I'm on the top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation ....you can hum the rest.

This blog goes back in time a bit. Sometimes I have to let them bake in the oven for a while...

It’s now been almost four weeks since we first dropped anchor in St. Maarten. The original plan was to stay there for three to five days and then head east to St. Barts and then south west to St. Kitts. In an ordered world, we wouldn’t still be in St. Martin (different spelling, we’re now on the French side). In the sailing world, a plan is something you continually adjust until the result has almost no similarities with its beginning.

While in Simpson Bay, we discovered that our boat had made and offering to Poseidon in the form of our VHF antenna. We’ve had an ongoing issue with the antennae which sits precariously at the very top of the mast. The antenna was a three foot long fiberglass whip attached to a three inch long stainless steel threaded pipe. The pipe sits in a small aluminum fork bracket and then two hex nuts are screwed from the bottom to tighten the whole thing up against the bracket; all at a height of 70 feet. We were having a problem keeping the antennae tight in its bracket. Funny thing is, while making our crossing to St. Maarten, we both heard something clattering across the deck in the middle of the night. We searched for the source of the noise but couldn’t see anything amiss. It wasn’t until we were through the Dutch side drawbridge and trying to use our VHF that we discovered the gift Eyes had made to the Sea God. Apparently we could transmit just fine but were totally deaf to the marina’s responses. After a good dozen transmissions from us of, “Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?”...which we now know they don’t like so much, they were surely saying back, “Yes, yes, for the love of Christ, yes WE CAN HEAR YOU NOW!” Eventually, for the sake of their own sanity, they sent someone out in a dingy to let us know that they we’re quite aware of our approach. I guess they don’t have the same commercials we do.

We successfully docked the boat in a slip and started our countless trips to and from Budget Marine, a boater’s version of Home Depot. The main similarity between the two is that as soon as you get there, you realize you forgot to bring whatever piece you were trying to match and as soon as you get back, you realize what you forgot to buy. Needless to say, we were not only on a first name basis with our personal customer service agent, Telluthia Cotton, (who weighed as much as a passing thought) we knew the rest of the sales staff and about a half dozen boaters who happened to be caught in the same Budget Marine forgetting cycle we were caught in.

With the new VHF antenna in hand, I strapped myself into our Boson’s chair, clipped myself to the shackle attached to the main halyard and waited for Jim to hoist me up the mast. A Boson’s chair is basically a cloth chair, kind of like a hammock you sit in. Ours was a gift from the Colorado Little’s and is a deluxe version. A deluxe Boson’s chair is one that will hold you in even if you’re turned upside down. I don’t think I’ll try that out. I’m weighing in at around 170 pounds these days so with the aid of a few pulleys and a winch, Jim started cranking me up our 70 foot mast. One of the tasks at hand was to retie the bowline knot at the top of the mast that secures the main halyard. Those of you paying attention will notices that a few sentences ago, I told you I was clipping my Boson’s chair to the shackle attached to the main halyard. Dicey. Jim cranked me up the mast, all the while I was yelling back down, “Come on you wimp, faster, faster.” In retrospect, antagonizing the person in charge of keeping you from falling 70 feet isn’t the smartest idea. My excuse is that I was giddy with the anxiety caused by attaching myself to a line that had a potentially faulty knot. A pint of sweat later, Jim had me to the top of the mast and I began my chores. I immediately secured myself with three separate lines, untied and retied the bowline knot.

We knew that the main halyard had some wear because, like the good sailors we are, we had the foresight to have our rigging inspected before we left Tortola. One of the faults the inspector, Mr. Thomas, found in the rigging while he was at the top of our mast was a worn main halyard cause by chaffing against the topping lift. He was kind enough to move the halyard in order to stop the chaffing. Interestingly enough, while he was in his own Boson’s chair, at the top of our 70 foot mast, you’d have thought he’d remove the chaffed part of the line and tie a new knot…not.

After taking care of the halyard, I installed the new VHF antennae, inspected all of the other lines and electrical equipment and then stopped working and looked at where I was. I was suspended from a 5/8th inch line 70 feet above the deck of our boat. The 360 degree view of the harbor was incredible. From that vantage point, I could appreciate not only the size of the dock in the marina around me but also the size of Simpson Bay. Half of the bay is French and the other half is Dutch. Both sides have their own drawbridge and those two entryways are the only water passage into the lagoon. The eastern shore is met by a sheer slope of the towering mountain ridge. To the south, I could clearly see the whole town and the road leading up the mountain toward Phillipsburg. My western view showed me bay outside of the Dutch drawbridge and to the north I could see the French town of Marigot. It was a beautifully humbling view that once again illustrated for me the true size of the boat we are on. We’re a pretty large boat in the marina, just a spot in the lagoon and I imagine, as you pan out, not even a speck in the ocean.

Someone’s knocking at the door; somebody’s ringing the bell…

Jim and I are anchored in Carlisle Bay, a small bay off the south, southwestern side of Antigua. There’s a tropical depression blowing westward just to our south and because of that, the winds have stirred up the water in the bay so the visibility underwater is only about 10-15 feet.

We jumped off the back of the boat for a little swim and headed toward the south side of the bay to check out the fish in the gloom.

Jim was swimming about ten feet in front of me when I noticed a small school of Sergeant Majors, some Goat Fish and a few Wrasses bobbing in the currents caused by the small waves lapping the rocks. I was only in about 8 feet of water so I was able to see the bottom of sand, rocks and grass pretty clearly. Among the rocks, I spied a cluster of white shells starkly standing out against the background of brownish sand. With poor visibility making it difficult to see far, anything slightly unusual was good cause for closer inspection.

The shells were arranged along the opening of a very old empty Queen Conch shell, long since inhabited by its maker and clearly showing all the signs of the circle of life in the sea. Growing on its top was a coating of algae and sea moss that made it look like it was wearing a sweater. A few barnacles and small sponges were using the shell as their base, adding to the transformation of this once colorful and elegantly curved shell from clean, purposeful beauty to a new kind of opportunistic, utilitarian usefulness.

As I pulled a small scallop shell from the opening, an interesting thing happened. Something pulled the shell back toward the old conch. Because I found the shell on its back, I guessed it was not the new home of a hermit crab, and knew, again from its position and also from its condition, that there wasn’t a conch inside. I snatched a few more shells from their resting place and exposed a single eye looking back at me. I waited and within 60 seconds, a small tentacle snaked out, grabbed one of the shells I had removed and gently put it back in its place. I’d found my favorite of all sea creatures. I’d found an Octopus.

The Caribbean Octopus is a timid little creature with some absolutely amazing qualities. It can change, not only the color of its skin, but also its skin’s texture. It is almost completely made of soft tissue except for a parrot-like beak which it uses to open its primary souse of food, mollusks and crustaceans. An Octopus can squeeze its body through any hole that is larger than the size of its beak and when in danger, can produce an ink cloud that acts as a diversion.

I lifted the Conch shell and move it to a rock ledge about 2 feet under the water’s surface. Keep in mind that this Octopus had stuffed his little self up into the spiral of the shell and absolutely no amount of tugging was going to get him out. I also didn’t want to scare the little fella, however, in retrospect, I suspect I failed at that goal when I removed the first piece of his shell armor.

I lifted the shell so the Octopus was just above the water. Now before you go thinking I’m an Octopus torturer, let me explain. The National Zoo has an invertebrate exhibit that contains a few Octopi. While on a visit there, the Octopus lady told us that if the lids to the little Octopus condominiums are not weighted down with bricks, the crafty little creatures will make a mad dash for the drains in the floors! Little do they know that all they’d get would be a trip into the DC sewer system which, as I’m sure most of you know occasionally explodes. Before they'd know it, they could be shot through a manhole cover in Georgetown and right onto the plate of a tourist having lunch at a sidewalk café. Calamari al la Adrian Fente.

Anyway, there I was, trying to coax Pi (I’ve now named him) out of his hidey hole buy denying him oxygen. Unfortunately for all concerned (me and Pi), I was wearing a mask and snorkel at the time. Nobody and I mean nobody, not even Brad Pitt, looks remotely flattering with a mask and snorkel on. But Pi, bless his little heart, gingerly snaked out one of his many arms in a show of trust and friendship; then he felt flesh (mine) and BAM, back in the shell he went. Now I admit, it had been a few days since I’d seen the inside of a shower, but jeeze, I do swim every day. I couldn’t have tasted that bad. Well I just couldn’t bring myself to hold him out of the water for more than ten seconds so the only thing left to do was wait him out.

Let’s go over some of the pertinent details of the waiting game. I took a year off work (thanks Kurt) and am living on a sailboat. Obviously I don’t really care how long it takes me to get anywhere. If I did, I’d be living on a power boat or in a Winnebago. I had just eaten a nice lunch so was good for another 6 hours as far as needing food goes. The water temperature at the edge of the bay was a balmy 92 degrees so getting cold wasn’t a concern. The only real deterrent to staying in the water for a long time was the mental image I had of that crazy guy from England who locked himself in a ball of water for a week in front of Lincoln Center in NYC. He turned into a prune in about an hour, however, it wasn’t until his doctors told him that his liver and kidneys might shut down that he relented and came out of the ball. By that time, his flesh was so wrinkled that he didn’t look human. What’s the matter with people? That look isn't for me.

Back to the story at hand. Little by little I inched my index finger closer to Pi and little by little he managed to cram himself deeper into that shell until I guess there was just no other place to go. After about ten minutes, Pi extended a tentacle and lightly laid it down on the tip of my finger. All I could think of at the time was “Remain calm, he’s making a move.” What did I do? I yanked my finger back like a big girl and let out a little scream through my snorkel. He, in turn, yanked his tentacle back and this time shut his little eye. About 30 seconds later, he opened it up again, saw the strange man in the snorkel and mask and slammed it back shut. I actually think he was “willing” me away. I’ve tried to do that a bunch of times; it doesn’t work. You open your eyes and the person with bad breath monopolizing your time at a party with tales of economic brawn or work related importance is still right in front of your face. Hell, they might as well have a mask and snorkel on.

Pi’s next attempt at détente came much more quickly. Apparently, the shell was a little cramped and he had had just about enough. This time, his little arm came out and overlapped my finger by about 2 inches. All this time, he was an uninviting shade of brown with little white streaks. Well, let me tell you, right after we made contact, he instantly turned bright white whith blood red streaks, stayed that way for 15 seconds and then gradually went back to the brown. Now that he was back to his old self, he let a few more arms extend out and reached around to the back of the shell. In one fluid movement, he slid his whole body around to the back of the shell and in an instant matched his color to the color of the algae/sea moss and to my amazement, changed the texture of his skin to match the shell’s coating as well. This all happened in less than two seconds. He never made any attempt to swim away from the shell, he just clung to the back and even though I knew he was there, I had to really concentrate on where the shell ended and Pi began.

I reached my hand around to the back of the shell and laid it, palm up, right in front of him. He in turn, immediately shit his pants….no, no, just kidding….he placed two tentacles on my palm and then in less than a minute, he moved off the shell and into my palm. His color changed to a yellowish green and his skin became perfectly smooth again. He was so soft, he felt like velvet. For the next 15 minutes, he just crawled around my hands, from one to the other and then back. He moved about 12 inches up my arm, but then jettisoned himself back to my other hand. All this time, he was changing the color of his skin and the pattern of the color as well.

Eventually, I picked up the conch shell and gently guided him back to the opening. He sat on the edge as I swam him back to his original resting place. As I lowered the shell he slid inside again. I scooped up the white clam and scallop shells and lined them up along the door to the conch condo, took one last look at his little eye and swam back to the boat.

I don’t know why I have this urge to interact with animals. I want so much for them to know that I don’t pose a threat. For some reason, unknown to me, I want them to “know” me and know that I’m a friend. Their complexity is unimaginable. Their consciousness is unquestionable. I am a guest in their home and I guess I want to feel welcome.

I think I’ll have Calamari tonight.

The Handyman Can

All those who are old enough, please close your eyes and think of Sammy Davis, Jr.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew
Cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two
The Candy Man can, the Candy Man can

Now on a boat…

Who can take a stopped up head, and free it from the pee
Who can fix the radar, helping it to see
The Handyman can….the Handyman can.

I’ll apologize up front for putting that tune into your head. No doubt you’ll be humming it all day.

I’m the kind of guy who likes things to work the way they’re supposed to. I’m not the kind of guy who really cares how they work, just that they do. While I love creative projects, fixing a broken widget was never something that held my interest and I never really considered the creative genius necessary to look at a broken piece of equipment, accurately diagnose the problem and formulate a plan to fix it. My creativity comes in the form of talking the repairman into not going to his mother’s house to fix her air-conditioning in the 110 degree heat, but to come to my house and fix mine first because I’m having 10 people over for dinner that night.

With that said, let’s talk about a boat. A boat, no matter what age, what make or what model, is always broken. Now that’s certainly not to say that it’s unusable or even unsightly (unless, of course, it’s on cinder blocks in your front yard, (unless you live in West Virginia, then it’s considered a status symbol)). There is a direct proportion to the amount you brag about the fancy stuff your boat has to the amount of time you spend fixing all that fancy stuff.

Our boat has a washing machine. Ohhhhh…ahhhhh. It’s located in the starboard haul directly opposite from the head. The “head” is boat speak for the toilet. I don’t have any idea why it’s called a head. I do everything I can to keep my head from getting anywhere near it. While Jim and I were at the dock in Tortola, we were able to take advantage of the two, large, top loading washing machines I once took so much for granted. I did a few loads of laundry every week, figuratively patting myself on the back for being able to take care of this basic household task. Yolanda, our domestic aid back in the States, who, in my mind, has now risen to the status of home economic goddess, used to do all of our laundry for us. Dirty clothes, sheets and towels just vanished, reappearing clean and folded as if by magic. Well, let me tell you; sweat ain’t magic. It’s not enough to round up the dirties and get them into the washing machine. Unless your favorite color is grey, you have to separate them. If you love grey, well then by George, you’re in such luck. If it’s not, then separate you must. You then have to remember that they are in the washing machine. If you don’t, they tend to take on a smell all their own and you need to rewash and then re-remember that they are still wet in the washing machine. I was averaging 2.6 wash cycles per load.

Now that Jim and I have set sail for ports unfamiliar, that little, front loading washing machine in our head has become quite the gem. Jim had to head back to the States for business so I decided to keep myself occupied by cleaning the inside of the boat from top to bottom, which included doing the wash. It was with such glee that I stripped the beds and gathered up all the laundry, knowing that I was one of the lucky few who didn’t have cart my pile down the dock to the sole public washing machine. I filled our little front loading darling, added the detergent and heading up to the salon for a date with my book and a cup of coffee. Life was good. I got through a couple of chapters of Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander and then remembered the wash. I was already getting to be pretty good at this whole washing thing. I went down to the laundry room (bathroom/head), popped open the outer washing machine door and gazed into the fish tank like window of the machine. Hmmm. My little gem didn’t seem to have drained out all the water. Keeping in mind that I was well under my 2.6 cycles per load average and hoping that like I often did, the washing machine forgot that there was laundry not yet finished, I just ran it again.

Back upstairs I went for another cup of coffee and a few more pages of my book. Twenty minutes later, with my coffee and book attended to, I headed back down to the toilet to see if progress had been made. Hmmmm. I really don’t know a lot about laundry but surmised that all the water had to be out of the drum before I opened the door. Actually, that has less to do with understanding laundry and more to do with understanding gravity. What to do, what to do? As much as I wanted to put off the inevitable and not deal with opening the strainer at the bottom of the machine, sending three or so gallons of water into the inside of the boat, where, if you understand anything about boats, is the opposite side you want the water, I acquiesced. Luckily, my first load wasn’t the towels, so, with a bucket positioned to catch most of the water and plenty of dirty towels stuffed around the base of the machine, I opened the flood gates and let the water come. It came with a bit more force than I expected and ended up in my lap. The reason it ending up in my lap was because I was sitting on the toilet at the time (yes, shorts on and lid closed, but still, the image is pretty funny). The economics of space on a boat requires that it be used efficiently and as such, if you wish, you can make toilette and do your laundry at the same time. I can feel that sophisticated image I’ve cultivated for so many years just slipping away, but that’s fodder for another blog.

So there I was, once again with a load of wet clothes needing to be rewashed. Because my pride wouldn’t let this laundry event exceed my 2.6 cycles per load average, I just wrung out the clothes, hung them on the boat’s life lines and got out the old tool box.

The first thing I did was look at the instruction manual. It’s in German. Those Germans sure do love their syllables. Apparently, any single syllable word in English requires at least 15 syllables in German. Being internet savvy, I logged onto Google Language and translated the first sentence in the manual. This is the god’s honest truth. The translation read, “Through print gropes, takes place one waschzeitverkurzung.” Was it time for a cocktail? Understanding that the instruction manual wasn’t going to be any help, I did what any red-blooded American male would do, I just started taking out screws. Eventually, the belly of the beast was exposed and into the abyss I peered. Hmmmm. There wasn’t a button that said, “If your washing machine isn’t draining (or your waschzeitverkurzung kazuent draivingiklerspluggen) push here.”

The long and short of it is that I finally found the pump and took it out. I hotwired 220 volts, yes you read that right, 220 volts, with some old wires I found hanging around (don’t ask) and discovered that the pump was fine. I did some other tests with a voltage meter (which made me feel so butch) and found that the power to the pump was fine. I put the whole mess back together while sitting on the toilet and ran another load. You’d think this would be over; didn’t I say the long and the short of it? The next load ran fine until a clanking noise alerted me to what I already knew. I really didn’t fix anything. I only took it all apart and put it all back together again. However this time, when I opened the door, quite a bit of smoke came out with the laundry; but the drum did drain, or, the water evaporated from the heat that caused the smoke. Not wanting to ruin my 2.6 cycle average, I just hung my clean but smoky smelling clothes out on the life lines to dry, hoping with all my heart that the island air would whisk away the smoky smell and replace it with that beautiful “hung out to dry in the fresh air” smell my Grandmother used to achieve so effortlessly.

Once again, I sat down on the toilet, took the whole mess apart, tested the pump and found nothing amiss. Damn it. With a frustration that lead me to believe that dirty clothes weren’t all that bad, I put it all back together, crossed my fingers and yes, I know it’s hard to believe, I ran another load. Just so you don’t think I’m nuts, this time I sat on the toilet with a fire extinguisher in my lap. I couldn’t hold it in my hands because, in the interest of being time efficient, I read my book while I was waiting for the washing machine to explode. Guess what? It ran like a champ. Four loads and two hours later (the last two loads without the fire extinguisher) all the wash was done, hung out to dry then folded and put away.

I decided to reward myself by eating at the magnificent little French restaurant in the marina. Dressed in some of my newly cleaned clothes, I headed to dinner where I was greeted by a beautiful hostess who said in heavily accented English, “That is a very unusual cologne you have on. If you don’t mind me asking, what it is?”

“It’s called eau du Waschzeitverkurzung, and I made it myself.”

Tank Racks

You’d think that getting a couple of tank racks would be a simple thing. First things first: tank racks are racks that support SCUBA tanks on the boat when you’re not diving. The most common ones are called pelican racks which are made from heavy gauge steel wire coated in a soft plastic similar to the coating you’d find on the handle of a wrench. The wire is formed into a triple tiered grid most commonly holding four tanks in a row. The grid is then bolted at its bottom onto two rectangular pieces of wood that run perpendicular to the row of tanks and protect the deck of the boat from scratches. The problem with this type of rack is that invariably, the plastic coating fails to protect the steel from the elements and the rack begins to rust, depositing messy little pieces of grime all over the surface of our nice clean white boat. Can you guess who’s writing this blog? I’ll have none of that.
While Jim and I were tooling around St. Thomas, we happened buy “Chris Sawyer’s Dive Shop”. He had stacks of tank racks made from 8 inch PVC pipe tied together with quarter inch white line. Ingenious! No fuss, no mess and white goes with everything. With my goal insight, I strolled into the shop and asked to buy two of his best PVC masterpieces. How much could four pieces of PVC and 20 feet of quarter inch line possibly cost? One hundred and sixty US dollars, that’s how much. Oh wait…each. Exorbitant! Those of you who know me know that in addition to loving a challenge, I love to save a few bucks. My calculations brought the total cost of these tank racks to about $75.00 for both not including my time which, we all know is right now in abundance and at a very reasonable rate.
I didn’t want to haul eight pieces of eight inch PVC from St. Thomas to Tortola so I decided to wait until I got back to Barecat’s dock to start my project. Jim and I sailed back to Tortola and I began my search for the pipe. When you go into most shops “down island” they’re shelves are somewhat sparse but they always seem to have quite a bit more “somewhere in the back.” It’s like they only want to show it to you if you’ve expressed a genuine interest in making a purchase. You’re never allowed in “the back” and “the back” must me a 4 acre maze with a few coffee shops and TV playing reruns of Gilligan’s Island because, once they head into “the back”, it’s quite a while before you ever see them again. In the States, you’d just leave and go the hardware store across the street. In Tortola, there’s only one street and only one hardware store. So the employee comes back with a smile (ha, I just wrote that to make me smile) only to tell you that they don’t have it. I smile back (because my mother taught me to) and asked if they could recommend another place we could try. Then the game begins. They tell me where, I politely ask them to repeat what they said, they say it again, even more softly, I smile more broadly, make a joke about the heat and how it affects my hearing and ask them to repeat it again. They reply more loudly and with intended frustration at my unreasonableness but with no more clarity. I mumble back something in the same way people sing the lyrics to songs even when they don’t know them, thank them, leave the store and ask the first person I meet on the street where I can go to get PVC. Usually they point to the store I just walked out of and ask me if I’ve tried there.
Eventually we discover that the only place stocking the pipe is the Department of Waste Management. Delightful. I asked Jim if he would mind going to get it. Bless his heart, he says, “Sure.” Four trips to the Waste Depot later, Jim comes back with two, four foot long sections of pipe. It takes four trips because the first time, the guy who cuts the pipe was at lunch. Jim was told he would be back in fifteen minutes; three more trips and three hours later, he was there. Apparently he had lunch “in the back.”
Ok, so now I have the pipe. How to cut really big pieces of PVC at right angles? Mike and Tom, from Barecat charter are more than eager to crack open a few Old Milwaukees and watch me use their “Saws-ALL.“ Much to their entertainment disappointment, I manage to cut the pipe (and just the pipe) by tying it to what was left of a wrought iron and wood slat park bench. Then I used the grinder-from-hell to trim the bottoms flat. The grinder is from hell because as soon as it came out of the box, the West Indians removed and threw away the protective finger guard attached to the back of the grinder. What was left was a grinder with a very bad attitude and Rick with a few bloodied knuckles and one bloody knee. The bloody knee is because while sitting and grinding, I bent over to see if my line was parallel and didn’t pay attention to the grinder…ouch. But now I’m done and covered from head to toe in PVC dust. Do you know what PVC dust sticks to? Sweat. Got the picture?
I have the PVC cut and now need to tie it together. Unfortunately, I didn’t look that closely at the ready made, somewhat over-priced tank racks Chris Sawyer wanted to sell so I have to wing-it from here. I decide to drill them and screw them together. I can drill them from the outside and then counter sink the screws in from the inside so the racks are smooth. First I have to make a template so the screws all line up. No problem, I use an old strip hinge which I screw to the leg of the work bench. I’m impressing myself with each innovation. An hour later, I’ve drilled all the holes in all of the pieces of pipe however, I now find out that the initial “Saws-All” cuts were not square so the holes only line up with the guide and not with the to-be-joined sections of pipe. Out comes that nasty little grinder.
An hour later, the grinding is done. Once again, I’m covered in sweat and PVD dust but elated with being one step closer to being finished. At this point, I’m taking as much joy from each accomplishment as possible. The power of positive thinking. Now I’ll attach the counter-sinking bit to the mini drill and counter sink the 24 holes. I’ll be done in 5 minutes! The drill bit is a quarter if an inch too long. Sigh. I remind myself about the positive thinking. An hour later, all of the holes are counter sunk and my thumb and forefinger are starting to blister because I had to spin the countersinking bit by hand. Still, on the bright side, the holes are ready and the racks are almost done. I screw all of the screws in only to find that counter sinking the holes made the ends of the screw stick out the other side. Drat the luck. So I reluctantly get out the grinder-from-hell, grind down all of the screw tips and a few knuckles and am done. Or so I thought. The heat generated by grinding the screw seems to have weakened the PCV a bit. No worries, a little industrial strength epoxy in each seam will take care of that. The smallest can of epoxy available at the Chandlery (marine talk for super expensive hardware store) is $35.00 each – you have to buy two and mix them together. Before you apply the epoxy you have to wipe all of the surfaces down with acetone. Acetone cleans the plastic and burns the living hell out of your ground-down knuckles and your ground-down knee. How did I get it on my knee? You know the little boy who just has to lick the frozen light post? By now I’m wondering if Chris Sawyer went through all of this when he was making is moderately-prices tank racks.
The next morning I get up, eat my cereal and dash to the work room, or more accurately, the steel shipping container turned into a work room, to find my epoxy hardened like steel. Oh the sweet smell of success. Hey, wait a minute; my epoxy dried an ugly brown. Positive thinking, positive thinking. We just got a new, dark blue sail cover. I could cover the tank racks in blue and white ticking! You can take the boy of out the city, but…
Back to the hunt, or more to the point, back to asking Jim to go and find me white and blue ticking, which, of course, he does gleefully. He found white nylon ticking and Linda from Doyle Sails was kind enough to give him blue cotton ticking. The cotton will stretch but the nylon wont, but if I get a few pieces of teak and cinch them together with some nice black line, that would take care of the stretching. My tank racks are going to put Chris Sawyer’s very reasonably priced tank racks to shame.
The next day, I went to the teak store and asked Junior if I could get eight pieces of teak cut 12x2x1 inch, fully expecting him to say, “Sure, it will take me about ten minutes.” Instead, I got, “When you needem?”
“Today?” I replied sheeplishly.
“What time tomorrow you needum?”
“By noon?”
“They be ready at one.”
Damn, they’re good at that. So the next day at one, Jim went to pick them up. They were ready at 4:30 and only cost $80.00.
So I’ll wrap this up. Two more sessions with screws for the ticking and grinding for the screws (but thankfully, no knuckles involved) and one session with teak, clamps, knots and swear words and the racks are done. The finished appraisal comes in at two tank racks with blue and white ticking and teak accents….$300.00 each. The experience….priceless.