Category Archives: Living the Meps ‘n’ Barry Life

Living in a Boatyard, Rebuilding Boats

It’s the wrong bunny suit, Grommit!

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It started with a deck leak where the bolts hold the bow pulpit onto the boat.  Then we removed the bow cleats and two big bolts holding on the anchoring platform. Then the grinding began, wearing full protective gear.

Barry wearing the wrong bunny suitI’ve had much better times in a different bunny suit…and Meps had a great time with just the head a while back. But this is a different time, and it calls for another kind of bunny suit.  I actually like it, especially the riot police style facemask which lets me both see and breath at the same time. And while this stuff isn’t fun, it really improves my life/health while I’m grinding fiberglass and doing fiberglass and epoxy repairs, which has been job #1 lately.

Actually, the balsa core wasn’t damaged far from the bolts, but it was kinda rotten for an inch or so around the bolts.  I have to call that “good news” since it means that the water and rot didn’t migrate very far.  Unfortunately, it was still a pretty big grinding job because where some of the bolts go through, the core was angled at 45 degrees, which made for a very poor place to bolt something on.  So I had to grind it out in a much larger area to make a flat-ish area under the bolts, then bevel the area around that.  Up in the forepeak, this is even more grinding, because there are two layers of balsa core (about two inches think) for extra strength where it holds the main mast up, so the bevel just goes on and on and on.

This makes it sound like a simple job, probably done quickly.  But of course, it wasn’t–first, the grinding happened in three or four strages as I figured out how big my problem was and how much bevel I needed, and that coarse sanding disks on my grinder work better than the abrasive disks for this job….with about four trips to the hardware stores trying to figure out exactly which attachments I needed for the grinder. (Thanks again for the grinder, Tom!)  Then there is the fiberglass and epoxy layup.

Since I had put on the full suit of gear and started grinding away in temperatures too hot for the job, Meps took the uncomfortable job of climbing into the forepeak laying on her back and fiberglassing over her head while I mixed epoxy and saturated cloth on deck and passed it down.  The first time it seemed easy, but that was before I took a careful look and then ground out quite a few voids.  The net result was that the first layup didn’t actually leave much on the boat, but we learned a lot:  1. Don’t lay up fiberglass at dusk, when you can’t see it.  2. If you are doing it overhead, use plenty of resin so it saturates well.  3. Grind those holes smoother so it won’t make voids at the transition points.  4. Start with thickened epoxy in the corners like a fillet to help with those voids too.

So I went back to grinding, then Meps went back to glassing.  Ultimately, if I remember correctly, there were three more gooey upside-down layups with glass cloth and epoxy.  Then I realized that the new backing plates wouldn’t sit flat.  Oops, I neglected to mention that in addition to the angle under some bolts, there were only fender washers underneath, and we didn’t think that was up to the job….so we made backing plates from 3/16″ aluminum plate…I know 3/16 is overkill, but that was the size of the scrap available in the boatyard. So back to putting the backing plates on–the flat area that was supposed to be above them was smaller than they were, so first we tried putting on some layers of chopped strand mat with epoxy to build up a flat area, but that didn’t do enough.  So after letting it cure and grinding it for the next coat to stick, we added a layer of thickened epoxy. Still the backing plates didn’t quite fit flush.  Grind it again so it had a little more tooth, and move on.

Then came the next step–fitting the bow pulpit back on.  It got bent a little in its history somehow, and that is probably why it wants to spring its feet apart–when you attach one foot, the other three don’t want to go where they belong any more.  So with a bit of wrestling, I got some holes drilled that were almost aligned–I could get all 12 bolts through, and they didn’t ALL bind up at once, at least after I had re-drilled three or four holes to enlarge them.  Then we tried to fit the backing plates onto the bottom….I mostly ground those holes larger with the Dremel instead of re-drilling them.  Finally we cleaned everything up, waxed the bolts and nuts, and added a last layer of thickened epoxy to both fill the space and glue the backing plates to the underside of the deck.

When that was done, we removed the bolts and drilled the holes out again (the epoxy had formed threads on the bottom, and I wanted open holes to put nuts and washers on the bottom). Then one last grinding job — removing the frozen epoxy “goobers” — and a very careful final cleanup.

The bow pulpit is now installed, mounted with expensive marine caulk and 12 brand-new 316 stainless steel bolts, nuts, and washers. Finally one thing is ready to go back to sea–way too much of the work so far has been in the direction of taking things apart instead of putting them back together.

Living in Beaufort, NC, Rebuilding Boats

The high cost of fuel for flying pigs

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A couple of weeks ago, we were sitting in the air-conditioned lounge between fiberglassing projects. We were wearing what Barry and I call our “itchy-scratchy” clothes, ratty things we only wear for the nastiest, messiest jobs. For me, that means denim shorts with a hole in the rear, an old t-shirt large enough to fit an elephant, and sandals.

A fellow walked in, and I glanced up from my notebook and said hello, absently. Then I looked at him again.

It was over 100 degrees, and he looked cool as a cucumber. He was wearing tooled leather cowboy boots and black jeans, with the kind of dress shirt you see at a country and western dance, or a square dance. It had shiny button covers and fancy trim along the yoke.

I realized I was staring, and I blurted out, “You sure don’t look like you’re working on a boat today!”

“No, I came on my motorcycle to show my boat to a prospective buyer,” he replied. He explained that he had a powerboat for sale out in the storage lot, the place we jokingly call “the field of broken dreams.”

A few years ago, when shopping for a boat, he was that extremely rare breed of boater who would consider either a powerboat or sailboat. He’d found a sailboat he liked, but the asking price was too high. He thought of making a lowball offer, but didn’t want to offend the seller. So he walked away from the sailboat. Later, it sold for the amount he would have offered. He kicked himself, but it was too late. He’d just bought a powerboat, a tri-cabin cruiser.

Now his powerboat is for sale. He can’t afford to use it, his dream broken by the high cost of fuel.

Occasionally, sailors buy powerboats, when they get old and tired of hoisting and trimming sails. Rarely does a powerboater buy a sailboat, but these are unusual times.

There was a very large Hunter sailboat tied up at the dock last week, and Val and Gigi wandered out to see it. “We were surprised to see all the lights on, but none of the hatches were open,” she said. “Then we realized it had two air conditioners, so of course the hatches were closed!”

They chatted with the couple on board, who were taking their new boat home to Texas and had recently run aground and needed repairs. They had sold their powerboat, because the cost of fuel was so high, and now they were going to try sailing. Given the size and complexity of the boat, they were certainly jumping in with both feet. But it was what Barry and I call a “furniture boat,” lots of pretty woodwork and fancy electrical systems, designed for the dock, not the waves.

The problem is, it’s just not natural to make a sailor out of a powerboater. A few years back, I had a coworker with a 25-foot planing powerboat. At the time, we had the Northern Crow, a gutsy little 25-foot sailboat.

Initially, I’d come in on Monday and compare notes with Gary. We’d spent a day ghosting to Poulsbo, watching for favorable currents, while he’d zipped up to Port Townsend in a couple of hours. But after a few months, I started coming in on Monday and seeing a long face. “How was your weekend, Gary? Did you take the boat out?” I’d ask. And his answer was always, “No, I couldn’t afford the fuel this weekend. The kids needed…” At the time, gas prices were half of what they are today, but he had teenaged boys in the house who ate up all his money.

I often teased him, saying, “How about a sailboat?” but it was a joke. He’d take up sailing when pigs fly.

Eventually, Gary got fired and had a mid-life crisis. He ran off with his stepson’s girlfriend, and his wife bitterly filed for divorce. She sold the boat.

I wonder if Gary or the fellow in the cowboy boots will ever have another boat. Given the price of fuel — high and going higher — the answer might just be, when pigs fly.

Living in Beaufort, NC, Rebuilding Boats

Burnout

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Barry came to me with a long face. “Er, I have some bad news.” He paused, leaving me to wonder just how bad this news was going to be. Sometimes, I wish he would just blurt it out, instead of making me wonder how bad it was. I found myself checking to make sure all his fingers were still attached.

“I killed your Dremel.”

Well, that wasn’t so terrible. I was a little sentimental about it, because it was a gift from my sister, and it was the only power tool in our arsenal that Barry and I both called “mine.” But we could easily buy another one.

So the next day, we got in the van and drove to the hardware store, about 15 miles, to buy another Dremel. Mission accomplished, we headed for a nearby restaurant for lunch. I was driving, and then Barry said, from the passenger seat, “Uh-oh.”

The only thing I hate more than “I have some bad news” is “Uh-oh.”

And one more thing we both hate is power windows. Unfortunately, the Squid Wagon has them. For months, I’d refused to use the one on the driver’s side. It was so slow, I was sure it was going to break and get stuck in the “down” position, and then it would rain. Now Barry followed his “Uh-oh” by telling me that the passenger window was stuck in the down position. This was followed by a rumble of thunder.

The window was going to be a much bigger headache than the Dremel. Frantic, we drove to the nearest Ford dealer.

“We don’t keep such old motors in stock, but I can order you one,” said the parts manager, smiling.

“I’m not certain the motor’s what I need…” said Barry.

“Electrical parts are non-returnable,” said the parts manager, and I realized the smile was robotic.

“I’ll go home and figure it out, and we’ll call you to order it in the morning,” said Barry.

“Nope, I can’t accept a credit card over the phone,” said the smiling, robotic parts manager. So we’d have to come back in person to order it, then come back in person to pick it up? At this point, Barry had to leave the store, unable to say anything besides, “Grrrrrrrrrrr.”

Luckily, the motor was in stock, cheaper, at an auto parts store.

The rain held off; it hadn’t actually rained in two week. Then, that night, before Barry could figure out how to install the new motor, it poured buckets on our sorry plastic-covered window. He finished the installation between showers the next day. He said “Grrrrrrrrrr” a lot.

And then it was my turn. I was using our tiny, lame saber saw to cut some aluminum backing plates. The motor started running more and more slowly, until it couldn’t cut any more. Well, it might still cut butter, but only if it was soft, and you wanted to cut butter with a saber saw.

This was turning into a bad week for motors.

At this point, I had to decide what to say to Barry. Should I start with “I have some bad news,” or simply “Uh-oh?” I opted for a different method.

“Barry!” I hollered. An alien looked down at me from the deck, wearing a white Tyvek bunny suit, full-face respirator, and ear muffs. His mouth was invisible behind the respirator, but I saw his jaw move. I guess he said, “What?”

“I killed the saber saw,” I shouted, twice, three times, waving the dead saw at him. Suddenly, he took off the respirator and the ear muffs. He was grinning.

“You killed it? Really? That’s great!”

He’d been wanting to replace that lame piece of junk for years, and I had just given him the excuse. The next day, he was exceedingly cheerful as we got into the van, and I got into the mood by playing with the passenger window. Up, down, up, down…wheeeee! We tooled around town and finally chose a 6.0 amp Skil brand saber saw. Then we rewarded ourselves some more with dinner, internet, and a phone chat with a Seattle friend. A lovely day, unlike the one when we replaced the Dremel.

It would have been an appropriate coincidence for the driver’s window motor to die that day, but it’s still working, although only fast enough to cut soft butter. So maybe our run of bad motor luck is over. May all the other motors on the boat live long and prosper, and best of luck with your motors, too.

Living in Beaufort, NC

How’s my driving?

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When it was all over, and we were driving back to the boat, Barry asked me, “Do you want to write about it, or should I?”

I did it. I guess I should write about it. Ouch.

We’d just enjoyed a fabulous dinner at Jon’s house. It was the kind of relaxed evening where we all chopped vegetables and peeled shrimp around the huge kitchen island, then Jon whipped up a yummy stir-fry. He’s the kind of guy who ranges from expert to downright capable in everything he does.

In November, I’d called him about surveying our boat, despite the fact his North Carolina office was about 350 miles from the South Carolina boat.

Once we’d cleared up the fact that I knew the difference between Beaufort (Bow-furt) and Beaufort (Byoo-fort), he checked his schedule and found a coincidence, or maybe a miracle. He and his girlfriend had plans to drive to Florida. On the day we needed a survey, they would be returning, right past Hilton Head.

So we lucked into the best surveyor on the east coast, and then found that we had more in common than boats. We also decided that Beaufort seemed like the best place to refit our boat.

So this is how I happened to go aground in the driveway of my marine surveyor. He had an early morning planned, so a little after dinner, we said our thanks and farewells.

It was an untimely time to leave.

The storm began after dinner. We peered out the front door at thunder, lightning, sheets of rain, and the all-pervasive darkness that comes with heavy rain at night in North Carolina. I got drenched running to the van, even though the driver’s door was only about ten feet away.

Then I realized I was going to have a tough time driving out of there. In the dark and pouring rain, my mirrors were useless. I backed out slowly and carefully, not wanting to hit Jon’s nice truck, or his nice house, or his nice landscaping. Then I put the van in forward, still creeping slowly, so it all happened in s-l-o-w–m-o-t-i-o-n.

I cringed as my side of the van brushed a nice bush. What I didn’t realize was that it was not a nice bush. It was mean, nasty bush, camouflaging a deep, not-so-nice ditch. The left front wheel went down, and down, and down, and then the van stopped moving. I turned off the engine and turned to Barry, saying, “We’re stuck. Let’s go back to the house.”

I was sitting the driver’s seat, and he was in the passenger seat. The strange thing was, he wasn’t sitting next to me. He was above me.

Barry clambered up to the passenger door and out. I was briefly alone, and then I frantically scrambled up to the passenger door, too. There is little more terrifying than being left alone in a vehicle that feels like it’s about to roll over. The driver’s door seemed to be dangling over a cliff.

Then I stood, openmouthed, in the pouring rain and stared at Squidley’s right rear wheel. It was about three feet off the ground.

Hysteria set in. I started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. Our stately Squid Wagon was nose-down in a ditch, with one wheel thrown up in the air. It was like seeing a prim and proper lady on her back with her skirts askew. In the flashes of lightning, I could see things on her underside that I usually don’t see.

We went back to the house and knocked. When Jon opened the door, my face was red with embarrassment, and rain was streaming down from my hair.

“I hate to say this, but I’ve gone aground in your driveway,” I said. Over my shoulder, he sized up the situation. We had his driveway completely blocked, no way to get his truck out. He gave us some towels to dry off, then phoned dozens of places, trying to find a tow truck. Finally an outfit in Havelock, 20 miles up the road, sent a truck.

The nice thing was, the tow truck driver wasn’t just effective at extricating 1-ton vehicles, he also knew what to say to make an embarrassed driver — me — feel better. “Wow, is this a 1990 van? It’s in such great condition!” he enthused. I wondered if wrecker driving school included a section on psychology.

In the pouring rain, the three of us stood behind the van, watching the process. Suddenly, my eye fell on our row of bumper stickers — and I started giggling all over again. The second one from the left, bright yellow, with a picture of an alien and a crashed spaceship. The text says it all: “How’s my driving?”

You don’t have to answer that question. Barry drove us home.

Living in a Boatyard, Living in Beaufort, NC, Living on a Boat

The true badge of a liveaboard boater

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Years before we counted many liveaboards as friends, I was very reluctant to buy a boat large enough to live aboard. Thus we chose the 25 foot Northern Crow, which was obviously too small for two people to live on. This was my insurance against being begged, nagged or pushed into moving aboard before I was ready.

We have lived aboard for several-month periods before, but never on our own boat. The longest period was seven months, with Brian on Cayenne, and shorter times on Vger, Complexity, and Indigo. We even lived on Flutterby briefly while we did insurance company-required repairs and transported it from South Carolina to North Carolina. But we always had our “home” elsewhere, or if not an entire “home,” we had something like 75% of our stuff in storage.

This time, it is different. We don’t have anything but a few boxes of photographs, wedding china, and other irreplaceable memories–we have all the things we need right here with us, either on the boat or packed up inside the Squid Wagon. And this time, moving aboard took us by surprise–we thought we knew what living aboard is all about, but life always smacks you in the face with a lesson pretty quick.

Before we arrived in the boatyard, I had been thinking of all the projects we had to do to make Flutterby ready to cruise, starting with re-finishing the bottom and fixing leaking hardware in the deck, along with any damage it had done. It has now been four full days and the only project we have completed is plumbing the icebox drain so it gets pumped overboard instead of draining into the bilge.

What have we been doing? Trying to carry our stuff up the ladder from Squidley into the boat, and find a place for it inside.

It didn’t take us three days to succumb. In fact, we would have done it in two and a half, if our cellphone had better signal in the boatyard. We are now the proud renters of a storage unit. I hope that when we are ready to sail we can fit everything aboard, but for now, this is the cheapest way to protect our sanity that I can think of.

Living in the Pacific Northwest

Moving forward…almost

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Yikes, it’s been two years since I’ve written anything for the web here! And it’s been about half that since the once-trusty, now-rusty Squid wagon moved.

Ever since we returned from the Carolinas, we have been preparing to move over there. Being the practical [Err, Sweetie, is that pronounced “Procrastinating” instead] one, I insisted that we were busy doing holiday things instead, so we didn’t really try to do anything until a couple weeks ago.

Today, I finally finished some of what I had started many moons ago–I got the engine of the Squid Wagon to turn over. It would have been real “forward” progress if I had gone and drove around the street or something. But I didn’t do that–the “original” problem was that the engine wouldn’t start after sitting for a day or a week…so I’m waiting until it continues to start tomorrow and next week before I re-assemble things completely. Then I’ll drive it somewhere. Yes, Meps did get emergency towing added to our car insurance first.

Of course, the progress of paring our lives down to fit everything inside the van except for a few stored treasures is also glacial, but every bit helps…like believing that the van will be ready for the task before we are!

Living in the Pacific Northwest

I was just wondering if you guys were back yet

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That’s what everyone says when they call us on the phone or send us an e-mail. Shoot, which trip were they referring to?

  • In May, we took Amtrak from Seattle to Los Angeles for our friend Will’s 50th birthday celebration. We had a first-class sleeper on the train, and Michael took us to Disneyland TWICE!
  • Then we did a couple of weekend sailing trips aboard Complexity and Panta Rhei.
  • I had a crazy pirate-themed 40th birthday party for Barry, literally on top of Interstate 90 (there’s a park there). One little boy came up to us, staring at our pirate costumes, and asked, “Where are the kids?” Check out the photos.
  • Then a weekend in Moclips, with a bonfire on the beach. Lots of phooning with Will and Tina.
  • That’s around the time we got involved with the Funder’s Choice website and met Michael Kaminski — thanks to Jacqui for introducing us to such a cool guy!
  • In July, we went to the Oregon Country Fair with Daisy and the gang. A picture is worth a thousand words, so I just posted the pictures.
  • Then we raced up to Camano Island to rendezvous with Barry’s sister’s family. Barry’s nephews are 4 and 7, and they are fun, fun, fun!
  • In August, we sailed on Sparrow (formerly known as Nereid) for a week in the San Juans, including the Around Shaw race with Jacqui and friends. Check out the photo album!
  • And now (drumroll, please!), we are heading for Burning Man with Stuart and Linda! I don’t even know how to describe this event, so just go to their website and read up. It’s going to be a temporary city of 40,000 people in the Nevada desert, with tons of art and performance. You won’t believe the costumes we’re taking…

There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do all this stuff and write about it, too. I promise to catch up when the rainy season starts again. I need to tell you all about the crazy LA trip, and post the pictures and video from Around Shaw, and share more stories, adventures, and just plain fun.

Living in the Pacific Northwest

Why married men live longer

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I’m only three days into the twelve days of Christmas, and it’s almost April. Maybe I should have set a hard-and-fast deadline for myself, rather than waiting for the Muse to simply arrive? The problem with this sort of writing is that before I’ve written about the last adventure, I start having the next one. Sometimes, I feel like a cat chasing her tail. “Wait, wait, I haven’t made it all the way around the circle yet!”

Eventually, I will write more about Portugal. I have New Year’s Eve stories about Carlos’ amazing multicultural gathering. I want to tell you about getting lost in the medieval alleys of Porto one night, with fog so thick you couldn’t see across the street. And about the towering aqueduct in Vouzela, and the “Janieros” (Christmas carols) … and the tour Nelson gave us of the third-oldest university in Europe, and the library with the bats, and the book we touched from the 16th century.

I don’t meant to tease my readers (both of you), but I’m not here to write about Portugal this time. This piece is to give you an update on the news ’round here.

Barry was doing some contract work, and it ended about a month ago. Suddenly, he’s retired again.

Two and a half weeks ago, he was on his way to an optometrist appointment on his new bike, and he had a accident. Something about not making the turn at the bottom of a steep hill. He got up, shook himself, and then rode another mile to the optometrist, favoring a sore shoulder.

About a half hour later, while he was picking out his glasses, he started bleeding on the desk. The folks at Pearle Vision freaked out. They went into optometry because they couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

About then, Barry called me for a ride home. He was having trouble using his arm.

No wonder. He broke his humerus. Along with one of his fingers. And he poked a big hole in his elbow, blacked his eye, bruised both legs, and made a general mess of his lovely (my opinion) body.

In the three weeks since then, I’ve had to dress him, bathe him, change his dressings, give him physical therapy, and drive him to one or two doctor’s appointments every single day. On top of this, I’ve had to do all the cooking, dishes, laundry, and shopping. I have to peel his oranges.

And I’ve had to take over those tasks that Barry traditionally does: Taking out the trash. Seasoning the cast-iron skillets. Charging up the batteries on the Squid Wagon.

This litany explains why married men live longer than single men. I can’t imagine what a single person in Barry’s predicament would have done. The alternatives to having a wife-nurse are expensive and not nearly as pleasant.

He’s healing now, and we’re getting into that risky period where he could easily overdo it and hurt himself again. Having given him all my attention for the last three weeks, I’m not going to repeat this ordeal. I told Barry that if he does, I’m going to toss him into a nursing home and go on vacation without him.

In the meantime, as long as he is careful, I’m taking him on vacation with me. We’re heading out tonight and going sailing in Florida and the Bahamas for the next couple of weeks.

I think we can handle all the broken bones and wound care while traveling. And we both deserve a reward. I deserve one for being the on-call 24-7 nurse. And Barry deserves one, too, for not killing himself in that bike accident.

Limericks, Living in the Pacific Northwest

Seattle’s bicycle freeway

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“Psssst, Julie, you awake?”
It’s 8 AM, and an indistinct mumbling comes from under the guest bed pillow.
“You’re sleeping in the garage, and I need to get the car out!”

Normally, I wouldn’t make a guest sleep in the garage. But in this case, my sister had come for the week, and she was sleeping in the guest room where all the bicycles are stored.

Our current house-sitting gig is in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, and we’re walking distance from restaurants, grocery stores, and the library. We parked the Squid Wagon, our 3/4 ton Ford van, when we arrived weeks ago, and we walk or ride bikes everywhere.

Luckily for us, only two blocks away from us is the bicyclist’s version of the interstate: The Burke-Gilman trail.

The Burke-Gilman is about 18 miles long, and it runs along the Ship Canal from Ballard to the University District, then it loosely follows the shore of Lake Washington to Bothell. From there, you can connect to another 10-mile trail, so an out-and-back bike ride is well over 50 miles.

Admittedly, the trail can get overused, especially on the weekends. But it’s still more relaxing than dealing with traffic, potholes, and stoplights.

The trail is named after two men, Thomas Burke and Daniel Gilman, who were responsible for the Seattle, Lake Shore, and Eastern Railway. They were forward thinkers with big dreams for their railway, considering that in 1885, there were only a few families living along the route. It ended up being a heavily used spur route, but by 1971, it was abandoned.

The unused tracks, though, were just right for a bicycle route. Some forward-thinking Seattle and King county voters approved the bond issues to pay for the various portions of the trail, so that by 1978, you could ride from Gasworks Park to Kenmore.

The day after waking Julie to get the “car” out, Barry and I borrowed a friend’s bicycle so she could ride the Burke-Gilman with us. We moseyed along, dodging college students with iPods and backpacks in the University District. There were many people walking and bikes, bikes, bikes.

On the way out, I looked at the scenery. Everything was a riot of spring, and some portions of the trail felt like peaceful green tunnels. Plum and cherry trees had exploded in pink and white blossoms, and daffodils and hyacinths provided yellow and purple accents. We rested halfway in a park under blue skies with fluffy clouds, watching a floatplane lazily follow the surface of Lake Washington.

On the way back, I paid more attention to my fellow trail-users. There were a few roller blades and lots of strollers, some accompanied by young parents and some by grandpas. I was surprised that there were no children on bicycles, only adults. But such variety of bicycles! It ranged from recumbents to old-fashioned bikes with baskets and wide handlebars. There were some slow cyclists, like us, but more fast riders. The really, really fast riders were dressed as “space aliens” and had strange bulges in their clothing that I suspected might have been bananas, also known as bicycle fuel.

I’m sure Burke and Gilman would be amazed to see their railroad line converted to a bicycle highway. They probably wouldn’t even recognize the things we call bicycles, given what bicycles looked like back in 1885. Cyclists didn’t dare ride fast, because they hadn’t yet invented brakes!

Thank goodness Burke and Gilman put in their railroad, so we can have our “bike freeway.” It’s thanks to forward-thinkers like them that we have an extensive rail network across the U.S. — the same network that brings bananas to bicyclists.

Living in the Pacific Northwest, Sailing

Hello, sailor!

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Back in the days of Jack Aubrey’s Navy, officers didn’t go to a traditional school. They learned aboard a ship, starting as midshipmen. Before they’d ever shaved, these children in uniform had to master celestial navigation, as well as how to manage a bunch of smelly men sailing a ship with dozens of sails and no engine.

As a matter of fact, nobody in those days paid for sailing lessons. You signed on, if you were desperate, or you were pressed aboard, and then the experienced sailors helped you “learn the ropes.”

It was an effective means of passing along the information. Today, even if you don’t know how to sail a boat, you probably know colorful phrases like “three sheets to the wind” or “let the cat out of the bag.” Even “passing with flying colors” is an idiom that comes from sailing.

Ten years ago, I wanted to learn to sail. I knew sailing was a tradition, something passed from one person to another. That led to a vague fear that you had to be born into it. If you were supposed to learn it from your parents, then Barry and I were never going to be sailors.

It never crossed my mind to pay for sailing lessons. Instead, I discovered local sailing clubs and the generous boat-owners who were willing to teach me to sail in exchange for a home-cooked meal. Many of them were bachelors who would otherwise be reduced to a steady diet of Dinty Moore and Top Ramen. Along the way, I learned to be a pretty good propane chef and make do with whatever facilities were available.

I was incredibly grateful to them, guys like Bill on Freebooter, Randy on Determination Too, and Brian on Nereid and Cayenne. “One day,” said Brian, “it will be your job to help other people get out on the water.”

When our first chance came to share our knowledge, we didn’t even recognize it. In 1998 a good friend, Michelle, bought a Santana 30/30 that she couldn’t sail herself. We sailed her boat to Blake Island, Port Madison, and Port Ludlow, learning and teaching at the same time.

Then we got our own boat, the Northern Crow. At 25 feet, it was small and funky, but we took people out on the Sound and Lake Union. My favorite trips were the long ones up to Port Townsend in the middle of summer under blue skies. One woman we took along was deaf, but communication was no problem. The joy of sailing is that it’s easy to show someone how to do it without a lot of words.

It does help to read up on the vocabulary, to be prepared for that moment when the boat is heeled way over with the rail buried and the skipper asks, “How’s the weather helm?” I’d read all the books, and when that moment came, on a Swan 44, I was ready. Another woman aboard, though, was not familiar with the concept, so Jay explained it to her, passing the information along in the time-honored fashion, verbally.

I was surfing the Internet late last night, when I came across a Craigslist posting that struck a chord. ” I’m just a guy/student who knows very little about sailing, but is very interested in learning … (I can) trade LABOR FOR BOATING KNOWLDEGE. I just want to learn, and I don’t necessarily have the money right now to pay for sailing lessons.” The posting took me right back to 1995, when I would do anything to get onto a sailboat, and I realized what a wonderful position I am in now.

I e-mailed the writer of that post, a guy named Nick. I gave him a whole list of Seattle-area resources for learning to sail without paying for lessons and wrote e-mails about him to a couple of friends with boats. It took me a while to generate all the information and links and craft the messages, but it was worthwhile.

Because now, it’s my turn to help other people get out on the water. To all new sailors: Welcome to the world of boating! Drop me a line, and I’ll do anything I can to help you learn to sail, the time-honored, traditional way. It’s the least I can do.
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Do you want to learn to sail in Seattle? Some of these resources can get you out on the water!

  • Seattle Singles Yacht Club offers free lessons.
  • Puget Sound Cruising Club has great presentations on sailing to exotic destinations. (I’m jaded, since I was once one of the speakers)
  • Seattle Women’s Sailing Association used to welcome guys, but I’ve heard they’re not so friendly any more. Still, you might check out one of their meetings, just to see what you can learn and who you can meet with a boat. Look in 48 North for their meeting announcement.
  • If you’re not a reader of 48 North, pick up a free copy at any boating store and check out the Crew Wanted listings in the back.
  • Cascadia is a virtual e-mail club, but if you join, you’ll probably find some friendly folks who need crew.