Of Q-Tips, naughty dogs, and my overwhelming desire to save a buck

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.

Take that, rot!

It’s been brought to my attention that some people are actually reading this blog, including people from the area that I’ve studiously tried to not mention, in order to lend a little faux-anonymity to the postings. But I guess the (waterlogged) cat is out of the bag. I’m just going to pretend that it’s not.

April . . . was a cruel month, but not for the reasons T.S. Eliot lists. It was just too darned cold to do much, even though Jeffie was in the boathouse. However, May rolled around and as the last blog post suggests, Paul and I decided that it might be time to tackle the Big Repair of the season: the rails.  Now this, as you recall, flies in the face of my promise, this year, to really go to town on the deck, which doesn’t get much love since I’ve exhausted myself on the exterior, or outboard as you watery types would say. But rot is a harsh mistress, and apparently this repair could wait no longer. So for about a month we reefed out all the goo, muck and non-wood from the rail and covering board (see previous post), and lo, the craters of the universe appeared. We had to separate the rail from the deck completely, which was a real pleasure. We’d been told by one observer to just take the Sawzall and hack it right off, but that would have meant complete replacement of the rail cap and probably, at that point, the rail, plus as I have been told more than once, every time you take a piece off a boat, you risk shifting its shape, even if it’s by just a little bit. So for this frankly grisly operation we used no power tools, but at the end of it, to smooth things out, Mr Sawzall did come in handy.

The scuppers also look tons better--nice and smooth (sort of) without all that 40-year-old filling clogging their sides.

Then it was time for some resin, just to seal things up (but not to fill the holes by any means.)

Then we had a Day of Bolting, where holes were drilled through the rail cap through the rail (a delicate operation requiring a good eye and lotsa luck) into the members below the deck, and screwed on tight. Then more epoxy to seal the bolt holes and plugs, then enough caulk to fill a bathtub that went in between the rail and the deck. This was wonderful stuff, and we smoothed it out with mineral spirits so that the area between the rail and deck is smoother than it has been in years.  Plus, instead of hard, stiff epoxy, trowel cement, Bondo, 5200, chewing gum, or whatever else had been stuck in there over the years, there is a slight give to it, and it is very waterproof.

June brought the Filling of the Deck Cracks, which is still not done, although I have managed to paint the bottom, a practice which gives Paul fits since he believes one should start from the top and work one’s way down, but not me, no siree, I want to see that ugly mass of ruts and caverns covered up—it motivates me to carry on.  So at this point the topsides are almost sanded and ready to paint.  Better late than never. We’ll see what this month holds. It’ll be out on the mooring by Christmas, I swear!!

I actually did a not-bad sanding job this year--my goal is to not have the planks show. Ahahahahaha. Paul says it takes 3 years from the time you take the hull down to wood; this is year #4 so here's hoping.