kicked before either of us made it into the house.

DISASTER #2: It was Saturday. I was out of my usual varnish, so I decided it would be a good time to try the new bulletproof variety my friend John Bayliss gave me.

You remember that gorgeous hatch garage I refinished last August? The one that got blown over onto the basketball hoop? I subsequently repaired the basketball hoop gouges and had it ready for bulletproofing.

John had explained to me how to use this amazing varnish -- months ago -- instructions I had long since forgotten.

The directions on the can would make a legal disclaimer look like a billboard. The only words I could read, even with a magnifying glass, were, "FOR PROFESSIONAL USE ONLY."

I'm thinking, "How hard can it be? It's a can of varnish." Danger.

On my first attempt, I put on one part of an (unbeknownst to me) three-part varnish. After three hours, it was still as wet as when I painted it on.

DISASTER #3: Now I realized it might be harder than I thought. A thorough search of the store room uncovered another part of what I now knew was a three-part varnish, thanks to some web searching.

So I'm thinking (I know, danger) leave the one part on, mix the two parts and put it over the one part and maybe it'll all kick.

Stop laughing.

After three hours, it was not only still wet, there was now an array of little creatures splayed out across my once beautiful garage.

An hour of scrubbing with paint thinner, and I'm bug-free and back where I started. Disasters 2 and 3 did not damage the varnish underneath.

I've now secured the third part of the three-part varnish along with instructions. It's raining and is predicted to continue for days.

Sigh.

Thank god for paint thinner.

MAD HOUSE

Well, apparently the house is reading this blog -- and it's pissed off.

Yesterday I staged the house for a 1 o'clock appointment, turned on all the lights, primped, preened and arranged. I even postponed eating lunch so my tincture of cloves and spices would waft through the air rather than greasy hamburger. About 2 o'clock I got a call from our realtor saying, "Please go let them in, they can't get the door open." Fine. It sticks sometimes.

Not fine. The house would have none of it. Nope, the door wouldn't budge. It was pouring rain, the wind was pounding me with a 35 degree wind chill. Sopping wet, hungry and shivering, I peered like a Charles Dickens moppet into my beautiful, toasty warm house, that "respite, a sanctuary from whatever is buffeting the four walls."

What the heck?

An hour later, our realtor picked the lock on the back door, just as the house lookers came back by. Soon thereafter I returned, still wet, freezing and a little contrite.

Nice house. Nice house.

In the meantime, we spoke to someone at the wine shop about an interesting wine bar venture. More on that later.

Nice house.

BACK AT IT

The teak. I started stripping the bulkhead in Isabella so long ago now, it's hard to remember. Then we had a beer festival.

Today, rested and renewed, I got back to it. Chip helped me sand off the last of the varnish. After a couple of sanding rounds, I got the first coat of 50/50 varnish on and cleaned up all the teak dust. What a mess. Tomorrow will be coat two and, if I get an early start, coat three as well. By the end of the week, we'll snap some interior photos and make some flyers. If it doesn't sell by January, we'll list it with a broker.

Remember those beautiful toe rails? They've started deteriorating around the edges, damn it! If the warm weather forecast next week comes true, I'll sand and get some more varnish on there. I guess six coats wasn't enough. Sigh.

We'll be looking at another Island Packet on Monday! Maybe that will bring our dreams closer. We're both feeling far, far away from the cruising world. Far, far away.

TODAY:
--got the first coat of varnish on the bulkhead
--Chip ordered his Downtube bike!
--varnished the boom gallow wood
--cleaned the teak dust out of the boat