Dropping, stepping, and setting

A friend from my aviation days called. We flew little tail-dragging airplanes together back about the time his corporate flight department was being closed. Which was a couple of years before mine did the same. He flew for an "All American Company" that decided they could add a few tenths of a cent to the stock price by pushing the more experienced Captains out the door and replacing them with cheaper, less experienced airplane drivers. My friend was one of those being pushed. A short time later the "All American Company" traded red-white-and blue for black-gold-and red, selling itself to a foreign manufacture. I heard it described as one of the biggest sell-outs in American history.

The stock holders took the money and ran. The new owners laid off a few thousand workers and closed the flight department entirely. A little bit later they discovered that America is a big country with domestic airline service that sucks. Last I heard they were starting a new flight department; smaller, less capable, and none of the original crew were invited back. (The last TV add I saw for the company still touted its "All American" image.)

Anyway, my friend wanted to know if I was still in the St. Louis area, unaware that we had moved onto a boat and sailed away. When I told him that we were just starting our second year as cruisers, his response was,

"Oh, you dropped out."

Actually, I was thrown under the bus of corporate America during a Board fight of egos, got a hold of a bumper to keep from getting run over, spotted a soft spot to land, jumped, and managed the timing well enough not to get too badly bruised. The fact is, we were already standing in the aisle and reaching for the "Stop Requested" cord. We landed a bit short of our original destination (meaning we had less money on the bank than we wanted) but at least had an idea of where we were going.

There are a lot of different reasons for being "out here". Some, as I suggested a few days ago, are near the end of their financial rope. A cheap boat parked in a free place is better than living under a bridge. Since they are marginally mobile there is a spark of hope that things can get better. And I really believe that moving onto a modest boat might be the best way to stretch minimum dollars into maximum living. Those doing so are, maybe, some of the best of us who are out here. We have met such who are endlessly creative, capable, and at least as happy as most land dwellers we have known. I love that we can share an anchorage with such fine excuses for human beings.

Others are more like Deb and I. Retired, maybe with a little less, funds wise, than we would like, but doing okay and learning our way around. Our boats reflect more of what we thought important than just what we could find cheap. For all of our struggles, Kintala has also been a bit of a "hobby boat". On land I had airplanes, motorcycles, a work shop, built things, fixed things ... hobbies. Kintala fills that roll now, sometimes too much so, but still keeps my hands calloused and gives me things to do. She looks, and works, as good as I feel like making her look and work. In any collection of cruiser hulls there will be a few that are clearly providing someone with an excuse for staying out of trouble. And yes, I admit to being one of them.

Others quit land exactly when they wanted, with the funds they wanted, on the boat they wanted, and do anything that they want wherever they might be. We don't know too many of those folks personally, but their boats can be seen pretty much anywhere. People like this are important to the cruising world. They take the "shine" off of a boat and, when they move on, some of the rest of us can afford to move in. They spend lots of money when they stop somewhere, making the rest of us look good to the business owners who have a big say in our access to places. And, one must admit, a lot of them are running really, really beautiful boats. I am not talking mega-yachts, but 35 to 50 foot cruising boats that sparkle in the sunshine like jewels. It is a pleasure to have one anchored nearby.

Of course there is nothing at all wrong with the well traveled cruiser. In fact, they are some of my favorite boats to have anchored close by. Every one of their nicks, scratches, stains, and faded bits were clearly well earned far out of sight of land, baked in the sun and soaked in the salt. There is a dignity to such boats, maybe just a slight aura of arrogance. Of all of us "out here", they are the ones who have been "out there". They, and their owners, carry the thousands of miles covered with a self-assurance that cannot be bought, only earned the hard way. I like when they are around, though sometimes I feel like a kid with his plastic toy tools walking through a truck maintenance shop and pretending to be a grown up mechanic.

Are we all "drop outs"?

Maybe, but I like to think that we all just decided to play a different game, take a different path, or see the world from a different place. Not so much quitting, but changing the rules to something that makes more sense for us. Less dropping out, more stepping up...

or just setting out.

Rocking and Rolling

Kintala has always been a skittish boat at anchor. A tall mast and soft turn at the bilge makes for a top heavy, funny shaped bowl sloshing around in the water. With our staysail now set on a furler there is even more stuff up high for the wind to get hold of. We have been rocking and rolling since yesterday afternoon.

Since this is the only place our Mantus anchor has ever failed to hold, last night was a kind of unofficial anchor watch. We have been set for more than 3 weeks and haven't moved, but with the wind gauge occasionally registering gusts near 30 knots, neither one of us slept much. Add the unaccustomed motion to the lack of sleep, and by this morning I was feeling decidedly sketchy.

One of the great things about this life is, when one is feeling decidedly sketchy in the morning, one need not get up and go to work. There is no need to stuff one's self full of medications and shuffle off to the office. There is no need to sit miserable through a day hacking away at some task barely in focus, willing the clock numbers toward quitting time. I took my bare-footed and sketchy self out to the cockpit, settled in with a warm mug, and watched thick clouds hurry across the sky. I was a happy man, not having to report to an office on this particular morning.

All of the boats in Middle River were scalloping around, dancing in the wind and the current. More than one crew could be seen going forward to check that they were still firmly holding onto the river bottom. But outside, with a cool breeze blowing and a solid horizon just a couple of hundred feet away, all that motion wasn't bothering me much. I was pretty content though feeling a bit detached and not completely "with it".

A loud "clank" reverberated from the bow. The boat lurched backwards, banged against the anchor chain, and lurched again. Surely we were loose once again on Middle River. Brain still not fully engaged I jumped up and headed forward, slamming a naked toe into the starboard side winch. Pain jolted up my leg and into my brain, but we were loose and the shore was close by. After a moments hesitation to limp and curse, I headed forward once again.

We have this giant "C shaped thing Mantus sold us to hook the anchor snubber onto the chain. It is a solid chunk of kit that, once engaged, there appears no way for it to get forced off the chain. I'm still not sure how that could possibly happen given the load it was under, but it did. And it came free with a bang. Kintala had fallen back against the extra chain played out to keep the snubber taut, fetched up against the anchor windlass, rebounded, and fallen back again. She had moved as far as she was going to.  (I always keep the anchor chain on the windless with the locking paw engaged and the clutch set tight.  It is a suspenders and belt kind of thing that worked in our favor this morning.)

The snubber went back on just like it should and I laid out a few more feet of chain for good measure. Then I limped back down the deck careful to not put any pressure on, or touch in any way, a badly bruised and stoved in toe. A toe that was promising to make for a pretty miserable day. I went below, stuffed myself with medications, and shuffled out to the cockpit.

Anniversary muse, muse ...

I started thinking about this "part two" as soon as was "An Unexpected Anniversary Muse" was published. That post was incubated in the aftermath of having gone into night waters as Deb mentioned. The person needing a little help falls into the category of young, poor, somewhat trapped, with few options and an uncertain future. On that night she chose to cope by drinking it all away. For just a few brief minutes that choice put her at a serious amount of risk. Though the risk to me was slight, and I was glad we were around to offer a hand, I wasn't expecting to go night swimming in a tidal river to pluck a person I had talked with exactly once, out of the waves. It kind of put the whole issue of people struggling to get along on the front burner as her situation is by no means unique or unusual "out here". But I knew there was another side to the story I would have to wrestle with, for this life is different than others and labels are slippery things when soaked in water.

Over the course of our summer here in southern FL we have made friends with more than a few in the same boat as our night swimmer. (Sorry.) Actually, they were spread out over four or five different boats. All of them are good people. All of them willing to help another in any way they could, yet all of them struggling to keep going themselves. They talk of how hard it is. They are tired and frustrated, not sure where or how some particular problem can get handled. They are often ill, some with chronic symptoms unresolved since health care is a real issue for much of the cruising community. I can't help but think of them as living poor, because they are. But I suspect they would shy away from that label. "Broke" might be their choice. "Hurting a bit" if you ask how they are doing. Most will admit to having to "fill the kitty" before they can go any further. (That means flat broke, by the way.) To me "poor" is an economic label, having nothing to do with the spirit. But maybe to others it means something else.

I never really expected this to be such a large part of the cruising community, and it may not be as large as it looks to me. For the obvious reason marinas and mooring fields have noticeably fewer struggling boats hanging around. It is the same in the Islands. Here, in America's anchorages, are where those hanging near the edge hang out the most. It is where Kintala hangs out as well and many struggling through each day are friends of mine now. Come out here and they will be friends of yours as well. At least they should be.

But then things get a bit more complicated. Most of the cruisers that we know (including ourselves) are people with very few belongings. We get tired and frustrated, and are sometimes not sure how some particular problem can get handled. We have no permanent address, live off the power grid, dwell the fringe of normal society, mobile and uncommitted with, it must be admitted, our own collection of eccentricities. There is very little difference between the way my poor friends live, and the way we live.

But we are of the Kings and Queens in the world. There is no desire for belongings or a permanent address. We don't need the power grid and are committed to living light and free. We wander at will through whatever part of the world we fancy. As for eccentricities, we revel in them. We are not really like “normal” people, and that is more than fine. And my friends, those whom I think of as living poor, who have described themselves as just "hurting a bit", would say the exact same thing. They would like to not be "hurting a bit". But if that doesn't happened they are still of the Kings and Queens in the world. They are still cruisers. And they are still friends.

Not hurting as much might mean trading up to a slightly nicer boat, maybe new solar panels, a water maker, some new rigging, an additional sail. They might get an engine fixed or a refrigerator running, maybe add a bit of new navigation gear. Or maybe not. Mostly they would not be worried that any given day might be the day that they lose their grip and fall into the abyss. Smiling would come a bit easier with problems a lot less daunting. And that, to me, is the difference between poor and not poor. It is the difference between being able to move and move safely, or not being able to move at all. It is the difference between worrying about how to keep the boat functional, and just keeping the boat going as a matter of routine. Is is the difference between feeling threatened, and feeling capable.

So I'll let my previous post stand as is. There are a lot of struggling people “out here”, and they are very, very exposed. Being that exposed is a tough way to live. They know it. They live with it. They would rather they didn't have to, but they take a fierce pride in managing it as well. If one comes this way and finds themselves "hurting a bit", but lacks that fierce pride? The edge is going to be very hard to hold onto.

Veterans and young people do seem to have an especially difficult time keeping ahead of the poverty curve. Should they venture this way they need to be especially careful to be prepared. But, at the same time, the standards are different for those "out here" than for those living as land dwellers. "Poor” means a different thing to people who care mostly about what they can do, where they can go, and what they can experience. And care little about the things they might own.

If one is lucky enough to come this way without much of a struggle, be pleased. It takes a lot of work, a lot of planning, and a bit of luck, to pull that one off. Anyone who has done it can take their own bit of pride in choosing a different way. The beaches, sundowners, clear waters, and warm temperatures are well and truly earned. It is a good life.

But it doesn't always work out that way.

A year in review

October 19, 2013 we were pulling out of Oak Harbor Marina in Pasadena, MD for our first ever day of cruising. One year ago today. Anniversaries always beg for summing up and analyzing, and I had grandiose plans of  giving you this great list of all the places we went this year, and how we spent 170 days in marinas (ouch), 73 days on mooring balls, 122 days on the anchor, and prior to leaving we spent 69 days in boatyards.
But then we found out that the Publix very close to here has a Redbox and we haven't watched any movies in forever since we never have enough bandwidth to actually use our Netflix.

And then we found out that watching movies in the cockpit with the sunset behind the screen is actually pretty cool, especially when accompanied by a Coconut Rum drink. And then...

...our more than slightly inebriated neighbor in the anchorage fell off her boat with no ladder to get back on and was in the process of drowning which required a slight break in our movie-watching so Tim could take an early evening swim.

Yup. Happy one year anniversary.

Yearly vacation ...

Kintala has been sitting in Middle River for a bit longer than two weeks. A span that, in my old life, amounted to a normal vacation. After this summer it feels a like a vacation hard earned. But we are slowly working our way back into the cruising life.

Vacation or no, at the moment I'm feeling a bit lost, struggling while trying to reset my days. There is still boat work to do. There is always boat work to do. But none of it is set against a deadline or threatening to do us in. Some days I don't do any boat projects at all, and it feels like playing hooky. A new part for the Merc showed up two days ago and still remains un-installed! (The old part is zip tied and working fine...does that even sound like me?) We take walks, listen to tunes, swim, work on Spanish, read and write, and watch the sunset blaze across the sky. We mosey over to Starbucks for coffee and Wi-Fi, can catch the $1 bus to the beach. Instead of boat work chewing up every ounce of energy I have to spend in a day, I'm back to doing boat workouts; resistance bands and isometrics in a gently swaying cockpit, breathing ocean air. How sweet is that? A cold front eased through. It is cool enough for sleeping under a light cover and drinking hot coffee in the morning.

How sweet it that!?

Via Facebook and blogs we are watching the herd make its way down the ICW. I have to admit to being glad we are not a part of the parade this fall. It is much better sitting here than it would be facing the Ditch and running from the cold. Our southbound friends should not be jealous though. If even a single hurricane or tropical storm had found its way to southern FL this past summer, it would not have been so good to be here, And we are not out of the woods quite yet. Hopefully our luck will hold just a couple of weeks more. If it does we will be sitting pretty just an easy day sail away from Biscayne Bay. As soon as the season is truly closed we will be heading that way. I'm feeling the need for some water I can see through while setting the hook in a white, sandy bottom. I needs me some time in No Name Harbor and some days spent with all of Kintala's canvas catching wind. Just the idea of spending several weeks sailing around the Bay, a place we know and are comfortable with, has me smiling.

This is the lifestyle we were looking for when we set off to go cruising. Unfortunately I'm still looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next impending disaster to darken the sky. There is no telling how long those shadows will linger. Maybe, given the relentless challenges that have filled this first year, shaking off the feeling that some new threat to our cruising life is lying just over the horizon, will take a long time. Knowing that we have managed each one that has come along so far, from the boat taking on water at Oak Harbor to the tussle that was The Bear, is kind of encouraging. But that knowledge is tempered by our being battered, bruised, and still not sure how much longer we can manage to keep going.

But right now we are living the good life. I plan on milking it for all it is worth for as long at it lasts.

Cheers!

We've been endlessly entertained by this guy practicing on a flyboard right in front of our boat the last 2 weeks.

Normal ...

There appears to be serious fault in the world of mathematics, a breach if you will, a gap in our understanding of something as basic as simple addition. All along we have believed that if you add things together, there will be more. It was thought to be a universal law with the only possible exception of Black Holes, where all the laws of physics are thought to break down. But we need to add another place in the cosmos where even simple math can't survive … the hull of a small power boat. For today, demonstrated clearly for all to see, was the fact that if one adds 5 single cylinder minds together and puts them in the hull of a small power boat, there is still only a single cylinder mind available to run the boat. 1+1+1+1+1 = 1! (There is a Nobel prize in here somewhere!)

Eighty plus feet of mini-mega-yacht is sharing the anchorage. It is easily the biggest boat we have even seen drop a hook close to Kintala. The 5 picked a spot just about 50 feet off the bow of the yacht to pitch a hook (pretty much right on his rode) and start fishing. Fishing, it appears, is a very difficult activity requiring one's complete concentration, particularly if one is operating with only a single mental cylinder. The hook, as is normal for small power boats, couldn't find a purchase in the same mud that was holding the mega-yacht fast, and immediately started to drag. Since lures had already been cast and thus absorbing all of their mental capabilities, none of the cylinders on the power boat noticed. Only when their stern nudged to a stop on the yacht's rode where it came out of the water, did it occur to them that something was amiss. Added moments later, perhaps, by words being flung their direction from the crew of the yacht.

So they picked up the hook, powered up, and moved to the exact same spot from which they had started. You already know what happened next. The second time they fetched up at the mega-yacht they decided to try something different. And you already know what that was as well. Their third try at anchoring commenced about 30 feet off of Kintala's bow. It too was a failure, but at least they noticed right away that they were still under way. That bit of mental power might have been added by the fact that both Deb and I were staring right at them and talking somewhat loudly about stupid boater tricks. They pulled the hook again and motored off down the river, the evening's entertainment drawing to a close.

On a different note … Though neither Deb or I are overly fond of FL, particularly in the summer hurricane season, both Kintala and the Dink are now official residents here. Since Kintala is more than 30 years old and still houses her original engine, she is considered an antique. (How little they know.) Total registration cost for both Boat and Dink was around $50. I don't mind being legal so long as it doesn't cost too much.

Its been a few days and got off to a rough start, but life on the hook is starting to feel normal again. The first glitch appeared the day we did our anchoring practice. After 5 months of inactivity our manual anchor windless wouldn't wind, or less. Next time remind the Deck Monkey to clean, lube, and test the thing before pitching the heavy chunk of metal and a long length of chain into the water. (Sometimes my brain doesn't fire on all cylinders either.)

The boat makes different noises when she rides to her anchor, but I have forgotten what some of them are. My eyes pop open in the wee hours of the morning while my fuzzy brain tries to remember what that “clunk” or this “clang” means. And it is taking an effort to get back in the habit of checking the weather, the RADAR, and the batteries several times a day. Living on the hook means living far closer to the edge then anyone living in a building, or even on a dock, can imagine. Paying attention is required, a skill grown rusty sitting cocooned in a web of dock lines. But, like I said, it is starting to feel normal again.

Today the wind shifted to the NE. It was a bit cooler and the humidity dropped into the 60s instead of the being in the 90s. Clouds tamed the infrared from the sun, a near perfect day. So what came to my mind? Varnish! And by the end of the day the first coat was laid on both the helm and the cockpit table.

Dragging power boats. Official paperwork. Brightwork. Yep. Normal.

Count down ...

By this time tomorrow the plan is to hanging on the hook in Middle River. At least two other boats, Happy Dance and Jade, are planning the same thing. We have been on the dock for so long that it almost feels like heading out for the first time again. I keep running things through my head, what have we forgotten, what should we have done that we didn't do, what kind of problems might we have getting off the dock and through the bridges … all stuff that was old hat when we left the Islands, all stuff that feels like new hat again. Yet we are only going a few miles and will still be in the heart of Fort Lauderdale when we get there. But once there the distance between us and land will be too far to step over. And for some reason that makes all the difference in the world.

It is likely different for those who have been doing this a long time; a few months on the dock in this part of the world, then a few months on a dock an ocean away on the other side of the world, all part of the life. But we are still short of being out a year, just barely getting comfortable with being cruisers when The Thing, The Bear, and The Dock nailed us down for nearly 5 months. Yep, that means half our cruising life hasn't been cruising at all. Still, there is hope that the learning curve will not be nearly as steep this time around, that in a few weeks we will be back to the comfort level we knew crossing the Gulf Stream for Biscayne Bay. At the moment though, I am feeling like a newbie once again.

Deb is out taking care of a few last details, the most frustrating of which is the Hack that caught Home Depot also caught us. (You guessed it, Home Depot for boat parts … gotcha!) Like a lot of gypsies the few bills we do have are auto pay, to a credit card that no longer exists. So we are living on the little cash we had stashed away while the plastic gets straightened out, and at least it didn't happen while we were out of the country.

The dink in on deck, the Merc coaxed to life and now hung on the aft pulpit. (Friend Robert has an interesting comment on my last post about the Merc. You should check it out and see if you agree.) The Beast has been warmed up once more and all fluid levels checked. The bilge is as dry as the bilge ever gets. Even the lazarette is mostly under control, and there is some more room in there since we unloaded the sails we were never going to use.

The foredeck is, well, I think is is about ready. The truth is it has been a while since I set it for being under way, and there are a lot of details up there. But the next few weeks will be easy, short trips and a good shake down for an out-of-practice crew. I'm feeling pretty good about our chances of getting going again.

It's about time ...

Freedom is in the air. Renewal. A new awakening with the realization that we are in this together, the future holding promise of peace and cooperation. Fantastic new insights lie just over the horizon and while there will be challenges, the human community - of which we are all a part - will meet them with innovation, even joy.

Kintala is ready to leave this dock and join the cruising community once again.

You thought I was talking about the country or the world? Please, take another look. Those people are screwed.

We will not be going very far at first. There is still some hurricane season left so we will lurk in places with little fetch and good holding for now. And we will not be leaving the dock for a couple of days yet. The bill is paid through the end of the month. Waiting to the last day to add water, pump out, and stock up seems a good plan. We are out of practice with balancing the level in the water tank going down against the level in the holding tank going up, and being somewhere to take care of them. The anchor hasn't been wet since we left the islands so I'm likely to fumble around our foredeck like an addled monkey at first. Our foredeck has always been a tough place to work and we have added a second furling system, control line, and permanent stay to the mix. And though I haven't been loafing these past few months, anchor lifting muscles are likely a bit out of shape.

All of which reminds me, any who are still outfitting a boat for cruising might think hard about having these three things on board; water maker, Lectra/san head system, and a powered windlass. I know this is not the “go simple, go now” kind of thing. They are expensive (which is why Kintala has none of the three) and maintenance heavy. But they are things that can help one stay away from land longer without worry, and I wish we had them on board. And I really wish the powered windlass we don't have had a remote switch at the helm. I am completely jealous of those of you so equipped.

This will be our second season exploring the south-east coast of FL, maybe our last if the new anchor laws take effect. I am looking forward to a much more relaxed experience than we had last year. We know our way around here, at least a little bit. There are some places we missed last year, some we didn't even know about, that we want to see. Biscayne Bay will get a thorough looking-at and we hope to spend many a night on the hook out in its clear and placid waters. And when the waters are not placid, we know places to go and hide.

There is also hope that friends, now north and heading this way, will find their way close enough to Kintala to share sundowners and stories. It is a bit weird being here and knowing the herd is heading our way, instead of trailing along at the tail of the pack and shivering our way south.

In any case we are getting ready to go cruising, and its about time.

Let Autumn reign ...

The Beast is tamed...

Today is the official first day of autumn. With it comes the official end of the Summer From Hell of our first year of cruising. Even better, the WesterBeast rumbled to life today on the second turn of the crankshaft and settled into an easy idle. Buckets of water pulsed out of the exhaust. It may be just wishful thinking on my part, but the Beast seemed as happy as I have ever seen it. Maybe the new exhaust gasket along with a steady flow of raw water and the fixing of loose this and butched up that, actually did some real good. There are still things to do but, as of this evening, there is no reason to regard Kintala as anything but a ready-to-go cruising boat once again. In addition to a happy Beast she has a solid foredeck and new furling system on the staysail. Better again, we have eight days before the ax falls on the dock fees. There are oil changes to do, stuff to clean, and the normal trial of trying to get a boat that has been sitting still way too long, ready to be under way once again. But those are either routine or just good stuff.

The Summer From Hell was not all bad, of course. We spent months with Daughter Eldest, Son-in-Law, and Grand Sons Two. JJ and I sang “BOOM” at the sky. Christopher sat with me and sanded boat parts. We motored up the ICW from Dinner Key to Cooley's with the boys on board, saw a manatee, and went swimming in the ocean. The Family lore that will be passed down long after I am gone has some new chapters in it that will be hard to beat. Between The Bear and the work on Kintala we have seen some ugly and taken a real beating, that can't be denied. But we have also had the chance to share the kind of love that costs. Which, in the end, may be the only kind of love that matters. As difficult as it was, as long as it may take to recover, it is hard to say that it wasn't worth the price. Tonight I am content to accept it for what it was, hope that we did the best we could, and let it be.

Back in my old life the first day of autumn was always a good day. I like the change of seasons and autumn was my favorite. It also meant that winter was next. Which was okay as well. I looked forward the challenges that came with making a living in the sky during the months of winter. I didn't mind the cold (though once-upon-a-time frostbitten hands and feet hurt when the temperature drops) and actually enjoyed the city under a blanket of snow – so long as I didn't have to drive the Z-car on snow covered streets. This new life brings a different meaning to the first day of autumn.

Right up front is that, here in the sub-tropics, the first day of autumn generally means it just rains a little more. It is still in the upper 80s during the day, the humidity is still a killer, and any bald headed men that go out without a hat are just asking for abuse. Best for me though is that, though it doesn't mean that winter is next, it does means that the Islands are next. It will be a few months yet as a new grand baby is due in December and we plan to be back in St. Louis to welcome the new one into the world. But soon after we will be headed across the Stream once again, to spend the winter as ex-pat Americans living in a country that isn't as crazy as the one on our passports. “Winter” means a whole new thing in this cruising life, but I think I like it.

And for now the summer is over. Let Autumn reign.

An old guy, a Tartan, and a Beast

Sometimes it seems that easing off makes things go faster. Or maybe it just feels that way. It is no secret that this summer's relentless boat work put a pretty big dent in our first year's cruising experience. I have been struggling to keep the faith and rebelled a little. Even with the deadline looming and the Beast still disassembled, I just decided to finish some mods to the aft cabin; a partial rebuild of our storage area / work bench and a new lid for a storage area. It didn't need to be done, just a simple wood, screw, and glue job. It was something different that had nothing to do with deadlines and so I went with it. It took the better part of three days, mostly because I did it twice.

The first time through it was all poor planning and amateur hour, certainly not my best effort. In fact it looked like something someone kind of disgusted with the world would do; and I was embarrassed. So I backed up and did it again. It is still a mod to a home made thing shoehorned into a 30 year old boat, made with hand tools where function is more important than aesthetics. The aesthetics still need some work, but the function part is pretty sweet, so it will keep until we are back under way. Refinishing the reworked part will give me something to do one of these days while we sit easy on the hook somewhere. Even better, somehow doing that project realigned the mechanic / work / attitude relationship in Kintala's deck monkey, and smoothed the path to tangling with the Beast once again - deadline firmly in mind.

The plan when we rolled out this morning was to finish the mod and then assemble the exhaust riser / heat exchanger. Installation was planned for tomorrow. By late morning the mod was done and the riser and heat exchanger parts were laid out on the bench. Among those parts were shiny new stainless steel studs, washers, and nuts. After hours of searching Deb found them as a kit for rebuilding old style carburetors on 1960s Muscle Cars. The kind that people spend tons of money on making everything perfect, with the space under the hood a celebration of pumping out massive amounts of HP the old fashioned, low tech way. A sparking clean, chromed and painted space, including shiny studs holding massive 4 barrels to intakes and blowers.

Studs that work perfectly for hanging the heat exchanger onto the exhaust riser. They do look a bit out of place, hi zoot gleaming bits in the dark and grungy den where the WesterBeast dwells like a troll under a bridge. But that is where they are. (I would love for Kintala's engine compartment to look like that of one of the above mentioned Muscle Cars – maybe in my next life.) The build up went so smoothly, the old studs coming out clean and the new ones fitting just right, that I just kind of rolled with a job that seemed to be going well. By the end of the day the Beast was a whole unit once again. In addition to new studs, nuts, and gaskets to hang the freshly clean exchanger, a new bit of hose went into the cooling system to replace one that looked like it was causing a restriction when the engine was hot and sucking water. There is, of course, a new $80 exhaust gasket pinched in there as well, some new clamps, and a few other hacks that I un-hacked.

Tomorrow, after a very slow and careful look to make sure everything is where it is supposed to be, the coolant tank will get topped. Once we are sure the engine can suck river water – we have been sitting for a long time and the critters grow quick and thick in these parts – the Beast will be woken. IF all goes well, Kintala will be an working cruising boat once again.

We still have a few days to spare and, and at the moment anyway, and for the first time in weeks, I'm feeling pretty good about the tiny piece of the world that includes an old guy, and slightly less old Tartan, and a Beast.

A technical rant …

The heat exchanger guy called yesterday and said the bit removed from the WesterBeast was all prettied up and ready to go to the dance. Then he gave me a heart flutter by saying he had found a trace of oil floating around in the coolant. Bad juju. Really bad juju. The only way oil gets into the coolant is through a breach in the engine somewhere. Any such breach is going to be hard to find and expensive to fix. My day went straight in the dumpster.

Both Deb and good Friend / Boat Guru Bill (late of S/V Veranda) suggested there was no need to assume the worst just yet. There has never been water in the oil and what coolant that used to disappear stopped disappearing with the installation of a new cap. So assuming the worst was likely unnecessary. One shop's opinion does not, necessarily, bad juju make.

I assumed the worst anyway. After all this is Kintala and me, the world's most dysfunctional boat / owner relationship. Why wouldn't I assume she was presenting me with a blown head gasket or cracked block?  Kintala's WesterBeast has been the bane of my existence since the V-drive hand-grenaded itself and took the transmission with it.  But when I went to pick up said bit, the shop guy told me he had changed his mind. It wasn't oil after all. Thanks … I think.

Today started out with the newly refurbished heat exchanger sitting on the bench waiting to go back back on the WesterBeast, and thus offering us the chance to get off of this dock soon. So that was my job for the day. Would you like to take a guess as to how it went?

Shop man had been kind enough to make a couple of new gaskets for the install. The ones he handed over were about as thick as waffles. The ones that came off where more like cardboard. Mm … not sure that is going to work but hey, he is the heat exchanger expert.

When the heat exchanger came off the engine, one of the four mounting studs came off as well. Not a big surprise, though it meant a little more work when putting things back together. Included in the box of tricks from my old life are a set of stud drivers as well as a set of taps and dies, thus giving pretty good odds of setting things right, thread cut and stud wise. The studs were 5/16 with a -18 thread cut on the block side and a -24 thread cut on the heat exchanger side. Pretty standard stuff. As it turns out the stud that came out did so because the last fool who put this thing together (let's call him Fool 2) jammed a -18 nut on the -24 end. “Cross thread is better than no thread” is an old mechanic's tongue-in-cheek saying. Not sure why, but in this case a cross thread was barely good enough, it held and there was no leak. (“Barely good enough”, by the way, seems to be the “best practices” standard for much of the Marine industry.)

As the heat exchanger went on the forward port side nut would not tighten up. The waffle thick gasket was just too much, so off came the heat exchanger once again. But, what is this? When I went to check the threads on that stud, the -24 nut wouldn't go. Some fool in the distant past (let's call him Fool 1) had put that one stud in backwards, with the -24 end jammed into the block and the -18 end left exposed. Fool 2, who had put the -18 nut on the stud that had pulled out, was only half a fool. He had been hoodwinked by Fool 1. It likely never occurred to Fool 2 that Fool 1 would install three studs in one way and one stud in the opposite way. That would be incompetence desperately close to outright lunacy. He had four nuts and four studs, and made it work.

In my struggles to install the heat exchanger today, I was had by Fool 1, Fool 2, and the heat exchanger expert who had sold me waffle thick gaskets. So, after a couple of trips to the hardware store (Thank-you Craig for the use of your car!) things stand at the exact same place they did this morning, with the heat exchanger sitting on the bench waiting to be installed.

Tomorrow the WesterBeast and I will tussle once again. At least this time the gaskets will be of a proper thickness. There will also be three new -24 nuts and one new -18 waiting to be torqued onto the appropriate stud. (No, I didn't turn the offending stud around. No telling what is going on with the threads in the block side, but disturbing them now smacks of just asking for more trouble.) Most importantly work will commence with a fresh reminder that nothing (NOTHING!) done on this engine, before it came to me, was done by anyone who had a clue. And, truth be told, I am an old airplane guy and approach this marine stuff with, at best, just half-a-clue myself. Which, if you have followed me this far, puts me a half-a-clue up on most of the gurus.

When it comes to the WesterBeast everything must be checked, double checked, and then checked yet again. That means every nut, every stud, every screw, every gasket … cada sola cosa! Ghosts of fools past are lurking to open the hurt locker on anyone who thinks otherwise.

That “anyone” would be me.

Garage Sail

As many of you who have visited the boat know, more often than not our aft cabin is referred to as "The Garage". There is a rather nice-sized double bed in there on the port side, but its proximity to the rather very nice workshop on the starboard side means that everything gets put on the double berth. Since the modification of The Floating Bear from sail to powerboat, the sails from The Bear landed - you guessed it - in the aft cabin. They had 5 sails, we had 4 extra sails, and something had to be done.

All of the sails hanging up and the ones on the floor were in our aft cabin. Good thing nobody wanted to visit! The biggest one there is the reacher folded in half. It's huge!

The original plan was to sell them on Craigslist, but time constraints and the lack of energy levels from what we can only assume has been a case of pneumonia have severely limited our desire to spend months selling used sails. We needed the room. We and the kids both needed the money.  We decided to keep one spare jib for our boat just in case we happened to blow ours out. A friend decided he wanted the hank on staysail that we took off when we converted to roller furling. Another friend declined on the huge reacher because, even as huge as it was, it was 6 feet too short for their 46 foot Hylas. We borrowed a van from a very good friend and off we headed to Second Wind Sails, with 8 sails: 3 jibs, 2 mains and a spinnaker from The Bear, a staysail and a reacher from ours. While selling used sails to a wholesaler is never a good way to make much money, it is a good way to empty out one's aft cabin in a hurry and end up with some cash and a new roller furler sail for the staysail on trade. Even though the day seemed wasted with heat exchanger errands, in the end we did make some progress toward The Deadline.

Our really huge reacher folded in half

Deadlines

Four nuts. Four hose connections. Four hours.

Working on things used to be enjoyable and rewarding; though it did help that someone was usually writing me a pretty big check to work on their thing. Working on most things is still often enjoyable and rewarding even though, these days, there are only outgoing checks for parts and materials, and no incoming checks. But when the thing being worked on is the WesterBeast shoehorned into our Tartan 42, it isn't likely that enjoyable or rewarding is going to be part of the equation. Today was no exception.

This engine has always run hotter than normal, and never seems to make much water. Two months ago we limped into Ft. Lauderdale nursing the temp gauge once again while dodging ugly weather, just to keep things interesting. Determined to get the thing running right once and for all (yeah, yeah, I know) we decided to pull the heat exchanger and have it checked, serviced or, depending on what the shop finds, replaced.

Four nuts. Four hose connections. Four hours.

And that's just to get it off the engine and out of the boat. Experience suggests that removing anything from anything is way less than half the job. So I am already feeling hard pressed to get Kintala ready to vacate this dock by the end of the month.

Part of going cruising was to get away from schedules and dead lines. So far it has not seemed to work that way. Some kind of deadline always seems poised just above our heads. We had to get the boat ready to go before the truck arrived. We had to get the boat ready to go into the water before the boat show; just barely made that one. We had to get the boat ready to head south before the ugly weather hit; didn't really make that one. Then the engine broke down in Oriental and shoved us way past the weather deadline. We paid the price by shivering our way down the ICW in a seemingly endless parade of long, cold, dark days.

Once south things got easier and, for a few weeks anyway, no schedules drove our decisions. But then we went to the Islands. While still deep in the north part of the Sea of Abaco, the day we needed to be back in the US started to press our decisions. Weeks out and we started thinking of when we needed to be through the Whale and into the southern part of the Abacos; then when we needed to be in Eleuthrea, then Nassau, Bimini, and the States. Once in the US we faced the hurricane deadline, one we missed because of The Thing and The Bear. The penalty was doubling our insurance premiums and spending the summer here, where the dock fees are way more than they would have been in Lady's Island. Now the impending 100% increase in dock fees is driving the need to move regardless of where we are on “the list”. So we are still working pretty close to full time days, seven days a week, driven by a deadline we can't afford to miss. (This deadline is due to cost, but the cost is going up because of the season change. So I am blaming it on the weather in a kind of indirect way. My blog, my rules.)

So far cruising deadlines have proved to be serious things and missing them costly. It is impossible to ignore them and “live without a schedule”. I think our problem with deadlines is the result of two conflicting needs. The first is one everyone faces, living with the weather. North in a hard winter or south in a hurricane is no one's idea of “cruising” or, at least, not my idea. Living on a boat means following the good stuff. Weather deadlines simply can't be ignored. Mother Earth will flat kick your ass.

The second serious thing is, simply, the boat. Nearly four years after buying this thing and there are still struggles with the engine, still adjustments being made to the rig so we feel comfortable as a short handed crew on big, open water. For example the roller went on the inner forestay. But we still have to find a sail that will work on the shortened foil and fit our deck. Another task that has to been done in the face of the impending deadline. The autopilot isn't installed, there are no solar panels, and the Bimini has yet to be touched. Some of this is simply not going to get done before the deadline forces us on our way.

That could be seen as a good thing, I guess. People keep telling me no boat is ever “done”. Waiting until it is would mean never leaving the dock. And I see their point. On the other hand, if there never comes a time when I don't have to balance out the cost and hazards of missing a deadline against the cost and hazards of heading out with the boat not “done” …? Sooner or later “not done” needs to be some bright work or dock lines needing spliced, not the autopilot or electrical system.

I can live with one set of deadlines. Living with two conflicting sets is getting old.

Strolling past the finish line …

Many boat projects are finished late at night after an impossible day of taking a beating. The job is “almost” done as the afternoon wears thin. Putting the final touches on it this day instead of tomorrow becomes a bit of an obsession all by itself. At other times there are compelling reasons to finish the job, like incoming weather that will make the current resting place miserable or even dangerous. Or it might be a cruising permit or visa is running out and Officialdom is demanding one vacate their waters ASAP. We have heard tales of boats needing to get out of FL or face a killer sales tax bill.

Kintala faces an impending need to get along herself. At the end of this month the dock fees around here go from simple larceny to grand theft boat in anticipation of all you rich yacht owners scurrying away from the cold. In spite of that impending assault yours truly didn't work that hard today. And yet I still managed to put the finishing touches on two projects.

The first will mark me as one of the deeply disturbed boat owners in the world, and all are free to guffaw at my weenieness. The board to keep the water and fuel jugs on deck, a near universal trapping on a true cruising boat, was a quick and dirty install made just before we pulled out of Oak Harbor. Raw wood, sharp edges, and the forward lower corner kept catching the port jib sheet during a tack, adding one more stumbling point to getting Kintala's bow through the wind. It was also ugly as dirt and about the same color. Since it had to be removed to dull the edges and get rid of the offending corner, a few hours spent sealing it up with a couple of coats of varnish didn't seem that extravagant a use of time. (That, it turned out, was a minority opinion.)  In any case it was re-installed yesterday with the last coat of varnish still a bit tacky. After cooking in the sun all day today the finish was hard as nails, so the straps went through the slots, the height was adjusted to catch the jugs just right, and everything is back in place. And really, as a finish job it is a “10”. That is, it looks okay from about ten feet away. It isn't like there are 5 coats of hand rubbed clear on the thing. I'm not that big a weenie.

Oh how bad the rest of the non-skid now looks...

The other job put in the finished column today was the deck repair. It still remains to be seen how the stuff will wear, but the initial take on KiWi Grip is that this stuff is The Bomb! Deb mixed up a batch colored to match the deck. (She used to color match the paint that went on million dollar + corporate jets. It is a rare talent. There are few as good as she and none better.) A few strips of tape, some extra KiWi Grip layered where the new fiberglass seam now lay, an open “stipple roller” carefully applied and, like magic, the repair nearly disappeared. There is one small whoopee in the deck where fractured glass gave way to expanding foam, but one needs to look for it.  Other than that it is hard to tell there was a big hole there just a few days ago.

It isn't every day that two jobs get finished while the sun is still high in the sky.

Cheers.

I loves me some Honda

Being dock dwellers, we haven't talked much about the Honda EU2000i companion model generator that we have lately. Today Tim was working on rebuilding the traveler up at the picnic shelter (more on that later), and needed a power source for some 110 tools. We dug out the Honda from under its cover and...it didn't start. Color me shocked because we've never had it start in anything more than one pull before. In Honda's defense, the generator has been sitting on the back of the boat now for over two months unused, with fuel and salt air mixing together.

Since my sewing project for the day was put on hold due to missing materials and my port rebedding still awaits the missing Dow Corning 795 being shipped to me, I got on the internet and did a little research. It turns out that these generators have a low-level oil alert cutoff switch that involves a float in the oil tank, and that float tends to stick if the generator sits for some time. When we were on the mooring field or at anchor, we were getting rocked around enough and using the generator enough that it didn't matter, but sitting here in relatively calm waters for two months did it in.

In keeping with the KISS principle I did the easiest thing first though and cleaned and gapped the plug (it was pretty dirty but still usable). It hadn't been done for awhile so it wasn't wasted work but it didn't produce the start. I dug out a piece of twisted safety wire that we keep in the workshop for just this kind of prodding and poking and carefully threaded it into the tank. A little fishing around and a couple pulls and the generator started right up.

I loves me some Honda.

All part of the deal

Deb and I picked up some kind of bug within hours of each other. Or maybe its something in the air, allergies or the stuff they are spraying across the river since the wind has shifted from that direction. It is like a bad cold or mild flu and, unfortunately, came to visit at the same time as getting the big hole in our foredeck closed seemed like a good idea, what with a tropical storm fixing to turn into a hurricane churning around out by the islands and all. It may just be a newbie thing, but being in this neck of the woods at this time of the year has made keeping an eye on the NOAA two and five day tropical forecasts my newest hobby. So far so good, the sea and wind gods have seen fit to take it easy on the Atlantic, apparently focusing instead in kicking the snot out of the Pacific this year.

Framing for the structural foam which you can see oozing out the left side.

So we have been pressing on with projects as best as we can, collapsing at night with the day's energy account severely overdrawn. Deb has been adding to the cruising kitty by doing canvas work for nearby boats. I have been depleting it at about the same rate getting materials for filling the void in the deck. It must be admitted that slinging glass in a FL summer, while enjoying alternating visits from a fever and the shakes, is a new experience for me. One I can't say I'm enjoying much, but today saw the deck closed for the last time. All that remains is the non-skid repair, something I put in the "cosmetic" category. No less important, just less pressing.

Foam core in place.

In the end the smaller voids ended up being filled with a combination of stuffed glass mat in one corner, two part structural foam in the other two corners. The main core repair was done with a high density foam mat that looks a bit like a chess board, overlaid with bi-axial glass, filled as required, with the original deck glassed back in place. So yes Mr. Sailboat expert, I fear this bit of Kintala's foredeck has at least four different kinds of core material. If the bow ever twists off and falls to the bottom of the sea I'll be sure to put it in the blog. It must be said though, that part of the deck is now as hard as sin. No more sinking feeling when going forward and, no matter what, much better than it was.

Deck glassed back in place but pre-grinding. You can see why we need to replace the non-skid. It's old and in bad shape.

Two other boats in the marina are undergoing similar repairs, the one next door being done by my new friend Dennis (of slinging glass at The Bear fame) at the same time I am attending to Kintala. We have been helping each other along figuring out the best way to approach two similar, but still different, repairs. His problem was forward of the mast and the core is plywood, not end grain like Kintala. Making an assault on the ugly from the side was impossible. His only approach was to cut away the deck until finding solid core. Once the underlying repair was completed, piecing the top deck bits back together and making it all fit right would have taken days. Instead he is just going to glass over the new core making, in essence, a new top layer to the deck composite. I, on the other hand, could dig the rotted core out from between the layers of glass, stuff it full one way or the other, and put the original top deck back in place. Two different ways, both getting the job done. He put the final layer of filler in his repair today, grinding, gel coat and non-skid tomorrow. I stitched the seam in my deck plug with glass today, filled and ground the repair. Gel coat and non-skid tomorrow as well. It is kind of fun having the repairs going on at the same time, the cold beer we share at the end of the day in Kintala's cockpit feels well earned.

Post-grinding and waiting for the non-skid

There are several more big projects to go. Sometimes I get a bit discouraged. Deb and I used to talk about what we were going to do with the boat next, where we were going to go, what we might see when we got there. Now we talk about what we are going to do to the boat next and how much it is going to cost. We wonder if we are ever going to get off this dock, and how that might be managed. Another friend from this year's cruise has thrown in the towel, the boat up for sale. Breakdowns, stranded in the Islands for months, bad weather, nights of being afraid, and a relentless loneliness not being the kind of life desired.

The seam for the anchor locker is going to be glassed in as well.
It's glassed below but not above deck so water went into the core.

I understand completely, but still can't envision Deb and I living any other way. Just the thought of having to get a regular job, going to an office, needing a car, meeting someone else's schedule, all the while just waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me yet again by some change in Board or Management politics, gives me a headache. Living and cruising on a boat on a fixed or very modest income is often a hard way to live. Anyone who suggest otherwise simply hasn't done it. But grinding out the hours needed to get to a paycheck isn't always a walk in the park either.

Everything gets easier if one can throw large chunks of money at whatever problems arise, and that is true on land or on the water. For Deb and I, and it seems for many we have met "out here", it was a choice to make a go of a different kind of living, one where big chunks of money are not likely to be part of the equation. For others "out here" big chunks of money were never going to be part of the equation, and living on the water offered a chance to live better than living modest on land.

The cruising mags seem geared to those retiring well and going cruising. Good for those who pull it off. For the rest of us though, going cruising means living modest. And living modest sometimes means that problems take a little more effort to climb over.

All part of the deal.

Just a reminder why wer're doing this...

Time flies.

This morning started out with the discovery that there was no power at any of the 110v outlets anywhere in the boat. Not a big surprise since, on Kintala, they are all wired to a single circuit breaker. We also have two GFCI outlets in the system, one in the head, one in the galley. I always thought that more than one such outlet in any circuit was kind of silly. I still sort of think so. But the original marine surveyor wrote up that we needed to have two, so we have two. Inevitably when one pops its little cork, the other one does as well. This time the one in the galley had the red LED light glowing, something we haven't seen before. Best guess, almost confirmed with a bit of internet research, it that it indicates the outlet itself is bad and needs replaced. Both Deb and I are a bit touchy about electrical things, lots of water, and fire on the boat. A new one seemed like a good idea.

The deck repair has slowed a bit, mostly to let it dry. Each day it gets opened to the FL sun and heat, which is probably not as effective as one might think due to the FL humidity. Every little bit helps though, particularly since the bad core stretches a bit further than would be ideal, sneaking uncomfortably close to the port side bow cleat and reaching right to the anchor locker insert and pump out deck fitting. So cleat and fitting were removed to see what's what. The locker is fiberglassed into the bow, so it stayed.

The core under both appeared to be solid so the cleat went back on. That was not the fate of the old pump out fitting, which has been a bit of a trial since the first time Kintala went to the pump out at Boulder. It has some kind of odd-ball thread cut in it. We have never found a connection to the pump out station suction hose that would screw into the threads of the fitting on our deck. Pumping out has always meant trying to press one of the rubber nozzle things into the deck fitting with enough force to keep nasties from spewing out at the holder. Deb has spent days uncounted trying to find a clip-on connection with the proper thread, all without success. Which is saying something. When Deb can't find a part it is a pretty good bet that the part will never, ever, be found.

Ah, but we had the thing out and the boat is in Ft. Lauderdale, surrounded by marine stores, and with access to a car. We were headed out to get a new GFCI and run a few errands anyway. What say we just mosey on over to some store that has "Marine" or "Sailor" in its name, get the right thing, get the right thing to fit in the thing, and get the other right thing to get the first thing to connect to the ship's plumbing? Then put it all together and make pumping out a matter of twist, clip, flop, and flip? (Twist the connector in, clip the fitting on, flop back out of the way, flip the switch.)

So we did, and it only cost $145.

The next time I'm watching the hoses pulse, listening to the pump thump,(particularly if I'm kneeling on a rocking deck on a mooring field somewhere) and I'm not, literally, leaning over a shit hole and hoping all goes as planned, that $145 is going to be a bargain. I almost can't wait to try it ... almost.

So tonight finds us with 110 power once again, (charging this old computer as I type) a new pump out fitting, and a newly-put-to-bed cleat. Tomorrow I'm going to start stuffing glass into all the right places.

It is hard to believe that August is almost gone. There is a deck to finish, a traveler that needs a new bed, a port still waiting to go back in, a furler to install on the staysail forestay, a mod to add an auto pilot to the wind vane to figure out, acres of teak that need treated, and a Bimini that needs re-sized and a new cover. I'm helping a friend with a bit of work on other boats now and again (in exchange for boat fixing stuff) and it didn't take long for people around here to find out that Deb is a guru with a Sailright machine. So she has a couple of jobs to do as well. (Normally we don't do outside work except to lend a hand, but after our budget beating, turning down a chance to grow a little extra green or trade for some free parts, isn't in the cards.)

How time flies when your having fun.

Focus

It may be that nothing will focus a sailor's attention more than chopping a giant hole in the deck of his or her boat.  Even when the hole is about as far above the water line as it is possible to be, cranking up the saw and slicing through the fiberglass that carries the load of the fore deck and separates one from the elements seems a drastic kind of thing.

With The Floating Bear floating peacefully on her mooring ball in Dinner Key, and a day or two of not doing much of anything at all, it is time to turn some attention to Kintala and her own project list. At the top of that list is the soft spot not far aft of her bow, favoring the port side, and encroaching on the cleat.  It has been there since we bought the boat and reminded me of a task that needed done every time I went forward to attend to dropping or pulling the hook.  Time to take a deep breath and crank up  the cutter.

Hammer taps outlined the area of ugly needing to be uncovered, though thought was given to the finished product.  The soft spot spans two sections of non-skid across a band of gel-coat.  The call was to make the cut inside one section of non-skid and assault some of the bad core, as it were, from the side. I like the idea of chopping in such a way as to save the top piece for later, glassing it back down on the new core to complete the repair.  This requires not butchering it up when slicing it out and easing it off of the core.

By the way, assaulting the bad core from the side is not in the books anywhere, at least not in any of the sailboat repair books I could find.  According to the sailboat experts solid, un-compromised core has to be exposed in order to do a good repair.  Since I have long lost faith in sailboat experts, some of this is getting made up as we go.

Anyway, tape lines laid down, the saw went to work.  The trick is to cut deep enough to free the top layer but not deep enough to cut the bottom layer of the composite deck.  (Or, in this case, deep enough to cut through the interior and open the V-berth to the sky.)  It isn't nearly as hard to do as it sounds. There is a clear difference in feel when the blade slices through hard fiberglass into mushy wood. Once the cut was complete the task was to ease the top layer off without breaking it into several useless pieces.

The trick to that is to use a multitude of prying tools; screwdrivers, putty knives, picks, hacksaw blades, whatever works to separate the glass from the wood.  Throw in a ton of patience.  When something starts to crack, stop and take a different approach.  It took more than an hour of being careful, but the top layer of deck came away as clean as could  have been hoped.

The ugly lay underneath, exactly as expected.  Water actually ran along the putty knives, screwdrivers and, eventually, vacuum cleaner attachment, as the work went on.  Rotten wood covered a good bit of the fore deck before it was over.  Eventually most of the evil core was gone and a DA sander went to work, smoothing out the top of the bottom layer of composite and the bottom of the top layer.  So long as the sun was baking the repair it was left exposed to dry out.  It gets covered at night in case of rain, but for the next day or two it will be left opened to dry.

That will give me time to plan the sideways attack on the bad core.  There are several options. Latest and greatest would be to fill the undercut deck with structural foam.  I worked with the stuff years ago while building experimental radar jamming drones to be launched from Nuke attack B-52's whose purpose was to give the Ruskies too many radar hits to shoot at.  Once mixed it swells up like the Blob of horror picture shows then dries sin hard. But it isn't cheap and getting it in the right place at the right time can be a challenge.

Old school would be to make this part of the fore deck a solid laminate using glass mat and resin, stuffing the voids using any tools that work.  Middle school would be to mix up some resin and thicken it with silicon to fill the voids.  The concern with both of these is, given the angles and areas involved, getting a solid fill. I'll have to think on this one a bit.

All in all though, the focus is back on Kintala and getting her ready to  go cruising again.  And that is a good kind of focus.

Anchoring and Liberty

Deb thinks I should put a warning label on this one, so ... if your skin is particularly thin this morning you might want to come back later.

Rumor has it that the State of Florida, listening to the demands of McMansion owners, is contemplating a ban on all overnight anchoring of all boats in all of its waters. There is no telling if such a ban will ever make it into law and, if so, when. There is also no telling if any such law will survive the inevitable legal challenges. In any case, as a member of the cruising community at which the law is specifically aimed, a few thoughts come to mind.

We are in Florida at the moment. Have been for a few months actually. Most of our time here has been spent on a dock or a mooring ball. Both cost a lot of money for a modest return. Dinner Key is our favorite place to stay in Fl, and the customer service is excellent. But we pay for a mooring that is completely exposed to Biscayne Bay. There are days, weeks, where being there is barely tenable. Even when the Bay itself is not beating up the place, the wakes from power boaters blasting full song down the channel only to chop the throttles right at the "NO WAKE" sign, will send the unprepared in the mooring field flying. It is a long ride to the dingy dock. The bathrooms are modest and there is no real lounge where one might sit and get some work done on the internet.

Currently we are on a dock, a hideously expensive dock where customer service ranges from spotty to downright surly. The office is usually unattended, internet access is horrible, and we are constantly at risk from the antics of power boaters using the launch ramps. Again there is no real lounge, just a few chairs and a card table scattered around the laundry room.

Anchoring off is the free market alternative to putting up with these bandits. Isn't Florida one of those Big Red states where such ideas are worshiped? In fact, isn't this whole place supposed to be one of those "god wants us to keep Big Brother Government off our backs" places? Demanding that government keep free-spirited cruisers from dropping a hook in public waters to avoid being raped by a scruples-lacking money grubber, isn't that an affront to the Big Red God?  Some of the disciples were fishermen. Surely they anchored out once in a while to avoid paying some lowlife carpetbagger for access to a dock that was falling apart and lacked any place to park their asses.

The hypocrisy seems blatant, though one of the realizations that have come with more than a handful of decades of life, is that hypocrites are blind to their own hypocrisy. Somehow having my modest (though pretty – if I do say so myself) sailboat in their view of the water is an assault to their freedom even though, when I leave, the water will be undisturbed. But me having their hideous cubes of wretched excess and monuments to egomania blocking my view of the shoreline, marred by their assault on the land and the environment, is perfectly okay. My home they want banned, though no cruiser is making a similar demand about their homes.

Their home vs mine suggests that cruisers, in nothing but the most general of terms, are far better human beings than are those complaining about us. If it comes to standing before the Big Red God, I'll state my case and take my chances on having lived my life as I have, as opposed to how they have lived theirs.

Of course the hypocrisy goes much deeper. The "small government, personal liberty" claim is nothing but an empty slogan. Those who mouth it are in the service of big money. Small government can't stop big money from doing whatever it wants to get bigger, and that includes stomping on any civil right that impinges on the bottom line or, in this case, perceived property value. Personal liberty isn't even a consideration. But here is the thing ...

Liberty is not the right to self-absorbed narcissism. Liberty is the chance to live in a society where the value and aspirations of each individual are cherished and supported by every other member of that community. Liberty is found where universal civil rights are protected by the full weight of a first world society. Liberty is every individual being rewarded for his or her contribution to a better life for themselves and others, where no one gets rich off the labor of another. Liberty exists where no one is allowed to coerce another in any way for any thing, and is only found where the full resources of a society are focused on protecting me from you, and you from me.

Liberty is not an individual thing. It is a gift offered to each individual of an enlightened and powerful community.

Liberty is too difficult, too complicated, and too fragile an accomplishment for any single person to manage alone. Liberty is the reward for a community working together to build a better life for themselves, their kids, and their grand kids.

Americans have come to hate anything that even hints at a community.  Our political system has devolved into an endless, 3-way battle between the party of "All I care about is getting mine" vs the party of "All I care about is getting yours" vs the party of "All I care about is getting everybody's". America's budget is based on the belief that it will be at war with nearly everyone, nearly all the time. Working with anyone to accomplish anything that benefits a larger community is demonized as socialism.  We can't even build roads anymore, or fix bridges.

Which is why liberty is being lost in the United States of America.

The proposed anchoring law in Florida is as good an example as any.

NOTE:  My friend Robert has issues with this post.  They are based on a much deeper understanding of Florida politics than is mine and, perhaps, a fundamentally different world view.  If he gives me permission I will cut and paste his comments here.  Until then please go to the comments section and read what he has to say.  It will a be good use of a few minutes of your  day!

Time and space and The Floating Bear ...

Today was day 18 of working on resurrecting The Floating Bear. She is going together slowly, as one would expect from this kind of project. There is hardly a straight line or square corner anywhere to be found. A new age Feng Shui type would say it is all organic and flowing, a space befitting the spiritual alignment of ocean and wind. For all I know they might even be right. For a craftsman trying to puzzle it all back in place though, would an occasional clean fit be too much to ask?

The budget restraint adds to the fun. The working hardware stash is literally the bucket full of bolts (and nuts, screws, and washers) that came out when The Bear was gutted. One paws through it looking for, say, a matched set of screws and nuts to rehang the head door. And no, before you ask, it wasn't a matched set when it came down. It will take a sharp eye to see the difference in the set of 6 nuts, and a Dremel tool will even up the screw lengths perfectly, thank you very much.

Too much new wood would be a budget buster as well, though some just had to be. A sheet of marine ply went into the floor. A length of new 4 x 4 was cut and fit to replace the corroded chunk of pipe that was the compression post. True, The Bear no longer sports a mast, but one must still hold the cabin roof up as little ones tramp over it. In addition a few small gel coat failures in the cabin roof revealed the glass underneath to be completely dry – no resin soak at all. I wouldn't bet 10 cents on the structural integrity of the cabin top without some kind of support, but it will keep the rain out. (Four of the six chain plates were bolted directly to the cabin as well. It is amazing that this thing survived sailing loads at all.) The new post not only looks much better, it also bolts solidly to the main bulkhead, stiffening it up and probably making the boat stronger than it was when it came from the factory.  Though, in this case, "better than factory" isn't much to boast about.

There are some bits of other new wood here and there but, like the hardware, the working stash for what goes back in is what came out.  That means a lot of repair, sanding, and filling is going on.  A chunk of teak that once held a chain plate gets reworked into a bulkhead support.  An old bit of trim becomes a fillet for a new bit of floor.  It may not get the interior looking shipshape and Bristol fashioned, but at least it will not appear to be hacked out of raw lumber by a Neanderthal using a stone ax.

Some things just can't be done "right" with the budget and time restraints. The hole for the starboard side port (the one rain delayed) was so badly butchered that no amount of Dow Corning 795 could be counted on to seal it. Honestly, it looked like that same Neanderthal chopped it out while suffering a hang-over. (Actually, maybe a hung over Neanderthal with a stone ax might have done a better job.)  I tack screwed the port in place and glassed it in.  If there is a hint of justice in the Universe the low rent, soulless bit of pig dung that sold the kids this boat will – somehow – be the person who has to get that port out next. He is about the only person I can think of who actually deserves such a fate.

Other things are just a mystery. There is a place where the compression post, bulkhead, head insert, door jam, floor, and a support board should all, more or less, end up in the same general location of space and time. Instead its like some kind of Fifth dimension has warped euclidean space all out of whack, where length, width, and breadth are only half of the things needing to be measured. A clean spatula and a fresh can of fairing compound will force things back into the normal, three dimensional, universe.

There is a reasonable chance that plumbing runs for the new head and holding tank have been plotted. "Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag" is the actual task at hand. (Where did that Fifth dimension get off to?)

Hope right now is that the kids can move back aboard early next week.  After we get The Bear dock side livable the DC electrical system will be the arena of interest with, it looks like, some AC gremlins to be exterminated as well.  Then the REAL fun will begin.