I sanded so much today that my fingers were still tingling 20 minutes after I put the sander down. My shoulders ache, my hands are sore, and if you were to ask me to pick something up off the ground, the manner in which I’d bend over to do so wouldn’t be very graceful. It reached 90 degrees here today — probably a record — and I spent most of the day in a full-body Tyvek suit, with rubber gloves and a face mask on, while holding a 10-lb sander above my head. My hair is matted with sweat, and my shirt (the same shirt I’ve worn all week) is a little bit stickier. My fingers are covered in blue dust. So are my feet. And my hat. And my cheeks. I’m about to go take a shower at Matt and Karen’s place, and am contemplating taking a bath in Gojo instead.
How much work was it? I’ll put it this way. After two hours of sanding, and little to show for it, I asked Nick, a yardworker more or less my age, how long it takes him to sand a 40′ sailboat, to see if I was on track.
-Nick: “Oh, I’m lucky. I hurt my shoulder, so I never have to sand any boats, because I can’t lift my arm above my shoulder. I can’t even do a pushup.”
-Me: “How’d you hurt your shoulder?”
-Nick: “Surfing. But I can still surf.”
So the guys who work here, the guys who get paid to do work: they dislike sanding to the extent that a personal injury seems like a blessing.
Continue reading “Tingling with giddiness”
I’ve worn the same pants for a week now; they tell the story of the last seven days — my first week living on the boat — better than I. Embedded in them are bits of caulk, epoxy, and grease; stains of sweat, salt, snot, and blood; smudges of pasta sauce, wine, and melted chocolate; metal filings, fiberglass strands, resin shards, and saw dust.
It’s been a week. I haven’t shaved. I haven’t washed my hair. I’ve been washing dishes with my fingers, pissing in a bucket, drinking wine out of the bottle, and sleeping sound as a baby.
If tools are like pets, and they enjoy being petted, or maybe just held, ours are very very happy. I’ve kept vice grips in my back pocket most of the time, and relied heavily on a screwdriver, crescent wrench, hammer, tape measure, and awl. I’ve alternated between the drill, dremel, grinder, and jig saw as if they were pens and pencils, occasionally using a drill press and a die grinder hooked up to our compressor.
Continue reading “My first week on the boat”
Matt and I spent last week in San Carlos, Mexico, readying Syzygy for shipment. It was a week full of victories and discoveries and very satisfying moments, in which our labors appeared to have paid off.
We flew to Phoenix on Friday night, and then hussled over to the Tufesa bus station, to catch an overnight bus down to San Carlos. At midnight I gave Matt a pack of Mentos, and wished him a happy 30th birthday – what better place to celebrate than on an uncomfortable plastic chair beneath fluorescent lights in a shady part of Phoenix? We rolled into Nogales at 6am, and I laughed as yet again, after all these trips to Mexico, we got green lights at the border. All these trips, and never searched; while in the States, airport security takes my toothpaste because the tube exceeds 3 ounces.
Continue reading “Victory in San Carlos, Mexico”
A couple of friends have emailed me, asking about our progress. Have we sailed Syzygy yet? Is the engine running? Have we practiced motoring around the marina, in and out of our slip? Have we fixed our leaky water tanks?
Until last night, my answer was a sad litany of qualified justifications and hedged excuses. Continue reading “a challenge already”
Let’s start with some basics: Like most sailboats, Syzygy has a whole bunch of holes in her hull below the waterline. Syzygy has 8 of ’em. Two of em hold instruments that measure depth and speed. One of ’em lets exhaust out of the engine. The remaining five have seacocks (aka valves) on them, so that we can let water in or out of certain pipes and go about our lives like normal civilized people. One lets water into the galley sink. One lets water out of the galley sink. One lets water (as coolant) into the engine. One lets water into the toilet (so we can flush it). And then there’s the last one, the most glorious seacock. It lets shit out of the holding tank. Continue reading “Getting our hands dirty”
So two weeks ago, when we were down in San Carlos, taking Syzygy for a little spin, we got ourselves into a funny little situation.
We’d just returned from the sea trial, and had put Syzygy in a slip at the marina. The then-owners and broker had gone about their day, leaving us to poke around the boat more, measuring and tinkering and such. With the sun out, Matt, Jon and I put our feet up, congratulated each other, and had a few nibbles of lunch: some prepackaged Mexican cookies and swigs of bottled water (you can tell that I did the shopping that morning.) Then, as typically happens after lunch, the urge to piss arose. Continue reading “the search for a yellow waterbottle”
We bought the boat, and I am pleased to be in the happy excited phase of ownership. It feels really good to be able to tell people that we bought a boat. It gives legitimacy to our plan. I don’t get those infuriatingly skeptical looks anymore, and people actually pay attention when I tell them we’re going to sail around the world. Continue reading “Bought and Paid For”