For the past 3 weeks it’s been either pouring like the monsoons or absolutely
sweltering, so nothing for it but to a) kayak around in the afternoon, b) ride
my fabulous new bike, c) sulk, or d) feel so guilty about not working on Jeff
Brown that I do none of these things, and instead take myself down to the
boathouse to chip away (would
that that
were a euphemism) on what’s left to be done of the, um, exterior. Okay,
outboard. This has been a pip, since the boathouse grows dark in the afternoon,
with Jeff’s port side almost completely obscured unless I throw open the big
barn doors, thus letting everyone in the world know I’m here mangling a piece
of history.
For this shed is at the “Town
Dock,” an impossibly tiny bit of beach overlooking the river and the anchorage,
with a nice lawn and a nautical vibe, and everyone, and I mean everyone, for
miles around comes and parks it here in the summer, lounging cheek by jowl with
children, dogs, umbrellas, blow-up swans and picnics, to the point where I’m
sure they’ve all exchanged phone numbers and bathing suit sand by evening. I
usually keep the front and back door open, for the breeze.
 |
| Grace, as seen from the back door. She has a last name but I've forgotten it. |
The other day this was rewarded by a glimpse
of the aging but quite cute
Grace, an
oyster boat usually berthed in Norwalk but up here sometimes for the heavy
lifting, since next door is the Oyster Guy, who’s recently thrown in his lot
with a bigger partner and so has access to
magnificent craft like this one.
Although over the winter his shop was a flurry of activity, as he and
his elves built a metal oyster catamaran, an operation shrouded in more secrecy
than the design that turned America’s Cup racers from sailboats into pontooned
bullets with kevlar on sticks.
But I digress.
Even though the breeze out the back door
was wonderful I hadda open up the big doors, which brought all manner of curious
onlookers, asking questions ranging from “Does it float?” to “Who picked the
colors?” (this from a five year old, who liked the green but thought the red
was a little too fussy). Now, since for the moment I have to work in a building
owned by the Historical Society, and since Jeff is an Historical Artifact, you
can bet I had my facts at my fingertips (I was able to assure people,
emphatically, that yes it does indeed float. Some of the time. With three pumps going) and had my pleasant-but
paint-spattered docent-smile on, which is painful for this old hermit.
But the other day, as I was working on
the transom, which gives me fits (more on that later), the irascible and
over-large Marty the shih-tzu kept wandering away from his owner and flinging
himself into the boathouse for a good romp through the dropcloth. Which made
his owner a) scream his name over and over, so now it will never leave me, and
b) dart in the boathouse after him and throw me what my aunt used to call a “withering
look,” accusing me of having the nerve to be painting a boat in of all places a
boathouse.
Marty aside, I have liked these late
afternoons with Jeff, with the light slanting through the southeast windows and the waves bumping against the rocks and
the fading voices of tired beachgoers packing up and going home to dinner. It does
not suck to live here.
This will be the last year we can use
the same boat lettering, though it has held up like a champ.It breaks my
aging Scottish heart that we will have to part with $35 again. First thing I had to do was wash all the rust off it with
a Q-Tip and bleach, then I got out the artist brushes and painted around the
letters. I am sure that dead marine
repair professionals are spinning in their graves over this but what can I
do? We all serve one master or another. There is an awful spot on the starboard side that no amount of sanding or
Interlux trowel cement can cure. I have
heard whisperings that a new transom is in order. I often wonder what part of Jeff Brown is actually not held together with epoxy and bronze
wire. The hatch covers, probably. Wonderfully sturdy things.
All beautiful, except the white trim and
the right side. See how ugly?
Those are
not puckers or bubbles. They’re pieces
of . . . the boat, that just stick up.
Which probably means that they are not
sticking up; it’s the area around it that has sunk in. Nasty.
And the mast, of course, though it is a
bit bendy. Dane stopped by the other day—it
was the thunder-and-lightning storm and some people were down at the dock to
look at the Sound as it grew purple and wild. Hadn’t seen him since the one
sail he had after he’d refinished the mast and bowsprit. He was glad they were
holding up. I should take a photo of
them hanging in the boathouse. They still look lovely. I remarked to Dane that
he’s the only person who ever said “I’ll help” and actually did. Except Dave
the pilot, who last year refinished the boom and jib club. Paul doesn’t count.
Cuz he’s the boss and does everything.
So, waiting on the white paint for the rail
cap, I have been painting the rub rail (black) around the brass (black), before I can
paint the red sheerstrake or the rail/bulwark below the rail cap. If you’re going to tart up a boat you have to
know in which order you can paint the colors so you don’t end up bent over twisted
like a pretzel with your hair in the paint can. Actually, I am doing all of
this because I absolutely do not want to face the deck. I’m refusing to sand it until Bruce pulls it
out of the boathouse. I will not kill myself in a space that’s three inches
from the ceiling.
No
freaking way. I’ve cracked my head, shoulders and back on those beams so many
times,
scuttling around when we repaired those rails, I can’t count.
Also please note the traveler,
formerly known as the whatsis, in the foreground.
Still not replaced!
“Lie down and stick the sander under you,”
says Paul. In a pig’s eye. YOU lie down
and stick the sander under you, see
how it feels. I’d sand off my chest. I’m dedicated, but not insane. In fact, I don’t know how boaty people do
this year after year. With me, I’ll do
it because it’s my uncle’s boat. But any
other boat? To spend this much time just
to get it to the point where “job well done” means “doesn’t sink?”
Fuggedaboutit.
