The theft knocked the wind out of the New Zealand Conger sails, but the family is gradually putting ourselves back together. Fortunately, we still own property in the United States for which we maintain rather pricey property insurance. As a result, it appears that monetarily we are going to be able to fund a shopping spree to replace our valuables. The emotional hit is harder to take. My rational mind recognizes that on the scale of things, this isn't that tremendous. We have a 'net friend who had a car stolen recently, another who lost her house to a bank … which is just another form of theft... and a third who nearly lost everything in the economic downturn. One of DrC's new colleagues fled his home country with a few bills in his pocket and the clothes on his back. By this measure, we are doing well with an embarrassment of riches and things.
Yet, it hurts to lose those precious items that we'd gathered over the years of our cruising. Arguably, Mera and Aeron lost the most irreplaceable items. Mera lost three years of diaries, and Aeron lost her keepsake box. Yesterday, the girls hit on ideas for how to make their hearts whole again and recovery their valuables. I'm ashamed to admit that in the interest of distraction, I've been letting them watch the tele (bad mommy). They got the idea from the Jonas Brothers. In a recent episode, the brothers accidentally destroyed their parents' home videos. While they couldn't replace the videos, they lit on the idea to recreate the key moments. The Jonas brothers reenacted scenes from their childhood at 3, 5, 7, 14, and then clipped the scenes together into a video. The new video wasn't the same as the old one, but their mother said that somehow, someway it was better.
So Mera and Aeron are undertaking The Memory Project. For Mera, we are going to select and print between thirty to fifty pictures from the past four years. Mera intends to paste these into a journal and write everything she remembers about the time and events that took place around that photograph. If this were any eleven year old other than our Marvelous Mysterious one, I'd say the project was doomed. Those who know Mera well, however, no doubt agree with me that all this one requires is that I get her the photos, the pens and the journal before her desire cools.
Aeron's version of The Memory Project, however, requires your help. She decided to harness all the offers of help and good will and support sent over the past few days. Aeron's keepsake box contained small, monetarily insignificant bits gathered from the top end of Vancouver Island to Zihautenejo. There were painted shells and smooth worry stones, tourist town maps, postcards and event tickets, hand made crafts and pictures from boat kids everywhere, and little touristy items from Mexican markets. The most monetarily valuable item in the box was probably a 50 ($4USD) peso painted turtle from a market in Mazatlan, the most personal a polished shell from Skylar of Ocean Blue. Each item reminded her of a place or a person.
Aeron is asking everyone to send her replacements. They don't have to be the same… they don't even have to be similar. The point is that the new items, letters, postcards, bits of kid work… well they will all represent places and loved ones. Nothing should really cost anything… a bookmark from a local bookshop or a map of the marina your boat is in, a postcard, or a cheap knockoff Huichol key chain, a bracelet wound of Spectra or a stray plastic Mexican train marker, a little fan or a bead bracelet made by the kids on your boat. Anything really that comes from the heart, arrives with a note to Aeron from the sender, and reminds us all of our trip and the wonderful people we met.
And mind you, this is everyone... not just our cruising friends in Mexico. Aeron collected stuff in La Connor, Nanaimo, Seattle, and San Francisco. She went to every national park in the Southwest gathering detritus the whole way. My little magpie knows a 1,000 people; It seems every one of them touched her heart somehow, and she memorialized it with something that would all together fit in a space smaller than a bread box.
You can send these letters and bits to one of the following three addresses:
United States
Suellen Jost
The Memory Project
224 East Ranch Road
Seattle, WA 95825
Mexico
Club Cruceros de La Paz A.C.
APDO Postal 366
La Paz, B.C.S. Mexico
CP23000
ATTN: Don Quixote (Dean Conger)
New Zealand
Manukau SuperClinic™
PO Box 98743
Manukau City
Manukau 2241
New Zealand
ATTN: Module 6 - Ophthalmology, Dr. Dean M. Conger
Those sent to Mexico or the United States will be gathered into a bundle which I'll pick up in late May. For those in the cruising world, please pass on this request to our friends who do not get online very often.
I want to thank everyone again for the outpouring of support. Combined with carbo and retail therapy, the messages have helped us enormously. When all is said an done, we are a very lucky family.
Showing posts with label comfort. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comfort. Show all posts
Friday, March 12, 2010
Monday, January 12, 2009
Doing More With Less - Electricity
The boat teaches many lessons in conservation. This is part of an ongoing series of posts about how we boaters do more with considerably less. The tips are valid for land based life as well, though, so hopefully folks can use some of these ideas.
We have to make every erg of electrical energy we use. Not surprisingly, this makes us very stingy consumers of electricity. On a boat, there are five ways to produce electricity:
Hook to shore power - You can buy electrical at a marina. Sometimes it comes with the dock fee, sometimes there is an extra charge. In either case, it costs a lot of money to tie up. We anchor out as much as possible so it does not behoove us to rely too heavily on topping off the batteries on a dock.
Generators and engines - You can use alternators to charge your batteries by burning fossil fuels either in your engines or a generator. In both cases, however, you are engaged in that environmentally icky and incredibly expensive process -- converting dinosaurs to lumens. We prefer to charge our batteries this way only as a by-product of moving the boat. It is depressing how often weather and timing force our sail boat to be a very slow motor boat. When this happens, we call the energy that flows into our batteries “bonus points.”
Solar panels - We have two panels and a solar charge controller. The entire setup, including DrC’s nifty kludge of a mounting panel, cost us roughly two boat bucks. We consistently get about 15 amps an hour during the day. Let’s call it about 100 per day. More panels gets you more power. On a boat, it’s rather challenging figuring out where to put them. The great thing about solar panels is that if you set them up correctly, you can then forget their very existence. They just keep pumping out power.
Wind generator - Many cruising boats travel with a wind generator. We do not, but maybe someday we’ll add it to the boat. The principle advantage of a wind generator is that it can produce energy 24 hours per day. The disadvantages are the noise and that they require a lot of baby sitting. It is a very bad idea to forget you have a wind generator when you are in high winds. Even so, it’s very tempting to add one to the boat.
The final way to generate power is the most important -- don’t use it. Just as on land, the amp you don’t use is the cheapest one to generate. Boaters in general are pretty clever about reducing consumption. I’d like to think on Don Quixote we’re doing a reasonably good job. I’ll start with a list of ways we conserve, but this is one of those times where I would really like people to actively contribute additional suggestions. Other boaters have no doubt developed very creative ways to reduce their use of electricity.
LEDs - An expensive but very efficient way to reduce consumption is to switch all the lights on the boat from incandescent to LED. The masthead light, for example, burns all night to alert boats moving through the anchorage of our location. At 2 amps per hour, that’s roughly 24 amps a day. The LED version consumes roughly 2 amps for the entire night.
Ditch the Power Toys - Some power tools make for a much safer cruise as you can fix your own equipment, sew your own covers, or build your own furniture. Others just take up space and weight and consume a lot of power. Ditch the microwave, bread maker, hair dryer, coffee maker, and blender. Dispense with every power sucker and change your lifestyle. As an example, we use a manual coffee grinder from the Lehman’s catalog. It’s beautiful and slows our consumption considerably.
Guard Against Vampires - Chargers for phones, iPods, laptops, GPS and VHF handhelds, and other such little toys consume energy, even after your device is fully charged. Surprisingly, the amount of energy they draw even fully charged is actually quite substantial. We put all these devices on a single power strip. We control the entire strip with a single button. This enables us to charge everything for a few hours, then cut off the charger vampires in one swift stroke. A side benefit is safety since batteries, battery chargers, and transformers have a well-deserved reputation for periodically setting themselves ablaze.
Change Your Sleeping Habits - Wake with the dawn, go to bed at sunset. There is something satisfying about this from a biorythmical standpoint, and it saves a great deal of juice. Another benefit of going to bed early is you watch a lot less television. We thought we’d watch movies regularly. Instead, we’ve been traveling for seven months and have watched a mere handful.
Plan the Refrigerator - We still haven’t mastered Ninja Refrigerator Stowage, but done correctly you can substantially reduce consumption. Organize the fridge so that the things you need are in the front, easy to get to. Meals are grouped on back shelves. True ninjas can actually restrict opening the fridge to a three times a day activity, once for each meal. We know of one family that has it down to once a day. I dream of this capacity for advanced thinking.
So, now you. Boaters, tell me how to save more power. We had reached that enviable state where we could live on the hook for nearly a week, but as we dropped to warmer latitudes, the increased power to fridge and freeze tipped us over into running the engine every third day. Help me out!
We have to make every erg of electrical energy we use. Not surprisingly, this makes us very stingy consumers of electricity. On a boat, there are five ways to produce electricity:
Hook to shore power - You can buy electrical at a marina. Sometimes it comes with the dock fee, sometimes there is an extra charge. In either case, it costs a lot of money to tie up. We anchor out as much as possible so it does not behoove us to rely too heavily on topping off the batteries on a dock.
Generators and engines - You can use alternators to charge your batteries by burning fossil fuels either in your engines or a generator. In both cases, however, you are engaged in that environmentally icky and incredibly expensive process -- converting dinosaurs to lumens. We prefer to charge our batteries this way only as a by-product of moving the boat. It is depressing how often weather and timing force our sail boat to be a very slow motor boat. When this happens, we call the energy that flows into our batteries “bonus points.”
Solar panels - We have two panels and a solar charge controller. The entire setup, including DrC’s nifty kludge of a mounting panel, cost us roughly two boat bucks. We consistently get about 15 amps an hour during the day. Let’s call it about 100 per day. More panels gets you more power. On a boat, it’s rather challenging figuring out where to put them. The great thing about solar panels is that if you set them up correctly, you can then forget their very existence. They just keep pumping out power.
Wind generator - Many cruising boats travel with a wind generator. We do not, but maybe someday we’ll add it to the boat. The principle advantage of a wind generator is that it can produce energy 24 hours per day. The disadvantages are the noise and that they require a lot of baby sitting. It is a very bad idea to forget you have a wind generator when you are in high winds. Even so, it’s very tempting to add one to the boat.
The final way to generate power is the most important -- don’t use it. Just as on land, the amp you don’t use is the cheapest one to generate. Boaters in general are pretty clever about reducing consumption. I’d like to think on Don Quixote we’re doing a reasonably good job. I’ll start with a list of ways we conserve, but this is one of those times where I would really like people to actively contribute additional suggestions. Other boaters have no doubt developed very creative ways to reduce their use of electricity.
LEDs - An expensive but very efficient way to reduce consumption is to switch all the lights on the boat from incandescent to LED. The masthead light, for example, burns all night to alert boats moving through the anchorage of our location. At 2 amps per hour, that’s roughly 24 amps a day. The LED version consumes roughly 2 amps for the entire night.
Ditch the Power Toys - Some power tools make for a much safer cruise as you can fix your own equipment, sew your own covers, or build your own furniture. Others just take up space and weight and consume a lot of power. Ditch the microwave, bread maker, hair dryer, coffee maker, and blender. Dispense with every power sucker and change your lifestyle. As an example, we use a manual coffee grinder from the Lehman’s catalog. It’s beautiful and slows our consumption considerably.
Guard Against Vampires - Chargers for phones, iPods, laptops, GPS and VHF handhelds, and other such little toys consume energy, even after your device is fully charged. Surprisingly, the amount of energy they draw even fully charged is actually quite substantial. We put all these devices on a single power strip. We control the entire strip with a single button. This enables us to charge everything for a few hours, then cut off the charger vampires in one swift stroke. A side benefit is safety since batteries, battery chargers, and transformers have a well-deserved reputation for periodically setting themselves ablaze.
Change Your Sleeping Habits - Wake with the dawn, go to bed at sunset. There is something satisfying about this from a biorythmical standpoint, and it saves a great deal of juice. Another benefit of going to bed early is you watch a lot less television. We thought we’d watch movies regularly. Instead, we’ve been traveling for seven months and have watched a mere handful.
Plan the Refrigerator - We still haven’t mastered Ninja Refrigerator Stowage, but done correctly you can substantially reduce consumption. Organize the fridge so that the things you need are in the front, easy to get to. Meals are grouped on back shelves. True ninjas can actually restrict opening the fridge to a three times a day activity, once for each meal. We know of one family that has it down to once a day. I dream of this capacity for advanced thinking.
So, now you. Boaters, tell me how to save more power. We had reached that enviable state where we could live on the hook for nearly a week, but as we dropped to warmer latitudes, the increased power to fridge and freeze tipped us over into running the engine every third day. Help me out!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Drunken Stupor Observations
Actually, I’m not as inebriated as I’d like to be. If I were, I suppose I wouldn’t be able to feel the tips of my fingers and typing would become impossible. On the other hand, maybe as a technical writer, typing has become so integral to my existence that I can accomplish the task in any mental state. You hear of musicians, for example, who are capable of feats of tremendous virtuosity even when high on all sorts of illegal substances. So too might I, a technical writer, be highly capable of producing wit and grammatically correct prose after consuming multiple alcoholic beverages.
Alternatively, spellcheck is saving my ass.
Without sober reflection, here are my observations on the cruising life:
I really want a bath. I miss bathing. I miss the little ritual of asking DrC if I can take an hour to bathe, heading for the bath, locking the door. I would turn the spigot on hot hot hot, drop in half a Lush bath bomb, and sink in. I’d take a good book, preferably one with very little character development and a great deal of hot, uninhibited sex on moors, in closets and pressed on the stairs to the second floor. My flesh would turn pink, then red, and my head would spin as I stepped out of the tub. DrC would be ready with a cold glass of water, knowing I’d spent too long in the hot water, dehydrated, and was about to pass out. Then I’d flop like a stranded fish on my bed, too hot to cover myself with clothes or bedding, the cool night air chilling my heated skin while my head swam and spun in delicious slow whirls until I’d fall to a limp, warm sleep.
I’d like my boat better if it didn’t move all the time. When you’re slightly drunk and your head is two sips short of a complete spin, it would be nice if the ground didn’t move. The movement, the sloshy sounds, the honking of the sea lions on the nearby breakwater, combine to make me feel considerably more intoxicated than I should be forced to feel after such a small quantity of wine and large quantity of tasty pork and vegetable curry.
I’d like my family better if they stopped arguing with me. There is a Rule. It’s like the Rule of Three, I suppose, a guideline for better living. Not like running a stop light... more like shutting off the lights before leaving the house. The Rule is that if three or more people have the same problem with you, the problem is you not them and you need to fix it yourself. So I have a really big problem with my family which causes me to yell at them all the time. The problem is that I want a clean, healthy, safe environment, and they want to live like pigs with a self-immolation complex. The whole place would smell like a Saturday morning bacon fry if I let them live like they apparently want to. This is my problem. I must fix it. I think a good start would be to adopt a more carnivorous approach to life.
Spore is not an educational game no matter how much we want it to be so. I’m sorry; As a homeschool parent, you can not justify the purchase of this game as an educational expense. It’s a great deal of fun, and I recommend it highly, but we all need to stop pretending we’re learning more about evolution and societal development by playing it.
I shouldn’t miss friends I’ve only known for a few weeks, but I do anyway. I miss s/v Wish and s/v Carasan. I want to spend more time with s/v Walking on Water and s/v Tango. I miss Ted and Sue of s/v Indigo so much it hurts. I miss s/v Rubber Duckies, with their great attitude and wonderful children. I miss Laureen and Jason and Behan in a way that strikes to the heart of what I am. There are boats ahead of me with more wonderful people, but part of me is afraid to meet them. I am not sure I’m cut out for this love ‘em and leave ‘em approach to friendships. In the real world, I made friends by the decade: Joe and Alex in one, Jim and Keet in another, Kristina and Joann in a third. Now I make them monthly, but it’s hard to feel right about the transient nature of these relationships. DrC was probably right: I’m ideally cut out for monogamy. I didn’t believe him at the time, but 20 years and counting suggests that once again he was right and I was wrong.
Finally, I have decided not to participate in NaNoWriMo this year. Last year, I used it as a grand excuse to write “go look at my prior great art” posts. I think that would have been acceptable had I simultaneously either produced a great work of fiction or -- alternatively -- merely spun out 50,000 words of drivel for future use on this blog. Since I did neither, it was a complete cop out. This year -- starting October 1 -- I started pounding out 50,000 words of blog content with nary a pause in the delivery schedule. Never mind the why, I don’t plan on changing the delivery schedule to the blog any time soon.
And with that, I get to sign off. 923 words later, I feel as though I’ve not only exercised my wine soaked demons, but also made significant progress towards my 50,000 word objective.
Alternatively, spellcheck is saving my ass.
Without sober reflection, here are my observations on the cruising life:
I really want a bath. I miss bathing. I miss the little ritual of asking DrC if I can take an hour to bathe, heading for the bath, locking the door. I would turn the spigot on hot hot hot, drop in half a Lush bath bomb, and sink in. I’d take a good book, preferably one with very little character development and a great deal of hot, uninhibited sex on moors, in closets and pressed on the stairs to the second floor. My flesh would turn pink, then red, and my head would spin as I stepped out of the tub. DrC would be ready with a cold glass of water, knowing I’d spent too long in the hot water, dehydrated, and was about to pass out. Then I’d flop like a stranded fish on my bed, too hot to cover myself with clothes or bedding, the cool night air chilling my heated skin while my head swam and spun in delicious slow whirls until I’d fall to a limp, warm sleep.
I’d like my boat better if it didn’t move all the time. When you’re slightly drunk and your head is two sips short of a complete spin, it would be nice if the ground didn’t move. The movement, the sloshy sounds, the honking of the sea lions on the nearby breakwater, combine to make me feel considerably more intoxicated than I should be forced to feel after such a small quantity of wine and large quantity of tasty pork and vegetable curry.
I’d like my family better if they stopped arguing with me. There is a Rule. It’s like the Rule of Three, I suppose, a guideline for better living. Not like running a stop light... more like shutting off the lights before leaving the house. The Rule is that if three or more people have the same problem with you, the problem is you not them and you need to fix it yourself. So I have a really big problem with my family which causes me to yell at them all the time. The problem is that I want a clean, healthy, safe environment, and they want to live like pigs with a self-immolation complex. The whole place would smell like a Saturday morning bacon fry if I let them live like they apparently want to. This is my problem. I must fix it. I think a good start would be to adopt a more carnivorous approach to life.
Spore is not an educational game no matter how much we want it to be so. I’m sorry; As a homeschool parent, you can not justify the purchase of this game as an educational expense. It’s a great deal of fun, and I recommend it highly, but we all need to stop pretending we’re learning more about evolution and societal development by playing it.
I shouldn’t miss friends I’ve only known for a few weeks, but I do anyway. I miss s/v Wish and s/v Carasan. I want to spend more time with s/v Walking on Water and s/v Tango. I miss Ted and Sue of s/v Indigo so much it hurts. I miss s/v Rubber Duckies, with their great attitude and wonderful children. I miss Laureen and Jason and Behan in a way that strikes to the heart of what I am. There are boats ahead of me with more wonderful people, but part of me is afraid to meet them. I am not sure I’m cut out for this love ‘em and leave ‘em approach to friendships. In the real world, I made friends by the decade: Joe and Alex in one, Jim and Keet in another, Kristina and Joann in a third. Now I make them monthly, but it’s hard to feel right about the transient nature of these relationships. DrC was probably right: I’m ideally cut out for monogamy. I didn’t believe him at the time, but 20 years and counting suggests that once again he was right and I was wrong.
Finally, I have decided not to participate in NaNoWriMo this year. Last year, I used it as a grand excuse to write “go look at my prior great art” posts. I think that would have been acceptable had I simultaneously either produced a great work of fiction or -- alternatively -- merely spun out 50,000 words of drivel for future use on this blog. Since I did neither, it was a complete cop out. This year -- starting October 1 -- I started pounding out 50,000 words of blog content with nary a pause in the delivery schedule. Never mind the why, I don’t plan on changing the delivery schedule to the blog any time soon.
And with that, I get to sign off. 923 words later, I feel as though I’ve not only exercised my wine soaked demons, but also made significant progress towards my 50,000 word objective.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The Ralf Relative Rolliness Scale
You have no doubt heard of the Beaufort Scale. This is a gauge of wind force from 0 to 150 knots which is supposed to tell you whether or not you can go sailing today. What you really need to know about wind, however, is that it works like earthquakes with the force growing exponentially. 30 knots is a whole lot more than 20. 40 is seriously nastier than 30 by a considerably greater amount than the 20-30 increment. I think 50 and 60 are like 8 and 9 point quakes on the Richter Scale, something to be avoided at all cost.
The longer we spend on the Pacific, however, the more convinced I am that we cruisers also need a Ralf Rolliness Scale. This 0 to 6 scale would describe the degree of comfort found at an anchorage based on the amount of bounciness. An anchorage can be quite comfortable with little or no swell, or you can bounce around like the rubber ball on the end of child’s paddle toy. Discomfort comes from the wakes of passing boats, ocean swell, wind fetch, tide and current. Just as wind changes on a daily basis, the Ralf Rolliness rating in a given anchorage can change from day to day, even from hour to hour.
Some anchorages, however, consistently suck. I for one would really like the cruising books to be more explicit about the amount of suckage. I’d also like to be able to get on the VHF and say, “Hey everyone, you know that little place next to Wharf #2 in Monterey Bay that’s supposed to be so comfortable even if there is a NW swell? Well, we’re here in a Ralf 4. Do not venture in. We’re abandoning our anchor early this morning.”
Or how about: “This morning we are waiting out a truly heinous low pressure system in San Simeon. This is the most beautiful spot we have anchored since Native Anchorage in Knight Inlet. Fortunately, the bay provides reasonably good shelter from the prevailing (and in this case storm driven) north westerly. There is a mild Ralf 1 swell from the south, shading to Ralf 2 when the breeze pushes us beam on to the swell.”
See how useful that would be? Let me take a first stab at formalizing the Ralf Rolliness Scale:
The longer we spend on the Pacific, however, the more convinced I am that we cruisers also need a Ralf Rolliness Scale. This 0 to 6 scale would describe the degree of comfort found at an anchorage based on the amount of bounciness. An anchorage can be quite comfortable with little or no swell, or you can bounce around like the rubber ball on the end of child’s paddle toy. Discomfort comes from the wakes of passing boats, ocean swell, wind fetch, tide and current. Just as wind changes on a daily basis, the Ralf Rolliness rating in a given anchorage can change from day to day, even from hour to hour.
Some anchorages, however, consistently suck. I for one would really like the cruising books to be more explicit about the amount of suckage. I’d also like to be able to get on the VHF and say, “Hey everyone, you know that little place next to Wharf #2 in Monterey Bay that’s supposed to be so comfortable even if there is a NW swell? Well, we’re here in a Ralf 4. Do not venture in. We’re abandoning our anchor early this morning.”
Or how about: “This morning we are waiting out a truly heinous low pressure system in San Simeon. This is the most beautiful spot we have anchored since Native Anchorage in Knight Inlet. Fortunately, the bay provides reasonably good shelter from the prevailing (and in this case storm driven) north westerly. There is a mild Ralf 1 swell from the south, shading to Ralf 2 when the breeze pushes us beam on to the swell.”
See how useful that would be? Let me take a first stab at formalizing the Ralf Rolliness Scale:
Monday, November 10, 2008
Famine or Feast
In addition to Murphy’s Law, McGillacudy’s Law, Moore’s Law, and Laureen’s Rule of Three (which is really more like a guideline), let us add Toast’s Law:
In cruising, there is either way too much or none.
Let’s start with food. Either you have just provisioned the boat, and you can’t open the medicine cabinet without a box of crackers leaping out to hit you on the nose, or it’s been three weeks and you can not find three ingredients to cobble together to form a lunch. You travel either through regions of the world where grocery stores are conveniently situated a five minute walk from every dinghy dock, or you pass through an area where the local “market” stocks nothing but beer, cigarettes, two jugs of expired milk, a basket of very limp carrots on ice, and fifty variations on the word “bait.”
Laundry is binary. Either the entire cockpit is overflowing in stinky panties, rotten blue clothes and damp towels, or we did laundry this morning.
Fuel is a gradient. You start with lots and over time you use it. Unless you’ve broken something. Then you find that somehow you’ve leaked a full tank of propane into the atmosphere. In addition to being environmentally disastrous, this state change results in nothing but cold gruel and warm lemonade until you can find the next fuel station.
Don’t get me started on wind. Every sailor knows that the quickest way to make the wind die down is to put up the main sail. Turns out that a quicker way to do so is to send s/v Don Quixote into the teeth of the forecast. Even should NOAA pump out a lovely 15 to 25 knot forecast with steep 12 foot swells, if you send us out there the wind promptly drops to 5 from the west. We spent twelve hours motoring from Pillar Point Harbor to Monterey on the world’s slowest roller coaster despite an otherwise completely threatening and highly disturbing forecast.
Fish are like laundry. You either have them or you don’t, and it’s not really clear which state is more frustrating. If the fish are in the mood, they generously throw themselves on the bait in a protein suicide that is both commendable and speaks volumes about the fundamental stupidity of the piscine species. You then haul in fish after fish until the blood is an inch deep in the cockpit, and there is no room in the freezer for the rum drink ingredients. If the fish are not in the mood, no amount of clever hooks, bait, or lures will get them to pay the slightest attention. Inevitably in these conditions, we catch birds. We’ve probably caught every major species of ocean bird between Vancouver Island and Cabo San Lucas.
Advice. Well, let me see. This might be the exception that proves the rule. I’ve never been with sailors who didn’t have a lengthy list you’re doing wrong. Books, blogs, and salty dogs are all full of useful tidbits to read and forget. If DrC and I listened to the majority of this nautical treasure house, we probably would have never left. We certainly are insufficiently competent to do what we are doing. However, here we are. Nearly 3,000 miles and we’re still float. The kids are still alive, too. Surprising, that last bit.
My advice is to forget the rules, and pass the wasabi. God knows you’re not going to be able to find any more of it after you run out of the... what? Five JARS? Who packed this damn boat anyway?...
In cruising, there is either way too much or none.
Let’s start with food. Either you have just provisioned the boat, and you can’t open the medicine cabinet without a box of crackers leaping out to hit you on the nose, or it’s been three weeks and you can not find three ingredients to cobble together to form a lunch. You travel either through regions of the world where grocery stores are conveniently situated a five minute walk from every dinghy dock, or you pass through an area where the local “market” stocks nothing but beer, cigarettes, two jugs of expired milk, a basket of very limp carrots on ice, and fifty variations on the word “bait.”
Laundry is binary. Either the entire cockpit is overflowing in stinky panties, rotten blue clothes and damp towels, or we did laundry this morning.
Fuel is a gradient. You start with lots and over time you use it. Unless you’ve broken something. Then you find that somehow you’ve leaked a full tank of propane into the atmosphere. In addition to being environmentally disastrous, this state change results in nothing but cold gruel and warm lemonade until you can find the next fuel station.
Don’t get me started on wind. Every sailor knows that the quickest way to make the wind die down is to put up the main sail. Turns out that a quicker way to do so is to send s/v Don Quixote into the teeth of the forecast. Even should NOAA pump out a lovely 15 to 25 knot forecast with steep 12 foot swells, if you send us out there the wind promptly drops to 5 from the west. We spent twelve hours motoring from Pillar Point Harbor to Monterey on the world’s slowest roller coaster despite an otherwise completely threatening and highly disturbing forecast.
Fish are like laundry. You either have them or you don’t, and it’s not really clear which state is more frustrating. If the fish are in the mood, they generously throw themselves on the bait in a protein suicide that is both commendable and speaks volumes about the fundamental stupidity of the piscine species. You then haul in fish after fish until the blood is an inch deep in the cockpit, and there is no room in the freezer for the rum drink ingredients. If the fish are not in the mood, no amount of clever hooks, bait, or lures will get them to pay the slightest attention. Inevitably in these conditions, we catch birds. We’ve probably caught every major species of ocean bird between Vancouver Island and Cabo San Lucas.
Advice. Well, let me see. This might be the exception that proves the rule. I’ve never been with sailors who didn’t have a lengthy list you’re doing wrong. Books, blogs, and salty dogs are all full of useful tidbits to read and forget. If DrC and I listened to the majority of this nautical treasure house, we probably would have never left. We certainly are insufficiently competent to do what we are doing. However, here we are. Nearly 3,000 miles and we’re still float. The kids are still alive, too. Surprising, that last bit.
My advice is to forget the rules, and pass the wasabi. God knows you’re not going to be able to find any more of it after you run out of the... what? Five JARS? Who packed this damn boat anyway?...
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Get a Cat* - Underway
Two men stand on a field of white. The one on the left is a handsome white man, about 50, distinguished, knowledgeable, and stylishly dressed for dinner at a seaside restaurant. He’s standing at an angle while trying with limited success to eat from a package of Cup-O-Noodles.
On the right is a much younger man, casually attired in Bermuda shorts, Crocs, an open T-shirt, and hailing from some mixed Pan-Pacific ancestry. He’s seated at a table with a glass of wine, a steaming bowl of what appears to be bouillabaisse, and a crusty loaf of bread.
A pleasant jingle plays unobtrusively in the background.
The younger man takes a sip and speaks first in a relaxed, cheerful tone of voice, “Hello, I’m a Catamaran.”
Monohull glances up and says wearily, “And I’m a Monohull.”
Catamaran addresses the audience, “Today, my friend Monohull and I have had a really nice sail down the coast. We left early this morning, but we are almost there. Good, strong winds and a bit of chop, but absolutely beautiful weather. I’ve been tacking a lot, but Monohull here has been having a great run pointed up into the wind. He’s made fantastic time!”
Monohull demurs, “Well, I don’t like to blast my own horn, but I do think I’ve made better time than you today. Just shows you, Catamaran, that you’re not as speedy as you thought, heh?”
Catamaran smiles and shakes his head in admiration, “You are so right, Monohull. This is your sea! You look great, sleek, fast!”
Monohull blushes and looks down, but clearly he’s rather proud of himself. “Well… you know… I am a trim vessel…” He pats his belly with a tired smile and allows, “It’s been a good day for both of us.”
Catamaran apparently agrees and stands, holding up his wine glass. “A toast to you, Monohull, for a well sailed trip!” The younger man is standing straight, throwing into sharp relief the slant of Monohull man. Catamaran looks full of energy and happy for his friend.
Monohull glances over, “A toast? What’s that?...” For the first time he notices Catamaran’s dinner, the elegant table setting, the steaming fragrant soup. He asks incredulously, “What are you eating?”
“Oh, we whipped up some soup from the shellfish we got at the market yesterday.” Catamaran glances at the table, then the glass in his hand. “Baked some bread, found a good bottle of Merlot in the starboard bow that I’d forgotten was there. I think we’ll make a crème brulee for dessert.” He turns his gaze to Monohull, “What are you having?”
Monohull glances at his Cup-O-Soup and then hurriedly hides it behind his back, “The same.”
Point of sail makes a difference. Catamarans do not point as high into the wind as monohulls. So depending on the wind direction, you can find yourself following a monohull all day long as you tack back and forth, or you can sail off on a downwind run at half again their speed but way out of your way. It is a rare day when you're lucky enough to turn the much ballyhoo'd speed differential of your multi-hull into an actual improvement in time to anchor.
Ditching the rail on a leaner represents the height of sailing excitement, and at times we regret the loss of that exhilarating feeling of speed and movement. However, for the long haul, we prefer to arrive refreshed and ready to dance the night away at the local cantina.
* Author’s Note: All credit to the Get a Mac marketing team whose incredibly clever work inspired this series.
On the right is a much younger man, casually attired in Bermuda shorts, Crocs, an open T-shirt, and hailing from some mixed Pan-Pacific ancestry. He’s seated at a table with a glass of wine, a steaming bowl of what appears to be bouillabaisse, and a crusty loaf of bread.
A pleasant jingle plays unobtrusively in the background.
The younger man takes a sip and speaks first in a relaxed, cheerful tone of voice, “Hello, I’m a Catamaran.”
Monohull glances up and says wearily, “And I’m a Monohull.”
Catamaran addresses the audience, “Today, my friend Monohull and I have had a really nice sail down the coast. We left early this morning, but we are almost there. Good, strong winds and a bit of chop, but absolutely beautiful weather. I’ve been tacking a lot, but Monohull here has been having a great run pointed up into the wind. He’s made fantastic time!”
Monohull demurs, “Well, I don’t like to blast my own horn, but I do think I’ve made better time than you today. Just shows you, Catamaran, that you’re not as speedy as you thought, heh?”
Catamaran smiles and shakes his head in admiration, “You are so right, Monohull. This is your sea! You look great, sleek, fast!”
Monohull blushes and looks down, but clearly he’s rather proud of himself. “Well… you know… I am a trim vessel…” He pats his belly with a tired smile and allows, “It’s been a good day for both of us.”
Catamaran apparently agrees and stands, holding up his wine glass. “A toast to you, Monohull, for a well sailed trip!” The younger man is standing straight, throwing into sharp relief the slant of Monohull man. Catamaran looks full of energy and happy for his friend.
Monohull glances over, “A toast? What’s that?...” For the first time he notices Catamaran’s dinner, the elegant table setting, the steaming fragrant soup. He asks incredulously, “What are you eating?”
“Oh, we whipped up some soup from the shellfish we got at the market yesterday.” Catamaran glances at the table, then the glass in his hand. “Baked some bread, found a good bottle of Merlot in the starboard bow that I’d forgotten was there. I think we’ll make a crème brulee for dessert.” He turns his gaze to Monohull, “What are you having?”
Monohull glances at his Cup-O-Soup and then hurriedly hides it behind his back, “The same.”
Point of sail makes a difference. Catamarans do not point as high into the wind as monohulls. So depending on the wind direction, you can find yourself following a monohull all day long as you tack back and forth, or you can sail off on a downwind run at half again their speed but way out of your way. It is a rare day when you're lucky enough to turn the much ballyhoo'd speed differential of your multi-hull into an actual improvement in time to anchor.
Ditching the rail on a leaner represents the height of sailing excitement, and at times we regret the loss of that exhilarating feeling of speed and movement. However, for the long haul, we prefer to arrive refreshed and ready to dance the night away at the local cantina.
* Author’s Note: All credit to the Get a Mac marketing team whose incredibly clever work inspired this series.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Get a Cat* - Children
Two men stand on a field of white. The one on the left is a handsome white man, about 50, distinguished, knowledgeable, and stylishly dressed for dinner at a seaside restaurant. A three-year-old boy is on his shoulders with legs wrapped tightly around the man’s neck. The child is yelling and waving his arms as the Monohull man desperately tries to maintain his balance.
On the right is a much younger man, casually attired in Bermuda shorts, Crocs, an open T-shirt, and hailing from some mixed Pan-Pacific ancestry. A pleasant jingle plays in the background unobtrusively.
The younger man speaks first, glancing over at his colleague, shouting to be heard over the screaming child, “Hello, I’m a Catamaran!!”
Panting and barely heard over the bellowing toddler, Monohull bellows out “And I’m a Monohull!”
Catamaran looks concerned and puts ups his hands to try to help prevent the boy from falling, “Monohull, are you okay? What's with the kid?”
Monohull tries to capture the boy’s flailing hands and gasps, “Oh, it’s just my nephew. He’s visiting today. I'm trying to keep him busy while my wife gets dinner together.”
“How about I take him for a bit? Give you a breather…” Catamaran offers, holding out his arms for the child.
Monohull happily pulls the child off his shoulders and passes him over, “Will you? That would be great. Just give me a chance to…”
Monohull stops talking as the child in Catamaran’s arms disappears and a peaceful silence descends over the white set. Gradually, the sounds of ocean combined with the musical background can once again be heard. Monohull’s mouth gapes for a moment before he says, “Wha… whh… what did you just do? What happened? What did you do with my nephew?”
Catamaran puts up both hands, smiles and placates his friend, “No worries, dude. I got him. I just put him in my other hull.”
Monohull numbly repeats, “Your other hull.”
Catamaran nods complacently while pulling a rum drink out of thin air, “Like a drink while the kids play?”
Monohull grudgingly accepts the drink and mutters, “Just don’t lose him in there. My sister would kill me.”
* * *
Monohulls are often spacious with pleasant, comfortable interiors. However, the bottom line is that it’s one long tube in the water through which sound carries with mind-boggling efficiency. With children aboard, it’s hard to escape their presence as they tromp through, over and around you while you serve drinks, prep dinner, or just relax with a good book.
In a catamaran, on the other hand, you can simply hand over a hull to the younger set. Kids can convert a bow locker into a playroom, the cockpit into a jungle gym, and the tramp into… well… a trampoline. They string net and float toys underneath the salon for a neat, shady and comfortable swim dock, and they build pup tent forts into their cabins.
But seriously. Be careful. They do occasionally get lost when playing hide ‘n seek.
* Author’s Note: All credit to the Apple Get a Mac marketing team whose incredibly clever work inspired this series.
On the right is a much younger man, casually attired in Bermuda shorts, Crocs, an open T-shirt, and hailing from some mixed Pan-Pacific ancestry. A pleasant jingle plays in the background unobtrusively.
The younger man speaks first, glancing over at his colleague, shouting to be heard over the screaming child, “Hello, I’m a Catamaran!!”
Panting and barely heard over the bellowing toddler, Monohull bellows out “And I’m a Monohull!”
Catamaran looks concerned and puts ups his hands to try to help prevent the boy from falling, “Monohull, are you okay? What's with the kid?”
Monohull tries to capture the boy’s flailing hands and gasps, “Oh, it’s just my nephew. He’s visiting today. I'm trying to keep him busy while my wife gets dinner together.”
“How about I take him for a bit? Give you a breather…” Catamaran offers, holding out his arms for the child.
Monohull happily pulls the child off his shoulders and passes him over, “Will you? That would be great. Just give me a chance to…”
Monohull stops talking as the child in Catamaran’s arms disappears and a peaceful silence descends over the white set. Gradually, the sounds of ocean combined with the musical background can once again be heard. Monohull’s mouth gapes for a moment before he says, “Wha… whh… what did you just do? What happened? What did you do with my nephew?”
Catamaran puts up both hands, smiles and placates his friend, “No worries, dude. I got him. I just put him in my other hull.”
Monohull numbly repeats, “Your other hull.”
Catamaran nods complacently while pulling a rum drink out of thin air, “Like a drink while the kids play?”
Monohull grudgingly accepts the drink and mutters, “Just don’t lose him in there. My sister would kill me.”
Monohulls are often spacious with pleasant, comfortable interiors. However, the bottom line is that it’s one long tube in the water through which sound carries with mind-boggling efficiency. With children aboard, it’s hard to escape their presence as they tromp through, over and around you while you serve drinks, prep dinner, or just relax with a good book.
In a catamaran, on the other hand, you can simply hand over a hull to the younger set. Kids can convert a bow locker into a playroom, the cockpit into a jungle gym, and the tramp into… well… a trampoline. They string net and float toys underneath the salon for a neat, shady and comfortable swim dock, and they build pup tent forts into their cabins.
But seriously. Be careful. They do occasionally get lost when playing hide ‘n seek.
* Author’s Note: All credit to the Apple Get a Mac marketing team whose incredibly clever work inspired this series.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
A Tale of 20 Beds
In all my complaining, I'm surprised I've forgotten to mention that DrC and I haven't had a good night's sleep in close to seven months. While the possibility of frozen extremities, drowning in spit, or the sounds of the diesel heater taking off might possibly come to mind as causal, the real culprit has been the bed.
Or perhaps it is more accurate to say beds, because DrC and I have cycled through a startlingly broad range and bewildering variety of bedding in a vain attempt to find the perfect comfort mattress. We've tried Frolies and we've tried Ikea. We added foam padding, bubble wrap, and space age stuffing. We even tried $2.50 swim floats from Walgren's. Thus far, the search for a comfortable night's sleep has been fruitless. Each morning we awake to the same ritual.
Toast yawns, “Okay, that sucked for me. How 'bout you?”
DrC tentatively stretches and clenches up half way to a full reach, “No.”
“No, it didn't suck? or No, it sucked and I hurt like hell.”
DrC creaks as he sits up and edges to the end of the bunk, “We need to try something else.”
There are two possible interpretations of this quest. First – and the theory I personally favor – boat bedding is a considerable challenge. Alternatively, DrC and I are over 40 and getting old. I'm not going to even dignify the second theory with additional clarification. Either you, my dear reader, are old enough that back problems are something you reject on principle in the same way you pull gray out of your scalp each morning, or you are a young whipper snapper, and you need to shut up and listen to your elders.
Going with the first theory, I offer the following supporting arguments:
Thing 1) Boat beds can not have box springs.
Thing 2) Boat beds frequently do not fit standard shapes and so rule out conventional solutions such as popping down to the nearest Mattress Outlet and getting something on sale. And finally....
Thing 3) Boat beds almost inevitably must fold in half or break into pieces because some crucial, must-get-to-it-in-less-than-30-seconds-or-the-boat-sinks bit of equipment is installed beneath it.
It's that last one that screws the pouch on Don Quixote. Real Sailors™ will undoubtedly either sneer or boggle, but the Lagoon's are outfitted with bunks that come in standard, commercial bed sizes. The aft cabins are both queens, the port forward cabin is a twin with wings. This makes sheets easy. It should have made a mattress easy. The problem is that our battery bank and the single most usable locker for stowing books, spare clothes, and parts is under that bed. With DrC's wonderful shelving addition, it is just not possible to put in a standard queen size mattress.
We started with the cushions that come with the boat. Those suck. If you are ever offered an opportunity to provision a brand new boat, just say no to the factory bunk cushions. Say it loudly. Say it really really really loudly. In addition to being wildly uncomfortable, for some damn reason it does not matter which orientation you put them in, they slide everything to the middle. This is great until your husband arrives in the middle of the night in a comatose, massive lump on top of your right hip.
Cushions on Frolies meant we slid into each other during the early evening instead of waiting till the middle of the night. Putting the Ikea mattress pad on top made the sliding less noticeable, but DrC's head hit the ceiling when he went to pee in the middle of the night. Removing the cushions dropped us down six inches at the cost of my man's tender hips. Adding egg shell foam from WalMart made his hips hurt less but resulted in a nasty sponging effect that felt like sleeping on the edge of a kitchen sink complete with skanky sponge smell. Covering the egg shell with a super padded mattress pad from Target worked for a few months. However, reluctantly we realized that we'd eliminated the pressure points, but now had no give for the curve of our spines resulting in crippling pain every morning.
Tonight we installed a $25 queen size air bed from Target underneath the Ikea mattress pad. It's possible this will work. As I sit and type, my butt does not hurt. My hair is brushing the ceiling, but at this point, I'd put up with halving the air space in this cabin if I could just get a full night's sleep without waking up feeling like I'd been in traction all night.
I'm no longer hopeful, however. Hope is for young people.
Or perhaps it is more accurate to say beds, because DrC and I have cycled through a startlingly broad range and bewildering variety of bedding in a vain attempt to find the perfect comfort mattress. We've tried Frolies and we've tried Ikea. We added foam padding, bubble wrap, and space age stuffing. We even tried $2.50 swim floats from Walgren's. Thus far, the search for a comfortable night's sleep has been fruitless. Each morning we awake to the same ritual.
Toast yawns, “Okay, that sucked for me. How 'bout you?”
DrC tentatively stretches and clenches up half way to a full reach, “No.”
“No, it didn't suck? or No, it sucked and I hurt like hell.”
DrC creaks as he sits up and edges to the end of the bunk, “We need to try something else.”
There are two possible interpretations of this quest. First – and the theory I personally favor – boat bedding is a considerable challenge. Alternatively, DrC and I are over 40 and getting old. I'm not going to even dignify the second theory with additional clarification. Either you, my dear reader, are old enough that back problems are something you reject on principle in the same way you pull gray out of your scalp each morning, or you are a young whipper snapper, and you need to shut up and listen to your elders.
Going with the first theory, I offer the following supporting arguments:
Thing 1) Boat beds can not have box springs.
Thing 2) Boat beds frequently do not fit standard shapes and so rule out conventional solutions such as popping down to the nearest Mattress Outlet and getting something on sale. And finally....
Thing 3) Boat beds almost inevitably must fold in half or break into pieces because some crucial, must-get-to-it-in-less-than-30-seconds-or-the-boat-sinks bit of equipment is installed beneath it.
It's that last one that screws the pouch on Don Quixote. Real Sailors™ will undoubtedly either sneer or boggle, but the Lagoon's are outfitted with bunks that come in standard, commercial bed sizes. The aft cabins are both queens, the port forward cabin is a twin with wings. This makes sheets easy. It should have made a mattress easy. The problem is that our battery bank and the single most usable locker for stowing books, spare clothes, and parts is under that bed. With DrC's wonderful shelving addition, it is just not possible to put in a standard queen size mattress.
We started with the cushions that come with the boat. Those suck. If you are ever offered an opportunity to provision a brand new boat, just say no to the factory bunk cushions. Say it loudly. Say it really really really loudly. In addition to being wildly uncomfortable, for some damn reason it does not matter which orientation you put them in, they slide everything to the middle. This is great until your husband arrives in the middle of the night in a comatose, massive lump on top of your right hip.
Cushions on Frolies meant we slid into each other during the early evening instead of waiting till the middle of the night. Putting the Ikea mattress pad on top made the sliding less noticeable, but DrC's head hit the ceiling when he went to pee in the middle of the night. Removing the cushions dropped us down six inches at the cost of my man's tender hips. Adding egg shell foam from WalMart made his hips hurt less but resulted in a nasty sponging effect that felt like sleeping on the edge of a kitchen sink complete with skanky sponge smell. Covering the egg shell with a super padded mattress pad from Target worked for a few months. However, reluctantly we realized that we'd eliminated the pressure points, but now had no give for the curve of our spines resulting in crippling pain every morning.
Tonight we installed a $25 queen size air bed from Target underneath the Ikea mattress pad. It's possible this will work. As I sit and type, my butt does not hurt. My hair is brushing the ceiling, but at this point, I'd put up with halving the air space in this cabin if I could just get a full night's sleep without waking up feeling like I'd been in traction all night.
I'm no longer hopeful, however. Hope is for young people.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Doing More With Less - Bathing
The boat teaches many lessons in conservation. This is the third in a series of posts about how we boaters do more with considerably less. The tips are valid for land based life as well, though, so hopefully folks can use some of these ideas.
* * *
I'm an American, not some Eurobabe sexpot with long dark hair in all the right places and a godz given right to avoid soap. We Americans fear the smell of sweat. We are terrified of oily skin, lanky hair, and well stewed underarm odor. Our poop don't stink, our breaths are treated with a myriad of pastes, gums, and curiously strong candies, and we have a pathological* need to wash our hands with antibacterial soaps.
Well, I used to be a squeaky clean American. That was then. This is now. Now, I stink.
So do my children.
We don't want to talk about my husband.
You can blame it on the lack of water and soap. That's a good place to start, actually. It provides at least the beginnings of a reason, if not a fine excuse for poor hygiene. But the truth, as is so frequently the case, fails to reflect well on reality. And the reality is that I'm lazy.
With my family and my boat, there are so very many battles I can wage. We can argue about learning stuff, fixing holes in the boat, putting things away, and whether or not Nora Roberts is appropriate reading material for a 9 year old. We have been known to come to blows over where to put stinky shoes and whether or not to wear even wear them. There are screaming fits about mud and sand, dead animals, and the endlessly overflowing boxes of hardware sitting in the cockpit.
So when you get right down to it, I'm too exhausted – too mentally beaten to maternal pulp – to force my husband and children to clean their bodies on a regular basis. As long as the really intimate parts cannot be distinguished from the background smells of diesel, BeanPod candles, and last night's dinner, I figure I'm ahead.
Yet, there is a reason why boaters tend to be a scruffier lot than landlubbers. The reason is quarters. I mentioned this months ago in The Quarter Quandary, but in case you did not understand my profound frustration at the time, let me repeat myself. It costs money to get clean. It costs a lot of money.
In the Northwest, you arrive at a marina with a shower only to find that your $40/night docking fee does not include hot running water unless you dump in two quarters every two minutes. You also learn quickly that the first round... sometimes even the second round... comes out of the tap at approximately the temperature of an orange flavored beverage dropped from a soda machine. Just as the tiniest hint of warmth enters the stream of water, the damn thing shuts off.
This is your cue to soap up. Frantically. Presumably to reduce the growth of mold, fungus, and homeless people, the showers are extraordinarily well ventilated. Read, the shower stalls are wide open at the base, inevitably there are windows at about head level which haven't closed since World War II, and some clever state maintenance project manager has installed an industrial strength fan which automatically turns on with the lights. Every erg of warmth on your skin disappears instantly, leaving you to create soap foam on a ridge line of goose bumps. Male anatomy disappears in protest of the conditions, and little girls start screaming when you attempt to detoxify their hair with shampoo (which admittedly has roughly the texture and temperature of a slushy).
Once soaped at great cost to ear drums and health, you add quarters to the machine. However, you can hear the marina or state park supervisor's wicked laugh as the water blasts out at the original, slightly frozen gradient. You are starting over, people. The only way to keep the warmth coming is to keep feeding the damn thing quarters until you've taken out a second mortgage on your boat. Worse, your children are now slippery as eels and pissed off to boot. They are agile, evil little animals with viciously piercing voices and malevolent looks. It requires a towel snapping cattle prod, a firm grasp of advanced middle school vocabulary, and arms of steel to get them under the glacial stream before the two minutes are up.
And for what? Odds are that they'll be covered in sand, shore mud, and indescribable organic smutz within an hour.
So I am taking a stand in defense of the environment here and foregoing bathing for the next five months until we get to Mexico. It's just not worth it.
* True statement. You need to stop washing with that sh*. All you're doing is ensuring the breeding of super bacterial bugs that nothing can kill.
* * *
I'm an American, not some Eurobabe sexpot with long dark hair in all the right places and a godz given right to avoid soap. We Americans fear the smell of sweat. We are terrified of oily skin, lanky hair, and well stewed underarm odor. Our poop don't stink, our breaths are treated with a myriad of pastes, gums, and curiously strong candies, and we have a pathological* need to wash our hands with antibacterial soaps.
Well, I used to be a squeaky clean American. That was then. This is now. Now, I stink.
So do my children.
We don't want to talk about my husband.
You can blame it on the lack of water and soap. That's a good place to start, actually. It provides at least the beginnings of a reason, if not a fine excuse for poor hygiene. But the truth, as is so frequently the case, fails to reflect well on reality. And the reality is that I'm lazy.
With my family and my boat, there are so very many battles I can wage. We can argue about learning stuff, fixing holes in the boat, putting things away, and whether or not Nora Roberts is appropriate reading material for a 9 year old. We have been known to come to blows over where to put stinky shoes and whether or not to wear even wear them. There are screaming fits about mud and sand, dead animals, and the endlessly overflowing boxes of hardware sitting in the cockpit.
So when you get right down to it, I'm too exhausted – too mentally beaten to maternal pulp – to force my husband and children to clean their bodies on a regular basis. As long as the really intimate parts cannot be distinguished from the background smells of diesel, BeanPod candles, and last night's dinner, I figure I'm ahead.
Yet, there is a reason why boaters tend to be a scruffier lot than landlubbers. The reason is quarters. I mentioned this months ago in The Quarter Quandary, but in case you did not understand my profound frustration at the time, let me repeat myself. It costs money to get clean. It costs a lot of money.
In the Northwest, you arrive at a marina with a shower only to find that your $40/night docking fee does not include hot running water unless you dump in two quarters every two minutes. You also learn quickly that the first round... sometimes even the second round... comes out of the tap at approximately the temperature of an orange flavored beverage dropped from a soda machine. Just as the tiniest hint of warmth enters the stream of water, the damn thing shuts off.
This is your cue to soap up. Frantically. Presumably to reduce the growth of mold, fungus, and homeless people, the showers are extraordinarily well ventilated. Read, the shower stalls are wide open at the base, inevitably there are windows at about head level which haven't closed since World War II, and some clever state maintenance project manager has installed an industrial strength fan which automatically turns on with the lights. Every erg of warmth on your skin disappears instantly, leaving you to create soap foam on a ridge line of goose bumps. Male anatomy disappears in protest of the conditions, and little girls start screaming when you attempt to detoxify their hair with shampoo (which admittedly has roughly the texture and temperature of a slushy).
Once soaped at great cost to ear drums and health, you add quarters to the machine. However, you can hear the marina or state park supervisor's wicked laugh as the water blasts out at the original, slightly frozen gradient. You are starting over, people. The only way to keep the warmth coming is to keep feeding the damn thing quarters until you've taken out a second mortgage on your boat. Worse, your children are now slippery as eels and pissed off to boot. They are agile, evil little animals with viciously piercing voices and malevolent looks. It requires a towel snapping cattle prod, a firm grasp of advanced middle school vocabulary, and arms of steel to get them under the glacial stream before the two minutes are up.
And for what? Odds are that they'll be covered in sand, shore mud, and indescribable organic smutz within an hour.
So I am taking a stand in defense of the environment here and foregoing bathing for the next five months until we get to Mexico. It's just not worth it.
* True statement. You need to stop washing with that sh*. All you're doing is ensuring the breeding of super bacterial bugs that nothing can kill.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Only a Test
Bringing Back the Sun
Originally uploaded by relentlesstoil
who happens to be one of my best friends
in the world and whose art is
routinely an inspiration.
Santa brought the girls scooters this year. Santa is out of his effing mind. Those girls are like minions of Evil Knievel (may he rest in peace) zooming through the elegant, high brow marina with little consideration for friend, foe, or fauna. I swear we would have long since been kicked out of the marina except no one is here in the dead of winter.
Winter in a marina that – for the most part – prohibits liveaboards is a very quiet neighborhood. When a gale blows up from the Pacific, you'll see a small percentage of owners pop over for a half hour to check lines and fenders. But for the most part, we have acres of million-dollar boats, a five-star restaurant, and the attention of all the marina staff to ourselves. I am occasionally tempted to sneak over to the nearest Nordic powerboat, fire up the genset, kick back with my feet up drinking brandy toddies while watching the HD-TV wide screen. It's the guilty dream of those who live on the other side of the tracks.
This winter is a test, I suspect, of our fortitude and our stubbornness. All by ourselves in a sea of much more comfortable housing, we are developing an esprit of mutual admiration in the face of deep deprivation. Dr C and I are both still working in a last push to plump the cruising kitty before the weather breaks. With the spring, our income trickles to a dribble while our sails take us northwards, following migrating birds and the string of broadband wireless, marina hot spots which speckle the cost.
I grow plumper each week, even if the cruising kitty fails to make marked progress. Double-time work plus homeschool and holidays combine to make Toast a very fat girl. One item of household gear that I shed, however, was the scale, so I have not the slightest clue whether this feeling of fattitude is merely a product of a fudge-crazed, mascarpone riddled mind or a true indicator of increased girth. Ultimately, it matters not since the sensation of adding a seal-like layer of blubber seems so appropro of our current lifestyle, I have trouble mustering the outrage to get myself out into the harsh weather to get some exercise. Along with t-shirts, time to relax, and dry sheets, fitness awaits the spring.
This purgatory in which we find ourselves of our own making is halfway between our old life and our new one, and following some karmic law has all of the disadvantages of both and apparently none of the advantages. It is no longer enough to softly chant “May May may may May” as I clutch my coat around me on a arduous round trip to the shore head. I have graduated to a calendar thoughtfully donated to the cause by a local chandlery and am now crossing the days off each night with a somewhat vicious snap of the wrist.
It is a test, this winter. And I always do well on tests.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
A Cold Day in Don Quixote
I have learned so much more respect for our pioneer ancestors. It always seemed so implausible to me that you could arrive in the Pacific Northwest and literally freeze to death in the winter. After all, it never freezes here. So how is it done? Well, let me tell you.
One very creative way to freeze to death in the Pacific Northwest in the winter is to move on to a friggin’ sailboat in the middle of winter and bob around in 40-degree water with the wind whipping by at 40 knots. Let us compound the problem by killing the heater. Twice. Since the “fix” costs $300, after the second breakdown we pretty much had to make a decision between freezing and eating.
We chose to freeze.
What I learned this winter is how you can completely and utterly do without traditional heat sources.
Back in the good old days when we were rich and normal, we had a house with central heat. The furnace would kick on in mid-October and grind away until mid-May. We felt oh so self-righteous when we took the Global Challenge and turned our thermostat down to 68 Fahrenheit. It was chilly enough that people remarked on it when they visited the house. But on the whole, 65 to 68 was quite pleasant as long as you wore a sweater – or as is more common in Seattle, a fleece pullover. We would snuggle beneath an Ikea throw on the couch, watching our movies, sipping red wine (box, of course) and munching on microwave popcorn, replete and smug in the knowledge that our thermostatic sacrifice was helping to ensure a future for our children.
Let's contrast this to our current state. When we stepped onto the boat this evening, the gauge read 44 degrees. Through the creative use of halogen lights, a kerosene lantern and baking cookies, we've raised the temperature in the salon to a balmy 59.
Unfortunately, heat rises. This ensures that any heat we generate making dinner and eating it in the light of our own personal sun lamp does not make it down into the cabins. As I type in the master cabin, my breath is frosting and floating to the ceiling to condense on the hatch cover and slide down the walls. The principle source of heat in here is the adapter for my laptop charger. Never have I more appreciated the fact that Apple chargers are roughly hot enough to fry eggs. We're using it as a bed warmer to ward off frostbite.
Yet, we are not actually all that uncomfortable. I think, in fact, that were it not for all the condensation, I could actually live this way pretty much indefinitely. I can assure you unequivocally that our future land-based house will never have a winter temperature setting higher than 60. There are tricks to living in the cold that you learn quickly or run away from this life screaming.
Pretend Like It's Warm – There are lots of ways to make your boat look warm even when it is not. Believe it or not, our mammalian brains are truly stupid enough to buy this nonsense. If you fill the boat with a warm glowing ambiance, your dumb ass brain registers the color and flicker as a radiant camp fire and makes you believe it's warmer than the thermostat actually reads. It helps, by the way, to turn the thermostat around so that you can't see it. Again, the human brain is surprisingly stupid. If you don't know it's 44 degrees, maybe it's 50.
Think positive.
To create that warm radiant glow, I recommend BeanPod candles. Get one with a nice campfire sounding name like Cedar Chest or Evergreen. Put one of these beauties in the center of the table. Then surround yourself in cheap tea candles from Ikea. Put them absolutely everywhere. They do not generate heat. You just think they do.
Cook РNormally, I find cooking on the boat a bit of a chore. There are only two burners, virtually no counter space, and the oven has two temperatures now that Dr C has ditzed with it: off and nuclear. However, cooking generates two absolutely critical byproducts: heat and odor. Your boat is not a very big place, and simmering soup or chili for half an hour, boiling a pot of tea, or baking a lasagna can actually heat the boat all by itself. Also, the aromas of roasting meat, saut̩ing onions and garlic, and baking chocolate chip cookies do wonders for encouraging the hind brain to think warm and happy thoughts.
Kerosene Lanterns – These are absolutely great on a boat. A kerosene lantern produces a truly astonishing amount of light. It’s also hot. HOT. Our lantern can take the salon from 45 to 55 in 20 minutes. I recommend purchasing these from the Amish catalog. Believe it or not, despite their complete repudiation of electricity, the Amish are served by a fine web site. Okay, this seems totally oxymoronic, but I recognize now that this site must do a really good side business in idiots like us.
Halogen Lights – Ironically, everyone on my catamaran list is yackity yacking about how to swap out all these halogen bulbs in all the fixtures on the boat with more efficient LED. The halogens are the second largest consumer of electricity on the Lagoon catamarans. Swapping them for the more parsimonious LED’s makes for more light at considerably less electrical cost. If you live someplace cold, however, don't do it. The halogens easily increase the temperature of the cabins by five degrees.
Ultimately, what it takes to live on a cold boat is the willingness to be cold. It's really that simple. If you stop taking heat for granted and treat it for the incredible and expensive resource it truly is, you will find the nights endurable and the days at the office pure pleasure.
One very creative way to freeze to death in the Pacific Northwest in the winter is to move on to a friggin’ sailboat in the middle of winter and bob around in 40-degree water with the wind whipping by at 40 knots. Let us compound the problem by killing the heater. Twice. Since the “fix” costs $300, after the second breakdown we pretty much had to make a decision between freezing and eating.
We chose to freeze.
What I learned this winter is how you can completely and utterly do without traditional heat sources.
Back in the good old days when we were rich and normal, we had a house with central heat. The furnace would kick on in mid-October and grind away until mid-May. We felt oh so self-righteous when we took the Global Challenge and turned our thermostat down to 68 Fahrenheit. It was chilly enough that people remarked on it when they visited the house. But on the whole, 65 to 68 was quite pleasant as long as you wore a sweater – or as is more common in Seattle, a fleece pullover. We would snuggle beneath an Ikea throw on the couch, watching our movies, sipping red wine (box, of course) and munching on microwave popcorn, replete and smug in the knowledge that our thermostatic sacrifice was helping to ensure a future for our children.
Let's contrast this to our current state. When we stepped onto the boat this evening, the gauge read 44 degrees. Through the creative use of halogen lights, a kerosene lantern and baking cookies, we've raised the temperature in the salon to a balmy 59.
Unfortunately, heat rises. This ensures that any heat we generate making dinner and eating it in the light of our own personal sun lamp does not make it down into the cabins. As I type in the master cabin, my breath is frosting and floating to the ceiling to condense on the hatch cover and slide down the walls. The principle source of heat in here is the adapter for my laptop charger. Never have I more appreciated the fact that Apple chargers are roughly hot enough to fry eggs. We're using it as a bed warmer to ward off frostbite.
Yet, we are not actually all that uncomfortable. I think, in fact, that were it not for all the condensation, I could actually live this way pretty much indefinitely. I can assure you unequivocally that our future land-based house will never have a winter temperature setting higher than 60. There are tricks to living in the cold that you learn quickly or run away from this life screaming.
Pretend Like It's Warm – There are lots of ways to make your boat look warm even when it is not. Believe it or not, our mammalian brains are truly stupid enough to buy this nonsense. If you fill the boat with a warm glowing ambiance, your dumb ass brain registers the color and flicker as a radiant camp fire and makes you believe it's warmer than the thermostat actually reads. It helps, by the way, to turn the thermostat around so that you can't see it. Again, the human brain is surprisingly stupid. If you don't know it's 44 degrees, maybe it's 50.
Think positive.
To create that warm radiant glow, I recommend BeanPod candles. Get one with a nice campfire sounding name like Cedar Chest or Evergreen. Put one of these beauties in the center of the table. Then surround yourself in cheap tea candles from Ikea. Put them absolutely everywhere. They do not generate heat. You just think they do.
Cook РNormally, I find cooking on the boat a bit of a chore. There are only two burners, virtually no counter space, and the oven has two temperatures now that Dr C has ditzed with it: off and nuclear. However, cooking generates two absolutely critical byproducts: heat and odor. Your boat is not a very big place, and simmering soup or chili for half an hour, boiling a pot of tea, or baking a lasagna can actually heat the boat all by itself. Also, the aromas of roasting meat, saut̩ing onions and garlic, and baking chocolate chip cookies do wonders for encouraging the hind brain to think warm and happy thoughts.
Kerosene Lanterns – These are absolutely great on a boat. A kerosene lantern produces a truly astonishing amount of light. It’s also hot. HOT. Our lantern can take the salon from 45 to 55 in 20 minutes. I recommend purchasing these from the Amish catalog. Believe it or not, despite their complete repudiation of electricity, the Amish are served by a fine web site. Okay, this seems totally oxymoronic, but I recognize now that this site must do a really good side business in idiots like us.
Halogen Lights – Ironically, everyone on my catamaran list is yackity yacking about how to swap out all these halogen bulbs in all the fixtures on the boat with more efficient LED. The halogens are the second largest consumer of electricity on the Lagoon catamarans. Swapping them for the more parsimonious LED’s makes for more light at considerably less electrical cost. If you live someplace cold, however, don't do it. The halogens easily increase the temperature of the cabins by five degrees.
Ultimately, what it takes to live on a cold boat is the willingness to be cold. It's really that simple. If you stop taking heat for granted and treat it for the incredible and expensive resource it truly is, you will find the nights endurable and the days at the office pure pleasure.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Interlude for a Cold
It doesn't get better on this boat. As of December 1, we are officially moved aboard full time on our Catamaran With No Heat. To celebrate, it snowed all afternoon and the temperature plummeted to 27 last night. I have a post-release head cold which has settled into the back of my throat and makes swallowing a three step exercise: think about swallowing, swallow, wish I had spit up instead.
Post-release aches and pains are a tradition in the software/hardware world I come from .You work your puttola off for a few months, each day getting progressively more stressful as achieving the release objectives becomes increasingly unlikely. The hours get longer, the pressures get higher, and the bugs get more intractable until the day of the release. On that fine day you build the damn thing one more time and throw it up online, releasing it to a vulnerable, patient and unsuspecting public. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, a low grade head ache starts to take hold. By the time the product is out the door, everyone in the room wants nothing more than 72 hours of sleep, hot Theraflu, and a back rub.
Instead we go drinking. This is what the family did Friday evening. We've been prepping for the practice closing since January 2005 but somehow there were still approximately five million things to do on that one day. All day Friday, I put out fires, fed people, and assisted in the transport of 10,000 folders. I can assure you that the move was not HIPAA compliant. We just tossed the patient records into boxes and the boxes into a van and shlepped them from one building to another.
I asked DrC Thursday if he was releived to finally see his last patient as a solo practioner. He admitted, “I'm a slow learner. I don't feel any different.” And I didn't either until Friday night. As I strolled out of the back door, letting it slam behind me with a satisfying thud, I felt like someone had lifted a zebra off my shoulders. Maybe an entire herd of zebras. I still have a two really enormous elephants, mind you: collecting the money from all the patients DrC has seen over the last six months and selling everything we own. But it felt good. It felt big.
And Saturday, it felt like those zebras had thrown one last party before their departure because my body was beaten. I ached in every bone, sinew, and nerve ending. I spent the majority of the day curled in a fetal ball in my cabin nearly buried in blankets and with only my nose popped into the sub zero air. DrC was tremendously nuturing. He made Noregian leek and potato soup, and administered hot tea, analgesics, and crusty sour dough bread at regular intervals. He also discovered the secret to really amazing hot chocolate is a bar of the real stuff, sugar free vanilla syrup and a half cube of butter. I love this man.
Post-release aches and pains are a tradition in the software/hardware world I come from .You work your puttola off for a few months, each day getting progressively more stressful as achieving the release objectives becomes increasingly unlikely. The hours get longer, the pressures get higher, and the bugs get more intractable until the day of the release. On that fine day you build the damn thing one more time and throw it up online, releasing it to a vulnerable, patient and unsuspecting public. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, a low grade head ache starts to take hold. By the time the product is out the door, everyone in the room wants nothing more than 72 hours of sleep, hot Theraflu, and a back rub.
Instead we go drinking. This is what the family did Friday evening. We've been prepping for the practice closing since January 2005 but somehow there were still approximately five million things to do on that one day. All day Friday, I put out fires, fed people, and assisted in the transport of 10,000 folders. I can assure you that the move was not HIPAA compliant. We just tossed the patient records into boxes and the boxes into a van and shlepped them from one building to another.
I asked DrC Thursday if he was releived to finally see his last patient as a solo practioner. He admitted, “I'm a slow learner. I don't feel any different.” And I didn't either until Friday night. As I strolled out of the back door, letting it slam behind me with a satisfying thud, I felt like someone had lifted a zebra off my shoulders. Maybe an entire herd of zebras. I still have a two really enormous elephants, mind you: collecting the money from all the patients DrC has seen over the last six months and selling everything we own. But it felt good. It felt big.
And Saturday, it felt like those zebras had thrown one last party before their departure because my body was beaten. I ached in every bone, sinew, and nerve ending. I spent the majority of the day curled in a fetal ball in my cabin nearly buried in blankets and with only my nose popped into the sub zero air. DrC was tremendously nuturing. He made Noregian leek and potato soup, and administered hot tea, analgesics, and crusty sour dough bread at regular intervals. He also discovered the secret to really amazing hot chocolate is a bar of the real stuff, sugar free vanilla syrup and a half cube of butter. I love this man.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Why is It Always the Impeller?
We broke the boat again. Specifically, we broke another diesel engine. Yet more specifically, we broke the impeller on the diesel engine that drives hot water through pipes in the boat to heat us all to a toasty warm, happy state.
As breakages go, this one is only to cost us roughly 1/3 of a boat buck. We also do not need to have the mechanic install the part. I am rather proud of Us. Us as in We. We as in Dr C and I both diagnosed the problem and then he figured out what part we need to fix it. We as in hopefully he'll let me do some of the replacing of said part when it finally arrives from its home in the Black Woods of Prussia.
It is unfortunate that this break could not have taken place some other time. Say six months from now when a heater on Don Quixote will be a fundamentally obsolete piece of technology. However, October in the Pacific Northwest is not the time to play footsies with hypothermia. You will lose, and it will be an unpleasant, humiliating loss.
It's also clear to me now that we are not truly boat worthy. Had we been truly boat worthy, we would be on the boat still... heating our hands on the kerosene lantern, drying our clothes and bedding in the shore laundry, and attempting to sleep through the sound of our snot condensing on the cieling and dripping down the walls. But we are not boat worthy at all and completely wimped out. We packed up the kids, the perishable food items, and the gold fish and decamped to the basement of our former home.
Where upon the pipe to the bathtub above us promptly burst and filled our basement head with a steady drizzle of foul smelling liquid and splats of dissolved dry wall.
Someone is trying to tell me something. Translators welcome.
As breakages go, this one is only to cost us roughly 1/3 of a boat buck. We also do not need to have the mechanic install the part. I am rather proud of Us. Us as in We. We as in Dr C and I both diagnosed the problem and then he figured out what part we need to fix it. We as in hopefully he'll let me do some of the replacing of said part when it finally arrives from its home in the Black Woods of Prussia.
It is unfortunate that this break could not have taken place some other time. Say six months from now when a heater on Don Quixote will be a fundamentally obsolete piece of technology. However, October in the Pacific Northwest is not the time to play footsies with hypothermia. You will lose, and it will be an unpleasant, humiliating loss.
It's also clear to me now that we are not truly boat worthy. Had we been truly boat worthy, we would be on the boat still... heating our hands on the kerosene lantern, drying our clothes and bedding in the shore laundry, and attempting to sleep through the sound of our snot condensing on the cieling and dripping down the walls. But we are not boat worthy at all and completely wimped out. We packed up the kids, the perishable food items, and the gold fish and decamped to the basement of our former home.
Where upon the pipe to the bathtub above us promptly burst and filled our basement head with a steady drizzle of foul smelling liquid and splats of dissolved dry wall.
Someone is trying to tell me something. Translators welcome.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Out of Town Guests This Week
We hosted some fabulous people this weekend, friends from London. Of course, we thought we would treat them to a few days sailing the Puget Sound on our lovely cruising catamaran. There were a few problems with this plan:
However, less is not a blanket statement of "not at all" which we discovered to our dismay on Saturday night. It was without question our most uncomfortable night on record. If the waves are frequent, strong, and steep enough, we all bounce around like ping pong balls in a bathtub full of toddlers. In the future, I'll stick all the dirty clothes in a large bucket of sudsy water in the cockpit and at least get my clothes agitated for my troubles.
The upside is that Dr C and I were able to pull of the mooring ball at 3am and move the boat to the leeward side of the island without sustaining any damage to our boat or to our relationship. The move was cooperative and went without a hitch. Amazing. Couldn't see a damn thing, but we caught that mooring ball first pass around and settled in for a second night's sleep.
- Our cruising catamaran is a live aboard cruising sailing boat full of children. Dirty, loud, (often overly) friendly children. I'm not sure how relaxing it was to spend time with us.
- The wind decided this weekend to be utterly windy. Magnificently windy sailing weather is fantastic for sailors, but again it lacks a certain restful relaxing vacationy quality for the uninitiated.
- We encountered a rather vicious chop while bobbing on our mooring ball off Blake Island rendering it impossible to sleep unless you are one of those little microdogs that routinely nap in old lady purses and are accustomed to the movement.
However, less is not a blanket statement of "not at all" which we discovered to our dismay on Saturday night. It was without question our most uncomfortable night on record. If the waves are frequent, strong, and steep enough, we all bounce around like ping pong balls in a bathtub full of toddlers. In the future, I'll stick all the dirty clothes in a large bucket of sudsy water in the cockpit and at least get my clothes agitated for my troubles.
The upside is that Dr C and I were able to pull of the mooring ball at 3am and move the boat to the leeward side of the island without sustaining any damage to our boat or to our relationship. The move was cooperative and went without a hitch. Amazing. Couldn't see a damn thing, but we caught that mooring ball first pass around and settled in for a second night's sleep.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Every Nook and Cranny
Until Dr C had a mid-life crisis, I hadn't cleaned a toilet since 1985. It was Berkeley and I was a sophomore. Thanks to rent control, I found a three-bedroom apartment near the campus with a total monthly rent less than my latte budget and two resident room mates: a lesbian fashion model and a Turkish gigolo. As they both considered themselves far too beautiful to actually do dishes, I instituted a cleaning tariff. If they wanted me to take over the domestic chores, by dogs they would be pay me to do so. In turn, I would hire people for that.
This is actually a surprisingly satisfactory solution to room mates. When Dr C, my once and future husband, moved in, I saw no reason not to continue the practice. Jaime's arrival cemented my conviction that life was not worth living without Merry Maids. And so it goes.
As part of our cost-cutting measures when I quit my job in 2005, we cut out all the expenses that made a two-income, upwardly yuppifying household possible: day care, private school, lawn service, housekeeper, manicurist. Come to think of it, we cut out hair dresser, vet, and doctor as well substituting them respectively with a large pair of sheers, a dead cat (old age and it was truly tragic), and the Canadian prescription drug industry.
This left me with a large, old bungalow, three children, and a male. They are disgusting. This entire conversation should be predicated with the phrase, “I love them but...” because they are just filthy creatures. I swear those girls can merely walk through a room to convert if from a neat, Lemon Pledge picture of Betty Crocker magnificence into a scene out of Martha Stewart's worst nightmares. And my husband? Let's just start with aim -- and the inability of men to do so -- and move on from there without further detail.
So for nearly a year, I've been looking forward to moving aboard the boat for the most simple and practical of reasons: less to clean. Our entire boat could fit into the family room of our old house. It has to be quicker, easier to clean. The application of basic mathematics compels this conclusion.
Unfortunately, that's not the way it happened. Essentially, the problems fall into three categories: things that grow, places you can't reach, and things that grow in places you can't reach.
Things that Grow – I now realize that every living creature is secretly a dreamer sailor, and they all want to live on my boat. Children, friends, family, seagulls, harbor seals, bacteria, algae, snails, rats, gecko lizards. If they can figure out a way to get aboard, they'll settle in for the duration and make a home out of it. My boat has yet to meet a cold climate mold spore it doesn't seek to bond with... more or less permanently. The problem with all this vigorous life is that it gets crowded, and most of these guests don't smell too yummy. Thus far, I've been reasonably successful in my attempts to kill them all with a combination of Simple Green, elbow grease, and country music.
Places You Can't Reach – The family room had four corners. I could largely clean the entire room with a fluffy duster, a bottle of orange oil, and a vacuum cleaner. When I was feeling particularly Spring Cleany, I would take a Q-tip and wipe that little tiny space in the corner that was otherwise unreachable. I think this happened once in recorded history. Mostly I put furniture in front of the corners.
Don Quixote, on the other hand, wouldn't know a straight angle if she met one strolling through Deception Pass on a fine Saturday morning with a sign on his forehead. This may be a by-product of her fundamental Frenchness. The French are apparently, as a cultural rule, averse to right angles. The result, however, is a boat with more corners than a game of Blockus. Which gets to my final burden...
Things That Grow in Places You Can't Reach -- Every living thing on our boat that is smaller than a toy poodle prefers to live in a place I can't reach. In fact, for such a capacious vessel, I am routinely astonished by how many places are completely and utterly unreachable. My husband complains about the space under the starboard head and shower which is inexplicably blocked by a solid, plastic formed floor. My personal bitch is with the keels. They may only be three feet down but they are too narrow to get your hand into for a good, algae and stinky gunk removing scrub. I also hate all those corners – those thousands of corners – each of which is filled with the oddest combination of dead skin cells, sand, bits of hair, and trail mix, bonded into a matrix by human hair and distilled spit. Worse, I can't hide them. A dozen of them push themselves to your attention as you move around the companionway alone. Cleaning requires a jumbo box of Q-tips, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and the patience of Job.
So forgive me, my friends whose boats I visited and silently sneered at, lifting my supercilious nose at your grime and grit. Please forgive me. And close your eyes as you make your way up the stairs.
This is actually a surprisingly satisfactory solution to room mates. When Dr C, my once and future husband, moved in, I saw no reason not to continue the practice. Jaime's arrival cemented my conviction that life was not worth living without Merry Maids. And so it goes.
As part of our cost-cutting measures when I quit my job in 2005, we cut out all the expenses that made a two-income, upwardly yuppifying household possible: day care, private school, lawn service, housekeeper, manicurist. Come to think of it, we cut out hair dresser, vet, and doctor as well substituting them respectively with a large pair of sheers, a dead cat (old age and it was truly tragic), and the Canadian prescription drug industry.
This left me with a large, old bungalow, three children, and a male. They are disgusting. This entire conversation should be predicated with the phrase, “I love them but...” because they are just filthy creatures. I swear those girls can merely walk through a room to convert if from a neat, Lemon Pledge picture of Betty Crocker magnificence into a scene out of Martha Stewart's worst nightmares. And my husband? Let's just start with aim -- and the inability of men to do so -- and move on from there without further detail.
So for nearly a year, I've been looking forward to moving aboard the boat for the most simple and practical of reasons: less to clean. Our entire boat could fit into the family room of our old house. It has to be quicker, easier to clean. The application of basic mathematics compels this conclusion.
Unfortunately, that's not the way it happened. Essentially, the problems fall into three categories: things that grow, places you can't reach, and things that grow in places you can't reach.
Things that Grow – I now realize that every living creature is secretly a dreamer sailor, and they all want to live on my boat. Children, friends, family, seagulls, harbor seals, bacteria, algae, snails, rats, gecko lizards. If they can figure out a way to get aboard, they'll settle in for the duration and make a home out of it. My boat has yet to meet a cold climate mold spore it doesn't seek to bond with... more or less permanently. The problem with all this vigorous life is that it gets crowded, and most of these guests don't smell too yummy. Thus far, I've been reasonably successful in my attempts to kill them all with a combination of Simple Green, elbow grease, and country music.
Places You Can't Reach – The family room had four corners. I could largely clean the entire room with a fluffy duster, a bottle of orange oil, and a vacuum cleaner. When I was feeling particularly Spring Cleany, I would take a Q-tip and wipe that little tiny space in the corner that was otherwise unreachable. I think this happened once in recorded history. Mostly I put furniture in front of the corners.
Don Quixote, on the other hand, wouldn't know a straight angle if she met one strolling through Deception Pass on a fine Saturday morning with a sign on his forehead. This may be a by-product of her fundamental Frenchness. The French are apparently, as a cultural rule, averse to right angles. The result, however, is a boat with more corners than a game of Blockus. Which gets to my final burden...
Things That Grow in Places You Can't Reach -- Every living thing on our boat that is smaller than a toy poodle prefers to live in a place I can't reach. In fact, for such a capacious vessel, I am routinely astonished by how many places are completely and utterly unreachable. My husband complains about the space under the starboard head and shower which is inexplicably blocked by a solid, plastic formed floor. My personal bitch is with the keels. They may only be three feet down but they are too narrow to get your hand into for a good, algae and stinky gunk removing scrub. I also hate all those corners – those thousands of corners – each of which is filled with the oddest combination of dead skin cells, sand, bits of hair, and trail mix, bonded into a matrix by human hair and distilled spit. Worse, I can't hide them. A dozen of them push themselves to your attention as you move around the companionway alone. Cleaning requires a jumbo box of Q-tips, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and the patience of Job.
So forgive me, my friends whose boats I visited and silently sneered at, lifting my supercilious nose at your grime and grit. Please forgive me. And close your eyes as you make your way up the stairs.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
What You Really Need to Know to Charter a Catamaran
A catamaran isn't like a normal boat. In fact, I have a monohull captain friend who insists it isn't a boat at all. Actually, he calls it a French, production, plastic catamaran. If we break that down, it's clear that all four words are – in his experience and deeply held opinion – highly insulting terms. The opposite would possibly be a New England, hand built, wooden, deep keeled, big butted, fat beamed, cramp quartered, dark tube leaner.
I tried. I really did. But I lost it there toward the end.
The point is that a catamaran does not behave the way a standard monohull sail boat behaves. And while you experienced single-hull sailors expect this when you charter a catamaran for yourself and your fifty in-laws out of Tortuga for a week, it can be deeply surprising when you turn the boat to port and the boat doesn't actually turn -- or more entertainingly, it turns to starboard. The good news on our sailing vessel is that I have not the slightest clue how to sail a monohull and that my husband learns quickly.
Actually, neither statement is strictly accurate, but it stands as a good starting point for a discussion of the principle 'gotchas' that will getcha when you scramble aboard the deck of your average charter cat for the first time. And while I am certain that many of you are interested in points of sail, safety, and performance, I think we should focus on the really salient issue: space.
Probably the single most important difference between a catamaran and a monohull of similar length is that on the former you can lose your children and on the later it quickly becomes necessary to drown them to preserve your sanity. I recommend a strategy of divide and conquer. Some people prefer to put the brother–in-law and his children in the port hull while you and your family take the starboard. Instead, let me suggest this alternative.
Despite the fact that your brother-in-law is a pompous ass whose sexual antics with your sister make you want to vomit and whose standards for personal hygiene leave something to be desired, he is still a better companion on an extended boat trip than your own offspring. Put him in the forward starboard cabin and throw all the children over into the opposite side of the boat. On most charter configurations there are two heads and a long companionway between you and your in-law which is a sufficient buffer for an adult. Children, however, are capable of penetrating shrieks that can stun a dolphin. Placing a dead air zone and fifteen feet of water between you and the younger generation goes a long ways toward saving your vacation.
Another tip for traveling with children aboard a catamaran is to avoid 'their hull' for the duration. Of course, you'll need to turn on the batteries and open the through hulls and check to make sure nothing is leaking before you leave the dock on Day One. After that, however, simply abandon that hull to the under-15 set. Think about it, Monohull Man. You have TWO. You don't need that one. Just let them have it. Don't even try to get them to divide the rooms along any principle of fairness. Just allow that hull to descend into Lord of the Flies chaos while you sip Mai Tais in the cockpit. On your return, hire some teenagers to swill out that hull with buckets of sea water and disinfectant.
A far more serious concern is displacing the rum. On a traditional leaner there are only so many places your family can stow gallon jugs of premium island rum. Generally, they end up under the seats in the central cabin. Occasionally you'll find one stowed under the sink. And once I found one tucked into the magazine rack next to the navigation station, bringing an entirely new dimension to the phrase “drink and drive.”
On your charter cat, however, you've got a considerably bigger problem. In addition to the above-mentioned locations, you have pantry shelves, cabin closets, the laundry room, the starboard recreation room, and, in those monster 50 footers, the upper-deck seating area. We once lost two half–gallon jugs of tequila and a bag of tortilla chips in a pantry closet for nearly three months.
My recommendation is to store your liquor with something that rots. My personal candidate is a lime, as the logical synergy between limes and alcohol make for imaginative drinks when I do find the bottles. The problem with limes is they really do keep well in a cool dark spot. So you would perhaps be better served by stashing the booze with something that both rots faster and smells really bad when it does so. Suggestions include onions, fish sticks, or oranges. Note: Unlike their green counterparts, oranges do not keep and when they go, the smell will knock you flat.
The point is, you can never lose the bottles for long as long as you have a good sniffer. In the end, you can always follow the trail of fruit flies. Just make sure they don't lead you into the children's hull.
I tried. I really did. But I lost it there toward the end.
The point is that a catamaran does not behave the way a standard monohull sail boat behaves. And while you experienced single-hull sailors expect this when you charter a catamaran for yourself and your fifty in-laws out of Tortuga for a week, it can be deeply surprising when you turn the boat to port and the boat doesn't actually turn -- or more entertainingly, it turns to starboard. The good news on our sailing vessel is that I have not the slightest clue how to sail a monohull and that my husband learns quickly.
Actually, neither statement is strictly accurate, but it stands as a good starting point for a discussion of the principle 'gotchas' that will getcha when you scramble aboard the deck of your average charter cat for the first time. And while I am certain that many of you are interested in points of sail, safety, and performance, I think we should focus on the really salient issue: space.
Probably the single most important difference between a catamaran and a monohull of similar length is that on the former you can lose your children and on the later it quickly becomes necessary to drown them to preserve your sanity. I recommend a strategy of divide and conquer. Some people prefer to put the brother–in-law and his children in the port hull while you and your family take the starboard. Instead, let me suggest this alternative.
Despite the fact that your brother-in-law is a pompous ass whose sexual antics with your sister make you want to vomit and whose standards for personal hygiene leave something to be desired, he is still a better companion on an extended boat trip than your own offspring. Put him in the forward starboard cabin and throw all the children over into the opposite side of the boat. On most charter configurations there are two heads and a long companionway between you and your in-law which is a sufficient buffer for an adult. Children, however, are capable of penetrating shrieks that can stun a dolphin. Placing a dead air zone and fifteen feet of water between you and the younger generation goes a long ways toward saving your vacation.
Another tip for traveling with children aboard a catamaran is to avoid 'their hull' for the duration. Of course, you'll need to turn on the batteries and open the through hulls and check to make sure nothing is leaking before you leave the dock on Day One. After that, however, simply abandon that hull to the under-15 set. Think about it, Monohull Man. You have TWO. You don't need that one. Just let them have it. Don't even try to get them to divide the rooms along any principle of fairness. Just allow that hull to descend into Lord of the Flies chaos while you sip Mai Tais in the cockpit. On your return, hire some teenagers to swill out that hull with buckets of sea water and disinfectant.
A far more serious concern is displacing the rum. On a traditional leaner there are only so many places your family can stow gallon jugs of premium island rum. Generally, they end up under the seats in the central cabin. Occasionally you'll find one stowed under the sink. And once I found one tucked into the magazine rack next to the navigation station, bringing an entirely new dimension to the phrase “drink and drive.”
On your charter cat, however, you've got a considerably bigger problem. In addition to the above-mentioned locations, you have pantry shelves, cabin closets, the laundry room, the starboard recreation room, and, in those monster 50 footers, the upper-deck seating area. We once lost two half–gallon jugs of tequila and a bag of tortilla chips in a pantry closet for nearly three months.
My recommendation is to store your liquor with something that rots. My personal candidate is a lime, as the logical synergy between limes and alcohol make for imaginative drinks when I do find the bottles. The problem with limes is they really do keep well in a cool dark spot. So you would perhaps be better served by stashing the booze with something that both rots faster and smells really bad when it does so. Suggestions include onions, fish sticks, or oranges. Note: Unlike their green counterparts, oranges do not keep and when they go, the smell will knock you flat.
The point is, you can never lose the bottles for long as long as you have a good sniffer. In the end, you can always follow the trail of fruit flies. Just make sure they don't lead you into the children's hull.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Everything is Wet
This morning I woke up to rivulets of water dripping down the cabin walls. It was like someone had taken a 70’s slasher movie and washed all the color out, leaving nothing but the dripping blood and horrified screams. The screams were mine as the hatch above our bed showered me with frigid drops of condensation while my husband climbed out to head for the head.
I hate living on a boat in the Pacific Northwest in the winter. It’s like living inside a used gym sock stored at the bottom of a cooler left in the garage through the cold season. Water condenses on every surface, drips down the walls and pools in the low spots. No amount of heater output can solve the problem and, in fact, I think sometimes it makes it worse, quickening the pace at which the steam rises to the cold ceiling to reinforce the downward flow of water.
My daughters delight in the boat in these conditions. They liken it to a living science experiment demonstrating the water cycle. Granted, the whole thing is manky and cold, but it is kinda fun. You can practically see the clouds form inside the boat. Add a fan, a little static electricity, and I think they anticipate lightning and thunder to break out in the salon at any moment.
We combat the cold and the wet with candles, kerosene lanterns, and heat. Anyone with even a moderate amount of scientific understanding will immediately understand the blatant stupidity of this strategy. For one thing, a principle byproduct of candles is H2O. Last time I checked, that’s water. We heat the boat and ourselves by cooking… pasta, baked goods, vegetables. These activities introduce clouds of warm, fragrant steam into the cabins, destined to join our bad breath in slimy layers on every window and external surface.
A secondary line of defense is the blue cloth. Blue cloths are an interesting by-product of the insanity of the American legal system combined with the absurdity of the American health care system. In every operating room in every hospital in in America are stacks and stacks of cloths – most of them blue – used during each surgical procedure. In most states, the number of cloths that must be present for each procedure is determined by law. Those cloths not actually used during the procedure are carefully counted and then thrown away.
Yes, millions of unused blue cloths are thrown away every day. You can’t wash them and use them again. It’s against the law. So nurses and doctors all over the country “steal” these unused cloths on the sly and take them home to their families where they do service as napkins, oil cloths, and diapers.
On our boat, we use them to dry our home. Basically, one weekend on the boat requires a minimum of one hundred blue cloths, or we’ll drown in our own spit. You put them under the hatches to prevent water dripping off the metal frames from soaking books, paperwork, and sheets. You use them to wipe off windows so you can see where you are going and to wipe off the seats in the cockpit. Blue cloths are good for soaking up skanky bilge water and rubbing mud off the anchor chain. In short, if you don’t have a steady source of blue cloths, find one.
My husband also professes great confidence in Dry-Z-Air. Like little shrines to the God of Dryness, he places containers full of these white balls of chemical goodness in every nook and cranny. I can’t say as I am equally impressed. The white balls turn to sticky goo and an inoffensive but frighteningly thick, clear liquid which I’m afraid to touch. The stuff costs a fortune, but he swears by it.
I prefer good old cedar chips. You can purchase cedar shavings in megaton bags from any decent pet store. Like any quality, natural, recyclable product, it serves multiple purposes simultaneously. Placed in bowls around the boat, cedar bedding soaks water out of the air while filling the interior with a lovely smell of shaved wood. You can either throw the damp shavings overboard (unless you are in a marina) or toss them into a barbecue. Get the kind designed for small animals with no chemical additives, and you have an environmentally sound and cheap method to reduce the humidity on the boat.
However, for all these lovely ideas, the only real solution to cold, wet, Pacific Northwest boating is summer. Or heading south as fast as the wind and waves will carry you.
I hate living on a boat in the Pacific Northwest in the winter. It’s like living inside a used gym sock stored at the bottom of a cooler left in the garage through the cold season. Water condenses on every surface, drips down the walls and pools in the low spots. No amount of heater output can solve the problem and, in fact, I think sometimes it makes it worse, quickening the pace at which the steam rises to the cold ceiling to reinforce the downward flow of water.
My daughters delight in the boat in these conditions. They liken it to a living science experiment demonstrating the water cycle. Granted, the whole thing is manky and cold, but it is kinda fun. You can practically see the clouds form inside the boat. Add a fan, a little static electricity, and I think they anticipate lightning and thunder to break out in the salon at any moment.
We combat the cold and the wet with candles, kerosene lanterns, and heat. Anyone with even a moderate amount of scientific understanding will immediately understand the blatant stupidity of this strategy. For one thing, a principle byproduct of candles is H2O. Last time I checked, that’s water. We heat the boat and ourselves by cooking… pasta, baked goods, vegetables. These activities introduce clouds of warm, fragrant steam into the cabins, destined to join our bad breath in slimy layers on every window and external surface.
A secondary line of defense is the blue cloth. Blue cloths are an interesting by-product of the insanity of the American legal system combined with the absurdity of the American health care system. In every operating room in every hospital in in America are stacks and stacks of cloths – most of them blue – used during each surgical procedure. In most states, the number of cloths that must be present for each procedure is determined by law. Those cloths not actually used during the procedure are carefully counted and then thrown away.
Yes, millions of unused blue cloths are thrown away every day. You can’t wash them and use them again. It’s against the law. So nurses and doctors all over the country “steal” these unused cloths on the sly and take them home to their families where they do service as napkins, oil cloths, and diapers.
On our boat, we use them to dry our home. Basically, one weekend on the boat requires a minimum of one hundred blue cloths, or we’ll drown in our own spit. You put them under the hatches to prevent water dripping off the metal frames from soaking books, paperwork, and sheets. You use them to wipe off windows so you can see where you are going and to wipe off the seats in the cockpit. Blue cloths are good for soaking up skanky bilge water and rubbing mud off the anchor chain. In short, if you don’t have a steady source of blue cloths, find one.
My husband also professes great confidence in Dry-Z-Air. Like little shrines to the God of Dryness, he places containers full of these white balls of chemical goodness in every nook and cranny. I can’t say as I am equally impressed. The white balls turn to sticky goo and an inoffensive but frighteningly thick, clear liquid which I’m afraid to touch. The stuff costs a fortune, but he swears by it.
I prefer good old cedar chips. You can purchase cedar shavings in megaton bags from any decent pet store. Like any quality, natural, recyclable product, it serves multiple purposes simultaneously. Placed in bowls around the boat, cedar bedding soaks water out of the air while filling the interior with a lovely smell of shaved wood. You can either throw the damp shavings overboard (unless you are in a marina) or toss them into a barbecue. Get the kind designed for small animals with no chemical additives, and you have an environmentally sound and cheap method to reduce the humidity on the boat.
However, for all these lovely ideas, the only real solution to cold, wet, Pacific Northwest boating is summer. Or heading south as fast as the wind and waves will carry you.
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