There are many things to be afraid of in the boatyard — rotten balsa, corroded stainless, falling off the ladder, stepping on a copperhead, and coming face to face with a bear are a few. But last night, the really scary things came out for a Halloween party.
Luckily, there was plenty of food to appease them. Actually, since it was a potluck, the scary things brought food! Not scary food, though. This potluck had no blue turkey.
Here are a few of the pictures. As you can see, nobody took the easy route and wore a Tyvek suit or a dust mask. But Audrey came as Randy, and Dick came as Charlie, and John came as Tony, which confused the heck out of people who didn’t know Randy, Charlie, or Tony. It left the rest of us gasping for breath, we were laughing so hard.
Audrey dressed up as a miniature Randy. She was almost as cute as the real Randy!Dick came as Charlie, wearing a shirt that said Tony. He even made the same tasteless jokes as Charlie!Celeste and Donna, with pointy things on their heads and great makeup.Father Charlie had all the props, including the beer and the cigarette. He generated a few tasteless jokes, too.Val and Harold brought the toga theme, which went well with Celeste's Pan look.Is this the result of too much bottom paint? Wait, Scott's boat is not even hauled out!Who was behind the mask and wig? He could be anyone, but he said his name was Barry. Then he went home with the honey bee. What's that about?This is what we'll all be wearing to work on our boats, instead of those boooooring Tyvek suits.The whole dressed-up gang, complete with jackstands and boats on either side of us. Scary!
I like the term journeyman. Part of it is because I like to travel, but that is really just an irrelevant bonus. Perhaps it is because I’ve never done a formal apprenticeship program, and don’t have to worry about any unpleasant aspects of it. But I’ve been thinking about it just the same lately.
You see, I (with Meps by my side, keeping up with me) have spent a lot of the last year doing fiberglass repairs and construction. I didn’t have a formal master, although there are several people here in the yard who have that level of skill, and they have been generous with their advice. As I understand it, there is a journeyman piece which is completed. It represents a test of skill and knowledge, and marks the end of the apprenticeship period. In fiberglass, I consider the re-finishing of two 42-foot long carbon fiber masts to be a journeyman piece. Perhaps I am exaggerating, but only a little.
We finished that job a couple months ago before we left for Seattle, and I am finally getting back to some of that work. And I’m realizing that this journeyman level of skill is something I have in some areas, but not in others. For example, I’m still quite a few steps away from claiming that level of skill when painting, especially with two-part polyurethane paints. And I doubt I can claim that level of skill as a writer either. And as an editor, I don’t even want to get there very badly.
I think I realized this when I tried to write about two weeks of working full-out on re-finishing our masts. It had some good information in there, and a few funny bits too. But it went on and on (the job did too, so that was accurate). I am sure that it would be possible to edit it into a nice (short) funny story for this website. It would also be possible to write a big detailed piece that would be very useful for anybody about to re-finish a carbon fiber mast, and interesting to a few people, but pretty boring to the rest of you. But I just don’t feel like slogging through the editing work, so it will stay as it is….much closer to the big long description. The story does include a bunch of pictures, but if technical details of fiberglass work make your eyes glaze over you have been warned. (Download my telling of our mast refinishing project (PDF format) in all its glory if you wish.)
Strangely enough, I don’t find anything negative or bad in this. I like to know what I’m good at. And also what I want to get better at. And while I don’t particularly like to suck at anything, there is room for that in my world too. There are a few thousand things I can happily leave for people who love or need those skills more than I ever will.
A day later, I went back to finish my goop job; I screwed on the bases of my bow lights, and shoved the wires down the hole before putting the light on and completing the installation.
But when I pushed the wires on the second light through, the stopped early….and came back up with the ends covered in white goo. I obviously was only 50% successful with my wire-string-rope gadgets to clean the goop out of the holes. I wasn’t too surprised because I did pull that one through before I intended to. And then when I tightened the screws holding the teak block all the way down and watched the goop squeeze out all around I suspected that this was happening.
So today I got out a wire probe an forced it though…then forced a string through, then tied another little bit of dead rope to the string, and went below and pulled it through, cleaning out the excess goop. It was quick, and I didn’t leave a path of goo in my bedroom. And only a few minutes later, the second bow light was screwed in.
Before I cleaned out the goo, I went back to my used glove box, and found two pairs I had used lightly while installing the teak blocks. Now that I’m done, I think one will survive for yet another day…but the other two probably have too much goop on them to be usable when it kicks. I’ll find out later.
But when I talk of goop winning a battle, I am not speaking correctly. I am actually directing away from my point. The (up-to-now unstated) follow-on sentence is about me winning the war against the goop, but I just can’t say that. Because I’m not in a war with the goop. The goop is on my side, although it can be a sticky partner. I do look for the humor or entertainment in my struggles with partners like this, but there is no battle here, nor is there a war. And I do occasionally struggle, but I am enjoying the work. If I struggle, I am usually learning more and I like that too.
In truth, I don’t feel like I’m working against any part of Flutterby. Instead, I’m lovingly working on turning her into the boat of my dreams. The one I will sail on. When I’m at sea, I trust that she will take loving care of me when I need protection from the elements. Because somehow, I believe she will be returning to me all that I’m putting into her here on land. Most of what I do is to make sure she is seaworthy and sound. But not all. Some things I do are simply because they make her feel like a more wonderful boat to me. Or perhaps just because I love her.
Today I did something on my todo list that was big enough that it definitely counts as real progress. I did quite a bit of work in the last few days, and even did some of it before we left the boat back in July. But I’ll get to that later.
You see, today was really about the gloves. Boat projects are full of nasty chemicals. Often breathing them is a bad idea, so I wear a respirator, but today I was outside and it was too hot anyways. Also, I believe it is possible to absorb some of them through your skin, and even if that doesn’t happen, they can be difficult to clean off. Thus the gloves.
Flutterby has surely consumed 10 boxes of disposable gloves by now. Our favorites are the blue nitrile rubber ones from Harbor Freight. They are sized, and fortunately, the same size (Medium) fits both of us. Most other brands are one-size-fits-almost-everybody-but-not-very-well. They are thinner and blow out very quickly. The Harbor Freight gloves work well, fit well, and cost about $10 for a box of 100 gloves. We’ve been ordering three boxes at a time lately.
But you see, I’m frugal. Even though they are disposable, they can often survive the job without too much damage–maybe just a little dried paint, or some sweat stains. Those could still protect my hands another day. Other times they are too messy, or get holes. Those finally get thrown away. Sometimes after a nasty job, I clean up the tools with solvent or vinegar. If I keep wearing the gloves during cleanup, as a side effect, I end up with a couple “washed” gloves. I’ve also taken an idea from the medical profession, and I usually put on two pairs at once, and just keep changing the outside ones. The inside pair usually stays pretty clean So we have a box of “used” gloves, waiting for the next job.
Today I got out the 3M 101 and put down two blocks of teak that are both the front of our cap rail and a mounting space for our bow lights. I screwed them down, then re-installed the chocks which separated this piece of toe rail from the piece aft. It sounds simple when I say it like this. But that doesn’t explain the gloves either.
This job went as well as could be expected. It took me 10 minutes to open up the (partially used) tube of 101 enough that I could operate the caulk gun. Then once I put the goop down it started getting all over. I had masked the teak blocks and the deck. But of course, I didn’t do quite enough masking. By this time I had thrown three or four gloves overboard due to blowouts or too much goop. Then the screws didn’t seem to be going into the pre-drilled holes. For a long time. Then I picked up the block and dug around in the goop underneath. And threw some more gloves overboard. And a gooey rag too. Finally I got the screws going where they belonged and tightened them down.
Then I put the chock down and screwed it in (That was easy!).
Now I repeat the process on the starboard side. It went about the same, except that I had so much trouble starting the screws that I actually climbed down below, opened up my ladder and worked on it from the side, trying not to look into the setting sun. By this time, both the mosquitos and the ferrel cats want me to feed them. I don’t have a choice with the mosquitos, but the cats will wait a little longer.
I didn’t describe the next step on the first side. I’ve got an odd crooked hole that goes through the deck and the board to allow the bow light’s wire down below. I was afraid that I would get this hole filled with 101 and be unable to install the wires later. So I tied together a short piece of heavy wire and a the core from some dead rope with a little string. I stuffed the rope into the wood block, and left the wire dangling. As I was putting the gooped block onto the deck, I threaded the wire through and let dangle inside the anchor locker. (Yup, another glove goes overboard!) Once I had the block screwed in and (I hope) just about all the goop squeezed into position I went inside the boat, trying not to goop the boat and crawled into the anchor locker, and tried to find my little wires to pull them through. Then I tried to carry this goopy mess outside without making a mess on my bed or the rest of the boat.
Finally I was almost done. I then started cleaning up extra 101 that had squirted out all over the place. I used a rag and mineral spirits to try and remove it from the teak. I threw more rags overboard. Probably a glove too. By this time I had killed all the “used” gloves and was getting new ones.
The last thing was to re-use a couple more gloves. I tie them over the 101 cartridge to keep the goo inside and (hopefully) keep the air out and prevent it from kicking off before I can use it.
Finally I can check something off. And now I can feed the cats too.
Yesterday, the season still felt very much like summer. During the day I was hearing an orchestra of cicadas singing for me. That brings me back to my childhood summers, since Seattle doesn’t seem to have that orchestra. The evening chorus of frogs seems to fit a wider range of seasons, but it still felt like summer.
Today it isn’t any cooler, but it was overcast, drizzled a little, and now that it is evening it is really starting to rain. But a warm, hard, summer rain still.
Yesterday I started working on another item on my ever-present list, but didn’t get make a whole lot of progress–I spent more time visiting with people in the boatyard and speaking to friends thousands of miles away more than working.
Today I slept in (talking to people in other time zones isn’t helping this night-owl get on local time), and did a little more work on the same project…but once again, I didn’t make much progress on that todo list with 92 items.
I’ve been thinking more about other things. You see, I’ve realized that when Meps decided to take her road trip so she could have some time to write and be on her own, having her own adventures, she just gave me the most amazing gift. Something I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t had in the last twenty years. In fact, I may never have had it, since the last summer I had no obligations, I was still living with my parents, and thus had a few rules and a little structure imposed on me.
For this month, I am my own master. I do not have a job to report to. I do not have somebody living with me to discuss things with, or negotiate things with, decide things with, or do things with. There isn’t somebody to do things for, and nobody will do things for me either. I can eat when I’m hungry, or just be hungry. I can cook whatever I like with anything I have aboard. I could go out to a restaurant. If I leave my shoes in the the middle of the floor, nobody else will trip over them. If I don’t decide to do anything, nobody will point it out to me. I’m not really alone–there are lots of people in the boatyard, and I am enjoying their company, but I have no commitments with them.
So I came here thinking that the todo list was my master. But it isn’t. I am my own master, and I choose whether to look at the list or not. And I pick my own item from the list to work on. Or maybe I will pick two or three and bounce around them. Instead….or in addition….or whatever, I spoke with Nancy at Bahia Street and asked what I could do to make their website better. I have a whole world of choices here, and they are all mine.
And I’ve worked on things not because they were the top of the list critical items we need to complete before we launch. Instead I picked a couple things that just bugged me. The fact that they were smaller items I could finish soon helped, but mainly I was tired of having them hanging over me as something I meant to do but hadn’t got to yet. Perhaps I’ll knock a lot of things I’ve been “meaning to do” out this month. Or perhaps I’ll decide that I was really “meaning NOT to do” some of them instead?
Tonight I took a look at the weather radar and saw a rainy evening coming. Now I’m battened down in my cozy little boat, writing for the web, and cooking bacon and eggs and some sort of hash for dinner at 8pm. Actually I think it will be bacon, hash and a extra sharp cheddar omelet. And it probably won’t be ready ’till 8:40 or so. In fact, I’m already eating at 8:35, and I made too much hash, and put too much ground chipotle pepper into it. It is all wonderful, and I did eat it all. But then I didn’t eat much else today.
If it doesn’t rain too much tomorrow, I might get the new section of teak toe-rail installed with the newly polished bronze chocks. I will soon cross something off that big list. I may start back on one of the bigger projects like re-finishing the masts. But not tonight.
Now the season is becoming clear to me. This is a season for me to think. And it is a season for me to feel. I suspect the second is even more important. It absolutely is time for this season.
Unfortunately, I have too many !@#$! lists. The boat list was the one I was going to chip away at. But today I think I figured out my electrical problem with the Squid Wagon–it looks like all the wires are intact and connected, but somehow it ate another battery. Forutnately it isn’t quite a year old, so it should be under warranty. The other one seems to be good enough that it still turns the engine over by itself, although not quite as cheerfully as two healthy batteries would. As a former electrical engineer, I should probably be embarrassed that I didn’t figure it out yesterday when I realized something was odd, but at least I’ve figured something out. Too bad I had to notice that the rubber gaskets where the various parts of the steering linkage are attached all look kinda shot. I think I’ll just ignore it for now, as Squidley’s steering doesn’t feel any worse than usual!
I also realized that I really should have lubed the chains of the clunker bikes we left out in the rain here before we left–they weren’t turning very well, but a little Boeshield T-9 and some riding got the kinks out. And I even found the bike pump in my storage unit without having to dig very deep, so I had full tires when I rode back. (It isn’t far–from the boat to the mailbox is farther than from the mailbox to the storage unit!)
Sadly, both of these items belong on other lists than the boat todo list, so I still can’t cross them off! I think I’ll go and attach the oak trim I previously cut to fit around the outlet I added in the dinette. That can at least be added to the boat list!
I’m back in Beaufort on Flutterby, on the hard at Bock Marine, our “home” boatyard.
Meps is on the road in Spokane, making her way here slowly.
I just counted 92 items on the boat todo list.
Some are simple: “Re-install bow cleats.”
Some are a bit more involved: “Design rig: Size, shape, battens, yard, attachments.”
Many depend upon other items not yet completed.
Some will require Meps’ hands to assist me, or mine to assist her.
Some probably won’t be finished before we go cruising.
Many must be finished before we can go cruising.
Some may not be finished while we own Flutterby.
Some things need to be done and didn’t even make it onto the list yet. If I do one, I may add it just so I can cross it off.
Yesterday I screwed up two pieces of trim in the V-berth. It wasn’t on the list and only took about five minutes.
Today I didn’t do anything at all on the boat.
Tonight I’m just feeling overwhelmed.
Tomorrow I’ll pick one. I wonder whether I’ll finish it or not.
The morning after the kittens were almost born on Charlie’s head, Barry trotted over to Charlie’s trailer and asked to use the bandsaw. When he fired it up, Momma Kitty looked at him askance. Her eyes seemed to say, “What the heck do you think you’re doing? You’re hurting my kittens’ ears!” Never mind the fact that five hours after being born, the kittens’ ears were still stuck flat to their heads.
The next morning, I stopped to see Charlie and the kittens. “We have a kitten crisis,” he told me. “She took one of them away.” We looked at the cat and one remaining kitten sadly. RIP, I thought. Momma Kitty seemed more attached to Charlie and John and Barry and me than to her kitten. “Maybe if you sleep with her tonight, instead of on the boat, she won’t abandon the last one…” I suggested, hesitantly. I hated to ask that of Charlie, but he’s a hero. “I’ll do that,” he said, brightly.
The next morning, I stopped by, and it was deja vu all over again. “We have a kitten crisis,” he said. “She slept with me all night, but she took the other one away this morning. I tried to follow her, but she knew I was tailing her (har, har) and gave me the slip.”
I was a little more successful at tailing her, and I found where she’d stashed the kitten — under the back seat of John’s conversion van, which he’d left open to keep it cool and aired out.
This created a whole new set of problems. In order to buy groceries or do laundry, John needed to drive his van. But it was 100 degrees that day. If he carted the cats to Beaufort and locked his doors, he’d have two roasted cats under the rear seat. And if he did so without Momma Kitty on board, she’d be frantic while he was gone.
Then Barry went back to use the bandsaw. “What was that squeak?” he asked Charlie. I guess he thought one of Charlie’s power tools needed oiling.
Charlie couldn’t think of any power tools that made that sound. So they dug into a huge pile of toolboxes under a bunch of cabinets and found the source — the other kitten!
The family was reunited in John’s van, and then my slippery path to sainthood began. Nancy Bock and I looked all over the boatyard for a place to relocate the cats. But nothing seemed right. Finally, Barry and I decided to cat-nap the three of them and put them on our boat for the time being.
Since the kittens look exactly like Mom, we suspect it was a virgin birth
We walked over to John’s van with a large plastic tote, and Barry put on a fleece sweater in case Momma Kitty tried to scratch or bite. But she didn’t. He gently lifted her out, and she sat docilely in his arms as I put her two squeaky kittens in the tote. Then we walked across the boatyard, carried them up the ladder, and put the tote into a cozy, defensible spot in the quarterberth. Momma Kitty did a quick lap of the boat, proclaimed it acceptable, and climbed into the quarterberth to resume nursing.
It’s been a few days, and Momma Kitty now goes by the name, “Buttercup,” because of her sunflower-yellow eyes and her princess status. The two kittens haven’t been named; we call them the wiggle-worms. At one week old, their eyes are not yet open, although they do have ears now.
It’s a happy story, except for one thing — I have two weeks to find a place for them. My attempts to place the little group with a foster family, no-kill animal shelter, or permanent home have been unsuccessful. I have made numerous calls, posted ads, and sent emails. But if you are an animal, Carteret County is not the place for you! The Humane Shelter here is referred to as a “high-kill” facility.
The few volunteers in the area who work to save pets are desperately overloaded. I call their message phones, and most call back from restricted numbers. “We can’t help you,” they say. “We have too many cats already.” If I was the praying sort, I’d be praying for help about now.
When do I get tuna?
So we’ll keep looking, and in the meantime, we’ll enjoy this snuggly, docile kitty and her two wiggle-worms. If you don’t want a pet permanently, let me suggest that you foster a cat or dog, wherever you are! I can’t tell you how rewarding this is. When these kittens open their eyes — tomorrow or the next day, I hope — what will they see first? Momma? Me? Barry? Or the underside of the quarterberth? They’re sure to think that living on a boat is a natural thing, so we’d better get them settled in a house soon, or they’ll be ruined forever. Just like me.
I was puttering around this morning, thinking of our new friend from Ohio, Charlie, and how it might be fun to start a drinking club here for Ohio expats. This may come as a surprise to our Seattle friends, who don’t even know about our Ohio roots. But as one astute friend said, growing up in Columbus, Ohio inspires long-distance travel.
Just then, Barry came back to the boat with a piece of nicely-shaped teak in his hand. He’d been over at Charlie’s trailer, using the bandsaw to shape a new piece of toe rail.
“Remember the cat that was hanging around Charlie’s trailer last night?” he asked. “She had kittens … on Charlie’s bed.” I grabbed the camera and headed over to see.
Charlie, with his trailer, truck, and boat
Charlie showed up last weekend to do some work on his boat, and everything about his rig — truck and trailer — shouted “BUCKEYE!” There were the Ohio license plates, the Columbus address on his trailer, and the bright red folding chairs with “Ohio State” stenciled on them in white 4-inch letters.
Barry and I, on the other hand, own two Ohio State t-shirts that we only use for painting and epoxy work, because we’re embarrassed by them. No other OSU paraphernalia — we’re very reluctant alumni. Sure, it’s a good school, but some people take the team spirit thing too far. When I lived in Columbus, I worked with a woman who dressed in scarlet and gray on Fridays during football season. I remember that this included a jumper with one gray knee sock and one scarlet one, an OSU sweatshirt, and a giant necklace made of buckeyes. And she hadn’t even gone to Ohio State, nor did she have football tickets!
Despite my reluctance to advertise my Buckeye affiliation, I had to get to know Charlie. We spent a couple of evenings hanging out around his trailer and talking, and discovered that he’s really interesting, and easy to talk to. He’s got a gigantic steel boat that’s trying to rust faster than he can get it in the water. The boat was such a mess, he’d been sleeping in the trailer. But he’s gotten the boat cleaned up, and last night, he said that would be his last one sleeping in the trailer — he was planning to sleep in the boat tonight.
Flutterby's feral cats
Charlie has a really central location, right by the Travelift. The first time we’d hung out at his trailer, there had been a strange, friendly dog hanging around. Last night, when we stopped to talk, it was a cat, instead. She was orange and white and incredibly thin. She was very snuggly, rubbing against our legs and pushing her head on our hands to be petted. Charlie fed her some tuna, and she followed us back to our boat and we gave her cat food. But Flutterby’s two feral cats made her unwelcome, and there was a bit of yowling and cat-fighting under the boat last night. When I got up this morning, she wasn’t around.
After Barry’s announcement, I found Charlie standing outside his trailer, smoking a cigarette and looking a bit dazed. “I’m a Daddy!” he said.
During the night, the little cat had come into his trailer and climbed up on his head. Charlie likes cats, and has a couple of them at home. But he wasn’t going to have this strange cat sleeping on his head. So he moved her down to his feet and went back to sleep. When he woke, she was still at his feet, nursing two tiny kittens.
Charlie’s got a bit of a dilemma — he and his trailer, and the kittens’ bed, are going back to Ohio next week. In the meantime, he’s going to be sleeping on the boat and wondering what to do with three cats that he didn’t have yesterday.
Tiny cat with tinier kittensThe kittens that were born on Charlie's bed
As our one-year anniversary of living in the boatyard neared, I told my friends that we were planning to celebrate the event. Most of them looked at me as though I’d sprouted two heads. “You haven’t been able to launch your boat after working on it for a whole year, and you want to celebrate this fact?”
They rolled their eyes, but they came anyway.
That morning, we had begun installing the first three portlights. “Which side do we do first?” Barry asked. “The port side, of course!” My reasoning? The picnic table and barbecue grill were on the port side, so our guests would be able to admire our shiny bronze ports.
As usual, the work took longer than expected. We were still cleaning up messy black butyl and white polysulfide caulk as the guests began to arrive. We never made it to the showers, and the interior never got cleaned up. We hoped our friends wouldn’t come up on the boat and notice.
But as we fired up the grill and set out the appetizers, the first raindrops began to fall, and there was no place to go but up the ladder into the boat. The scene inside Flutterby was a disaster — there were tools and parts and clothes everywhere, and dishes were piled up from several meals. We quickly passed out drinks, hoping to distract our guests from the boat’s condition. We kept them busy, too: All hands were needed to man buckets and towels under the starboard portlights, which at that point were gaping 5- by 12-inch holes in the side of the cabin.
The storm passed fairly quickly and the party moved back outside, and nobody gave us a hard time about the condition of our interior. Our friends have very low standards, or else they’re very kindhearted. Given the gifts I received at the party (my birthday had been the day before), I think it’s the latter.
Over the next few days, I took stock of our one-year situation. I have learned and accomplished a lot, including the following things that I didn’t know I needed to experience:
I got stuck in the lazarette (despite #3.2), had a panic attack, and had to be extricated by Barry. Have you ever noticed that the word “extricate” never has a happy connotation?
I sprained my ankle three times, once while stuck in the lazarette having a panic attack.
I broke one toe, lost 13 pounds, and cut off a foot (of hair).
I took one belly dance lesson. I would have taken more, except for #2 and #3.1, above.
I have handled carpenter bees in the ladder, a mud-dauber wasp trying to build a nest under the chart table, and a black widow spider in my water pitcher. These are all potentially harmful insects, and they did not make me scream. On the other hand, every 3-inch palmetto bug that ran across my galley counter made me shriek loudly, to Barry’s discomfort (if he sat further away, I wouldn’t be shrieking in his ear…see #7).
I became on intimate terms with Mr. Dremel, Mr. Orbital Sander, Mr. Makita Drill, and Mr. Jigsaw. I am now on speaking terms with Mr. Angle Grinder, and I’m getting to know Mr. Fein.
I found myself occasionally not on speaking terms with my husband, who is rarely more than 6 feet away from me. He can operate any power tool one-handed while lying on his back with his eyes closed in the coffin-shaped pilot berth, which I find maddening.
I fell in love with my full-face organic vapor respirator but found that it’s impossible to kiss someone or scratch your nose while wearing one.
I figured out that if you don’t protect the zipper of your Tyvek suit with tape, sometimes you drip epoxy on it and can’t get your clothes off.
I have learned to tolerate, but not enjoy, galley faucet roulette. I never know if the water is going to come out in an orderly fashion, as gravity and the universe intended, or if it’s going to explode violently into the cup I am holding, causing lemonade to erupt like Mount Vesuvius all over the front of my shirt. This is why I no longer buy pink lemonade.
I no longer think it’s unusual to wear hearing protection earmuffs while cooking dinner because Barry is operating loud power tools (see #6)Â three feet away. It’s easy to burn things when you can’t hear them sizzling in the skillet, which makes the smoke alarm go off, which is OK, because I’m wearing my earmuffs. Barry always wishes he was wearing earmuffs when a palmetto bug runs across the counter (see #5).
I learned that when the Sriracha chili sauce gets clogged, one should not simply squeeze the bottle harder. When I did, the lid exploded off, and I let out a loud, four-letter expletive. At this point, Barry looked up from his computer and said, alarmed, “Please tell me that’s not your blood!” To him, it looked like an unplanned amputation.
Most importantly, I discovered that some of the nicest people in the world are found in boatyards, hardware stores, lumberyards, and vegetable stands. This, coupled with the miraculous fact that we have not had to buy anything at West Marine, explains why I still have a sense of humor after a whole year.
