Will you launch my boat if the apocalypse comes?

My rigging sounds different than usual in the gusts. I thought trying to tune the rig would help. It’s really fucking with my brain because when I’m sailing the rigging doesn’t shudder like that. Not even in gusts. That ‘fluttering’ sound is usually indicative of something being wrong. Like, when I hear that sound Vanu is saying adjust me. Trim the sails, bitch. So my mind computed this new sound in my rigging to tune the rig, bitch. So I did.

But it’s still happening.

Maybe it’s because I’m on the hard. The rig is even farther aloft, or…something. Or maybe I’m losing it, and don’t actually know anything about sailing.

I’m still in the boatyard with quite the list. But it’s different now, actually living on the boat on the hard. I’ve kept boats in boatyards before for entire winters, but this is the longest I’ve ever lived on a boat on land, and it ain’t over yet. I think I’m making progress, though. I can’t exactly measure up what I’ve done, versus what still needs to be done, versus what I’m doing. Despite my copious lists, it’s all kind of a blur. I just try to accomplish as much as I can everyday and remember that these things take time.

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The owner of the boatyard does this thing where he goes around the yard and puts anything on the ground around people’s boats up on the deck. Sometimes he uses a forklift. I’ve somehow escape his wrath unscathed. How? I don’t know. I keep boxes of tools on the ground, but as neatly as humanly possible. Maybe he sees that I’m fucking trying to be neat and work on my boat. Or maybe he doesn’t see me at all. All I know is most of my life I’ve had a real problem with authority except when it comes to the Coast Guard, and the owner of this boatyard. I don’t even look him in the eye. I’ve never spoken to him and any time I’ve even considered addressing him it was with, “Sir.” 

Why? You might ask.

Why have I adopted this don’t speak unless spoken to attitude?

Because the dude’s cut throat. There are all sorts of embellished tales floating around the marine community about him just launching your boat and setting it adrift if you piss him off. But regardless of these tall rumors, I respect the shit out of him! Millions of dollars in perfect yacht finishes are always coming and going through his yard and I’m just here existing in constant trial and error.

Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I don’t want to get kicked out of the yard before I’m ready, so I keep my head down, do my best, and try not to break any rules. But there’s still a part of me that wants to win him over and get him to like me.

I’ve thought about ways I could find common ground between the owner and myself. Like by playing a practical joke. I’d put a bunch of those plastic pink flamingos that people put on their front lawns, on the ground in front of a bunch of people’s boats. And him and the yard workers would come back after their holiday vacation and see it. But I thought better of it. I think it might back fire when he runs over a pink flamingo with the travel lift, or sees a bunch of happy pink little birds on the ground that he is so adamant about keeping clear.

I’d like to establish a rapport sooner as opposed to later, though. Because at this point what am I supposed to say if the apocalypse comes? What am I going to say then?

“Sir, will you please launch my boat?”

Please, Sir, will you launch my boat?

I thought maybe the flamingos could bridge the gap. But it’s too dangerous. The act itself in putting them on the ground and possibly getting a negative reaction rather than a laugh, and also the symbolism.

My friend Dave and I were recently having a conversation where I asked, in earnest, “do you think I’ll ever get off the hard?”

“Not a chance,” he said sarcastically. “Might as well get some pink flamingos to put in the ground outside your boat.”

Battens battens whose got the battens?

Battens, sizing battens, wtf are battensAh, battens. What the hell are battens anyway? That’s the question I asked when a boatyard neighbor helped me to rig up my mainsail over a week ago. I’ve since learned what they are. Some type of rigid material, usually fiberglass but traditionally wood, that goes into little pockets on your sail that keep the leech of your sail (i.e. the outside part of the triangle) supported. It makes the sail stiff (er) rather than all floppy. They make for better performance. They’re imperative, apparently.

I didn’t have any and I wasn’t so convinced I needed them, even though my neighbor insisted. I wasn’t sure if had them somewhere on the boat, or if maybe I’d thrown them away in my heap of cleaning when I first arrived, not knowing what they were. I found one stowed away in a locker after that, and it turns out the previous owner only ever had the one batten, despite the sail being designed for four.

My list of stuff to do to the boat was growing, I didn’t want to have to find these elusive battens in addition to everything else. I needed a second opinion.

So I have this friend, we’ve never met, but he’s kind of my sailing pen pal. He’s a sailing instructor, competitive racer, and has over 3,000 blue water miles. You know what they say, ask two different sailors the same question and get two different answers–but not this time.

He also said I needed them, and even told me how to make them if I couldn’t buy them somewhere. When I argued against it all he said,  “Sail without battens and you’ll look like a hack.”

I don’t need any help looking like an idiot considering my remedial status as a sailor. I was going to find some battens.

Finding them was easy. I had my headsail repaired by the local sailmaker and he threw in some batten material for free. I just had to measure the batten pockets, cut the battens to size, sand the edges so they wouldn’t rip the sail, insert them and go sailing. Easy.

Except somehow I measured the batten pockets wrong and my battens wound up being a few inches too short. Rendering them, “useless,” according to my friend.

I don’t have enough material to cut new battens, the sailmaker is too far to reach and I’m running out of time. My launch is scheduled for Tuesday morning with a list of things to do between now and then, as well as a 3-day forecast of rain.

Even though my sailor friend was literally appalled that I managed to cut them wrong (frankly I’m appalled, too), we’ve come up with a solution. Apparently the battens will still work, they just need to be secured with a little sewing. He even drew me a diagram. What could possibly go wrong, right? I have written instructions from a sailing instructor…

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The Weather Cock

I love my boat. I’m in love with this lifestyle. Tearing everything apart during the day, putting it back together every night and she’s a home again. It’ll be even better when we’re floating. Everyone thinks I’m the crazy American girl living on her boat. Lots of people stay on their boats here in the boatyard and the marina, but I’m the only one actually living aboard. I walk around saying “bounjour” to people I don’t know, and wear a little red scarf around my neck to show what a Francophile I am.

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This morning I woke up to a knock on the hull from the waitress at the little cafe on site with a pack of cigarettes for me! “Yellow cigarettes for the yellow boat,” she said. We chatted on the boat for a bit and then she took me for a real tour of this one pony town. She’s originally from Seattle and we had a lot to talk about like the Pacific Northwest, our taste for dating older men, and traveling. She paid for lunch and when I tried to give her money she said “welcome to North Country.”

The tour wouldn’t be complete without a stop at the Weather Cock, the local watering hole. While there I told sea stories and basically won all the local’s over, once we got one question squared away. One of the guys asked it, after I told them my plans for the boat, but everyone was thinking it.

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“So, what are you a trust fund kid or something?”

My new friend chimed in. “She bought her boat with the tips she made waitressing.”

She filled me in on all the gossip around the marina. Like how everyone thought my crew member, Gina, and I were lesbians, and how it was just assumed I was French Canadian because of my style. Both I took as compliments.

When we got back I invited her and her boyfriend for dinner onboard one night in the yard, and definitely a sail once I’m launched. Before leaving she told me how cool she thought it was that I have the self motivation and confidence to buy my own old sailboat, fix it up and go sailing. It was nice to hear from one of my peers.

My confidence and motivation comes in waves, but today was a good day. I finally figured out the roller furler, prepped for my chainplate repair, and got my new ground tackle all set up. While doing so, my boat neighbor, Claude, came over with a shackle that he insisted I keep, “just in case.”

Boatyard blues

I’m not usually nostalgic for a moment so quickly after it has passed, but I was almost immediately after we docked my new French-Canadian friend’s Pearson Ariel, after a rousing 20 knot first sail of the season. I knew he would be leaving soon to go back home for the week, and I’d be “alone” in the boatyard since I arrived six days ago.

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I’d been admiring the boat since I got to the yard. Her beautiful lines and sturdy keel perched right behind mine. I’ve always wanted to sail a Pearson Ariel and have kept a keen eye for ones that come up for sale. Being aboard her, with a Quebecer as the captain nonetheless, I felt like I was in a scene from Jean Du Sud, the epic journey of Yves Gelinas around the world aboard an Alberg 30.

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My friend’s boat, Vanupied, went to weather with a serious bone in her teeth as we heeled harder in the 25 knot gusts. I felt so safe as the boat and her captain, Oliver, took good care and we soared back to the marina at six knots. It’s a feeling I hope to have again when my own boat goes into the water.

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Why do I love sailing? It’s not only the way it feels on the water, the challenges or satisfaction it brings–it’s the people. The community. Oliver gifted me a tin of tea that made an Atlantic Crossing with him a few months ago, vintage charts of Lake Champlain, a space heater that I have roaring right now. We drank coffees and wine and walked around the yard admiring the beautiful boats, sharing stories, playing music. Yes, there was lots of work in there, too. He introduced me to Marco who helped me finally complete the installation of my bow roller, and fabricate a stronger backing plate.

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My crew member, and official first mate of this vessel, Gina, has proved deserving of the title as she picked me up from the bus station, loaded a dodgy wooden ladder (which she carried her 50 pound dog up every morning and night) on to the top of her car, then drove us to the boat and helped me every day cross some boat work off the ever growing list. She’s handier with tools than I am, makes me laugh until I can’t breathe, and I can tell she’ll be a better sailor than me one day. She returns in three short weeks and we take off sailing together around this magical lake.

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With my friends now gone, reality has set in. I’m not ready. I have one big job down, but two more massive ones, and lots of little ones to go before I can launch. Both of those jobs require the help of someone more skilled and knowledgeable than I am. While it’s not been a problem so far, I’m still anxious about finding someone to help and getting everything completed.

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After being a part of the launch of Oliver’s boat the jokes of “Oh, I’m not going sailing, I’m just going to live in the boatyard forever,” are starting to seem less funny. The boat’s surrounding me are all going into the water. Slowly but surely, one by one. The sailing season has begun. I better knock on wood. I want to come, too!

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Log book : Day 1

Bristol 24, liveaboard, solo sailor girl

It’s a dog gone mess! The boat hasn’t been washed in years. She’s grown lichens everywhere. I’m like a gravedigger, resurrecting her from the dead.

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The boatyard is quiet but not desolate. The yard manager showed me the way to the bathrooms, showers, electricity, water. I don’t know if the water is good to drink but I drank it, and feel fine. I give him a bottle of wine to ensure future favors. I need to adjust the jack stands. She’s leaning down at the bow and water pools on the side decks, making deep cleaning impossible. My socks are wet.

interior bristol 24, liveaboard, cruising, solo sailor girl

The boat smells like the inside of a tent. Neoprene or fabric, rubbery. She’s so tired and forgotten over the years. I’ll scrub her harder but I think she may always looks gritty, and I’ll love her still in all her faded and stained gelcoat glory.

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She’s not perfect. She’s not a Bristol Channel Cutter, or some custom sloop with fine wood work. She’s just your run of the mill production boat from 1976. And she’s mine.

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To think she’ll be floating one day soon. Just to think of it! Magic.